Here’s an empty nest                                                                                                                                   formed by twigs and time and dreams                                                                                                         and eggs never hatched.

Saturday’s balmy spring temps prompted me to spend most of the day working in my garage.  And oh,  did it need my attention.  I’d done some reorganization early last summer, but somehow during the fall and winter months,  the dark alchemy of clutter had crept back into that space.

I dragged box after box onto the driveway.   Many were cardboard moving boxes,  with the contents listed on the side.   I didn’t quite trust my own labels,  so I had to open them to check.  Many were packed with items from items my old vintage booth.  I was able to consolidate a lot of that stuff into clear bins,  earmarked for future Etsy and eBay sales.  Okay.  Done.  Feeling good.

Now I had room to revisit the back corner of the garage, where I was confronted by the Storage Bins of Christmas Past.   Except not just Christmas.  Sixteen years of Knoxville Past.   Empty bins in red, blue, and two shades of green.  Under-bed bins.  Bins with purple handles.  WHAT WAS I DOING USING THIS MANY BINS?  For a moment,  in my mind’s eye,  I saw a sign blinking the word:  “Crazytown.”

Why Crazytown?  Because they all used to be full.  They used to live in my attic.  And closets.  And under the bed.  But here’s the part where I start seeing the upside.  Today, my attic is totally empty. Those bins are empty.  Over the past two years I have slowly but steadily been paring down,  letting go,  jettisoning material things that were no longer adding value to my life.  That stack of bins is a reminder of how far I’ve come.

Do I still have work to do?   Yes.  But it gets easier every day.

 

A couple of months ago, my friend Maya mentioned that she and some of her fellow teachers participate in an annual “blog-every-day-for-a-month” challenge in March.  She didn’t exactly throw down the gauntlet for me to take part as well, but she did gently nudge me in that direction.  She also gave me some great encouragement and advice,  including,  “Stop thinking, start writing.  This ain’t surgery.”  Maya shared her own strategy for getting the most of out this month-long challenge:  she makes the decision to focus less on the craft, and let the exercise be more about the act of writing.

Turns out, that mindset is tougher to adopt than I thought.   I have never been a “dash it off” writer.   I have been a meticulous, get it right the first time, perfectionist kind of writer.   As far back as grade school, I never wanted to turn in a “rough draft” of a paper.  I wanted to write the most perfectly crafted paper possible from the get-go.  I pondered.  I agonized.  I eked out every single word of every single sentence from some very deep place.  Well, as deep as you can get for a 10-year-old.   A rough draft was just not good enough.  Even when turning in a rough draft was part of my final grade,  I stubbornly resisted.   I’d actually settle for getting my “A” paper automatically downgraded to a “B” because I didn’t want turn in a rough draft first.    I know.  It makes no sense.  My teachers were baffled by it as well.

If I’d grown up in a time of computers,  I wonder if things would have been different?  Possibly.  It’s pretty great to be able to edit again and again and again,  right there on the screen, isn’t it?   But I still do a great deal of thinking beforehand.   At my first “real” job after college,  that tendency to want to mull things over was my biggest challenge.  As a news producer for a local ABC affiliate,  there was very little time for mulling.  Time was everything.   Speed was a struggle.  I had to learn fast, and I did,  but I don’t feel that I was ever a great producer.  A strong one,  a solid one, yes,  but never truly great.   (note to self: producing= future blog post)  My ingrained, “carefully crafting a story” approach meant I rarely had even 10 minutes to spare before air time.   Not ideal for the news biz.

So, yeah, back to that whole blog every day for a month thing.  I didn’t even make it a whole week.  What the french, toast?  Why couldn’t I seem to JUST DO IT,  like the Nike slogan says?  Dang it.  Then I felt like a loser for falling short of my own expectations.   Nobody else was making me feel bad about it.  Just me.

Then another friend referred to this challenge as “30 posts in 30 days” and all of a sudden I thought, ooh, hey,  there’s my loophole.  My way to get back in the game.  Of course there are 31 days in March, but no matter.  I could still make up the time.  I’ve got 20 days left.  And 26 more posts to make.  I’m not great with math, either,  but I think that equals 1.3 blog posts a day.

What does a .3 post look like, anyway?

 

 

 

There they were, lined up by the hundreds.

