Gratitude

Jan 25, 2008 | This Life

Can I just say, I’m touched? So, very, very grateful for your generosity of spirit. You all did such a great job, turning out and commenting on Boy Wonder’s feature. I suspect that it might be a record number of comments on any post over on Modish—and I’m overjoyed that a good portion of those comments were made by my readership. You people know how to represent!

I was greeted this morning by a very chipper boy, “Mom, you’ve got to go see what people are saying! So many nice things! Grammy left a comment AND a designer!!” Evidently, he’d figured out how to access this site and then followed the links. Who wouldn’t, right? It’s not every day that the world sings your praises in print (more often than not, people would rather project negativity!) and reading about yourself in a positive light is ever so lovely. It’s good for you, in limited dosages. And I would wish that experience on each of you at least once or twice in a lifetime.

Some of you excel at providing this kind of recognition. I’m blushing as I type this, because I feel terribly awkward saying, “Hey look, someone is singing my praises over there.” Being tagged with these kinds awards always makes me uncomfortable! I mean, I’m honored and touched and deeply grateful for the kind words—but then the rules of such blog awards require that you in turn tag more people. And you know, I just can’t bring myself to choose! I can’t. Instead, I will point you to my readership! If you want an example of excellence, you simply have to click on any link from any commenter…

I am sincere with my gratitude. As you know, I’ve recently felt the dark side of the blogging world, so the timing of all this positive attention is a gift in itself. As it turns out, my detractors have not been content to be silently lurking, but actually write bile on the internet. Sadly, not just about me. I am always astounded, that when given the opportunity to raise your voice and be heard, a person might choose to profess such ugliness. The internet has provided an outlet for so many people to be heard… and I cannot wrap my brain around a choice for something other than beauty, truth, love, compassion, or justice.

It’s not to say, that we don’t have real stories of terrible pain. But there is a significant difference between writing our truths and churning out hatred. It’s the worst school playground experience magnified for the whole world to see. The internet does not forgive, nor does it forget. What we write in these personal spaces has the potential to outlive not only its usefulness to us, but our very selves. While what we write may not be a reflection of our whole selves, it is a reflection of a part of us. For future generations, it may be the ONLY reflection seen. And I don’t know about you, but I want my great-grandchildren to feel a sense of who I was when they read these words. I want them to respect that I was a person who cared enough about my world to ACT in my world. I want to leave a record of the beauty that can be found, the excellence that can be experienced, and the joy that I have known just being here.

So, for your part in this record. . . thank you. Each of you has stepped up in your own way—it does not go unnoticed. For your beautiful contributions to both this site and what you individually write on your own—words are not enough to express my gratitude.

Thank you.

Beauty Found

Jan 24, 2008 | This Life

Sometimes where you least expect it. Sometimes right beneath your nose. Where did you find beauty today?

It Feels Like Magic

Jan 22, 2008 | This Life

The sun has been out for days and I find myself giddy. Over the top happy. Sure, it’s bitterly cold out there, but not like the rest of the country. I’m still wearing ballet flats with no socks and complaining about being cold. I’m pretty sure my tongue wouldn’t freeze to any metal surfaces if I were inclined to lick one.

But it’s not just the sun. Do you have those moments where it’s all perfectly ok? Even though there are problems in your world and the world at large, somewhere in your soul you sense this deep core of contentment. Perhaps not abiding, but certainly not fleeting?

It doesn’t take much to make me happy when the sun is out. Golden orb bright in the sky, I get how ancients once worshiped you! This orchid colored blouse is making me happy today. I’m actually wearing it at the moment! It’s a little piece of weekend redemption, made from fabric I purchased Sunday afternoon. It makes me giddy for reasons you might not expect.

To begin, I used a pattern. Oh yeah, I did! Those of you who sew will recognize the silhouette immediately, as I think most of you have probably already made one or two or three of these. I’m always last to the party. But, I have my issues with patterns. This is a Built by You from Simplicity pattern—which is part of Built By Wendy. I’ve been wanting to make something off these patterns for ages, but the Built By Wendy patterns all run smaller than I am. Smaller than I will ever be, most likely! (who are these nymphs sewing??) Fortunately, and just barely!, the Built By You patterns are larger. A little fact I did not know until two days ago!

