Imperfection

I have begun to read voraciously to know just what to say at the right time.   I wrote these words in my journal in the 90's.  What's funny is that I am still reading.  What's funny is how journals repeat themselves.  The only thing that changes are the surroundings.  Now it's a cabin in woods, or a newspaper office in Matador.  Before it was the Carnegie Center in Lexington, or a local bookstore.  

Today I'm re-reading "Small Pieces, Loosely Joined" by +David Weinberger and being reminded that the "The imperfection of the Web isn't a temporary lapse; it's a design decision."  I like that.  He says, "...the Web is unmanaged and uncontrolled so that it can grow rapidly."  That's how I feel about my art.  If I'm starting to feel controlled, anxiety sets in and I'm likely to abandon the project.  And when I make "mistakes" I respond.  I would rather have a few flaws and movement and growth, than control.

Even though this photo is dark, I love that it captures the winter blue sky just before dusk.  It gives me pause to ponder my insanity as I am still making art for the The Kentucky Craft Market this week end when I should be pricing and packaging and loading my booth.

I have begun to read voraciously to know just what to say at the right time. When I sleep at night, I think about what I read, and when I make love, I think about what I will tell her. I think about ideas. They’ll run over my lips and I’ll flick them out with my tongue. I think about stories that I’ll whisper, and when my breathing gets heavier, I’ll think about poems I’ll yell, and when he kisses me on the back, I’ll remember things I forgot, and the excitement will roll me over, and I’ll forget where I was. It never gets crowded in our bedroom. There is always room for all of us, and when things start getting confusing, I disappear for a while, float up to the ceiling, take a slow ride on the fan and re-enter when I’m fresh again, and we all think it is for the first time.

The poems that get digested get sent out in the mail, and when the rejections come, she listens, and he wipes away the tears, and I weave them into pillow cases, the kind that crinkle to the rhythm of love, and there are more poems popping from the toaster. Someone forgot to butter the bread. I can’t remember if her hair is long or short, dark or blond. Sometimes, it’s one or the other, but those aren’t the things that matter. It’s her voice that matters­­—the one I try to mimic, till I learn it by heart—the one I dream and it becomes hybrid.--The Garden Girls Letter and Memoir

Scarves and Poetry Skirts

I just had a conversation with my friend, +Sarah Estes  about building a business.  It is a conversation I also frequently have with +Soreyda Benedit Begley  and my daughter, +Danielle Wittler
Afterwards I searched for +Gary Vaynerchuk  on FB and listened to his interview at Inc Magazine.  My brother, +Ray Zabielski gave me a much appreciated subscription to Inc. 

Gary Vaynerchuck said many important things.  What stood out the most was the importance of knowing our long term goal.  That has given me pause.  The one thing that I do know is that I want  to make art, sell my Truly Wearable Art , share Rodan & Fields  for beautiful skin and teach others to communicate creatively through stories and art.  At the Kentucky Craft Market, Mar 2-3 in Lexington, I will have a variety of scarves, art to wear and art for your wall or floor, priced from $24 to $1800.  Come early Saturday for the best selection.  Come late Sunday for the best "deal."  I intend to sell everything so that I can make more!

Pretending is something I’ve gotten good at doing

 Today I iron.  Remembering  Larry's 74th birthday dinner party last night.  The champaign.  The paleo chocolate cake that Barbara brought.  Can you believe it, no gluten, no grains, no dairy?  Delicious!  Today I organize my truly wearable art according to color, remembering listening to Larry's music.  Pretending I am not anxious, when I am.  Pretending I'm not concerned about each aging year ahead of us.

Pretending is something I’ve gotten good at doing. Pretending I don’t know what’s behind her eyes, when in fact I do, and she knows I know—that’s why she keeps coming back, walking slowly in the front door, hanging around for days, then checking out the garden for leaves and flowers she forgot. The things she forgot are what I place on my altar, the candle wax that dripped down the wall and the pine cones from the gutter and the blue ribbon from the closet that makes the prettiest bow when tied to my wreath.

Her voice is clear, only I don’t ask her enough questions. I just listen occasionally when she calls. The whole reason is to stay in touch. I wrote her pages and pages and slid them under her door. She responded by return mail and asked me to be on her team, to listen to her questions, help her come up with answers.

“You are asking me? You want me to talk to you?” I stammered, and she leaned back on the couch with her arm across the top and one leg slung over and nodded yes, like it was no big deal. With candles burning and orange juice, fresh squeezed, beside me, I licked the juice from my fingers. She brought oranges with her the first time. That’s when I started looking for them. The harder I looked, the fuller I became, and the juicier they were. -- The Garden Girls Letters and Journal

I just keep looking for the orange

I called a friend today.  I listened to her voice.  The words she spoke.  She is always so negative.  Not enough.  Too many problems.  Can't sleep.  Lonely.  It's always the same.  We are all struggling with these things I tell her.  Aging is managing pain.  "Do you use lavender on sleepless nights?" I asked her.  "Are you meditating?  Taking long walks?" I asked her.  Take one day at a time.  I just keep looking for the orange in the shibori dyed alpaca that hangs near the wood stove.  How did she become so pastel?  I evaluate my formula, my process.

 

She wants to come in so bad. I’ve seen her look through the dusty lace curtains. I’ve seen her float in the artemisia, but it wasn’t until the kiss that I realized how much she wanted in. I just keep looking for the orange—looking for it, rough and round, juicy and bright, pulling apart the sections, reaching for the seed, feeling the juice on my fingers, licking them, smelling orange. Maybe orange isn’t something you see, after all. Maybe it’s something you feel and smell and taste and swallow, and it fills you up with an excitement that’s impossible to push down, the way I try to ignore that I like to hear her voice on the phone, even though I tighten up and pretend I don’t.--The Garden Girls Letters and Journal

 Maybe it was the way her hair fell across her shoulders, or a look in her eye, or her voice—that voice, so soft, that sweetness, that purr, that caress with her words. Maybe it was her driven walk that pushed me forward to quickly open the door for her.--Garden Girls

While voices are often found in conversations with friends, my new stories are found in fiber.  The softness of alpaca and merino, the shimmer of silk.  Each palette a new story.  My son had a friend who was dieing.  He asked me to create something soft for her to wrap around and keep her warm.  Something earthy he said.  I never knew her.  I think of her however, every time I use these colors.  I think of him and his sensitivity.