it seriously makes me cringe looking at the little square boxes of tissues (the size that will appropriately fit in our bathroom.) most of them, in my humble opinion, are ugly. i wonder who designs these boxes and i wonder why anyone purchases them who doesn’t have one of those crocheted-tissue-box-covers that you could purchase at any church bazaar in the 90s. (we don’t have one of those.) the color choices, the patterns (or i should say the lack thereof) are really disconcerting to me. someone is clearly getting paid to design them and they are dull and uninspired. target used to have a solid-color-series of tissue boxes; maybe they still do somewhere, but it isn’t at our target location. choosing a solid color is much better than a pale-skin-tone-dot-pattern-on-cool-light-beige box. i mean, really? i suppose if you want your tissue box to blend in with the environment that would overly-work, but what if you want your tissue box to be a statement piece? or at least be attractive?
so by now you are rolling your eyes at this, a clear first-world-problem-meaningless-rant. and i understand that. but my question remains…a question i quite often wonder about with many different products…who designs this stuff?
we were at festival recently (one of our grocery stores) and stumbled across this tissue box. we purchased this one. although the band of mustard gold at the bottom edge with advertising seems unnecessary, the font is mostly acceptable, the colors are not simply muted non-shades. and the saying is a good, albeit trite, every-time-you-are-in-the-bathroom reminder, “the best things in life are the people you love, the places you’ve seen and the memories you’ve made along the way.”
i don’t suppose everyone ponders tissue boxes. but two artists living in the same household pretty much ponder everything that will sit out in view. although i have to admit, david is not as zealously-picky about tissue boxes as i am. maybe, just maybe, i should have been a tissue-box-designer. or maybe i was one in a former life. either way, it makes me a critical-kleenex-consumer.
on my nightstand next to the bed are two frames. both written in little-kid-writing, they are notes i saved from long ago. one is from My Girl and it reads, “goodnight mom” surrounded by hearts. the other is from My Boy and it has two words on it, “craig” (with a backwards g) and “mom” and has hearts filling up the rest of the notepaper. each night i see these as i wish them both, from far away, goodnight, sweet dreams, restful sleep.
i come by this threadiness honestly.
we were in florida visiting; two of the days we were there, despite bright sunlight and temperatures in the 80s, we spent in a storage unit. what was left of my parents’ belongings was packed in boxes, stacked in a unit, waiting for us to put our eyes on all of it and decide what to do with each of these things. my mom’s impulse was to keep things, especially paper. photographs and slides aside, there were files and files – some of which we will wade through later. there were boxes of mugs and baskets and trinkets, a kaleidoscope of the pieces of life, carefully packed by my sister and brother-in-law during a time of sadness, a time that was not ripe with paring down or organizing, a time that is difficult for anyone who has packed up a house. larger items were already distributed – furniture given away or passed down to the next generation. but these boxes….
i was quite sure that, even if i hadn’t seen anything in any of the boxes, i had all i needed….my treasures of my sweet momma and my poppo are tucked in close to my heart and i have physical memories of them around me in our home. they are not the high-priced treasures you might think people would save or claim. instead, they are small, meaningful, invaluable and thready things that speak to me. old calendars of my mom’s, my dad’s small rickety wooden boxes from his workbench, glasses from which my dad sipped his scotch, a flannel shirt my mom wore that matched my dad’s, a board with hooks that is wood-burned with the word “keys” and hung in our growing-up house for as long as i can remember…
spending time in the storage unit, surrounded by memories and the fading scent of my mom’s perfume and their house, i was heartened to see that i actually could go through and pare down. it gives me hope about our own basement. the real things of our past – sweet treasured memories – are not things. everyone gets meaning from and sees value in different stuff. two days in the storage unit reminded me again of that.
this time i didn’t cry. i laughed with my momma, who, no doubt, was rolling her eyes in heaven over the fact that she had saved sooo many pieces of paper…paid bills, old house contracts, warranties from appliances long gone, car receipts from several cars ago. a collection of life gone by, i know she smiled when every now and then we stumbled onto something i loved to touch….i kept the little scrap of paper that fluttered to the floor that my mom had written my full birth name on…i kept a couple calendars with my poppo’s handwriting…i kept a tiny folder of maps my mom collected in her curiosity about the changing world…i kept my dad’s brown suede cap, the one i bought him a million years ago…i kept a manila folder of letters i had written to them over the years – that my momma saved…these pieces of evidence of who they were, heirlooms of what was most important to them.
i vowed, once again, to go through, give away, sell the things in our own home that are not necessary. but those bins in the basement labeled “kirsten” and “craig”? those will stay. i will delight in going through the artwork and stories and notes and school projects from their childhood and growing up. and some day, maybe they too will see how infinitely important each of the baby steps and adult steps they have taken are to me. and maybe some of the thready treasures i have left behind will give them pause and, maybe, they will save a scrap or two, a calendar, a notebook of unpublished songs, photographs, something that reminds them of what was most important to me – the thready things that are memories of love, of family, of them.
