Wonder

wonder…

MLK Memorial, Washington DC

Today we honor Martin Luther King. And for those of us who are fortunate enough to have been present during his life, the memories of his impact have significant meaning to the form and direction of our world.

The civil rights movement reached its most critical intensity in the midst of my childhood, and my earliest images include those terrible and iconic photos and newscasts of brave civil rights activists in the South.  Seeing those images now, fifty years later, the shocking truth of those events and the singleminded courage of those who put their lives at risk remains as formative to who I am as the pictures and memories in my family albums.

In the midst of all the photos and documents from mid-century, a friend posted a photo from 1913, just before my mother was born.  I was struck anew by the radical changes in our world between my mother’s birth a hundred years ago and mine in the midst of that mid-century turmoil. And it struck me that my granddaughter will be born this spring, a century almost to the day after her grandma came into the world. And I wonder what her world will bring, what our legacy will be and what she will remember of my world.

My mother was born on a farm in upstate NY with no phone, no electricity and no plumbing; her mom cooked on a wood-burning stove. Saturdays mornings were spent cleaning kerosene lanterns, and Sundays they traveled to church in a wagon with bricks under their feet to keep them warm. Ten miles was a long distance, and the closest neighbors on adjoining farms were well out contact, much less available for “play dates”.  She went to a one-room school house until high school, and then left the farm (quite daringly) to become a nurse in New York City.

Her youngest child, I sit at a my laptop in my centrally heated room; I’ve been to Asia and Europe, have friends all over the world and I will not only write this, but publish it in about ten minutes. I can go where I want (relatively cheaply) and have access- through this 15” screen- to a world of information more complete than any library I visited as a student in the 1970’s.

In the middle of all this change- just about dead center, as I was a child and my mother approached middle age- the most astounding changes of all occurred, and these were quite likely fueled by the explosion in exposure- in communication, in visual and verbal connection, in TV nd photos and radio and, eventually, internet.

Before we could see, we didn’t challenge the status quo. Before we could hear the cries of children in Montgomery, we didn’t think that anything was wrong. When it was our neighbors who were agreeing with the status quo we accepted it as is.

But when the window to the world was opened, and we saw hoses and attack dogs set upon young and peaceful protestors, we looked. And we were horrified by what we people can do to each other.

When we saw photos of a Buddhist monk set himself on fire in protest to war, we were shocked.

When we could see what was happening in Southeast Asia and in Eastern Europe, we paid attention, and we protested. But that was in the days of 13 channels and print media.

Sadly, the over-proliferation of images and connection may have numbed us a little. And the limits on what we’re permitted to “see” during “war” has made us forget the results of  violence upon each other. We are sheltered and exposed at the same time, we can filter and turn our attention away from the grim and atrocious with a click of a button.

We still have moments of miracles when we are awed by the overwhelming courage of an act by someone whose life is endangered by what we take for granted. The bravery of a young woman shot in the head for learning to read stopped the world last year. My mother, with her limited exposure to the world at large, would never have known about Malala  Yousafzai in Pakistan. 

Our world is a very different place, and community has come to mean something much broader. In some ways claustrophobic and overly connected, one positive result is that we have a more immediate sense of broader social responsibility.

In the same way that our wilderness has disappeared and we have to take responsibility for the many creatures we’ve displaced, so too the shrinking of our world has made our interconnection more critical. We are all neighbors now in a way that we weren’t in the year my mother was born, when her closest contacts with her neighbors came on cold Sundays by wagon and numbered in the teens. We are now connected in a way that makes our web of life more vulnerable and, conversely, stronger; and it was about half a century ago, in the violence rained down upon peaceful resisters that we first saw our connections to each other in a way that was new. That is Dr. King's real legacy, and it gives me hope.

After the Storm…

 

It seemed like fall never came this year; first we were in darkness and then it was Thanksgiving. Anyone who lives along the east coast from southern NJ through central Long Island shared this common experience. And here we are, still sweeping up, mopping out, piling the debris at the curb and wondering: will it ever be the same?

