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.

The Test of Time…

It’s close to midnight on the last day of June and I look up and think- damn! I’ve posted every month this year and here I am, too much to do and losing sight of the bigger picture. Which is…what?

I am busy again. Blessedly, exhaustedly and happily buzzing away at projects, meetings, specifications, budgets, contractors, decisions, digressions, disasters, and the process of…..Design and Build. And while it is all wonderful and I am thrilled? Life's lessons are easily lost when the pain recedes; we (read I) have a great capacity to forget or diminish the difficulties. And these recent years have been full of lessons; learned once, and once again, and then another time; this time not to be forgotten. Most important is what survived and what helped me to survive.

The things that stand the test of time: those things that survive from year to year, through the hard days, through the losses and gains and heartaches? Iconic structures of the heart and mind: Corbusier’s Ronchamp Chapel, Gothic Cathedrals, Roman aqueducts…the gardens that regenerate despite (or perhaps because of) our neglect; the places and people that remain in our hearts and minds over time, space and distance. And in these time, the real stuff of my life: people who have shared in these challenging years as we helped each other pour new foundations on scorched ground. They are the bigger picture; the connections with structural integrity, built to last. And as we come through these years, they are the people with whom I find myself sharing in my future direction, both personally and professionally. We’ve survived and grown together.

Because, in the end, after all the singed wings of the last three years, all the struggle and worry? What was forged in difficulty was forged with the inherent tensile strength to withstand impediments and trials, figure out what matters, sift and sort through detritus to the heart and soul of what is real. These are the foundations of my future. Forged, indeed.

As I sit in my backyard drinking wine on another endless summer night, friends at my side, grill embers circling smoke to keep the bugs at bay; wine in my hand, fireflies blinking in the darkness, worries suspended in the softness of June dusk and soft laughter, I know what is really important… it is all here, and has withstood the test of time.

Summer nights have a magic that feels as if it will last forever, and the best of life is present in those backyard moments shared through the gentle hum of friendship and conversation. Happy July 4th, my friends. Let’s make our own fireworks….

Surfaces…

Last week I finally got back to the Adirondacks to see the (almost) completed results of a project I started last winter. It was one of those moments when I realized how lucky I am to do what I do.

I didn’t always feel that way.

What I do for a living is not necessary. About as critical as “couture”, interior design is hardly in the realm of life support. And in the midst of these last lean years I’ve questioned, with good reason, why I didn’t pick a more substantive career; one less vulnerable to economic fluctuations and fashion’s folly, one that actually “makes a difference”.

It’s all about mindset, of course. My mother, born and raised on a farm in upstate New York in the midst of the Depression (“Great” as opposed to the current one), planted clear values of what was important in life: people first, ideas next and things last. My father, child of immigrants, was the first in his family to go to college and he concurred. The underlying message was that the work we do should “give back” in some way- medicine, social work, teaching are all respected professions in my family. Extracurricular interests tended to athleticism rather than arts; teamwork over individual achievement. The underlying message was one of social responsibility and connection to people. I hold to those values- they helped me build a life foundation that is solidly grounded. But I also value creative expression and know that the world is a better place for the addition of color, form, texture and ideas that are personally responsive to who we are. I’ve also come to see that the “stuff” of life can reflect that as well- from the doorstopper that was in my grandmother’s house to my father’s stethoscope to my favorite morning coffee mug; shallow objects at first glance, fraught with personal meaning.

The process of regenerating one’s environment can be transformative in ways that can feed the center of our souls; our homes and businesses can become expressions of our inner spirit and reflective of our beliefs. It’s not all fluff: what we present to the world is a projection from inside to out. Spaces that are loved and cared for reflect that love and a sense of being cared about. Seems simple. And the objects we accumulate reflect the things that matter to us- as much about ideas as the books on our shelves.

Simple examples: a crucifix on a wall or a Buddha in the garden is informative. A gnome on the front lawn is as well. Take that same gnome on a journey around the world, photograph “him” and write a book…? Transformative.

Hence the pleasure of my trip to Glens Falls to see the results of that special project begun last fall. My clients are collectors with heartful perception; their belongings- paintings, pottery, sculpture, books- are talismans of their life together: storytelling in visual form. In their basement was a remarkable collection of photographic portraits she took in Bhutan, and the stories she recounts about each person echo from her heart and soul a connection to the world at large; his pottery is remarkable as well- reminiscent of Japanese pottery, its speaks of their connection to the literal earth of their gardens and the metaphorical earth of their travels. All of this was lost in a lovely sea of chintz, their remarkable landscape hidden from view by elaborate “window treatments” that governed the view like a 1970’s schoolteacher.