Knoxville’s Downton Abbey fans turned out in droves to watch an early screening of last night’s series finale at the historic Tennessee Theatre.  I mean, the queue went around the block.  It was like The Stones were in town.

Most folks (like me) went strictly Sunday casual,  but a good number were dressed to the nines-  or the 1929s-  in some semblance of period attire.  Accuracy be damned,  I say hurrah to all the gents in tails and tweeds,  and the ladies in sequins, shawls, gloves  and hats.

And check out Miz Thing in the tiara!  I want to have tea with her.  Immediately.  And I don’t even like tea.  She’s probably got scones in that purse.  Or a flask.  I don’t care.  I want to BE her in 40 years.   She is fabulous.

Inside, townsfolk were encouraged to rub elbows with the Crawley family cutouts for photo ops.

I’d been on the fence all day,  trying to decide if I wanted to watch the last 2 hours of my beloved Downton with 1,600 other people,  or sitting alone on my couch with a box of tissues nearby.  You know, just in case somebody died.  Or Edith contracted some horrible disease.  Once I was at the theatre, though,  it was fun to be sharing the experience with the masses.

But wow,  I was definitely underdressed.

 

 

 

Art makes me happy.  Color makes me happy.  Texture and design make me happy.  I’m a visual kinda girl.

So I’m going to celebrate the colors of my weekend, wherever I find them.  Last night at the auction,  I savored the simple pleasure of translucent green, found in a box of old Coke bottles.

Later, at a friend’s art exhibit,  I warmed to the scarlet pansies and rosy beige background in the detail of her painting.

This morning,  I marveled at nature’s palette in boxes of fresh-from-the-farm eggs. Speckles and freckles and shades of terra cotta, aqua, mint green, olive, ecru, sand, peach, nut brown, and creamy white.   Perfectly delicious.

What colors will tomorrow bring?  Who knows!  My daffodils aren’t quite ready to bloom,  but I know a burst of sunny yellow is right around the corner.

In the meantime,  I’m keeping my eyes open.

Okay, these “worlds” did not really collide.  But somehow they’re orbiting each other in a very cool way.  Once again, I’m speaking about those two darlings of online shoppers and collectors everywhere, eBay and Etsy.  Remember that beautiful cactus flower fabric I sent off to its new home?  Well, yesterday I was browsing through one of my favorite Etsy shops,  and noticed the name of the seller:  Constance S.  from Baltimore. Gee, that sounded familiar.   And yeah,  she makes adorable purses from vintage barkcloth.   Hey, wait a minute…

Guess who bought that rare pattern from me on eBay?  Constance S. from Baltimore!  I’m getting my wish!  That fabric is going to be made into something both useful AND beautiful.   Thank you, universe.   I’m learning that positive intent paired with action can bring about happy results.  Message received!

Check out Constance’s shop for cool handmade jewelry, too.

https://www.etsy.com/shop/studioCjewelry?ref=ss_profile

In the last year, I have been taking steps towards simplifying my life.  Part of that is divesting myself of the STUFF I’ve accumulated since my teens.  I started with easy items, like clothes I didn’t want or wear anymore.  No problem.  Then I moved on to bigger things, like furniture “projects” I hadn’t gotten around to, and knew I was probably never going to tackle in this lifetime.  Bye-bye, 1950s salon dryer chair.   I hope your new owner turns you into the reupholstered, reading lamp-slash-conversation piece I had always envisioned.

More recently, I decided I was finally ready to let go of many of my collectibles as well.   Between Etsy and ebay, I’m off to a solid start.   Two days ago, I listed one of my favorite pieces of vintage fabric.  It was an odd L-shaped barkcloth remnant-  not even a full yard-  but the pattern was extremely rare:  a lush southwestern scene featuring cactus flowers in shades of jadeite, fuchsia, and lemon yellow,  plus distant canyons of gray,  against a deep aqua ground.

I mean,  is that not spectacular yumminess?  Maybe you have to be into that sort of thing to appreciate it, but trust me, in the world of mid century textiles, it’s pretty fabulous.   As I posted the photos to ebay, I asked myself, “Why are you selling this, again?”   The honest answer was, as much as I loved this fabric, I’d never made it into anything useful or even visible in my world.  It wasn’t a plump, feather-filled throw pillow, proudly gracing my sofa.  It wasn’t a stylish shopping tote, making the rounds with me at the farmers’ market.  Nope, instead it spent years just folded up, on a shelf.  A sliver of color in a sea of other stacked fabrics.

