On Bridal Showers

A few weeks ago, I attended my very first bridal shower.  And yes, I did enjoy myself.

The reason why I discuss this bridal shower is that for my own comfort level to be met, I had to treat the event like a social experiment: a chance to get into the inner world of, and experience firsthand as a guest, a traditional event that precedes a large, festive wedding.  From this perspective, I was more observer than participant, which was fine for me, as this from-the-sidelines perspective is nothing new.  It was from this view that I saw all the minute details involved in planning this bridal shower, which took the planner-friend two painstaking days to set up for a five-hour celebration; I also noticed the sense of pride that is present in an event as deeply steeped in tradition as this; and the proud sense of expectation and reciprocation.

Although I immediate err on the side of sharp observation, the beautiful details of this gilded event did not escape my field of vision: the softly hued sweet-yet-decadent handmade decor, the seamless inclusion of traditional bridal shower games, and the gentle camaraderie among the shower guests was keenly felt.  Everyone cared.  This was not lost upon me.

However glad I am that the shower was a sweet success, I am even more glad that the event is over.  Now I can relax--well, sort of--until the wedding itself.  Put up my feet and get caffeinated while writing, which is more within my own comfort zone.

I've previously blogged about this wedding-related anxiety here and here.

Quiet

I think that the month of January will continue to be a quiet time for me, a full 31 days of contemplation as I'd like to call it.  In the midst of this quietude, I will be taking a short break from blogging--just for a little while as I gather my thoughts and diffuse them onto paper, make some sense of them.  New year's sentiment, maybe?  Journaling and creating vintage paper goods will be steadfast past times, but don't be too surprised if I return before month's end.  Sometimes I have more to say than I think I do...

Stay warm, stay good, stay kind.

To Close the Year

Dear 2013,
   You've been a tough and trying year--I do not doubt that.  But in addition, you've been a year of self-discovery and completion; an impetus towards loftier goals made more attainable with time and a reflective state of mind.  For instance, this year, despite my fleeting fears, I've expanded my shop to include stamped art and writing services.  I've also completed my long-awaited thesis, and am grappling with life post-academia.  (This is where my anxiety kicks in, where the song-and-dance number that keeps me trudging onward halts.  Skips a beat.  'Tis life.)

   This year has seen goodness arise, as well.  All around.  Reconnection, resurrection.  I could work on the reconnection part, but I am trying my best, 2013--I really am.  Sometimes I just take the high road, the long and winding one without any clear sign of reprieve, but all the while I'm observing and learning, taking it all in.  Occasionally, my heart is so darned full that it feels as if it will burst, but that's what happens when you feel deeply, right?  I'd like to think so.

   As the year winds down and 2014 is within grasp, I can feel a fullness in the air...it's brimming with possibilities.  And because of this, I can't think of a better way to close the year.

   Deanna
   aka EmeraldCut

Rambling On

Sometimes I forget how overwhelmingly lucky I am with this life, and oh how I tend to dwell on the has-beens and the what-ifs, forging a tenuous identity based on evaporating, porous memories and perilous words of past.  I cannot help it; I am an aptly unforgiving human masquerading as an altruist in the truest sense.  As we all can be, when the occasion calls for it.

But I am getting better at it, at acceptance.  Consciously being grateful for what I've got.  Perhaps it comes with age, this tell-tale acceptance of what is.  It is comprised of a steady patience that had oftentimes eluded me in the not-so-distant past, and likewise, continues to both inspire and challenge me in the present time.

The past cannot be rewritten, and memories cannot be revisited without a glint of the imaginative eye adding a word here, a false detail there until that particular memory is no longer viscerally recognizable, and instead becomes a memory among the many that are seared into the non-linear history of our lives.  It is all relative, this tough job of remembrance, conjuring up memories to fill the vast emotional void.  That's what journals are for: to fully document, in real time, our conversations and interesting tidbits of the day, all the while knowing that we will be able to revisit these very words when the occasion calls for it years down the road.  That being said, writing as twilight settles and the house creaks and stirs is a magical time that connects the conscious and unconscious, the thoughts had while awake and the exacting life of dreams.

On Wit

I have always admired those who possess a healthy dose of wit.  Not sass or meanness, but wit.  You could be a witty curmudgeon, and I'd still respect you, or at least I'd respect your wittiness if not your overall character.  I've been thinking quite frequently about wit lately: the role it has played/plays in society, our current degradation of all things witty to idiosyncratic, slapstick humor; the deep misunderstanding of what wit genuinely entails.