The goal of our renovation, changing surfaces only, was to take back these rooms and make them reflective of a different time, lifestyle and personal expression. It is successful- replete with Bhutan photos and Adirondack clay, the walls, windows, and furniture sing in harmony with their collection. My happiest moment in many years came when they told me how they “live” in their house now: rooms once abandoned to Schumacher sparrows have become favorite nesting places for afternoon reading and garden bird watching. I couldn’t be happier.

Lesson: stuff speaks from our souls and tells stories just as loudly as books. Surfaces tell the story of who we are in ways unexpected, even to me, a painter. Using them in personally expressive ways creates home. And that’s a key part of our well-being, not surface at all.

Full circle to my own house: in the leanness of these last few years I wasn’t ready to tackle grand plans, and as a result put off some minor but critical repairs. Last week, as my little garden came to full bloom and my last child flew the coop, I looked at my house anew and saw that it isn’t as sadly neglected as I felt. Maybe it’s the waist high irises, but it actually has a sort of shabby softness that just needs a few tweaks to make it charming. I decided it was time to fix that front door and make it speak of welcome, connection and sun. The can of red paint is sitting there waiting for this weekend. My new storm door protects, screens, lets in air and sunlight and is the portal through which those I love enter my nest; I decided it should be worthy of Passage. Small, subtle messages of caring and connection perhaps, but potent nonetheless.

It really is the little things that make a difference.

laundry room…

Every so often something happens to make me smile at the whimsy of the universe; those serendipitous things that drop in our laps and change everything. I’ve been thinking about that, and wondering: chicken or egg? Do we just notice and respond because we’re in tune to them, or are these events really some magical, synergistic response from the world at large to the cues we’ve been sending out? Or, more simply- are they just the final happy accidents that come from effort expended?

Not sure, but all seems to be coming into alignment in my little world. The harbinger of happiness came in the form of, of all things, a laundry room. Hardly the “call to arms” one would expect to signal the end of a long, dark and challenging time, but there it is: the dirty socks of positivity, in darks, lights and delicates.

The story started with a surprise phone call about a month ago from a woman who had my card and didn't know how she'd gotten it; she sounded slightly desperate. Debbie Raia introduced herself and asked me if I'd be interested in participating in the Stately Homes showhouse, an elaborate fundraiser for the Visiting Nurse Association of Central Jersey that happens every two years in the posh provinces of Monmouth County. Hmmm.

For those who have no knowledge of showhouses, it’s not unlike a designer’s version of putting on a play; broken down into “scenes” (rooms), multiple designers are given a space to showcase what they can do, no holds barred. A very generous, good natured and slightly crazy homeowner hands over her large and elegant home for this purpose, and the results are staggering. Glamour abounds- elegance, colour, drama, crystal and really great design. The work is inspiring, the commitment and creativity is astounding, and it’s a great honor to be included in any regard. Interested? Absolutely!

So, off I go to meet Debbie, who is frantically scrambling to find someone to take on lost corners of the house. In particular… the Laundry Room. A dank, dark cave at the bottom of the stairs, subject to seepage, with water stained peastone walls, it was an unwanted and forlorn mess. I, foolish me, thought: HOW FUN! Cleaning up the muddy and mundane? Right up my alley: a space to be saved! A homespun home of clothespins, steamers and a plethora of wrinkles unraveled. In my mind's eye I saw a strange sort of domestic poetry composing itself. But- wisdom prevailed; I'd need massive help to make it happen. Because from my head to finished product there was clearly much work, little time and no money.

My first calls were to my favorite miracle workers: a team of three men whom I may marry. I could dream anything, but who was going to get this sucker built, by donation and in a month? I needed, and got, my Dream Team: George Weston, contractor extraordinaire, perfect skeptic, never satisfied with “good enough”; he will rip it out and redo rather than settle for just "OK", always with a smile and a sarcastic joke; Tom Casale, cabinetmaker to the stars, who stayed up nights and weekends, worked through illness and his 15th wedding anniversary (I am so sorry, Alisa!) to put together way more and better than I hoped; and Patrick Marando, master of artful applications, whose icing on the cake and gilding on the lily makes the space sing in layers, tangents, and a few little gemstones. All three gladly (hah, if they only knew) volunteered their time, talents and pocketbooks to put together my little attempt as whimsy in the cave.

