I wish for you...

This is my favorite time of year. I know, weird. Whatever. I love the music, the crowds, the lit up trees. I love looking for the perfect gift, sitting in front of the fire, baking sweet treats. I love surprising people with gifts who least expect them.  I love bells on my Christmas socks, my Santa hat, and my Mrs. Clause dress. (of course I have one) And I particularly love irritating the hell out of all the Scrooges at work.

Anyway, I thought it might be appropriate to share with you some holiday wishes, whatever your particular celebratory habits happen to be. 

I wish for you...

joy. The real kind.

laughter. the belly kind.

friendship. the eternal kind.

peace. the inner kind.

music. the moving kind.

strength. the heart and mind kind.

play time. the rejuvenating kind.

rest. the revitalizing kind.

hunger. the motivating kind.

creativity. the problem solving kind.

art. the inspiring kind

judgement. the discerning kind.

work. the rewarding kind.

time. the plentiful kind

love. the fulfilling kind. 

and spiked egg nog. and brownies. lots of brownies. 

Thank you for  your friendship and kindness.

Giving Thanks for You

I've been keeping a gratitude journal. Sometimes, just in my personal thoughts. Occasionally, I make a list. I like keeping things to myself. I tell the designers I teach and work with to make living a grateful life their first priority. Sometimes, in classes, we have an activity where we start a gratitude journal. Surprising as it may seem, I often have to suggest that waking up and breathing can count for two of the 5 entries I request. I find that a little sad.

So, I wanted to make a quick list of that for which I am so grateful and, I too, had difficulty. Not because I couldn't think nof 5, but because I didn't know where to begin. Do I start with the big stuff, like the fact that I have not been sick for 20 years? Or something that may seem insignificant to others, like the window and light on my range? Should I wax eloquent about how I nearly burst with joy when I see how well my children turned out, in spite of my weaknesses as a parent? Perhaps I should just share a quick,witty reprise of my imitation of the Keystone Cops-esque attempts at organizing my office and getting the pre-lit garland on my bannister. (I actually spent a couple of hours on the latter task, then, upon inspection decided I didn't like it, took it down and started over. I'm still not done.)

So, what fills me with gratitude and encourages me to continue to move forward? My family, my home, my ability to reason, my right to disagree: that tired feeling at the end of a long day of hard work; being able to look myself in the mirror knowing that I lived yet one more honest day; that at least for now, I live in a country where it isn't against the law to succeed and even though there are those who would strip me of my freedom, my right to pursue happiness, my voice - they haven't succeeded yet.

Most of all, at this moment, I am grateful for those who inspire me to be more than I am. Those who, by their presence in my life, make my life better, purposeful, necessary. Many don't know of their influence and inspiration.

Rather than drag my greatly appreciated audience through a longer than necessary dreary story, suffice it to say that I am grateful for these things and so much more.

I am grateful for you.

The Divinity Within...

I like to make things. I love to play with my camera. I adore words. Here are a couple of my most recent collages. The first is a declaration. The second is a journey. Both, at least for me, were necessary. My brain seems most comfortable when it is occupied with creation of some kind. I wonder why that is. What drives one to build, create, imagine? There are those who engage in destruction and have taken even that to an art. I find that confusing as well. What compels some to scatter things, thoughts, people about and others to edify, encourage, mimic the beauty around them? As I peruse the blogs and find amazing creations - imaginations and musings played out for the world to see via poetry, essays, photos, paintings; works of art created with bits of beads, string, voice, I am reminded to be grateful. Grateful for your willingness to share; your ability to express yourself with such eloquence, regardless of the medium with which you communicate; the power you possess within yourself, and your need to share it. 

My Very First, (and only) Very Short Story

I can’t remember her face or the sound of her voice. But I remember her hair. It was long and silky and when she bent down to pick me up or hold me it would fall forward and brush my face. It was so soft, it smelled good. It was warm. It tickled. 

I don’t really remember when or why she left but the house got darker and it closed in on me. The drapes were drawn and a heavy layer of dust fell over the house and us. We moved slower and the music stopped. I remember waking up and skipping into the kitchen expecting to see her there stirring cinnamon and sugar into the grits because that’s the only thing I would eat. She would be wearing her monkey shoes that I don’t actually remember but I’ve been told that they were Curious George slippers. Instead, I was confronted by a toaster that wasn’t plugged in and a few dishes in the sink. 