I was raised by a seamstress. My mother is a master. This is not familial pride, but the truth. I could sit for hours listening to her machine, chug chug chug away into the night. I was a chatterbox (really!) and I don’t know how she pieced together anything with my constant talking. She could sew and handle all my “but mom” questions without ever missing a stitch. Somehow, she managed to concentrate in the middle of madness, turning out amazing work with such ease it looked like magic.

However, for all her skills, I was not a model student. Which, in retrospect, is appalling, how unteachable I was! That I have the poor skills that I do are no reflection of her–but I can imagine how frustrating it must have been to have me as a student. We are very different people and while she could read a pattern and make sense of it, it looked like advanced math to me. If there had been a “Math is hard!” Barbie when I was a kid, I would have had one. I was used to being stumped by numbers. Words were a different matter altogether. I liked words! Being stumped by them was a bitter blow to my pride! Patterns became my mortal enemies. And my sewing career ended as quickly as it began.

The one lesson my mother made patently clear and that has stayed with me forever is this: if you’re going to sew for yourself, sew with the best fabric you can afford. There is little point to making garments for yourself out of cheap cloth.

Forgive me mom, but this shirt was made out of $2 a yard bargain barn fabric.

Did I mention I also have a few issues with cutting fabric? My mom used to cut out my patterns just to get me started. I’m intimidated by cutting on expensive fabric. Not that anything in JoAnn’s could be classified as good fabric, (I’m sorry, I’m also a fabric snob by nature, I’m blaming my mom for this too!) but I couldn’t bring myself to buy $10 a yard fabric for a pattern I wasn’t even sure would fit me. So, I consider this a mock-up. Which I hear is good sewing, right?

Cheap fabric in hand, pattern read over a dozen or so times, pieces pressed and trimmed, I cut. I cut and I sewed and I even listened to another chatty 11 year old over the chug, chug, chug of my machine. Boy Wonder kept me company, perched on a daybed in my craft room, full of his own “but moms”. Some days we come full circle.

But I love it. I love the line and the ease. I love the fact that it fits, barely, but it fits. I love the fact that I’m already planning a half dozen of these in better fabric. Jeans and a smock, my new uniform. I only need a few vintage old man sweaters to keep me warm. I’m loving that this simple blouse has built just enough confidence that I’m actually considering making the dress version of the pattern that includes a zipper. Of course, it could just be the sun talking. She’s gabby like that.

This is where I find myself today. And it makes me giddy, sitting here writing to all of you dear readers. Sipping on a found stash of a favorite tea, listening to Serj Tankian on KROQ streaming from my computer—happy to be where I am, even if my heart belongs to a different latitude. I’m loving that somehow, I made friends with an enemy. Somehow, I created in the middle of the madness, made sense of words that usually defeat me. And you know what? It feels a little like magic.

I hope your day is full of sunlight. What feels like magic to you?

Resolve

Jan 21, 2008 | This Life

I don’t know about you, but for me Friday afternoon holds so much hope. The weekend seems full of potential. I dreamily plan all the things I’m going to accomplish in the next two days—all the projects I will finish. This weekend, I vow, I will not squander away daylight but be productive. And not just productive, I will be creative. I will DO!

Inevitably, I stay up too late on Friday night, sleep in on Saturday morning, and find myself lounging around in my PJs at 2:30 on Saturday afternoon pondering just where I put my resolve. I suffer from delusions of grandeur quite often, but never more so than on Friday afternoon.

Which, is probably why sometime on Sunday afternoon, after a rushed breakfast and heralding the family out the door and off to church, I find myself desperately attempting to redeem my weekend. A load or two of laundry here, a spruced up kitchen there. Haul out the vacuum. Dust a few surfaces. Hey, look, I can see the floor.

Tidied up but hardly perfect, I can’t help but notice how much around here can be classified as a WIP. Rooms half painted, carpets in DIRE need of steam cleaning, purchased drawer organizers lounging around waiting for me to decide just which drawer gets the honor. . . we aren’t going to chat about the “vintage” late 80’s wallpaper that screams at me every time I enter the kitchen. And laundry? Laundry is by definition a Work in Progress. There’s always more to be done. Always.

All of it is just waiting for me to find my resolve. But you know, and I know, these are not the projects I want to tackle. There’s a huge difference between being productive and being creative. No, what’s calling me is the collection of hand-made ceramic buttons I bought on etsy. And I hear my sewing machine singing to me from the upstairs, too! Clearly, I’m an addict in deep need of a fix.