Wikipedia says this of wit:
"Wit is a form of intelligent humour, the ability to say or write things that are clever and usually funny.^[1] A wit is a person skilled at making clever and funny remarks.^[2] Forms of wit include the quip and repartee."

The American Heritage Dictionary (fourth edition) defines wit as:
"Perception and understanding; intelligence.  Keenness and quickness of perception or discernment."

Films that focus solely on a monologue with the audience or on a dialogue between two people can sometimes perceptively illustrate wit.  For instance, this film, although savagely heavy on sadness and brutal in honesty, is fully engrossing and thought-provoking in terms of its rapt exploration of human nature, intellect, and the drawn-out fragility of life.  Another film, Chinese Coffee, strategically places the audience smack dab in the middle of an intense rivalry-friendship between two writers.  These two films best exemplify wit to me.  Through their character development, these works explore and reveal that wit can be funny, satirical, perceptive, clever, intelligent, or even downright critical and mean.  Or all of the above.  The inclusion of wit brings a certain cleverness--a textured depth and nuanced complexity--to these films.

So I cannot help but cringe when I see poor representations, or, worse yet, poor interpretations of wit.  Wit, unlike humor, does not always make you laugh or raise your spirits.  Instead, wit lingers on the tongue like smoky, rich coffee: its an acquired taste; a brain tease with a vast emotional and intellectual core.  And although its aromatic depth is sometimes overlooked, it is still, curiously, appreciated.

The Lesson

Oh, little hummingbirds, so brash and brazen, full of life, perhaps I have some lessons to learn from you about certain things.  I've never understood the fast-paced life: the scheduling of every minute of every daytime hour, day in and day out, without a moment of meaningful repose until bedtime.  The mental and physical exhaustion that lures us into fitful sleep.  Why is it that humans generally believe that each day must be jam packed with meetings and a heavy workload, last-minute excursions, and stilted conversation in order to feel like they are truly living?  Hummingbirds, although so quick to movement, take the time to observe--left goes their heads, and then right, their needle-like beaks giving away the slight changes in direction of their glances.  They do this ritual dozens of times per day: sensing for danger, maintaining territory, resting their wings, preserving their precious energy.  It's like each movement has a specific purpose.  I have yet to see a dumbfounded hummingbird, but dumbfounded humans?  They are a dime a dozen.  I say take a lesson from the hummers.

Mid-Year Thoughts

Is it already past the mid-year point?  I cannot even begin to fathom how quickly the year has unfolded, molding itself into a largely non-linear course of days, weeks, and months--culminating in now.  Some days feel infinitely longer than others, while others overlap and converge.  Is it the onset of age that makes one forget what one did yesterday?  At least it's written in my journal.  You see, that's something that I've begun doing on a regular basis just this year--after a handful of years of intermittent journalese and stream-of-consciousness scribbling.

When I reflect back on the six months of time immediately past, a recurring thought is:

How is it to be?

As in a general time frame and, more specifically, mortality--the age-old identifier of getting old.  It's not that I fear aging, since it's actually quite the opposite, as I fully embrace it.  Age, for me, is merely a number that grows in increments of one per year.  But some people mourn the years that are forgotten, the messy lost years. 

* * *

A few weeks ago now, I printed out seven copies of my thesis to be bound and submitted for summer 2013 graduation.  My husband took the ambient-rich shot below, of five copies, for the other two had yet to be printed.  It has taken me a difficult six years to obtain this degree, but I realize that time--so fleeting, so terse--has a strange way of providing lessons; coming full circle.

  

Taking a peek outdoors, I spy on our hummingbirds, stealth-like and spry, in hopes of one day being ignored rather than spied on.  With their daredevil spirit, hummingbirds make up for their diminutive size.  If only we were so gallantly protective, graceful, and street smart--all at the same time.  However, if hummingbirds were human, I am unsure if I would like them more than I do now.

The future holds infinite possibilities against a darkened sky. I just have to seek them out, push myself to look beyond the deepening horizon, and try.  Trying is the most difficult part of it all; at times it is the dooming precursor of frustration more than the origin of inspiration.  But it's always the process that is itself, contradictory: while confining one like a canary, the process can allow for a critical learning experience, too.  Like journalese and stream-of-consciousness scribbling, attempts at uncovering the unknown are ultimately, undoubtedly worth it--to the bleary eyed and worn, included.

Spring flowers, spring flowers, will you be mine?

Dreaming of lulling warmth and brightness-- 

Sunlight upon eyelids...upon eyes.

Squint, I do

Until the tides rise.