I started looking for her when I was a teenager, about ten years after she left. I asked a lot of questions and got very few answers. No one knew anything and what they did know, they weren’t telling. “It’s time to move on.”, “Why are you bringing all this up now?”, “Leave it alone.” Everyone wanted me to do what she had done. 

Every moment of every day since she left, I have been looking for her. I look for her face in the crowd, in line at the grocery store, on the back of milk cartons. Every so often, I will see someone going up an escalator and the hair catches my eye. I follow - every time - just to be disappointed - every time. In my head I know it’s not her. She would be older now and if she was nearby, she would come look for me. In my heart hope lives on. 

We moved. A lot. I cried myself to sleep every night because I knew that when she came back, she wouldn’t be able to find us. I begged, pleaded and bargained to stay in that dusty, old, dark house and each one there after, to no avail. I chased people with long, silky hair up escalators and through grocery stores and crowds in many cities. 

Many years have passed since she left. The silence surrounding her sudden disappearance has grown heavy and tedious. Secrets carry their own burdens and wear away at the soul like the ocean against the rocks. So I went home. I am standing in front of the old house. The curtains are no longer drawn. There’s a fresh coat of paint, a new porch with a swing, and a new mailbox with flowers growing in one of those barrels that have been cut in half. It’s smaller than I remember. A bike is laying on it’s side in the grass and you can see depressions where someone with small feet has run through it, ignoring the sidewalk that wraps around to the back of the house. As I walk around to the back, in search of what I remember as a field for a back yard, and I see it. 

Along the back fence wild flowers are growing so thick that you can’t see what’s on the other side and , in the corner, under the tree with the rope swing, is a small well. Fresh, clear, sparkling water runs and feeds the ivy and flowers that surround it. A small bench beckons me to sit, somehow knowing the new family won’t mind. Someone who was loved very much has been remembered here and the new family has reverently revived her garden. 

After a few minutes, a woman with long, silky hair steps out of the house. She watches me for some time before quietly approaching. Not sure what to do, she sits down next to me. Her hair smells good and as I catch the fragrance wafting through the breeze, she asks if I knew the original owner of this garden. “Not very well”, I say. “But I loved her very much.” 



Copyright 2007

The Search is On…write on…

When I was in third grade, Mrs. Powell, the most wonderful teacher in the world would tell her unhappy, scowling students, “You’d better straighten that face up. It’ll stick like that.” Almost always, all the other students would start making the face too, and soon the entire class, including the grumpy kid, would be laughing.  Mrs. Powell always said, “Now THAT’S a face to get stuck with.”

There was a time when all I had to do to find some fabulous blog to read was turn on my machine and go to my favorite web site. There would appear, almost magically, all sorts of conversations, discussions, observations and the like. Some, I would read and ponder a bit. Others, I would comment on or praise for the profound thoughts or creative bent.  There was never a shortage of delightful reads or inspiration.

I don’t know what happened but the current changed. Perhaps the stars misaligned. Or maybe it was me. Whatever caused the shift in the blogosphere, I no longer easily find blogs that inspire me to participate or write. It isn’t that there aren’t millions to choose from. In fact, that may be part of the problem. An infinite number of choices often precludes finding what we are looking for no matter what we seek. Consider trying to choose paint for your walls when faced with and entire wall of paint chips.

My problem is, without interaction or feedback, it’s difficult for me to write. There is no dialogue. I still have words swimming around disrupting the cobwebs on my  brain, sporadically landing on the screen, on napkins at restaurants, on my hand. They don’t lead to anything. They are not edifying. They are not contributing. They are not culminating into something more than they were before I wrote them.

I have often said I write because I must. Audience or no, the words erupt and must be spoken…er…typed lest they crowd out everything else in my brain, preventing me from doing anything else until I set the thoughts free.  The discovery is, however, they will not burst forth. They will simply dry up and blow away until there is nothing left. What’s that phrase? “Use it or lose it.”? I never liked that phrase. Subconsciously, I must have known it’s deeper and more profound meaning. That this love of words and writing, this art form, this gift is not necessarily permanent or mine. That if I neglect or ignore the words, they can be taken from me.  That if I do not search for inspiration, I may not ever find it again. That if the dreaded case of writer’s block lasted too long, it might just get stuck like that.

