THANKFUL FRIDAY

The other night, I had a dream that made me believe in reincarnation and past lives. It was set in the 1800s, in a small but busy Western town owned by a shrewd businessman/rancher. This shrewd man had a gaggle of sons that he had spread out around town bullying people into order. No one sneezed in this town without the man’s permission. One of the sons, who’s legitimacy was always in question, wasn’t quite as bad his brothers but managed to get himself into a number of scrapes. On time in particular, he found himself being called out to a quick draw. All the people gathered along the street, half hidden by various barrels and carts. I was in that crowd and I looked over to see a boy raise a pistol to shoot the not so legitimate son. He had been hired by the gunslinger who had called for the draw. I jumped from my hiding place and tackled the boy. We wrestled, rolling in the dust, and I was finally able to grab the pistol free just in time to hear a gunshot. The shot had been fired from the son’s pistol, killing the gunslinger. I shoved the boy aside and said “I hope the penny he gave you was worth it.” I started to pull myself up from the ground when the son walked over and helped me up, dusting dirt from my skirt. He placed the palm of his hand on the side of my face and we looked into each others eyes. He asked me if I was alright and I nodded my head.

Then I woke up.

Their story rolled around in my brain for the rest of the day. I decided the son’s name was Chett and there was something between the two of us even though I was not the me I am today. The story I imagined for the two of them/us transcended generations and was filled with love, heartache and disappointment, but also redemption. My story travels from a dusty town in the west to a chateau of a winery in rural France. It is filled with big world/small world connections. It is an epic tale and one that feels very very real, even though I know it is a fiction of my own making. This is not the first time a dream has led to a novel in my head, nor is it the first time a dream has made me think about who I was in the past. Though, I’m not about to go all Shirley MacLaine over here. Except sometimes I really do think Pepaw is inside Josephine somewhere. I am sure these dreams have more to do with tapping into the vivid imagination section of my brain. I love it when they show up in my sleep because that tells me that my vivid imagination is still in there somewhere. It may be buried under a lot of useless crap, but it’s there. I wake up from these reincarnation dreams inspired to do something. To write. To sketch out a scene. To create.

I’ll be honest. Those last three things have been really hard for me to do in the past few months. Work has been so busy. Weekends have been booked up with activities. The Fortune Cookie diary has a fine layer of dust on it. None of this is bad. Well…Thursday was bad. Thursday was a broken microscope and cat puke on my bed bad, but all in all I’m busy doing fun things. It just has left me with little brain space for creativity. So little space, that I thought I was all done. These kinds of dreams tell me that I am far from done. There are stories and pictures locked inside me. Enough to fill pages.

Enough.

WRITE WRITING WRITTEN WROTE

Seedy

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A couple of weeks back, after I did an illegal U-turn to take a picture of someone’s thirtieth birthday balloons, I had an uncontrollable urge to write about it. I had already written my Thankful Friday entry and so I just set the thought aside for another time. Except words and phrases started piling up in my brain. I started to get twitchy and thought about writing some things down on napkins. We were at the Cabbage’s soccer game, no where near my computer. I finally had to just write it all out in the Notes app on my phone until I could get to my computer. Some of you might be thinking “isn’t that what the Notes app is for?” Sure…on your phone, if that is how you wish to use it. I use that app for lists, not for typing out whole paragraphs with my thumbs.

Desperate times. Desperate measures.

The urge to write those words was intense. It was something I hadn’t felt in some time. For a while now, keeping this blog going has been work. I’ve written and deleted content because it bores me or sounds like whining or doesn’t really tell a story. There are many days where I think that maybe I just won’t post anything this week, but that thought turns into ‘well, if I don’t post anything this week, will I want to post anything next week?’ Before I know it I will have completely dropped the habit of writing anything. I have no delusions of blogger fame. I never look at the analytics section for this blog to see how many people have read what entry. This place will always be a space for me to vomit out the words and phrases that clog up my brain. Sometimes it looks and smells like rainbow cotton-candy vomit and sometimes it looks and smells like my dog’s vomit. Michael and I are doing intermittent fasting right now. I’m using vomit for my analogy to take my mind off of food.