On a Sunday afternoon, there is only one destination: a fabric store. There is redemption in a bolt of cheap cotton. And as I throw my newly purchased bargain barn fabric into the washer (see, see, I’m learning!) I discover where I left my resolve. It was in the laundry room all along.

This time, this time, I will finish what I start. I will. I will. Because like Friday afternoon, Sunday is full of promise.

A new week is coming. A new day is here. What are you finishing? What are you beginning? Where do you keep your resolve?

Art Therapy

Jan 18, 2008 | This Life

It’s been a Craftastic day! I can’t help it, I’ve had that word in my head for a week! That and “Great Googily Moogily.” They’re addictive, these fantastical expressions. Try using them. You’ll see. You’ll be stuck on them like your first cup of coffee, stuck. What, you don’t steal words from small children’s cartoons and incoorporate them into your vocabulary? It’s just me, huh?

Anyhow, the boy and I got to crafting this afternoon. I dumped my box of vintage fabric scraps on the dining room table and we set to work doing a little mixed media fabric collage. Boy Wonder was all excited because it meant he got to use my new cutting tools and the iron. What is it about boys and tools? Don’t go there. I’m shocked I was so calm, considering my child was brandishing both a knife and a hot iron.

Calming it was. It’s been a two mocha a day, so the calm was welcomed! I feel like I’ve been running since I stumbled out of bed. There has been glorious light here on the North Coast this week, and I’ve been taking advantage of it shooting photos for Thrifty Goodness. I’ve been a bit manic in the process, though. Running about in my handmade pjs not bothering to get dressed, up and down the stairs between the sunlit rooms, the disaster in my craft room, and my computer in the living room serving as a make-shift office. Sometimes, you forget to breathe.

The afernoon was so theraputic, even Snickers wanted in on the scene. Boy Wonder is usually such a chatty companion, no matter what he’s doing. But even he fell into a contented silence, concentrating on his collage. He dreams big this boy and wouldn’t settle for a simple pattern. It’s interesting to watch him work and see his process; we are so different and I find his approach inspiring. He’s just beginning he says—but likes working with these fabrics. “You know, Mom, these vintage fabrics are like art themselves.” That’s my boy!

I may be crafty, but this boy, this boy is an artist. I can’t wait to see it finished. He’s been checking in every so often, “What do you think of it so far?” I think it’s magnificent!

It’s Friday. On a cold but clear day here on the edge of the world, we spent the afternoon doing a little art therapy. What did you do today to lower your blood pressure?

The Way I Am

Jan 17, 2008 | This Life

 

If you were falling, then I would catch you.
You need a light, I’d find a match.

Cuz I love the way you say good morning.
And you take me the way I am.

If you are chilly, here take my sweater.
Your head is aching, I’ll make it better.

Cuz I love the way you call me baby.
And you take me the way I am.

I’d buy you Rogaine if you start losing all your hair.
Sew on patches to all you tear.

Cuz I love you more than I could ever promise.
And you take me the way I am.

You take me the way I am.
You take me the way I am.

~~Ingrid Michaelson 

Girl in the Mirror

Jan 16, 2008 | This Life

Taking a photo of my t-shirt is proving difficult. It’s like the perfect storm of photography. Turns out, it’s not exactly photogenic. It looks like hell hanging on a hanger and the color is almost impossible to capture correctly. It’s really a muted rosy pink. But every photo of it suggests it might be possessed with the evil spirit of Neon. Out, out, you vile thing.

So, I figured, why not take a photo of it ON. That makes sense, right? Never mind that I just wrote a piece about self doubt yesterday. Never mind I have a few weight issues. Ahem, let’s just say it, I’m PUDGY. (even if I “don’t look like an overweight person”. pfft) If I was a Nancy Drew character I would be Bess Marvin, the side-kick who was always described as “pleasantly plump.” Yeah, that’s me. Juicy. And like my t-shirt, I’m not exactly photogenic. I’m not. No, please don’t tell me I am. The photos you see of me are the select few that I allow to be published. Control your image, that’s what I say.