This is my first showhouse and I am awed by the process- by the incredible talent and energy of the VNA women putting this together; by the creative energy of the designers, painters, carpenters, electricians, landscapers, artists, and on and on and on… The planning is extraordinary and the VNA committee runs it with the organizational skills of a small corporation, the patience of kindergarten teachers and the goodwill of concierges in grand hotels. They are masters in the great art of cajoling, problem solving, cleaning up, dishing out and getting it done- all with a smile. I am impressed, and proud to be part of the process.

But the best outcome of this process, as always, is creating something from nothing- meeting people, meeting deadlines and making this dark little space smile. And doing so with some pretty extraordinary people. I loved it, every minute of it- the schlepping and painting and sanding and scrubbing and coaxing; the ridiculous deadlines, the playful banter on site, the slight panic when I realized we had (not even) days left. I’m surprised by just how much FUN it actually was. I feel like I just went through the spin cycle and am hanging out to dry.

I’m thinking, this is design at its heart: with the right mindset, the right people in our lives and a little openness to the universe, even something as mundane as the basement laundry room can become…magic.

My little pea-stone lined corner of the world, decked out in Tropicana Cabana, will be open for public viewing on May 3. Come visit! It’s down from the kitchen, first door on your right. You can’t miss it, look for the clothespins.

For those interested in visiting this Wonder on the Navesink, visit the website for information:

http://statelyhomesbythesea.com/

Reality Check…

I’ve had a particularly busy day today, one which started with me standing on the edge of the ocean, pondering the past year. It’s my birthday, and I think birthdays are a great time to tally up the psychic spreadsheet. Today’s turned out to be particularly poignant.

I woke up feeling extraordinarily lucky- my little slice of world in “order”; business regenerating, health excellent, friends and family in harmony; I realized my schedule was tight but wanted those ten minutes to drink a cup of coffee by the beach, as rivers of good wishes poured into my life. I took a picture of a decidedly turbulent, translucent sky melting into frenzied waves to share with my well-wishers on Facebook, a soft and misty start to my day. Lucky woman.

As the news of the day unfolded, I realized just how lucky I am, and perspective came clear as the world watched earthquake devastation in Japan and braced for its aftermath around the entire Pacific Rim; force of nature on a scale hard for me to wrap my mind around. In my own small world, it is a reminder that life is fragile, what we build can fall down, who we love can go away and, that at the end of the day, every day- not just birthdays- we need to stop and celebrate the good in our lives.

Corny? Yes. But I think back on that angry ocean in Long Branch this morning, and realize just how tame it was compared to the quiet, sunlit, deadly tidal surges on other shores; aftermath of an earthquake so relentless that its energy made its way under water to our coast and wreaked havoc half the earth and an ocean away from its birthplace.

Today I was on a job site as the contractor tore out a room and we debated what stayed, what we would salvage and what would go in the dumpster. I love that moment in a project- it’s all about possibilities: getting rid of what doesn’t work, preparing for the new. Building, whether physical or psychic, is part of the fabric of my life, and rebirth and reconstruction an inherently creative expression of life at large.

In the coming days the people of Japan will move from shock and turmoil; they will mourn, clear away debris and rebuild. They, in particular, are a nation accustomed to nature’s devastation and have lived with- and built for- this precarious place that is their home. And those of us who are not adjacent will watch the films in dismay, perhaps send a check or say a prayer, and then get back to our lives, mostly untouched by this tragedy.

So I end this day with gratitude for what I have; and with a clear sense that my own choices reverberate in the world at large, through conscientious interconnection; whether its on a job site, or a yoga mat, with friends or in the parking lot at Trader Joes on a Saturday afternoon in spring. Tsunamis of a smaller sort can change the tone of how we work and live.

My thoughts and prayers go to those who are suffering today, particularly in Japan but elsewhere in the world, as I am blessed with such a wealth of love, warmth and safety in my life, and the opportunity to continue to build.

Faith…

Not a word that rests easily on this “lapsed Catholic” girl’s lips, but one that came up recently in a much different context from my childhood catechism classes.

Last weekend I went to a yoga “Inversion Workshop” with my teachers, Christian and Tim. If anyone was going to help me slam through this particularly frustrating wall, they would- they are amazing, and have been immeasurably supportive to me in the months since my surgery. I was absolutely certain that this was it: this was the day, the time and the place where I would wrestle the twin demons of forearm and hand stands to the ground and emerge triumphant, joyous and…independent.

Hah. Not to be.

Seems the Universe at Large had a bigger lesson for me; one involving things more intrinsic to my growth in all regards than whether I stand upside down with ease. Because, as Christian pointed out at the start of the workshop: the opposite of “fear” is “faith”, and in that I am quite shaky at times. This isn’t about strength, or courage or direction- or even confidence. I have oodles of those. This is a quiet core that simply…believes.