Also, I’m feeling slightly loopy.

I’ve been in a writing slump for a bit, but things have shifted and now I find myself wanting to be here to spill my guts. I also find myself wanting to write things not for here. On one of my Saturday morning Fortune Cookie times, I realized that what I have managed to do is to almost fill up a journal with beginnings of stories. The last one I did I ended up thinking about for the rest of the day. It seemed like something I could really flesh out and turn into something; maybe not something great, but something entertainingly good. I also keep trying to figure out how to tell my story. I’ve started so many different versions and approaches and all of them end up going no where. Yet another approach to my story has started to form in my head and I think it’s a good one. At least this approach is something I want to give some time to and see where it leads.

There is always some sort of ebb and flow to all of my creative endeavors. It seems that my flow and creative desires spring out of the dirt with the tulips. I need sunshine, warmth and the right amount of water. I’m like a seed. Wait. I’m like multiple seeds. I’m like a whole freakin’ garden. Right now, I’m sprouting seeds for a Spring harvest of words.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Mom in camouflage on the beach in Dingle Ireland. Today, I wish we were back there, laughing at the cow (penis) some one drew in the sand. Happy Birthday Mom!

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My Mom asked me once what instrument I would want to play. It was obvious that I was not into the whole piano thing. Getting me to sit down and practice was a constant battle. I told my Mom that if I could play anything, it would be the cello. The cello makes a sound that resonates in my body and soothes my heart, but our little town only had band. No orchestra. No stringed instruments. My big brother played the drums and he’s cool. So, I picked up some sticks and settled into percussion. One day, while Mom was working at the Oklahoma Well Log Library, she heard a geologist talking about an old cello in his attic. Mom bought that cello from him for $75. It needed new everything, pegs, strings, bridge. It had a crack down one side. We spent another $300 in repairs. Mom found me a teacher who got me into a special youth orchestra. There wasn’t money for a case and I carried my cello around wrapped up in an old sheet until Mom made me a vinyl cello case. Yup. She MADE it. It was gray vinyl with floral print trim. The pockets for music and bow and the handles were made with the floral print trim. It was perfect and the envy of many in the youth orchestra. I played that cello for years. I stopped playing in college because I no longer played in an orchestra and the pegs no longer stuck in place to hold the strings in tune. I couldn’t justify the money for replacing the pegs. A new version of my life took over. Eventually, I sold the cello to help pay for yoga teacher training. I do miss it, though I don’t even know if I remember how to read music any more. Some times I think about buying another cello and maybe some day I will. But I will always be grateful for that first cello.

From the things my Mom has said over the years, I have a strong impression that she was never really supported in her passions as a child. I think that was her driving force behind doing everything to encourage us. When my brother showed an interest in art and an aptitude for drawing, she enrolled him in a prominent art class. When my sister wanted to dance, she put us both in a serious dance school. She drove us to dance class, art class, music lessons, and competitions. She made costumes. She did fundraisers. She spent money that Dad probably didn’t know she was spending. Mom did the best she could to provide us with the tools we needed for our creative outlets. Heck, she still does this; she gifted me a new journal at Christmas. I am reminded of Marmee March and how she encouraged her daughters in all of their endeavors even if those endeavors did not meet with societal propriety. My Mom was a Marmee March. It took me a long time to realize that not every kid had a Marmee March who would support their children in their creative endeavors. As grateful as I may be about that cello, I am even more grateful to have the kind of mom who supports creativity.

My Mom celebrated a birthday on Wednesday. And after a bit of a scary start to this year, I am also thankful that she’s here to celebrate another year of her life.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

1/52 A new 52 week project begins.