 

Write on…

The Glorious Blogosphere

I’ve been watching the blogs. Some I actually read. I have been looking for a new blog home for over a year, since my original blog, and to date, the only one that was even remotely satisfying, went belly up.  It’s still there. I even went back. But the host site didn’t tune into the burgeoning environment and something much less desirable for so many has overtaken our small community and many have left in search of a more hospitable atmosphere.

We had there a group of people from all over who found each other. A writers/bloggers/vloggers group who participated in conversations spawned by one video or blog or comment inspiring another to engage. Many of us became good friends in spite of the troubles and have remained in contact elsewhere in the blogosphere. We regaled each other with humor, support, advice, feedback and friendship. Many of us were by nature, observers.

That’s one of the things that makes blogging so delicious. Those of us who prefer to stand back, can jump in, converse, contribute when we feel so inspired, and then step back and allow the conversation to continue from a distance. I can, for example, read a blog or watch a video at 2:00 a.m., comment and go do something else. I always return with enthusiasm to see if my comments had been addressed or what others had contributed. Long distance friendship is much more accommodating to reticent communicators than phones or lunch dates.

Participating in a conversation via a blog is like texting or calling when you know the recipient of your intended blathering won’t be near enough to the phone to interrupt your busy day with *gasp* a conversation. Which, incidentally, is like being caught in the undertow when a live and breathing being answers in place of the expected recording of Mae West or Elvis requesting that you leave a message. I always lose my train of thought. I have actually had people think there was no one on the line and hang up before I gathered my wandering senses enough to respond. It has been suggested that the difference between my ability to form a coherent thought when I’m expecting a machine and my ability to communicate via a key board is akin to the great abyss.

Speaking of which, I found this in my perusing for some worthwhile, or at least entertaining blogs to read:
“The Church of the Great Abyss was founded by our Mother Tiamat at 9.00 pm on the 26th. of October (according to the Rev. James Lightfoot, a notable Hebraist) in the year 4004 BC (if you accept the calculations of Bishop Ussher).”

Who knew? While I wasn’t particularly inspired to read more about “The Church” I did put some thought to “the year 4004 BC”. You never know what will ignite your imagination. I ended up spending an inordinate amount of time reading about the cultivation of rice in Southeast Asia and maize in Mexico, the wheel and Mesopotamia and particularly interesting to this blogger, the earliest writing systems, Sumerian cuneiform and Vinca Symbols. (Although many contend the Vinca symbols, while conveying messages weren’t REALLY writing because they didn’t actually encode language. After all these millennia, the devil is still in the details.

 Isn’t the blogosphere glorious?

Wish Granted

Jack of all trades, master of none. I wonder if this is a phenomena of recent history. An inclination to dabble in this, tip toe in that. Small bits of exposure to lots of interests in an adhd kind of way rather than focusing in and becoming proficient at one thing.

I see it everywhere. Over the years, I have worked with people with this affliction and been guilty of this very thing myself. I’ll do this and on the side, I’ll do that. A wee bit of exposure here, a bit of beginner’s luck there.

I worked with a woman many years ago who by any standard was one of the most intelligent people I had ever met. It was hard for her to make idle conversation with people because she was so much more intelligent than most that she just didn’t communicate well with, well, normal people.

She was constantly looking for something fulfilling in her life. She was just always a step away from finding whatever it was that she needed. Like me, she was a hairdresser with more education than she needed for the job. Like me, she had about a million hobbies. Unlike me, she had not decided what it was she wanted to do when she grew up. She enjoyed being a designer. She thrived on the creative aspect of the job, and to be truly successful in this industry, as many others, the business end of it is an often ignored but vital part of the plan. That was thrilling to her too. Planning out how she was going to reach her goals, planning promotions, ongoing education, all filled her with enthusiasm.

The problem was, she kept missing one vital component for her to feel successful. So she would keep looking. She tried every new gadget that came on the market. She tried selling her hobbies. She was, in the 3 years we worked together, a part-time photographer, free-lance writer, jewelry maker, painter, sculptor, ceramics, glass and porcelain –er, a tarot card reader, liquor store attendant and seamstress.  She also loved to cook and bake, but during the time I knew her, she had not tried making money at either of those. AND, whatever she was doing, she was talking about one of the other things.