it wasn’t sunny or 82 degrees inside the storage unit. but it was warm in a whole other way.
we left florida in the rain. it was a tad bit bumpy as we climbed and i was grateful to come out above the clouds into a clear sky with soft early morning color. as we flew at this altitude i could see glimpses of what was below us, spaces quickly filled in by soft puffy clouds blocking the view. i strained to see what terrain we were flying over, curious if i could pick out landmarks and know a little bit more about where we were, wondering about people living in those tiny dots of towns and cities and farmland below the clouds that we were flying above. it was easy to forget that it was raining down there.
i feel like life is like that. it has become more telling to me in these times of divisiveness. we are each at a different altitude…we have different starting points – our backgrounds, our education, our financial status, our various orientations…the starting point list is lengthy; all things combine to make us who we are and all things weave us a different starting point. at any given moment we are at yet another one; life is fluid like that. we live above our own clouds – or, at times, in them – either way our view blocked.
here above my clouds – for my clouds are different than yours – my questions are these: how curious are we about the people who are not at the same place as us? how much do we strain to see what might not be where we are? how much do we want to know, to empathize? how much do we forget what is happening someplace else, for someone else, in the places where it is more difficult to see through the clouds? how engrossed are we only in our narrow bandwidth of sky? can we see the experience of others? can we try?
we can either think it is a soft-morning-sky kind of day for everyone or we can actually realize that it’s raining down there.
“…leaving to fill in the space called the future…”
yesterday is but a shadow now. we rise with the sun and the lingering shadows and shapes in the dusk-then-darkness-then-dawn quietly disappear. we can’t hold onto them, any of them, despite our sometimes-longing to do so. memories are like that. the moments we most want to remember…they slyly tiptoe out of our mind’s eye, elusive to our heart-threads trying to hold onto them. that is why i keep a calendar.
my calendar is written. with a pencil. every day i write in it, catching up what we did with our time, what we worked on, where we went, who we saw, maybe a new recipe we tried. mostly, though, i write down moments i don’t want to forget. milliseconds or minutes of bliss with a loved one, gorgeous things said, handholds or hugs that i want to keep feeling, things i want to memorize but know will slip softly into a recess that i may or may not be able to access.
on the first day of the new year (or the last day of the old year) it is my ritual to read every day, every log, of my year’s calendar. in that reading we are transported. to the places we went, the people we visited with, the exquisite times, the arguments, treasured mom-moments that have repeated-time-release joy. we remember things we had forgotten. we stand once again on the precipice above the canyon or the beach on the cape. we stroll once again under a canopy of spanish-moss-covered live oaks or the big sky of the high range mountains. we sit once again on red rocks or on the train to chicago or on the subway in boston or on the pontoon boat up north or on the high kitchen stools having potluck friday or on the raft or at the pub near where we scattered ashes one last time. we hike once again in the nearby woods, on the river trail, through high desert. we roadtrip, once again, heading east, west, south, north. we have conversation-snippets-to-remember once again with The Girl, The Boy, david’s parents, our siblings, nieces, nephews, dear friends. once again, we make music and art, we write stories and blogposts and press releases and letters and emails and texts; some we want to hold onto, even if just a word or two, a sentiment or two. once again.
we process our year. we see. we celebrate. we learn. we plan and we plan to not plan. we dream. we look to the future.
this painting!! i fell in love with it the instant i saw the horses. utter-arms-outstretched-bliss on horseback. what is not to love? i have been horse-crazy ever since i was little. my room decorations at one point in my life included stable-brown walls, burlap curtains, horse statues and ribbons on shelves and wall space and my headboard.
i took horseback-riding lessons as a little girl; i relished every minute of it. it was expensive (horses in general are expensive, whether you own or rent or just go on a trail ride) and the opportunity ran out for these lessons, but when i can, i ride. a couple years ago My Girl and i went on a trail ride out in the mountains of aspen. it was sheer heaven!
this painting!! it makes me think of other recent times looking-into-the-gentle-eyes of these beautiful animals. we walked later at night in holland past fields and obvious horse-fencing. i heard the sound of a horse nickering, that blowing-out of air so easily identifiable. i walked in the dark toward the sound. there at the fenceline was this beautiful horse, just waiting for us to quietly talk to him, stroke his face. no treats, just love.
this painting!! linda and bill can relate to horse-love. their horse chance is the sweetest. she literally finds her way to the side kitchen door in the morning if they haven’t gone out to feed her yet and will stick her head right inside the car as you drive slowly by.
this painting!! it transports me to warm springs ranch, a budweiser clydesdale eden with sweet foals and gentle giant mares. a glorious afternoon with wendy and jani, david followed me around with a camera, documenting my glee.
this painting!! it brings back all my having-a-horse-one-day yearning. ahhh. someday, i think. i have many brochures about the wild mustangs of out west, all needing homes and an adoptive chance at life, not to be swept up in roundups due to an imbalance of excess and lack.