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For every year we’ve been together, Michael has struggled with what to put in my Christmas stocking. I am not much of a snacker or candy eater. I’m never sitting on the couch and suddenly say something like “I want Reese’s Pieces!” I’m pretty hard to buy snacks or candy for because chances are it just won’t get eaten. I’m not purposefully depriving myself. I’m just usually not a snacker. Snacking is like my Coke-a-cola cravings. Sometimes I think I really want a Coke. Then I’ll take three or four sips of it and be done. Those baby cans of soda where made for people like me and sometimes I don’t even finish one of those. Surprising me with things in my stocking is not an easy task. Michael’s done a great job at changing his mindset on what goes into a Christmas stocking. Usually he gets me some nice almonds and a really good chocolate bar. I can make a really good candy bar last for more than a week. This year I got fire roasted crickets, which is funny because I also got him some fire roasted crickets. Neither of us have been brave enough to open these up and give them a go.

Last year, Michael put a desktop sand garden in my stocking. I took that little garden to work and then decided it would make a great photography project. By this time, I had completed my 365 day project and was so over the idea of doing another one. I just didn’t have it in me to commit to a picture every day, but I looked at my little Zen sand garden and thought “what about a picture a week?” A picture a week seemed like less of a commitment and still kept my toes in the creativity pool. So, once a week for the entire year of 2019, I took a few minutes to draw in the sand or not draw in some cases. I carefully took a picture of my creation and posted it to an album in Flickr. The album did not garner much attention in the Flickr community. Some times I would share a photo on Instagram if I really liked what I had done, but really the project was mostly just for me. In fact Michael wasn’t even really aware I had been doing this until I posted my very last picture in the project.

This year, Michael stuck a Buddha Board in my stocking. He said that when he realized I had turned my Zen sand garden into a photo project that I would need something new for 2020. Michael thought that the Buddha Board would be a good for this. And he’s right. Michael does a really good job with providing me with tools that help feed my creativity. I have played around with both the Buddha board and Zen garden when they were on display in various stores and every time I have thought about how fun it would be to have one of these on my desk. Yet, I never purchased one. The Fortune Cookie journal is another one of things that I never would have purchased for myself. I would have picked it up int he store and flipped through the pages while thinking about projects, but that would have been it. I have a hard time spending money on things like this for myself. Maybe they seem to frivolous for me to purchase or I just feel like it is wasteful to spend money on myself in this way. But Michael does not see it that way.

I am thankful for his field of view that differs from my own. I am thankful for his ability to see something and think “I bet Cindy could do something really fun and creative with that.” I am thankful for the way he encourages my creativity. I’m pretty sure he believes more in my creative talents than I do.

CULTIVATION

We will have temperatures above freezing today.

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Years ago I wrote up a life list and one of the things on that list was to grow a vegetable garden. The first year I did this, I grew Christmas beans, tomatoes, spinach, basil, squash and cantaloupe. The spinach failed in the hot Oklahoma sun. The squash succumbed to squash beetles. We harvested enough Christmas beans for us to each have half a cup of cooked beans. Basil did well. Tomatoes did okay. The cantaloupe seeds that we planted came from the inside of a store bought cantaloupe Chris’s mom was eating. She spit out a seed and said “Can we plant these?” I shrugged and replied “I don’t see why not.” Those seeds produced two softball sized cantaloupe that were the sweetest cantaloupes I have ever tasted. It was like they were made of straight up sugar. That summer we cultivated more than a vegetable garden. We grew joy and surprises and sweetness. We grew wonder and amazement. Every thing that sprouted from the dirt was met with astonishment. “Oh my God! Look what we have grown!?!?!” We couldn’t believe it. We could not believe what we had done.