Breadth of Life

Have you ever spent some time looking at the world from a perspective not your own?  Last week, I did just that.  Took my trusty camera outdoors, and without seeing the image preview--with my arms at awkward angles--took a photo of a yellow daisy from the bottom up.

From a different perspective, I obtain an entirely new vantage point, one that would have remained obscured had it not been for a change in thought, a reworking of a life's narrative.  A minute detail noticed brings with it a sweet significance and a calming sense of peace.  I won't use the ocean analogy here--but I will say this: Images jog memories and foster a semi-fleeting sense of clarity when it all seems so murky, allowing the present to carry on.  And carry on, we do.

Indoor Decor: Memories

Left to right:
Creamer with spout: stayarthomemom
Organic white bud vase: honeyandheat
Tall brown vase: StoneworksPottery

(In the white bud vase is a portion of the dried thyme bouquet from our yard, which I blogged about here.  The doily is from a local brick-and-mortar teashop/antiques shop.)

I've never been much of an interior decorator in any sense of the word, so when I saw that these pottery pieces fit well together--in an eclectic sort of way, it genuinely made my day.  It's kind of like life in that respect...a mish-mash of occurrences and daily routines that are not outwardly connected in any meaningful or tangible way.  That is, until something interesting happens, and you see that each step taken has gradually lead you to your current situation, your current frame of reference.

I realize that it's probably not a good idea to compare life to the accumulation of things, since life is immeasurable and priceless, and commodities, well, always have a price on their heads.  However, in this life, we accumulate things that we place value on, whether it be intrinsic or overt, so commodities are, in a way, a somewhat accurate measurement of our lives, revealing what we hold dear.  In an instant here; in an instant gone--but always an insight into the lives left behind.

Pencil to Paper

It's finally been approved.  The pencil-to-paper editing process has been mighty tedious these past three or so months, but it has ultimately paid off.  It's been a long and winding road--a total of six years--with lessons learned, patience greatly tested, and beliefs torn and tattered.

Growth.

Yet as much as I complain, I cannot forget what an invaluable tool the entire process has been.

The Reminder

 It's finally rained.

The continuous drip drop

Makes up for my lack of verboseness;

Fills in the silent in-between spaces.

Spring:
Flowers bloom,

Birds tweet and flutter.
Sunrise and sunset rise and fall like clockwork-- 

Not today nor tomorrow

Will life stand still.

Ruminous

The Cabin

The Cabin, by Stewart Edward White

I've been yearning for a sense of stillness lately, a calm quiet that only creeps up on you when you least expect it and lingers for moments on end.  Started reading Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard, again--a well-worn favorite.  Dillard quotes Steward Edward White (why do I always want to call him "Edward Stewart White"?), so I figured that I should see what his writing is about.  I mean, if Dillard cites him, then he, by this association, must be one great observer and solitude seeker.

My 1911 copy of The Cabin arrived in usable vintage form: frayed hardcover edges, decaying corners, and binding half worn; an overall delicate-yet-sturdy feel.  The book chronicles White's life spent in a rustic, simple vacation cabin in the Sierras that he and his wife, Billy, helped build by hand.  White's pro-conservation perspective and urgent, gentle tone reflects his soaring popularity during the early 20th century conservationist movement.

 

According to Wikipedia: 

"White's books were popular at a time when America was losing its vanishing wilderness. He was a keen observer of the beauties of nature and human nature, yet could render them in a plain-spoken style. Based on his own experience, whether writing camping journals or Westerns, he included pithy and fun details about cabin-building, canoeing, logging, gold-hunting, and guns and fishing and hunting." 

With short chapters with titles such as the following, how could I pass it up? 

His philosophical slant--nature driven, minimalist, and highly moralistic--makes for a quietly compelling read.  White's words and stories are resonant and modest (sparse even), but it is his unwavering enthusiasm in exploring and relaying to the reader the natural world around him that makes this book a worthwhile read.  Wish there was more detailed information about White and his writings online, beyond Wikipedia...

 

* * *

Ever since I received a new pair of hiking boots earlier this winter, I've been bit hard by the wander bug, longing to embark on mountainous day-long hikes--just the husband and I in the thick of it.  The Cabin will have to suffice for now.

Future Tense

I am sitting here in front of the computer putting off the inevitable, waiting for the future-tense me to tap this present-tense me on the shoulder and tell me that everything will be easy peasy rather than the current topsy turvy.  This life is not easy, but others have it much more difficult than you, the wise future-tense laments, sprouting proverbs (I sure hope that she is wise...) as I stare blankly back at her.  My mind feels like an over-caffeinated, head-in-the-clouds marathon runner, one who has run miles upon miles and ends up in the same spot at the starting line every time, for she has lost track of where the race ends--lost in the process of it all.