I should be writing about decorating or “design”, I know. But that seems a little frivolous in the wake (excuse the pun) of our recent losses when so many people are still wondering when the heat will be back on, or when they can go….Home. On a quick pass through coastal towns, one sees the surviving shells of houses from which the interiors have been stripped clean; many have been lifted onto platforms as contractors infill below to the “new elevation” for the adjusted flood plain. As we watched our life savings float away, we wonder- what will it take to rebuild? And when we do, will it wash away again? How do we protect ourselves?

We’ve become frightfully atuned to insurance adjusters, mold remediators, loan officers and FEMA. Bridges closed, reopened; grassroots organizations have brought neighbors together in an effort to bring awareness and assistance to those devastated by this incredible storm. We wear “Restore the Shore” sweatshirts and “I Survived Sandy” stickers on our cars. And still, so much remains to be done.

I was in a house this week that has been stripped down to its bones- 4’ of sheetrock remain, but all else has been removed, including the creaky subfloor. A faint whiff of mildew in the air left one wondering if that was enough- how dry does it have to be? I’ve been in many other homes like this since Sandy, as people are looking for advice on what to save, what to change, how to come full circle from this experience. Some are taking this as an opportunity to think about what else is possible, others are just looking to have their lives return to normal. All are reeling at the costs involved, the complexity of solving the problem and the length of time it takes just to find answers. And then there are those who have no resources, for whom their home was their only investment and in one sweep of a wave, it’s gone.

As in all disasters, the immediate aftermath brought a flurry of attention to the needs of our shorefront communities. But when the cameras left, what happened to those who are still waiting for help? Where did the money go, and when will the help come?

And in the midst of this, I wonder how I can help? Besides the occasional volunteer day or tray of ziti, what real impact can I have? What’s the new role of “interior design” in my community? Because if the economic downturn of the last five years revised how I think of my work, Sandy put the cherry on top. It will never be the same, nor will I. I’m certain of that.

For years my focus was on the “luxury” market- clients who wanted the latest, greatest toy- all the accoutrements of the upward climb. There seemed no end to the increase in value of homes and no reason to rein in the spending. Clearly, all that had changed before the storm- but this has made it even more imperative that our design dollars are spent wisely, with care and forethought.

And that- only after we’ve rebuilt a solid foundation.

So, my message of the moment is stolen from pre-blitz London: Keep Calm and Carry On. We’re tough here in New Jersey; we’re the birthplace of The Sopranos and Jersey Shore. We’ve got chutzpah galore and we’ll be back next summer on the boardwalks from Keansburg to Cape May, singing Springsteen and eating Italian hot dogs as the warm beach days slide Sandy into… just… a memory. In the meantime? We’ve got some work to do.

Balance…

Business is good. Life is good. And like all things, there are mixed messages in those statements. As the Chinese farmer said, “maybe so, maybe not”. The minute we begin to think things are at their worst-or their best- life is guaranteed to…shift.  

I haven’t posted here since Thanksgiving; haven’t picked up a paintbrush in forever, and while I still work out every day, those long lingering mornings of yoga and conversation have evaporated. I miss them- I miss the creative energy that was part of my personal “downtime”, miss the wonderful people I shared that time with; miss the freedom of having time to “play” every day. I don’t miss the stress of worrying where the next project would be, the helplessness of seeing my savings evaporate, the despair of watching my friend’s businesses, homes, assets and aspirations slide silently away. 

Three years ago, in the deepest dip of this “great recession”, with a slight sense of desperation, I was using every tool I could find to keep balance- including standing on my head. I (re)learned some key lessons: 1) I’m a survivor and 2) nothing is ever quite as bad- or as important as it seems- except time. Given time- and its companion, patience- all else can be fixed, altered, redefined. I can look back already and see that through the insecure shifts of these challenging years, firmer foundations were laid, lessons learned, laughter  shared, and deeper friendships flourished.

I say this as I watch my children work to find traction in their lives and careers. It’s still not easy for them- solid opportunities are scarce.  The tools I was able to give them didn’t include much in the way of money, so they’ve had to be creative. I see them setting their own foundations with thought and care, and I know they will weather the best and worst that life can bring- together. 