I gave up on the vegetable garden last year. Michael pulled up all of the boxes and a friend from work took them. He set them up in his backyard for his little girls to plant seeds in and I could not be more pleased with this. Our gardening days had run it’s course and no longer cultivated the wonderment and joy as it had in previous years. It is not actually environmentally friendly to grow a garden if you are not all that good at growing things. The money you spend on a not so fruitful vegetable garden in your backyard could be better spent supporting local farmers and so we turned our focus to other projects, other adventures. Occasionally I think about scattering lettuce and kale seeds all around the outside of the house so I don’t have to use the weed eater, but I am considering creating a couple of small potted gardens and building an outdoor space to gather with friends. I once read some great advice for creating an outdoor space on a budget. The designer said to just put down an outside area rug and arrange outdoor furniture on it. That’s simple enough.

Those are ideas for another time, when the weather is a bit more cooperative.

Right now, I am thinking of cultivating a new garden. This garden will not grow kale or squash or beans. Neither will it be an ornamental garden filled with hydrangeas and peonies. This new garden will not be delegated to six boxes out in the backyard either. It will be bigger than that. I want to cultivate a space that grows creativity and peace and contentment. I want to cultivate the joy, surprises and sweetness that first garden brought us but I want to do it without actually planting a seed into dirt. I think this is possible. I believe it is possible to recapture all of those things above but in a different way. There will be a section for photography, a section for words. There will be a corner devoted to my yoga practice and a corner within a corner devoted to meditation. I think I will add in a cooking section and a spot for just laying still with a puppy on my lap.

Wait. I think already have this garden. It just needs some weeding and a little bit of care.

AT LOOSE ENDS

Tiny bouquet

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Michael asked me the other day how I felt about not doing a 365 day project any more. I told him that it feels a little bit strange. Every single day for the last year, I took a moment out of my day to photograph myself. During the week, those moments usually happened in the mornings while I was out on my morning coffee walk. My backdrop was either a stairwell or some place outside. On most days I did not have an elaborate plan or idea; I just took a picture. Sometimes these were pictures of my hands. Sometimes these were pictures of my feet. My favorite one of the set is the one I took of just my leg and boot against the gray background of the stairwell. One could assume that I was doing a karate kick or a dance step. It has a simple minimalist aesthetic quality that appeals to me for some reason.

Some time around late October, I got really tired of the daily self portrait. I had not gained any insight into myself or built creativity. My eyes still went to the places on my body that I felt needs improvement instead of just seeing myself as beautiful. I mean, it wasn’t a complete bust. There were photos where I’d look at myself and think “wow, I’ve gotten skinny!” or “I really like how the gray streaks through my hair like highlights.” But I soon grew tired of myself and the day to day of it wore on me so much so that I did not want to continue with a 365 day project for this year. I didn’t even think about the project the day after taking the final picture until I was almost done with my morning coffee walk. I paused for a moment thinking I’d missed a turn or something before I remembered that this was my usual time of day for taking a photo.

I kind of don’t know what to do with myself.

I entered 2019 with out any sort of plan or intention. This might sound freeing to some people. The year is just one big open blank book to be filled with what ever fantastical idea I decide to fill it up with. A big blank open page. I am not the kind of person who thinks any of this sounds freeing. I don’t make up a detailed weekly meal plan every week because I’m being budget minded and trying to prevent food waste. I do it because if I don’t plan out the meals, dinner time will be chaos. Like tuna straight out of the can on saltines chaos. Though being budget minded and reducing food waste is also a good reason for the meal plan. If I don’t have some idea of a plan, my life tumbles into chaos and disorder. Which again, some people may thrive from chaos and disorder. I can tell you that this is the worst time of year for me to not have a creative project to distract myself from all the yuck that bubbles up inside me during the winter months. The winter is also when I feel the least motivated to do anything but curl up in a blanket while wearing my heated unicorn slippers.