If a saguaro falls in the desert and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?  Does beauty exist if no one is there to appreciate it?   Well, I didn’t have long to ponder those questions,  because this morning my little cactus flower sold for its “Buy It Now” price.  I can’t lie and say I didn’t feel the tiniest flash of something… but it wasn’t regret.  It was more like… wistfulness.  I wish I had utilized this gorgeous textile in a way that it could have been enjoyed on a daily basis.   But I didn’t.  And now it was someone else’s turn.

I choose to see this purging process not only as a means to simplify my life, but also as a sort of “re-homing” program.  It’s okay that these things won’t be under my roof anymore.  I feel better, thinking of them out in the big ol’ world, being used and appreciated.

Happy Trails,  Cactus Flower.

 

“You should write a blog,” they said.  “You’re so funny, and such a good writer,” they said.

“Yeah,” I thought.  “I should write a blog!”  After being fed a steady diet of Facebook ‘likes’ for years,  I was feeling pretty secure that this endeavor would be welcomed with equal enthusiasm by my friends.   So on February 14th,  I thought I’d show myself the love by putting this pet project into motion.  I spent the day carefully selecting a template, upgrading my Word Press account,  thinking about what I wanted to say, and then writing my very first post.  Okay, I stopped at one point to watch the Walking Dead mid-season premiere, but before the night was over,  I’d published my post and shared the link on facebook, proud that I’d accomplished a goal.  Then I waited for the kudos and likes to come rolling in…

(crickets)

After a solid eight hours of labor, the baby I’d birthed was getting some modest pats on the head, but it was far from being cooed and fawned over.   Every parent thinks their child is beautiful,  don’t they?  And no one wants to tell you your child is homely.

OMG.  Was I the lady with the ugly baby???

I called a few people and asked for some honest feedback.  One friend found my anatomical references a bit much.  (Okay,  fair enough.)  My mother was not exactly embracing the title or my play on words,  and she let me know in no uncertain terms that colonoscopies were no joke.  “But it’s funny,” I said.  “It’s like, when life gets tough, it’s time to reevaluate your sh*t.  See?”  I could practically hear her clutching her chest as she replied, “Please tell me you did not use that word!”  No, I didn’t.  But I wanted to. And I might in the future.

I didn’t think it was my best work ever, but it was a start.  And the Sally Field in me really wanted it to be liked.

“She has a cute face.  Maybe if she did something with her hair?”

Who was I writing this for, anyway?  Primarily, me.  I have felt like a writer who wasn’t writing,  and I wanted to change that.  So I’m doing it.  I’m seeking out more ways to channel that creativity,  and make it a habit, not an occasional blip on the radar.   But this blog is not just about frequency and quantity,  it’s about quality, too.  I want to become a BETTER writer.   Opening myself up to feedback, comments, and critique is part of that.   Writing in a journal that nobody sees is undoubtedly beneficial and therapeutic, but writing for an audience can lead to even more personal and professional growth.  That’s what I’m after.  Growth.

Speaking of growth, are my roots looking really bad?

Wait.  Don’t answer that.

 

A person with considerable knowledge of psychology recently asked me,  “Do you realize how much pressure you put on yourself?”

Well, frankly, no.  I’d never thought in those terms before.  I always thought the pressure I felt was coming from outside sources.  Friends.  Family.  The general public.  You know, other people.

But when I sat down to write my very first blog post tonight, no one else was there but me.  Well, me and “the committee.”  The voices in my head.  The second-guessers.  The devil’s advocates.  All chock-full of great ideas… and arguments why those ideas weren’t good enough or entertaining enough or interesting enough to write about in a blog.  Wow.  All that pressure was coming from me.

Psssst.  Self.  Lighten up, Francis.

This blog doesn’t have to be epic. Or profound. Or hilarious.  I’m not being graded on it.  I just want to build up my writing chops.  Aptitude and talent mean nothing until they’re put into practice.  Living my best life (shout out to Oprah- Hey girl, hey!) means using my gifts.  Anybody can be a dreamer.  I want to be a doer.

So that’s what this blog is about.  Doing something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Being a woman of my word.  It was high time to stop talking, and start typing.  I’m kind of excited to see how it will evolve over time.  I fully expect it will change me, too.

Here we go, folks.