Some of my most difficult times turned out to be the most fruitful; when I felt what it was like to stand on one leg, tip forward and…fall flat on my face. When there’s less to lose, and less distance to fall, we’re more likely to take risks. And in those risks we become more honest with ourselves, more clear about what matters and more open to experimentation. And sometimes, maybe, even have....fun. Remember that?

I was taught to put my chin down, nose to the grindstone-get tough in tough times. In these last few years I’ve reevaluated that mindset. Maybe, maybe not. While it’s important to be responsibly aware of the tasks at hand, yoga taught me to look forward, soften my gaze and relax. It’s impossible to balance when clenched like a fist, and that’s true not only with effort expended physically, but in heart and mind as well. When I (fleetingly, sporadically) remember that,  life is (ever so briefly) a breeze.

From down I looked up, found words and images, friends and family, and love in all its flavors. And in some small measure, balance of a softer sort that I hope to use wisely as the shifting tides of work and life slide me off-center. As they will.

I’m always an optimist at heart…as long as I’m looking ahead…

Simplify!

It’s early morning Thanksgiving Eve and I’m sitting at my computer reading “brine” recipes. Do I have the right container? All the ingredients? The juniper berries, the gallons of cider, the elderberry leaves and fresh sage and candied ginger? Should I be at the door of Williams Sonoma as they open to get exactly the right bag that will hold a 20 lb bird? Did our mothers brine? I don’t think so. 

Of course that was all pre-internet and Alton Brown.

My mom, excellent cook that she was, grew up on a farm but by 1975 one would never have known that. Long past plucking feathers, she took her turkey cues from modern science: a Butterball injected with various growth hormones to get the breasts large and moist, defrosted for days and stuffed with day old bread. Pumpkin and apple pie, mashed potatoes,  turnips, and (slightly overcooked) green beans (no, not haricots verts). The fanciest dish on our dinner table was creamed onions. 

I daren’t suggest we return to chemistry kitchens. But as I ponder the plethora of means to prepare sweet potatoes (OK, yams- let’s get it right), my head begins to ache. I'm waxing nostalgic for the simple days of Betty Crocker and Peg Bracken (some of you will know her). Will my guests suffer if I don’t soak the almonds in rum? If my piecrust is (heaven forbid) Pillsbury’s Best? If I don’t marinate, macerate, use mirepoix and roux, will my dinner be a disaster?

I love Thanksgiving because it’s about food and family, that's it. I shopped for the hordes and will overfeed the masses. We laugh, we eat too much, rest a while and recover over the last play of the last game of the day with a leftover turkey sandwich on (yikes) white bread. And this year I’m attempting to keep it simple. So that by the end of the day tomorrow? I won’t fall headfirst into my crème brulee.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone- eat well, kiss those you love, relax a little and have fun!

Stories…

In the last couple of months I’ve helped two close friends as they sorted belongings collected over lifetimes. Moving is always a challenge, and in some regards always emotional when dealing with decades of detritus; both of these moves were particularly poignant because both were related to the loss of someone they love and significant changes in each of their lives as a result. And, of course, the very act of sorting through is telling- what we collect, accumulate around us, the face we show the world and the hidden parts of ourselves that our loved ones are so surprised by even when they thought they knew us intimately. I immediately came home and cleared out my closets; Lord knows, I don’t want my children to know how many shoes I really have…

I was quite moved as I helped these friends sort through and tell their stories. And I started to think about what it is we’re searching for when we “collect” things around us, what expression of “self” is in our possessions. As we cleared things away and sifted through dusty boxes, we kept stopping to look at pictures and little things with no intrinsic value- the stories of a lifetime; touchstones into the soul and windows into our lives. Scribbled notes, ticket stubs, old recipes, childhood toys and collections; each with a story and a memory attached, more valuable than the accumulated “stuff” in the china cabinet. And pictures- especially the pictures. The true talismen of our lives lived.

Our digital age has made photographs more nebulous- we see them on a computer screen, scroll through them on Facebook, but less and less do we memorialize our moments of connection in our space. We have picture “frames” that flip through slides; we hang our TVs over the fireplace like paintings, and even billboards are disappearing to the motility of video screens. Not locked in, lacking specificity, the images slide by, unfixed and ever changing; it’s rare that we actually put our full attention anywhere for more than a few seconds. “Fixed” images are becoming a smaller part of our environments, and the tangible mementos of events in our lives are lost to our “paperless” lives. As we detach from those objects, what will be the conduit to connect us to our stories now?

