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A couple of months ago, I was contacted by Lisa, whom I didn’t know. She had seen a cabinet I had painted and wanted to know whether she could pay me to paint a jewelry armoire and, also, a mirror that she wanted to hang above it. She turned out to be a lovely woman who enjoyed decorating her home with color and whimsy, and I was excited for the challenge.
And a challenge it turned out to be. The two pieces were notably different in style, and I struggled to come up with unifying ideas. I had quoted her an hourly rate, and was careful to keep track of my time. When I finished the mirror, I told her how many hours I’d worked on it, and asked whether she wanted me to continue with the armoire, knowing that it would likely take longer than the mirror had. When she gave me the go-ahead, I got to work again.
What started as an interesting adventure, though, turned into a stress-filled exercise, as I struggled to marry what I knew of Lisa’s tastes, with something that would be complemented by the mirror. I became uncomfortably aware that my indecision could falsely inflate what already seemed a hefty price tag, and I kept erasing minutes that reflected work that I was repeatedly undoing.
Finally, one late night, as I painted in the garage, I impulsively drew a line through that day’s minutes, and circled yesterday’s cumulative total. I resolved not to note any more time. Almost instantly, I relaxed and was able to lean into the rhythm of the work and not worry about how long it would take. My Muse came dancing back into the room, and so did the joy!
And, happily, I was able to deliver the completed project to an appreciative and generous client.
The Mirror and the Armoire
This experience reminded me of long-ago bit of my history during which I attempted a business selling some of my art. Although people did buy it, selling terrified me, and sound business practices both bored and eluded me. For the first time, I began resenting the time it took to draw, or paint, or sew, and it didn’t take long for me to let go of the idea. For me, making things is best done for the joy of it. I guess I just needed to be reminded of this.
After the mirror/armoire lesson, I came by some free chairs, and immediately began wondering what I could do with them. My kids had just moved into their beautiful, new home, which has a large covered patio from where a spectacular sunset is visible most evenings. They have lots of furniture needs, so I asked whether they could envision using those previously-owned chairs as part of their outdoor seating. They said they could (or–because they are really kind people–maybe they couldn’t think of a way to say no to their mom).
Chairs!
This time, nothing got in the way of knowing what the chairs were meant to be in their new lives, because love was the fuel, and joy, the reward.
I am told that I have “so many projects going on at one time.”
Perhaps somewhat defensively, I maintain this is only partially true. I really do try to actively work on only one thing at a time. That said, I will admit to there being a fair number of “potential projects” living in various planning stages in my head, or on my laptop, or in my closet, awaiting a visit from the Muse to push them into fruition.
A couple of months ago, I decided I wanted to create some little fabric yard banners. I knew I wanted to paint them on canvas, and had an idea of where I would be placing the completed ones, but I had to wait for the actual designs to make themselves known to me, and for the time and opportunity in which to be able to spread out and work.
Also, one more thing. I had to learn how to do this.
(Just so you know, that continues to be the best part of the ongoing adventure for me.)
Inspired by my earlier rock-painting adventure, I began searching anew for just the right thing to put in the memorial corner. I happened upon a line from Alfred Lord Tennyson that I thought would be perfect to put on a flag in that space. They could fit as words that would honor loved ones who had passed. And—hooray—the quote was in the public domain, for copyright purposes).
Ready, set, go!
I loved adding this little flag to the memorial corner; the words speak to the fact that my thoughts are so very often filled with memories of these people.
It also calls to mind, though, that my heart-garden is filled with the grateful awareness of many living folks in my life, as well, and that I must cultivate that gratitude daily. Even more importantly, I must remember to let those people know that. Putting a quote on some decorated fabric is no substitute for actual connections, after all. I can’t let the “so many projects” in my head, run over the so many loves who live in my heart.
Margaret is a dear friend who is a longtime runner. For years, she has graciously invited me on walks, because I am slow and can’t keep up with her running. I’ve treasured these times, because we also fill the hours talking about what we’ve been contemplating, reading, celebrating, and sorrowing. Inevitably, we share our worries. And she always follows up the latter such sharings with a promise to me that “[insert something I’m stressed about] has a finger.” This is because, while she is running, she uses her fingers to remember to pray for her own and for others’ intentions; assigning each person, or concern to a specific finger. A human rosary, as it were. I love this (and her) so much. When I walk by myself each morning, I have a hard time staying contemplative and prayerful. This reality further magnifies my admiration and gratitude for Margaret and her faithful habit.
When my retirement intersected with a pandemic, I found myself spending lots of time in the back yard. Never having been particularly adept at keeping green things green, I was astonished at how much pleasure I found in nurturing flowers and vegetables, and just trying to create a space that was welcoming. The acts of weeding, watering, and planting have become surprisingly comforting to me. And (hooray!) they’ve also become times during which I am more disposed to being reflective and meditative.
The latest outside project involved laying some pavers down, and this required digging up and leveling a good amount of dirt. I was surprised at the number of large rocks I found buried, and, as I pulled them out, I hatched my own “finger” project. On the face of each rock, I painted the names of our children, their partners, and our grandchildren. These are my loves; those whose well-being I want to pray for constantly.