Anyhow, turns out, IZ is a terrible photographer. I knew this to begin with, but I have selective amnesia sometimes. I’m ever hopeful he’ll get at least one shot that doesn’t make me look like a beached whale. Or in this case, a curvy Bess Marvin wearing a neon shirt. Oy! The self shots I took are WAY better than the truth-telling wide angle lens shots he got of me. Shots I promptly deleted. (Oh, the joys of digital. No more waiting three days to see what you already know to be true: time to hit the gym, girlfriend.) I had no choice, I snatched my camera back.

It also turns out that I live in a ridiculously yellow house. No amount of juggling my very heavy camera would alleviate this, as every angle seemed to grow only more yellow. Jaundice anyone? So, I ran upstairs to take a few photos in our tranquil blue-green bedroom. If anyone were to look at the recent history in my iphoto account, they’d call me out for the narcissist that I am. Holy cow, you really can take a hundred bad photos. Ok, I exaggerate. But only slightly. It’s not my fault that there were errant socks in one frame, right? Or a ring of dust in another, or an unmade bed. And, what’s that coffee cup doing there?

What was that I was saying about controlling the image?

So, this girl in the mirror. This girl needs to lose a little weight. She needs to learn to love herself enough to do so. She also needs to recognize her strengths. Like writing an amusing sentence. Or telling a funny joke or tackling sewing projects without patterns. Or baking really fattening yummy desserts. She might want to consider not baking the really fattening yummy desserts so much. But she could also lighten up on herself while she’s in the process of lightening herself up.

And she should probably clean her room.

She’s So Crafty

Jan 15, 2008 | This Life

I know I promised photos of my new obsession, jersey knit. Truth is, after uploading a photo to Saturday’s post, I realized that I wasn’t exactly finished with project. The neckline needed a few more circles to fill in the spaces that look gaping in the photo. In real life, it wasn’t so bad, but photos tend to expose flaws the naked eye easily misses. IZ insisted that it was “fine”—I secretly sewed on just a few more. An afternoon of surreptitiously adding rosettes and I think I’m happy with it now. Maybe.

This is a habit in my life. The “I’ll just tweak it a bit more” compulsion is really my inner perfectionist making herself heard. It’s why IZ once painted a kitchen 5 times before he came to his senses and told me enough. It’s why deadlines are a good thing. It’s why I’ll never publish anything without one. I’m never content to just leave things as is. Tweak, tweak, fuss, fuss, frustration, obsess, re-write, obsess some more, this word, that word, pulling my hair out now, knot in my stomach. The progression is as pointless as it is predictable. Let it go, is not in my vocabulary. In any language.

I wish my inner perfectionist would stay in her place. I don’t mind the needling with my writing. I’ve come to expect it and I don’t know that I could actually write without her tyrant voice in my ear. But, it’s not helpful when you’re learning a new skill, like, say, sewing. And I’ve tried very hard to banish the red-headed bossy girl in my head to another realm when I sit down at a sewing machine. Surely she can find someone else to criticize for a few hours? Surely she has silver to polish or floors to clean in her realm, right? I can keep her at bay for a few hours, but I’m rarely successful at outright banishment. Instead, she shows up after I’m done, to pick, pick, pick at my mistakes.

I’m riddled with self doubt. That might surprise you, but it’s true. I have no reason to be, really. Any more than you do. But, that doubt is the lens through which I see so much of what I do. What shows up are the mistakes, of which there are plenty in this wee t-shirt of mine. Some of them are intentional: as in, I didn’t finish any of the edges. That was a choice I made, because I wanted a certain effect and I figured a first time sewing project in knit should be simple. Other mistakes are learning lessons, opportunities to do it differently next time. This is what I tell her, my perfectionist. She doesn’t listen.

Yet, I’m ridiculously proud of myself. Despite the fits and starts, despite the errors and mistakes, this shirt FITS. And I made it without a pattern. I used a completely new-to-me presser foot. Figured out how to program my machine to stitch in overlock. Best of all, I actually finished something for myself.

I can’t help but notice, even here, that it’s my mistakes I start with… the primary lens through which I’ve been looking. Perhaps it’s time for a new lens? I mean, what could be possible if I didn’t focus my flaws and instead, noticed the potential? Who would I be, if I could start with what I learned, with what I gained, with what I conquered, with what I want to become? If I was the kind of person who asked, “What can go right?” instead of focusing on what can go wrong. Who would I be, if I evicted my inner perfectionist? I can’t help but wonder.

Who would you be?