remember when you carefully wrapped your toddler’s presents, expecting their absolute glee when he or she opened the gift? and then, moments after the gift was opened, with wrappings and gift cast aside, you found them ecstatically playing with the box the gift came in? well, welcome to babycatworld.
b-cat has lots of toys. we struggle with keeping dogdog from devouring them. we gave him fun new things for christmas, but he doesn’t seem all that interested. however, the moment we put a carry-your-stuff-out-box we used at costco on the floor in the kitchen, babycat decided it was his. no matter where we move it, he sits in it. he has claimed it; it is his safe spot. it would be impossible for him to lay down in it; his hulking “big-boned” body dwarfs the box. but sitting in it seems to suffice for him. i guess everyone/every creature has their special spot. so for now, this crest box has become a part of our home.
i might add that it doesn’t match our decor in any way. i’m wondering if he would still sit in it if we spray-painted it black…
we walked past macy’s in downtown chicago and i noticed a digital billboard as it transitioned into its next message. “the best present? being present.” i couldn’t agree more. as trite as that message may be, it is a truth that spans the ages, spans time, spans generations. if there is one consistent thing i talk about, it is moments. moments i’ve noticed. moments i’ve memorized. moments i’ve written down. always – moments i’ve spent being present. whether present for someone else or present in the universe for myself, it matters not. it is the act of showing up….all-in….that makes all the difference.
the beloved moments on facetime with my daughter, son and his boyfriend. the moments spent laughing on a phone call with friends or family. the moments watching a dear one open a present or two. the moments walking outside under a cold dark sky of stars. the moments in the dark room alit only with twinkling lights. the moments snuggled under a blanket. the moments cooking or eating together. the moments singing carols at the top of your lungs. the moments sharing stories. the moments making music. moments where distraction would make you would miss it.
in this time of full-tiltedness…heading into the new year, i hope that you are gathering moments like this in your heart. they are the best presents.
we spent a wonderful day thanksgiving friday in boston with craig and dan. taking trains here and there, we had brunch at the greatest little dietary-restrictions-aware-diner called the friendly toast, walked through a magnificently decorated copley place, had drinks together and went bowling, a tradition that has been established now for a few years. it would have been hard not to feel the holiday spirit; carols were playing and everything was decorated…and we were together.
copley place had enormous decorations. i mean eNORmous. everywhere you looked there were oversized ornaments and lights. now, normally i might find that gauche; in this case it was stunning. they really made you take notice. i wanted to sing carols and skip through the mall.
i keep carols on pretty much non-stop in this season. in the house they play on a boombox booming out of my studio. we drive with them on in the car. i sing in the shower. i make up new words to old standards and sing LALALALALA really loudly when i can’t think of the lyrics. joy joy joy! big joy!
thank you to copley place for the reminder that THE JOY of the season – those moments we are together – is enormous. it is oversized. it is stunning. take notice.
there is something magically sweet about a snowman. you know, without a doubt, that it won’t last forever, but it makes you smile every time you see one.
weeks ago when it had snowed packing-snow-to-just-cover-the-grass, the little boy a couple doors down went outside and built this snowman. his silly grin made me stop the car and back up; i had to take a picture of him, preserve him for gloomy days, days of no snow, days when it’s dark at 4:30.
little-kid relationship with snow is good wisdom to remember. embrace every chance to be in the moment. cherish the snow falling, the feeling of flakes gently landing on your face. treasure the slow-down of time, the chance to be with each other. be mindful that the time is fleeting; it won’t last forever. in this busy time, i think i will try to take every opportunity to build a snowman.
we drove into new york from pennsylvania and one of the first things we saw on this beautiful drive was this sign. “it can wait,” it declared. so true. what’s so important that can’t wait a few miles? traveling at just 60mph that would only be a mere 5 minutes away. i was infinitely proud of my homestate of NY and the effort to acknowledge and accommodate today’s technology while not superseding safety. distracted driving is against the law in many states, including NY and for good reason. we have all been privy to devastating stories, accidents that might have been avoided, moments when paying close attention should be paramount. providing a place to communicate is smart; these text stops were fairly frequent on the road and there were always cars and trucks parked there. but on the road, speeding down the highway? no technology present.
we are kind of at the back end of technology, david and me. the girl and the boy are smack dab in the middle of it. and the little children and young teens we see running around with ipads for entertainment or their own cellphones are clearly at the leading edge. we’ve watched while standing in line, even at the post office, as a mother hands a small toddler a phone to play with while waiting. i’m not sure where conversation or making up games or riddles on the fly went. i remember standing in a zillion lines in the post office with the girl and the boy (shipping has been key in my business) and they seemed perfectly content to wait or, ohmygosh, just talk. no technology present.
but it’s different now (saying this is a sure sign of us getting older) and everything is more immediate and more distracted. how many times have you seen a couple together in a restaurant with cellphones at the ready, lingering halfway between their tablemate and the pull of the internet or the text or instagram or twitter… the look on one of the faces an expression of defeat or, worse yet, an aloofness that comes with not being able to compete with the magnetic pull of that small device across from them. “it can wait,” i whisper silently, wishing the other person at the table could hear. what’s so important it can’t wait? what’s more important than those moments spent together, really together? paying close attention. no technology present.
as i look at a few of the throw pillows i designed through the months of our FLAWED CARTOON postings, i remember some of the stories i told in those posts…what the FLAWED CARTOON sparked in my memory bank or made me think of. you are what you eat reminds me, once again, of my big brother – and the words he had written on his sticker-decorated-painted-verses-nylon-string guitar. so much possibility!!! makes me think of my sweet momma and her determination to drive her electric wheelchair downstairs in her assisted living facility to dinner all-by-herself. face your giant a sign of the times, fearless – each of us brave, every single day. i will try to see i to i an honest attempt at kind, gracious co-existence. and dream. of course, dream.