Also in the yard, is a spot I’ve taken to calling the memorial corner. There is a little stone bench under a beautiful magnolia tree. There are wind chimes that belonged to Freddie’s dad and a St. Francis statue that was once in my Aunt Mary’s yard. There is also a rose bush (aptly named, “Paradise Found”) that Margaret gave us when my father died. I’ve added rocks to this corner with the names of all the people we wish were still here in person, but who definitely still reside in our hearts. I hope these rocks will help me to remember to be grateful for all of them, and to be intentional about the time I have with the living.
The final rock is big and is for everyone–and everything else–because I didn’t unearth enough rocks to cover all the loves I’ve been blessed to have in my life, all the gratitude there is to express, and all the need there is in the world. It is a reminder to slow down and be more like Margaret.
Let me know if you have something you need me to add to a finger.
Blessings,
These past months have been filled with personal sorrows the likes of which I’d not anticipated. I have worried about–and even said goodbye–to too many loved ones, and I hadn’t yet grieved for those I had to let go of before that. I am fully aware that my personal hurts are relatively small potatoes compared to those of many others in my community, and in the world. But in my life, they seem like pretty big potatoes.
A really important lesson that I learned a number of years ago, though, was that true joys can coexist with true sorrows. They bob along together in this river of experiences, sometime gently bumping against one another, sometimes overtaking one another in dramatic ways that can either be beautiful, or downright terrible. Through the years, I’ve gotten better at noticing the joys before they get downstream too far and away from me, and at really paying attention to–and being thankful for–them.
Here are a series of them that continue to make me smile:
Joy #1: Bearing Witness to Love
A dear friend, Cindy, wanted to add something fun to her husband’s beloved music room. She wanted this to be accomplished during one of his weekly golf games, so he would be surprised when he came home. I love that people who have been married for many years (I think, 40+, in this case), still are thinking of ways to show their love and sense of fun with one another.
Joy #2: I Get to Help
My friend asks, can I decorate the cabinet faces in the room with something “music-y”? Her husband, Phil, is also a treasured friend, and I am delighted to get to be a part of this secret plan.
Joy #3: Collaboration
We decide that putting part of some kind of iconic song on the cabinet doors that is either significant to them, or that he has sung, would be fun. We figure it out!
Joy #4: The Work
I go to work, creating a design that can be be cut out of vinyl and affixed to the doors. After some fits and starts, I complete it. Cindy is patient and gracious during some setbacks; and lovely and tea-bearing when it is finally time for me to install it in the music room.
Joy #5 The Reveal
Thanks to Cindy making sure that the moment is recorded, I am privy to Phil’s reaction upon coming home to find his gift from her. He is utterly surprised and delighted, and I get to see it. The. Best. Joy. Ever.
Here is what we did:
“Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy, and keep choosing it every day.” –Henri Nouwen
Here is something I know about myself. I am prone to making pronouncements to myself about new habits that I want to build. I am also loathe to share these pronouncements with others, because, here’s another thing I know about myself. As soon as I falter on the path to that new habit (which is usually quite early in the journey), I am very likely to step off said path for good. These are endeavors such as exercising, eating right, writing, connecting with loved ones, watering plants, making art, praying, going to bed earlier. I resolve to start this new thing, and then, when I fail one day, or two, I expertly convince my habit-making self that I have failed for good. In addition to the obvious and sad lack of self-love that this indicates, it also doesn’t bode well for me ever practicing anything like picking myself up, dusting myself off, and getting back on the trail.
Resolving to create words or art regularly for a blog was my most recent effort at “self-improvement.” And making that public to friends and family was my way of seeking accountability.
And yet, here I am, at the end of March, with nary a thing shared. I could explain this by way of some recent and significant draws on my time (of both the sorrowful and joyful types), but, really, most of that would be more excuse-making and would result in more self-recrimination, and no more certainty that quitting would not still happen in the near future. Today, I’m putting one decidedly tentative toe back out there, and–without excuse or apology to myself or to any dear ones reading this–saying, “Hello, from the vantage point of March, 2021!”
What more apropos image for myself than the one above, then? And here are some others that I recently worked on, as well.
The back story is that I have been on the hunt for words that are in the public domain, and, therefore, safe to quote or publish, and have lately been in the mood to use ink and art paper to make note cards, or framed work (any thoughts on that, friends?).
I have never played competitive sports, but from what I’ve been told, and what I’ve observed, the mindset for a “real game” is highly focused. Both small and large decisions, actions, and, maybe, especially, attitudes have consequences and can make a critical difference to the outcome.
When I first came upon this quote, it gave me pause. I sighed, and thought, “Wow, yet another impetus for me to stress about not doing things right, or being enough in this world.” If there is no room for practicing, I thought, when do you get to make mistakes?
But then I backed up and thought about it again. What if this is more about mindfulness; about counting moments as important gifts and proceeding in my days accordingly? Mistakes? Surely there are–and will be–many (as there are on any given Game Day). But could my attitude about my actions and decisions and attitudes be such that if I am filling my day with them, I am remembering that they are worthy of such time and effort? And could I also use this as a measuring stick by which to determine whether something should even get Game Day Attention?