I’m a painter first. Before I was a designer, before I wrote anything, before I started to think about what I was supposed to “do” with my life, I painted pictures. I stopped for many years, until my very perceptive and thoughtful daughter bought me an easel and paints, and told me to get back to work. It was part of a life changing time, and it changed my life. 16 years later, my first voice remains in the colors of a paintbox, and my favorite part of what I do for clients is “painting” their space; finding a palette that is expressive of their own personal vision, pulling together textures and colors that make their space “home”.

Not unlike photographs, my paintings “frame” memories. No one looking at them would guess that- mostly they seem somewhat blurry landscapes or abstractions of color that have little resemblance to “reality”. But each one tells a story of a time, or a place, or an event; as much as in a photograph, they are the snapshots of my life and when I share them, I’m sharing the story of my life in “still” images.

Of late, I’m liking the literal just as much; I’ve created a little gallery in my little studio, surrounding myself with moments from my lifetime and before- from my parent’s wedding picture through my granddaughter’s hayride last weekend. I’m printing them, framing them and planting them firmly in space: my own talismen. They keep me company when I’m lonely, remind me of the richness of my life and are markers of my place, in time, on this earth.

When I was a young woman I was interested in the stories of my family. I remember sitting with my Aunt Helen, whose memory bank was rich and deep, and asking her questions about our family history. Precious time spent, indeed; Helen died soon after and had I not written those stories down, they would have disappeared. The stories, the small mementos; the tokens and treasures saved in taped up boxes under the eaves explain much of who we are and play a part in what comes next.

We pass our stories on from one generation to the next whether intentionally or not. In our behavior, in our demeanor, in how we treat each other, we pay our lives and our loves forward, and our actions and reactions reverberate through time and into all our connections. It’s the best of what we share. And when the attics and basements are cleared out, it’s what we really have.

A Case of You…

Sometimes it’s in reaching back to the touchstones in my life that I find my way forward…

I’m sitting at my computer working on a design drawing. It’s almost midnight and yet again as I’m preparing for a presentation Joni Mitchell is singing in the background. And I’m thinking: nothing’s really changed; two lifetimes ago I was doing exactly this thing to this very same song. The design is a bit more complex and technology may have simplified the process, but inherently, in my heart and soul, I am still doing what I did, with the same passion, the same intensity and the same emotions that I had when I first heard “A Case of You”.

Loves have come and gone and come again in my life- including and especially my children who remain at my center; but the connections of creativity and passion- love, music, design, ideas- still intersect in my heart and soul. My daughter’s daughters dance with me now. I am a woman with time and experience under my belt, but in the center I remain…..me. The “me” I already was those many moons ago has changed very little.

I was driving home talking with a close friend about the things in our lives that “drive” us. She heard a theory that very often our earliest memories are a precursor to what we end up doing in our lives. In my case that’s quite true, and I wrote about it- the “yearning” created by seeing artists in my old neighborhood is a direct link to my eventual work. I’ve always painted and drawn, and my design work is directly related to a love of visual expression. And the insistence of my teachers, parents and everyone else that I would never be able to make a living through “art” was totally misplaced. It’s all I’ve ever done, and I’ve managed quite well, thank you. More remarkably, I still love what I do. And when one has to spend at least three quarters of one’s life working at something, it’s pretty important to follow our passions.

But what is more fundamental to me is that I don’t feel any different. I’m still that girl with Joni singing my song. Oh, I’ve added and subtracted, won and lost, cried and kissed, gotten glasses and a new hip. But I’m still me. Not much has really changed.

Somehow I thought it would be different- I thought that time and experience would add up to…..something. Some magical wisdom, some experiential cognizance that could only come with all the hurt, loss, love, survival and growth that comes in a life lived over half a century. Really? Time is irrelevant. Experience is in the moment, and the reverberations of my story may have impact, but I am still that girl. I just look (a little) older.