this is week 42 of our STUDIO MELANGE. and as i look back through all the writing and thoughts and designs and merchandise, i relive each one…reminders of time flying by, of days passing, of the ever-importance of our heart-stories.
i hope you might find a pillow you can’t live without in this week of throw-pillows-to-purchase-as-gifts-this-holiday-season. but if not, i hope you find a writing that resonates with you and reminds you of the value of your own stories.
it was election day and i was passing through the denver airport, walking from one end of the united airlines terminal to the other. i knew that later that night, i would be tuning in to the results of the midterm elections and would, undoubtedly, read a plethora of articles on my news app that would sadden me. the divisiveness is palpable, an uneven heartbeat in our country, a dis-ease that is rampant.
i passed a bank of telephones (the ones that you put coins in to make phone calls) and above each cubicle was a poster. i read each as i walked past. i was much further down the terminal when i turned around to go back. lincoln’s words captured my attention and i wanted to pass-it-on as the poster says. “a house divided…cannot stand.”
it made me wish for what should be simple things: dialogue. grace. equality. kindness. unity. and yes, civility. they are all there. in us.
at 93 these words were texted by my sweet momma on her iphone, about a week before she died three years ago. she was amazing. and damn strong. “whoa!” i think, re-reading this text, “you go, momma!”
“…more than i say…more than i speak…more than you realize…” like every mom she walked the thin line between not saying enough and saying too much. The Girl and The Boy are practiced at rolling their eyes at me and, i guess, i must have done the same to my momma. so there’s that moment you dig in and, ignoring every quivering fibre in your body, you do not say anything. you notice, you think, you know. but you remain quiet. for you also know that the lives you have gifted into this world are not yours to live; they are only yours to love, to hold closest to your heart, to support in every way you can, to lift up when they stumble or fall.
“don’t. underestimate me.” so true, momma didn’t want to be under-estimated. her spirit in the world accomplished bigger things than most professions can tout. her kindness was rippling, her curiosity abounding, and her fortitude…that sisu. you don’t want to be the retail/corporate/organization recipient of the “write-a-lettuh” vindication; momma was going to win. she “wasn’t born in ny for nothin” as i say. the day after the extra surgery she had just one day after her double-mastectomy a few months before this text, she sat on the edge of her hospital bed and called us “idiots” for not getting back on the road home. she was going to be “just fine” and she was more worried about us on the road than herself. that’s a mom for you. that’s my sweet momma.
beaky dug in. she was engaged and big in the world. and her sisu made her powerful. she was wise even in silence. she knew, even if i didn’t tell her. like moms everywhere, she was tuned in, in ways that made her ever-present. i always counted on that. i still do. she is on the edges of this earth, where the wind carries her to me.
i can only hope that one day my own children realize that – no matter what – i am right there. i know more than i say. i think more than i speak. i notice more than they realize. and never, ever, underestimate me. because as their momma, i will go to the ends of the earth for them. just like my mom.
we were in cedarburg and on our way out the door of one of our favorite shops there – leap of faith. i go way back with this shop; during the years that small boutiques sold cds they carried mine and i would, from time to time, play a live performance, hand in hand raising awareness about my music. the silver peace ring i wear at all times is from this shop. i have meandered many a time through this place, breathing a little easier as i peruse and read their cards, signs, gifts, positive messages all, open to all.
as we walked out, i spotted this small bowl of blue marbles and the words “take one”. a symbol for our planet. a prayer for peace. i didn’t need another invitation. the song lyrics accompanying this blue marble hummed in my head all the way home, even after wendy and i loudly sang “i believe the children are our future…”while striding down the sidewalk after hearing it in another shop.
our blue marble, our good earth, tiny in the vastness, might thrive. we might thrive. if not for us, then for the children. our children. they are our future.
this tree. gnarly and twisted and wrinkly. it looks a little halloween-esque at dusk and could be downright scary in the dark of night. it’s seen so much life, so many decades and its lifeblood travels throughout the healthy tree, bringing and sharing nutrients. home to insects and small creatures, it provides shade for the vegetation beneath it. it’s not just an old tree and it’s not the picture of what we think of when we think of a beautiful tree. but it is. beautiful. you just can’t judge a book by its cover. my sweet momma always said that.
momma would look in the mirror and talk about the wrinkles on her face and how “old” she looked. in her wheelchair she could appear to be meek, wrestling with difficulties and just an old woman. but that was so not so. she had seen much life. she was home to my dad, me and my sister and brother, our families, extended members as it fanned out the branches of our family tree, her friends. she provided warm words and kindnesses to all around her, strangers among them. she was beautiful. every last gorgeous wrinkle. you just can’t judge a book by its cover.
we had a black lab years ago, one of a few in our family history, when The Girl and The Boy were little. his name was hughie and he had at least 47 allergies. he was treated for many of these and we tried to address the auto-immune disease he had as well, but he lost most of the hair on his body. he looked gnarly and rough and wrinkled. as a lab with little hair, he looked scary to those who did not know him. he struggled and, even in his discomfort, was gentle and sweet, a learning for The Girl and The Boy, who were his and, despite his outward appearance, knew what was inside. he was not the picture of what we think of when we think of a beautiful dog. but he was. beautiful. you just can’t judge a book by its cover.
inside. beautiful. how hard is it to always remember that? you just can’t judge a book by its cover.
reverse threading 