this painting!! how will i be able to let it go – because someone will want this stunning painting for their home…
with snow on the ground and visions of sugarplums and reindeer, late-at-night we would gather together on christmas eve in the neighborhood i grew up in. luminaria bags lined the streets, you could hear people caroling, children excitedly running around. my sweet momma and daddy held this tradition close each year, even bringing it forward a few of their first years in florida. back on long island we would walk around the block, singing, talking, debating white-lights-vs-multi-colored holiday lights, dreaming about what would be under the tree the next morning. it was magical and time was suspended. midnight seemed early after everyone’s late church service.
a few years ago, missing my sweet momma and poppo, holiday tradition with extended family and not always having my own children here to celebrate, i felt an emptiness and a yearning for something more. reaching into bright memories, i asked david if he would like to host a luminaria party, to start right here…on our street…with these sweet bags of sand and candles spaced on the sidewalks, a couple of firepits in the driveway (thanks to john and michele we have more than one firepit!), an abundance of wine and snacks on tables set up with christmas carols playing on a boombox. we invited our neighbors, friends, our church community. they stayed till a time-suspended-magical 2am and a tradition was born. this year is our fourth.
it starts at 10:45. you are welcome to come. just rsvp, bundle up and bring a beverage and snack to pass. come share in the magic of tradition…yet another wondrous thing.
my husband paints. he is an amazing painter. i truly love his work. with both of us as artists, it could be interesting to love each-other, but not love each-other’s-work. we are lucky to not only respect the work of the other, but to want to lift it up and out there to others, to share it with the world, to say, “LOOK! this is beautiful!”
my husband paints. his studio is in our basement. sometimes i wander down, sip coffee or tea or wine and watch his dance with canvas. i’m aware of the stacks around me, paintings that have not yet been shown, paintings that need loving homes.
my husband paints. he doesn’t like selling things. it’s not his gig, so to speak. but me? i do like to sell things. it’s a joy, for me, to match a painting with a person (this usually happens naturally…they find each other) or music with a person’s need for music. in my next life (ok, one of the list of my next lives…a horse ranch is up there on the list too), i would love a small boutique shop, filled to the brim with things that people have made, repurposed, pieces of something old or something organic that are now treasured parts of a home.
visit the online gallery. take your time. listen. breathe. if you fall in love with something that speaks to you, let us know. it’s impossible for me not to say, “LOOK! this is beautiful!” my husband paints.
we notice stuff. seriously. little things. we always lean on the artistic side of everything we encounter (although that left brain rears up for both of us, it is in different ways.) so as we walk or hike, we will notice rocks that look like hearts, patterns of leaves on the ground that form beautiful carpets, sunsetting color that illuminates a field with golden light, wildlife that crosses our path – big and tiny. we hear – and stop to listen to – the song of cicadas, the honk of frogs, the call of birds in the woods, the chirp of chipmunks, the rat-a-tat-tat of woodpeckers, the coo of mourning doves. we look for changes in the scenery since the last time we hiked and we notice. little things. and tracks.
these little tracks were in our driveway…in the act of quickly going out to the car to leave we could have missed them. that would have been too bad. the breath that these sweet tracks provided me was invaluable…a pause in a busy day, a moment of appreciating nature around me, a grounding humbleness that i am merely one in a boundless universe, a heart-connection to these small creatures…a part of a whole.
WE live here. on this beautiful planet earth. we have inherited it from those before us and we will pass it on to those who live beyond us. it is our responsibility to leave it as-good-as or better than we received it. (my sweet momma’s teaching…in all things.)
OUR. responsibility. we cannot just take; we must give back. and, as in all things, the things we learn must be applied, even if it’s hard, even if it’s inconvenient, even if it costs us, even if it won’t directly benefit us but will, alas, benefit those beyond us; our work, our diligence, our values, our dedication, our respect will transcend us.
the first thing The Girl did the morning before she drove back to the high mountains was to put her personal stamp on her new vehicle IVY. she planned carefully where to place the two stickers on the far back passenger side window. the POW sticker – protect our winters – a cause she believes in. on their site, “Outdoor sports is a way for the public to understand the consequences of climate change, and what we stand to gain by stopping it, or lose by failing to. We all need winter.”
it’s bracing. the changes OUR beloved planet is experiencing. the changes in weather, the changes in resources, the changes, ultimately, in the way we will each live – all around the world. the questions of being able to grow ample food supply, have enough clean water, and sustain this – what is, by sheer comparison – tiny planet in the vastness of space.
i stood in the living room of the historic mining house My Girl lives in right in the middle of telluride, colorado and saw this poster on the wall. each of the renters in this house, directly or indirectly, depends on the health of the outdoors in these high mountains for their livelihood. who among us does not truly – when you trace all things back to their source – depend on the health of OUR environment? NO SIDES IN CLIMATE.
everything we do or don’t do will affect this good earth. who is it that said, “you don’t know what you have till you lose it”? we take for granted that for which we should have the simplest and deepest of gratitude.
OUR earth. were it not here, where would WE live? how would SIDES matter?
reverse threading 