I’m doing my best not to rush something. Recently, I sat down and wrote an outline for a book idea. I have the same story half written in a half a different ways floating around in various formats on my computer. I thought maybe writing an outline would give me focus and help to start pulling things together. It is giving me some direction and I have even spent a couple of hours writing on this project this week. I don’t want to set myself up for failure by saying this will be the year I write a book, but maybe this will be the year I get closer to writing that book. Maybe this year I focus more on writing and just a little bit on photography. I have started a new photography project, but it’s a photo a week. I’m calling it Project Zen. Michael gave me a desk top Zen garden and once a week I spend some time smoothing out the sand. Then I drag the rake through to make a design and carefully drop in the tiny rocks. Once I’ve finished, I take a photo. It’s a much more relaxed photo project, more like photo meditation.

I recognize that having some free time might not be so bad either; that facing the yuck instead of distracting myself from it would be a more mentally healthy approach to life. Maybe this year I can do a little of both.

DUSTY THINGS

Instagram post by Cindy Maddera * May 29, 2017 at 4:31pm UTC

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I picked up the box containing my creativity candle so that I could dust around it. It has been sitting on my desk ever since I bought it. In the box. It has been this way for months. I ran the dust rag over the top of the box while frowning. The candle has been added to the ever growing list of things I should be using that are now sitting, gathering dust. An image of my bicycle in the garage pops up behind my closed eyelids. The bright blue paint is dulled with a thick layer of dust. Cobwebs rest in the spokes. The tires are droopy. I am filled with instant guilt and disappointment. I should be riding that bike. I want to ride that bike. My brain is really good about using time as a sabotage. It reminds me of the hill that starts at sixty third street and peaks around fifty eight. This is my slowest section and the place where I feel the weakest. 

Why is there always a voice in your head telling you that you can't?

The candle falls into a category that I generally reserve for colored pencils, crayons and notebooks of any kind. I still have not sharpened that pretty blue pencil. Though I will admit that I tried to sharpen it, but it was too big for the mechanical sharpener at work. I like the look of a brand new pack of crayons or colored pencils, all lined up with sharp points. Blank white pages in a notebook are like clean sheets on a bed. The candle is like that. Right now the wick is still white without scorch. The wax is unmelted. The decorative picture on the outside is still in one piece. There's something soothing about the perfectness of all of those colored pencils before points have been dulled and pages smeared with ink. Same goes for that creativity candle. It's not like I believe that burning a 'special' candle is going to make me become more creative or even more prolific. 

All of that soothing perfectness is a mask. It hides the fear of messing up. If I use that pencil, the tip will get dull and fragile. I will be left with broken pencils. My handwriting will make the blank page ugly. If I don't use those things, I can not ruin them. The beautiful words on that candle with not melt away. If I don't ride my bike, I can't feel my weakness. I can't feel like I am ruined.  I am a little embarrassed to admit this hesitant side of me. I am the girl who stands too close to the edge of the cliff in order to capture an image. I am the girl who flies down Troost on a scooter, weaving in out of traffic. I take risks. I leap.

Michael has adopted "get back in the car Cindy" as his warning phrase for whenever he sees me doing something slightly dangerous that makes him nervous. It came from our trip to the Dakotas with Talaura. We were pulled over to the side of the road, watching a large heard of bison come down the road. I was hanging out the car to get pictures. Suddenly the pace of the bison picked up to a trot, but I stayed where I was. A few minutes later, we were watching the video that Talaura had taken of it all and you can clearly hear Michael say "get in the car Cindy" when the bison picked up speed. This made us laugh and laugh, mostly because it's funny but also because we all know Michael can't stop me from being slightly dangerous. I've been making my loved ones nervous my whole damn life. Even Chris, who near the end, confessed that he worried about me because I think I can do things I shouldn't really do. 

Like continue to ride a scooter with a bald tire. 

I am fearless, yet here I am admitting to all of you that I am not always fearless. What harm could I get into by sitting still and writing or even coloring a picture? Okay, there's some danger in setting the house on fire with a burning candle. But how often does that really happen? There's no risk involved in using a crayon or filling a page with ink. 