I live my life with great appreciation for its brevity, for the colors that unfold; with joy for the songs that get sung and sorrow for those unsung; with an unquenchable curiosity for what can happen next and with a marvelous and never-ending sense of wonder at the surprise that life… is. No innocence in that- I’ve experienced much of the worst that life can bring our way, and much of the best, from the dreaded nadir of hurt and loss to the exhilarating zenith of birth and rebirth. One can’t exist without the other and I prefer to live with as much awareness as I can muster for both.

And I can still- miraculously, blessedly, with great thanks- fall in love. I can still get past my sorrows to see magic in another sunrise, sunset, ocean view, falling leaf. Just like children, there aren’t two alike, but my awe in their beauty is the same. I still, with great fortune, love the process of design- of finding solutions, of creating harmonies and seeking simple solutions in what I do.

We lose, we gain and our lives are most blessed by the happy accidents and intersections that make us feel. And sometimes it’s the great sorrows that remind us what that means. Do what you love, live with your dream and life will continue to renew itself.

Tomorrow morning I’ll look at the sunrise again. I’ll play Joni Mitchell and sing along as if I was 15. Because, really, when you get past the façade, I still am…

Fall…(ing)

Today I picked up my first fall leaf. I hate that about August; just as I’m getting into the groove, loving the warmth of midsummer sun, I wake up to a chorus of crickets and cicadas in the morning. The shadows start to get longer and I sense the end of…something. And I hate endings.

I’ve always found the end of summer poignant, and this year it’s feeling more so than ever before. I’m not sure why; maybe it’s that it’s two years since my very first blog post; maybe it’s that this is traditionally the time when summer ends, school starts and in the “wake” (yes, ironic word, that) I feel a sense of time passing too quickly. Maybe it’s that my oldest granddaughter is joining that stream of schoolchildren (yes, school. yes, granddaughter. when did that happen? wasn’t that her mother starting?) Maybe it’s just that I feel time’s passage and- more than New Year’s- I measure the changes in my life and feel the endings in those shadow’s length. Renewal and rebirth.

In these past two years my family was blessed with a second granddaughter- one whose spirit is amazing, powerful; full of laughter and energy. Emma has brought our family great joy and renewal of her own particular brand.

In these past two years I rebuilt a floundering career and found many new friends; saved my house and painted new colors on the walls; got stronger, clearer, and a lot more self accepting. I dealt first hand with the ramifications of my own shortcomings and saw my way through some challenging moments. I had to let go of some things to allow for the new, but the strength in that has borne a new confidence that is unfolding every day.

Sum gain, no question. But always….poignant. For every gain there was a loss. After all, there’s only so much that can go on the scales of life and keep it balanced. Right?

This was an amazing year for me- one of precious self- examination and growth. It started last summer with preparation for a new hip and ends with yoga teacher training. Not so bad, really. It’s been a year of enormous personal growth and the beginning of two new adventures that have already altered my life significantly; both are manifestations of parts of my center that I was clearly seeking and I sense that the direction in which they are taking me is exactly right for me. But to allow these new directions to manifest, I had to change some central things in my life. Redesign and renovation at the core. True “interior” design…

And not unlike renovation, the biggest thing that has to happen to allow for new directions in our lives is to let go of the things that are no longer useful to us- ideas, beliefs, prejudices, the mistakes we’ve made, the roads that brought us to dead ends. Those dead ends are powerful teachers, the losses and mistakes only signals for new directions; the renewal and rebirth that comes with shedding our skins every seven years. Not unlike renovation, one has to see past the “stuff” we’ve accumulated to see what can be done; putting all the old junk to the curb of consciousness and clearing out the attic of the brain.

Today we’re all hunkering down for a hurricane- putting things in order, stocking up in anticipation of this storm, the unknown. We don’t know what it will bring, what damage can be wrought in nature’s intensity. We’ve had a lot of that this year- cataclysmic reminders of what can come and go in a moment. All the more reason to love what we have, where we are, who is with us, right now. Today.

As I end this year on my own “circadian” calendar, I think of what’s ahead and anticipate great things. If I’ve learned anything these last two years it’s that in the anticipation of good we manifest it. Seems like for years I was waiting for “happily ever after” and finally realized it was mine to write…

So I did.