The last couple of years I’ve journeyed through a professional “whiteout” that left me questioning just about everything. Not a bad thing, but it upset (as in: turned over for examination) my sense of equilibrium. Where there had always been a steady development in both accomplishment and direction, here was a crash of major magnitude that pushed me to reexamine my definition of “success”. Hard to find faith when the phone doesn’t ring and there’s nary a client corroborating my professional “fabulousness.”

Fortunately, into the fray fell a few special projects and- more critically- remarkable people who added to my world and challenged my growth at exactly the right moments, in just the right ways. A time for personal expression and expansion, of small victories and celebrations, and of simple accomplishments; it was also a time to realize that “support” is not a sin, that sometimes leaning against a wall is actually a good thing, and that the (right) people in our lives can change everything.

I’m quite happy about how the seeds of these last three years are coming to fruit. The phone is ringing again and life’s pace picks up. The kind of projects that are finding their way to me are challenging, and the people a pleasure to design for. But I’m also plagued by a slight sense of panic: can I do it? Can I make it all work? Have I forgotten how to….manage? I’m finding a fundamental fear of shift, of losing my “balance”, of holding onto this central clarity as life’s demands once again intrude into my calmer being. And the biggest lesson I’ve learned: lean. Just a little, perhaps, but just enough.

As I look back on the lessons of these years, I’m conscious of a heightened ability to question my own preconceptions; from what makes my work have value and what makes a real difference for those to whom I am responsible personally and professionally, to the central story of what makes my life satisfying and complete. I’m seeking “faith” in myself and my sense of direction, “faith” that I will manage the disparate pieces; “faith” that the most important part of my life- always and forever- is the relationships I forge, bridges built across the span of my life; “faith” that I will do my best to make it all work. And “faith” that while I don’t have all the answers, there will be someone to help me find that balance- on my head or in my heart. And I am fundamentally aware that the only way to “faith” is through “trust”.

One day, perhaps, I’ll get into that handstand, all by myself, in the center of the room. For now, I finally see that those walls I diligently tried to ignore are perfectly placed for my support.

I’ll just lean a little longer.

Full Light...

I have a thing for skies.

Since my hip surgery, I’ve started a new routine, one that the universe timed perfectly for me. It’s remarkable how that happens; just as I was stricken from the mat, a channel opened up for me and, in the way that a shift of simple routine can do, it is having profound impact in my life.

Most mornings I leave my house before dawn for a morning meditation and yoga class not too far from home. It starts with a short, magical journey through towns along the river and ocean. I drive through darkness, across bridges that sluice the space where water and sky intersect; each day varies by the quality of light being born. Midwinter it’s a silent purple black, stars bright and water brooding. As the days get perceptibly longer, the first hint is of a deep orange pulling up the horizon, splicing the intersection with a brilliant hint of washed light.

That connection of water and sky pulls me. Like lovers of the most dramatic kind, they have varied faces. On some mornings, when the weather is most assertive, the sky is wildly erratic, the water an angry gray green and the two are clearly in combat. On softer days, when the sun won’t show itself and the sky is saturated, there seems to be no distinction between the two; the edge evaporates and it’s impossible to discern where air and water begin and end. On those days I know to expect a gentle bath of rain or snow. And today was my favorite kind- a day coming that was to be clear and calm and beautiful, each distinct in its place in the world, dancing together with great harmony; the ocean deep and crisp, the sky softly awakening, clear and calm.

There’s something very grounding for me in the routine of this, and I start to see the subtle variations in life. Not grand, not dramatic, but little shifts that tell the story, that speak of what is my life. It’s about paying attention.

And I was thinking about that today, as I was in this meditative mindset. I’ve been trained to look at the details; my eye is quickly drawn to the interruptions, the cracks and imperfections; the pulls in the sweater, the paint splotch on the floor. My job has been to detect the 1/2” variation and the out of level counter. It’s a part of what I do in all situations, from finishing a canvas to reviewing a job site. My children have noted with irritation that I see the flaws too easily…and that is very true.

Of late I’m accepting that I must be a very bad designer, because those little imperfections are the moments I love best and where I find the most pleasure-they are human and endearing. Of course, I’m not talking about lack of care, but the things we can't help but make imperfectly; the flaws that make them sing of who we are- of the creator, the maker. It’s the reason we still make things by hand…

And while I can be exacting where need be in my business, I am finding tenderness in my life for those things imperfect, like the sunrise over the ocean on my way to sit in darkness with my eyes closed, knowing that when I open them again it will be full light…

new day.