I hesitate with the safe stuff.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Firework flower

See this Instagram photo by @elephant_soap * 2 likes

Last night I dreamed I was pregnant. My belly was full and swollen and I kept going to the hospital because I thought I was in labor. Every time they'd send me away and say "not yet!" After one of those times, I found myself sitting at a table with all of the guys I work with. One of them told me that there was no way the baby inside me was ready to come out because I was too small. I confessed that I had never felt the baby move. This surprised everyone. I told them that my doctor kept assuring me that everything was good. The baby had a healthy heartbeat and all the tests had come back suggesting that things were progressing normally. I said that my baby must be practicing a lot of meditation. The dream went on and on in a loop of me chatting about being pregnant and going to the hospital. I would wake up for a minute or two but I always fell back asleep to this same dream. 

It doesn't take a physic dream analyzer to decipher this dream. I know that I am pregnant with ideas right now. I'm calmly and quietly growing ideas and possible projects. I have thought about adding some things to the blog. I've been toying with the thought of seriously sitting down and writing something not for this blog. I've been thinking about picking up Michael's old mandolin that has just been sitting in the corner getting dusty and learning how to play it. I've been sketching out ideas for pumpkin decorations for our front stoop. I am pregnant with creativity. Some of those things I'm ready to share, like the pictures I took of the Friday football game last week. Some of those things need more time to develop. There was a time when dreams of being pregnant would freak me out. Now, I'm thankful for those dreams. I like the idea of my belly being full of creative ideas. 

The Cabbage turned six yesterday! We celebrated her birthday last weekend with cupcakes and butterflies. She had recently confessed to me that she wanted to be a scientist and when I asked her what she wanted to study, she said "insects!" I am thankful for year six and the possibilities of wonder this year will bring to her. It has also given me a reason to buy the president and vice president Barbi set from Target. I am thankful that Michael was able to get the yard mowed before all the rain set in this week. I am thankful for walks with the dog and eggs from the chickens. I am thankful for moments of quiet. I am thankful for you.

Here's to a lovely peaceful weekend and a truly Thankful Friday!

HONING A CRAFT

Old habit

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Probably the best thing I've done for myself this entire year has been to consistently write in my Fortune Cookie journal. I can't entirely say that this is something I did for myself because Michael bought me the journal. I'm not sure he bought it with the intention of me writing tiny stories based off the fortune on each page. I own that one, but it was more than the gift. He also gave me time to write in it. He respects that time I spend on Saturday mornings sitting in a cafe by myself. At first, I'm always a little bit stumped by whatever the fortune says at the top of the page. I sit there tapping my pen on the table struggling with even how to start a story, but I am always amazed at how the story flows once I get that first sentence started. Sometimes, most times, the story comes to me so that I end up packing the one tiny page full and I am disappointed that there is not any more space to write. 

I'm not writing anything amazing or worthy of high praise. I'm not going to win a Pulitzer or a Nobel prize in Literature for these tiny stories and that's okay. It's not about writing anything worth reading as much as it about just sitting down and writing and using my brain. There are stories I write where I think it would be nice to read them out loud to someone. I almost want someone in the cafe to ask me about what I'm writing so I can tell them the concept behind the Fortune Cookie journal so I can tell them all about it. I even imagine reading one of the stories out loud to them. It's silly fictional drivel but for some crazy reason I am really proud of it. I run out of room on a page and then I pat my self on the back with "you are so good, Cindy! This story is so inviting! You're the best!" Even though I know that if any one else where to read them, they'd be all "What the fuck kind of crap is this?!"