As she takes one step back, and then another, the present-tense me begins to remember the reasons why the present matters, why and how the past informs the present.  The innumerable, complex connections spanning across time, running here and there--sometimes seemingly lost--comprises something greater than the sum of a life.  It is the measure of memories by the mind full; a consolatory homage to the past.  Frozen, permeable, forgotten...written down as a reminder to the living.   

Life is Beautiful

Not to heavily borrow the Roberto Benigni film title, but isn't life truly beautiful?  In all of its tragedy and triumph, our life-hardened hearts still have the capacity--through the contingency of emotional and physical turmoil--to forgive, trust, and relate.  Not once or twice, but dozens of times (if not more).  Sure, it may outwardly appear to be a vicious cycle sometimes, this life, but its continuous lessons are consistent and true: the pain is just as poignant as the joy; its trials and tribulations are equally as important as their outcomes.

More times than not, I am, admittedly, blind to the lesson learned...but occasionally, I get it.  It is in those latter experiences that moments of clarity arise, and I remember what not only rings true, but also what truly matters.   

Trustingly, I know that I am not alone.  Hopeful, I have finally become.   

Update

 

(Stamps are from norahjane.)

I currently have nothing too exciting to divulge, except that I am sitting here twiddling my thumbs in nervous anxiety over this.  Not quite victory dance time yet, but over 120 pages later, I have completed the needed prerequisites...and am currently awaiting a yay or nay reply.  Then more editing.  Then hopefully done with what has turned out to be a very long and drawn out process of obtaining a higher degree.

In the meantime, I've been working on some new designs for my shop to get the creative part of my brain going again; finding my quiet, creative space again.  It's not easy sometimes, this creative process, but it is entirely worth it: especially when everything falls together even better than you could have ever imagined it to.

Onward

"Good Times" by Susie Suh  

(from the album, "The Bakman Tapes" 2011)

This song is truly a wise social commentary, woven into the craft of song--

one of my favorites.

* * *

Onward to 2013 with hope, dignity, and diligence...and a little bit of luck.

State of Affairs

The national tragedy at Newtown, Connecticut today rattles me down to the very core, and I doubt that this acute feeling of grief will subside anytime soon.  I contemplated whether or not to blog about it today, with the painful emotions still vividly fresh and the tears still brimming in the eyes; images of terrified schoolchildren and crying parents still deeply ingrained in my mind.  Shock.  How does one justify the magnitude of loss this holiday season?  This extremely cowardly, inhuman act of domestic terrorism leaves such a bitter, bitter taste in my mouth.  I am left with the difficult task of trying to stay warm when both my mind and soul are so horrifically shaken that I take little notice of the chill, the numbness; the exacting pain.  My mind cannot fully process what has happened--a strange disconnect between the mind and body--thinking of Christmas for the families who have lost.

Spirit

Does it feel like the holidays to you?  As in Christmas is in less than two weeks?  Not really, at least here.  I was tempted to title this post "Bah Humbug," but it was already taken by this smart lady, and her post pretty much summed up the not-so-festive holiday feeling that I am currently experiencing--I couldn't have said it any better.

So here I am listening to Jagged Little Pill instead of the contemplative jams of the more mellow singer-songwriter variety, and I am certainly feeling fine.  (Christmas music is not my forte, anyhow.)

I spent six hours yesterday doing holiday stuff, and to tell you the truth, it was fun--especially since I purchased the majority of the gifts that I didn't make myself in early autumn; most from online sources.  That way, I was able to ease into the holiday season, and still enjoy the peppermint hot cocoa without absentmindedly burning my tongue.

This easing into the holidays got me thinking: the holidays is beyond giving the "right" gift (or not), and is also more than just spending time with family.  The entire point of the holidays, perhaps, is to learn about yourself, such as your strengths and weaknesses; your consummate burnout level in a time of potentially high crises.  One's dogged aversion or warm embrace of the season of giving takes on a whole new meaning when put into this context.  Realizing what makes you uncomfortable--or comfortable--about the holidays, and how these categorizations can change circumstantially, reveals to you the you of the moment disguised as (the lack of) holiday spirit.

Feign enthusiasm, I cannot--and I will no longer punish myself for it.  Conversely, if I happen to break out into a holiday jig, I will not punish myself for it, either.