The poor gal had an extremely difficult time making ends meet because she never made quite enough money. I suggested once that she do her own Tarot card reading and see what it said. She said that it wouldn’t work that way but tried it anyway. When I asked her about the result, she said, “It didn’t work that way.” I suspect it worked just about as well as all of her other schemes.

I was a bit like her at one time. I had to do extra on the side until I built up my skill set and clientele’ but I tried to always keep my mind on the goal. One job, five or 6 days a week, with time enough for my family and doing other things I enjoy. It took a while but I did it.

My supposition that whatever I was focused on was what I would be successful at turned out to be fairly accurate. When I kept my eye on the goal, planned and worked toward certain outcomes, I had a much better chance of accomplishing a thing or three. Whatever was forefront in my mind, and this is still true, is where I manage to move forward, make headway. Some suggest it’s the law of attraction. That whatever I put out into the universe, the universe will go to work fulfilling my desires. I call it hard work. After all, the universe isn’t going to give me anything I don’t deserve.

Un Abrazo

I love birthdays. All birthdays. Mine, yours, theirs. Doesn’t matter. Birthdays make me smile. I know a lot of people who find no joy in them at all. They see them as reminders of being older than they were yesterday. Opportunities to recount all the goals they didn’t achieve the previous year; all the things they didn’t do, didn’t accomplish, didn’t improve upon.

Not me. Where others’ birthdays are concerned, they give me the opportunity to celebrate their presence in my life. And while I should do it all year, birthdays single out a day for me to remind them how much they are loved, respected and valued. It’s a day set aside just for the sole purpose of celebration and gratitude. A day for me to say Thank you for making my world a better place; Thank you for being who you are; Thank you for who I am when I am with you.

As for my own, my birthday represents how far I’ve come. It’s a reminder of how joyful and purposeful life can be and that I only need choose a joyful and purposeful path to make it so. It reminds me that life is abundant, generous, lovely. My birthday reminds me that success is achievable, miracles are probable, happiness is a choice. It reminds me that I am better today than yesterday and growth and greatness, however personal, are possible. It reminds me that while my successes are fortuitous, they are not random.

There are those who wish people would ignore their birthdays with them. Leave it alone. To that I say, please forgive me, but I cannot. Because, you see, I need you to know how you have affected me. I need you to know that you are important, special, loved.

So, when I say to you, Happy Birthday, especially those of you who do not love your birthdays, consider yourself hugged and know that I say it with a most grateful heart for all you are and have been to me.

I will be 49 in a moment. What a year 48 has been. Many more delightful surprises than calamities. I fully expect my 49th year to be even better.

I am seldom disappointed.

Hold On

Aristophanes, (in one and my preferred version of the story) in quoting Plato told of how Humans used to be connected; Lovers, soul mates, were one being. And the world was a wondrous, loving and gracious place. But the vengeful Gods saw how happy humans were and envied them; they were jealous and dark hearted. They separated the two souls inhabiting a single form and scattered them about. Ever since, as the story goes, humans have wandered  searching for their soul mate; their split apart.

Hold on
I promise to be loyal, faithful, honest, yours
I promise to love you without condition, wholly, from the inside out
I promise to be worthy of your trust; to uphold you; to be your constant
I promise to provide you a safe haven from the insanity that is the world
I promise to overlook trivialities, focus on the pertinent
I promise to listen, to hear, to act, to defend
I promise to avoid that which would destroy us
I promise to strive to be what you believe me to be
I promise to see in you your potential, appreciate your strengths
I promise to  forgive you,  to ask your forgiveness
I promise to put you first; before my own desires, before the vanities of the world
I promise to be only yours, to protect your heart as though it were my own
I promise to laugh, to cry, to explore, and to grow with you
And should the world threaten to destroy us; to separate us; to scatter us about,
I promise to hold on

Had woman sit in my chair a while back. I got stuck with her because her regular designer wasn't there. Again. She was angry. Don't blame her. Her regular designer has been doing hair for about 5 minutes. Anyway, normally, when I visit for the first time with a new client the conversation starts out something like this;

Me - Hello. Nice to meet you, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah. So, you want a cut and color today, is that correct?
Client - Yes.
Me - Great. Let's take a look at what you have already and then discuss what you want so we can decide how best to have you looking fabulous when you leave.
Client - Okey Dokey

Then, I ask a bajillion question and look at growth patterns, condition, density, color, skin tone, eye color, etc.