For the most part, no one but me ever reads those stories. Sure, occasionally I might post one here. Actually, rarely do I post one here. I've posted maybe two or three out of the dozens I've written so far. That's probably why it's so easy to pat myself on the back and tell myself that my little stories are so clever and engaging. It has become one of the few places where I feel like I might actually be good at this. It's sort of like being on my yoga mat. My tiny secret stories make me feel bold and creative and clever. Part of me is just vain enough to want to share those stories while the other part of me is cowardly enough to not want to share those stories. There's more of a chance that I will actually be at least clever and creative as long as I keep those tales to myself. This is a universal struggle. To share or not to share. That is the question.

I know that at the end of the day, if I confidently want to call myself a writer, I'm going to have to share. It has got me thinking about telling a story, about the organization of telling a story. I've been thinking of ways to put my story together in a way that would make it compelling enough to read. I feel like the stuff that I have written down in various word documents are just like notes on a napkin. There's no connection, no tie together, no hook. If anything, this exercise with the Fortune Cookie journal has got me thinking about hooks and tie togethers. It's got me thinking about NANOWRIMO and how I really should take advantage of that month (and right now, really) to be a writer. 

NOT AT THIS RATE

I'm stuck. Stopped up. Creatively constipated. It's not just words. I'm always stuck in writing. Nothing new there. Sometimes I just type letters in no particular order in hopes that when I look at it later, I can unscramble it into a sentence. I think this is an actual writing technique. It for sure explains a lot about my poor, poor grammar. Sometimes it works and sometimes I delete a lot of words and sometimes I don't even write any words. Most times. Most times I don't even write any words. I'm hard pressed these days to tell you about my mundane lack luster life. I bought a new 8"skillet, the last one I'll ever buy because it came with a lifetime warranty. I bought a new iPad because half my apps stopped working on my old first generation iPad. Sunday, I reached behind a box in the garage to grab what I thought was going to be another baby bunny only to realize by the flapping wing against my arm that it was a bird. I'm probably more tired of the stories about what Albus has brought inside than you are. 

I read an article recently, maybe in this month's Yoga Journal, that listening to the sounds of nature helps with creativity. This was followed up with a series of creativity inspiring asanas which were a bunch of hip openers. In the yoga world, your hips are the luggage that carries all your troubles and grief and stress. Emotions. Emotional luggage. That's your hips. I feel creatively stunted most of the time and since hip opening poses are easy for me, I can only assume that my luggage is broken. The latch is busted so that it just hangs open with both sides of the case full of shit spilling out all over the place. I just spent the last thirty minutes listening to the sounds of the forest and twenty minutes of listening time wasted on nothing creatively smart on the internet. It is taking me days to write this entry. 

It's not the blogging I'm all that concerned about though. Blogging ebbs and flows. I have brief glimpses of ideas for things that don't even make it to paper these days. I need to do some creative things with printed photos because they're starting to pile up. I was thinking of an old school photo album. I'm not the scrap booking type, but I did see myself sitting down each evening and writing a bit of something next to each picture. Anyone follow Ali Edwards? I picture creating books like that, not nearly as creative or elaborate as Ali's, but neatly telling a story. Then I worry it will just be one of those things in the stack of things on my end of the coffee table. There's two coloring books sitting there with a set of colored pencils that have been sitting there for ages, untouched. I mean, not completely untouched. I did pick them up when I was cleaning on Sunday and considered finding them a new home before setting them back on the coffee table. Leaving them out at least gives me the illusion that I'm going to pick up a book and color. 

Maybe that's what I need to do with those pictures. Maybe I need stop stashing them in different desk drawers and just leave them out on the coffee table. At least then I'd have the illusion of doing something creative with them. At the very least, the clutter would drive me so insane that I'd have to do something with them.

Like put them back in a drawer. 