What are the implications? Just another reminder to me to pay attention. To notice whatever it is that I am eating, or doing, or seeing, or hearing. If there is joy to be had, grab it and be thankful. Game Day can happen in my back yard, when I notice the magnolia blooms that appear almost overnight on the tree in the corner. All I have to do is step outside the back door. And it can happen when I am lucky enough to have to the time and choose to drive to Oso Flaco Lake. And I bring my “big lens” to try, yet again, to learn about manual focusing and exposure. Below are some of the outcomes…
I put that quote on the back of my phone case, because this lesson is something I think I’m going to need to relearn. Again, and again.
*As far as I could ascertain, this quote was written by Peter Ross Range in a book called Murder in the Yoga Store, which I have not read. Apologies to Mr. Range, if I’m off the mark with regard to what he meant by those words.
I’m pretty sure that, for most of my life, I’ve gotten two things mixed up: when to slow down, and when to speed up. I have a friend who–usually with a sigh and an eye roll–tells me not to “OA” (over-analyze) a decision, a response, or some work that I am doing. This is often legitimate, as I can mire myself in self-doubt at times when a much quicker action or resolution would be just fine. And, yet, I hover over decisions as if world peace depended on what I choose or do, which makes me annoyingly slow, to both myself and others.
At many other times, however, I find myself rushing pell mell through my day, in pursuit of that undeniable satisfaction of “checking something off my list.” Doubtless, some of the things on that list are just fine to be objects of a smug checking-off (I’m happy to spend as little time as possible in line at the gas station), but others actions surely merit more sitting back and considering. More analyis. More immersion. Or, just more noticing.
Two days ago, I woke with the decision to work on becoming more adept at using the manual exposure settings on my camera. Surely this meant that I would zip outside and take a few stellar photos, thereby learning what there was to know. Check. Except, no.
There was no zipping, and no checking. First of all, the rain and wind were making themselves known in quite a dramatic way. This meant revising the where and the how. I looked out the window and decided I would do a little study of the water in the fountain that I see every day from my desk. When and how to accomplish this was the stuff of hilarity (and something I am, happy to say, no one else witnessed). Suffice it to say that there was a great deal of water, a good amount of less than graceful photographer positioning, all number of creative ideas for waterproofing a camera and hundreds (yes, hundreds) of really bad photographs.
But, here’s the thing. I think I’m getting more patient, Early on in what turned out to be an adventure that spanned three days, I decided there would be no quick fix, and that I should just slow down and notice. The rhythm of trying new settings (sometimes after taking a break to read yet another blog or article on the subject), figuring out where to be, and what to notice, became something to enjoy and not berate myself about not knowing. Paying attention to the tiniest changes in positioning, light, reflection, and movement became a pleasure and a challenge.
This is not to say that over the three days I attained mastery over–well, anything–really. I learned a teensy bit more about f-stop, shutter speed and ISO. I learned that a thin plastic baggy works really well to cover a camera in the rain. I learned that I should check my camera battery and remember to put the memory card back in the camera after removing it. And I learned that there is truly joy in the journey. The process was the reward; not a perfect end result.
I am fully aware that the mere time to learn this lesson is a grace and a gift. I am no longer mothering four sons at home, or working full-time. And a Covid-imposed stop on many other activities has been an additional impetus to do this “paying attention thing.” Who knows what tomorrow will bring with regard to another more urgent draw on my time? But, today, I am grateful for the lesson and the opportunity to practice it, and I am determined to draw on it in the future, when I am surely either tempted to “OA” or jump headlong into a race to complete too many things at once.
Below are some of the fruits of the days’ experiments. The first two were taken from inside the house, looking through the window. Each photo is the result of me playing with various settings to see what kinds of effects I could get. (The last two are just because I thought the subjects were so pretty. They have nothing to do with fountains, but lots to do with raindrops and noticing.)
How much can change in two weeks. Today I was filled with hope and joy upon watching the inauguration of the 46th president of our United States. It was a day filled with efforts to draw together, rather than divide, to look ahead, rather than dwell on the past. No words epitomized this more than the poem written and performed by the glorious Amanda Gorman. Her words made me remember that we must persevere so “love becomes our legacy” and we “change our children’s birthright.” She has used her art–her words–to paint this picture, and to draw us into that shared vision.
I don’t, for a minute, claim to have the monumental and brilliant ability to inspire that she does. But what I came away remembering, after hearing her, is that my words and actions do have impact, whether for the good, or ill, even in the smallest of corners. Thank you, Amanda Gorman, for reminding me of that, and for reminding me that there is too much unfinished business in the world for any of us to sit back and let a few someone elses figure out how to do it for the rest of us. 
Yesterday was a momentious, ugly, shocking day in the history of a country that is the only home I’ve ever known. I don’t feel like making art, or writing of beauty or hope.
And, yet, there is something in me that believes that others want better, and my job is to ally myself with them, and support that work and that mindset.
“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice.” (T.S. Elliot)
Here is to all the new voices. May I be one.