Next, I offer up suggestions.

Me - Well, here's what I'm seeing...What I think you would love...and how I'd like to do that...and it will take...yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.
Client - Sounds good. Work your magic. OR What I do like...what I don't like...etc.

We come to an agreement. Never, anywhere in that conversation will you hear me say, "Tell me exactly what you want and how to do it because if you don't I won't know what to do or where to start and you'll hate it when you leave". The reason is very simple. I have been doing what I do and teaching other people how to do what I do for 28 years. I have extensive amounts of high quality, national and international education. And, I'm very good at what I do. And while I am still learning, I don't know everything, but what I do know, I know very well.

Back to the client. She sits in my chair. I step around to face her so I can look at her while we discuss what we're going to do. Before I even begin the clarification of what she's actually there for, she says this:

"I like my hair like this. I want it cut 2 inches here on a ninety degree angle. I want it tapered here but not too short. I want it over my ears, tapered at the neck. I want the top blond but not yellow. Do not use bleach on my hair. If you think you can't color it without turning it yellow, I'll wait till #$@#^ is back. I want it texturized - pause - look at stylist to see if she's listening and knows what texturizing is - I want side swept bangs and I don't want to see one single gray hair. But don't do all over color. Just highlight. Just make sure you pick up all the grays. And, by the way, my hair is very coarse and if you cut it too short it will stick straight up and I won't pay you.

I am still standing in front of her, most likely with my dropped jaw telling her much more than my silence is, and she says, "Do you think you can handle that?"

My first response to her diatribe?  "Que?"

For just a moment she thought I didn't speak English. The look on her face was worth the price of admission. And because one inappropriate comment is against my principles, I responded with;

"I've been doing hair 28 years. I'm pretty sure I can handle it."

At some point during the conversation, I told her how much everything was going to cost.

Client -  "Oh, I only wanted to spend $50". (I had looked up her previous service with the other stylist and she paid more for just the color than that.)
Me - "Ok. Well, I'll be glad to discuss what we can do for $50 then."
Client - "But I want the whole thing".
Me - "I can't do all that you've asked for $50. What I CAN do is..."
Client - "Well, I need the whole thing done. But I won't pay that."
Me - "Well, I understand completely. Give me just a moment and I'll go see if there is someone else available to do your hair".
Client - "Why can't you do it?"
Me - "I cannot do 2 hours worth of work for $50".
Client - "You can't or you won't?"
Me - "Yes. That is correct. My prices are not negotiable. This is how long it will take, and this is how much it will cost."

She decided that she would pay my "outrageous prices", made a couple more equally condescending remarks about never liking her hair and how no one listens to her. I asked her to be quiet because when she talked she moved her head. I needed her to be still. She finally harumphed and shut up.

What I wanted to say was;

"I appreciate the fact that you may have, in the past, had to tell people how to do what they do. However, I am licensed, experienced and good at what I do. The only reason you are in my chair is because I had a last minute cancellation. The reason that is important to you is this. I don't take orders. You are welcome to tell me what you like and what you don't like. However, unless you are prepared to do this service yourself, you are not in charge here. I am the master of this particular universe. Feel free to tell me what issues you are having but you are not free to order me about, tell me what to do and how to do it, and you certainly are not free to threaten me. If you continue to be condescending and disrespectful, you can get your ass out of my chair and find someone else to be your bitch. The reason you 'never get a good haircut or color" is because you tell people what to do and how to do it rather than allowing them to do their job. And, by the way, if you don't sit still and quit moving your head, I'm going to charge you double."

When I finished, she actually liked her hair. Though it was painful for her, she thanked me and asked for my card. I thanked her, suggested that she enjoy the rest of her weekend and promptly went to the computer and added a note to her file. It read,

"Do not, ever, under any circumstances, for any reason, put this woman on my books again."

They haven't.