WHAT'S YOUR ISLAND

Morning

"Morning"

Friday, Michael and I took the Cabbage to see the latest Pixar movie, Inside Out. I knew, even though I didn't know a whole lot about the plot of this movie, that it would probably make me cry because that's the thing Pixar does. The creators at Pixar are just a bunch sadistic jerks who get off by making "kids" movies knowing that the adult will have to take the child to see it and so they put in those subtle things that will make the adult hyperventilate from ugly crying. Up, by far is my favorite Pixar movie. Ever. The theme of getting out there and living your life at the same time recognizing the adventures you've already had resonates in every bone of my body. You know how you watch your favorite movies over and over again? Well, I've seen Up one time. I can't even think about that movie without tearing up let alone get through the first five minutes without ending up laid out on the floor drowning in a pool of my own tears. Pixar. Sadistic jerks. 

I didn't cry all the way through Inside Out like I did with Up, but there were a few hiccuping sob moments for sure (I never want to talk about Bing Bong). Without giving too much of the movie away, the basic idea is that each day you create memories. Joyful memories. Sad memories. Angry memories. Joyful and Sad memories. The day gets filled up with these little memory marbles and then those marbles go to power the various parts of your personality represented by different islands. Like goofy island or family island. After the movie, Michael and I were discussing various parts of the movie and he said "What do you think your different islands are?" What do I think my different islands are? At the time I said "you know, the usual islands." But what are the usual islands? Then I started thinking more about how my islands are organized than what kind of islands make up my personality. So I'm sure I have an island totally devoted to putting thing in neatly stacked boxes and organized files. 

I'm sure I have lots of islands making up this personality of mine and I'm sure that there's a few of those islands that look a little run-down. Like they need some sprucing up. A fresh coat of paint. Friendship island is doing well, but could benefit from some actual non-internet face time and more human contact. I can imagine that my family island looks a lot like Jenga and is very carefully balanced in way to not knock everything over. Family is just complicated, but we make it work. In retrospect, all my islands are conglomerates of things that probably deal with a little sprucing up. That island devoted to organization, Secretary Island, looks over at my creativity island and breaks out in OCD hives. If the islands talked to each other in words, Secretary Island would look at Creativity Island and say "you're a mess! get your effin' act together!" Creativity Island contains a scarf I started knitting for Michael two years ago, three half written petered out writing projects and a number of half baked ideas. All of it causes Secretary Island to slap a palm of it's hand against it's forehead, if islands had foreheads. Or hands. Science Island is alive and thriving. The proof is in how I'm over analyzing the whole island thing all together.

The island I struggle with the most is Creativity Island. It has always been struggle. For years I'm not even sure you could call it an island. Islet. Small pile of rocks. I was talking to my hairdresser the other day about this year's BlogHer's conference. She asked about my blog and then said "Oh, all you creative types." I rolled my eyes and shrugged while mumbling something about not being all that creative. She disagreed, saying that there had to be some creativity involved in just setting up the blog in the first place. OK. She had me there. And then there's my photography. I'm not a bona fide photographer, but I've taken some pictures with my DSLR and my iPhone that I am really proud of. Michael has asked specifically for prints of a few of these, which means something because I don't think he's really paying attention half the time. I've also written some things that I've posted here that I'm pretty proud of. Meaning I feel like it's good and who cares what anyone thinks. Creating something I feel good about can be just as fulfilling as outside approval. 

Really and truly, all of my islands require constant upkeep. Just like a house or a car. The day all of those islands are perfect and complete is the day that I'm done on this planet. Who knows. I may even still be adding islands. 

ON SHOWING UP

Ferran Andria: Notes on Creativity @ the Nelson.

"Ferran Andria: Notes on Creativity @ the Nelson."

Last week Chookooloonks posted this entry about reading Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers and this talk she came across from Sean Wes about growing your audience. The Sean Wes thing is what made me sit up and pay attention. He's talking about how to grow your audience in social media. I'm not all that interested in that part. I don't really need an audience, but his first piece of advice struck a chord., because it's a good piece of advice that can and should be applied to all thing.  "Show up every day for two years." This tidbit of advice was tossed my way just a few days after I'd walked through the Ferran Andria: Notes on Creativity exhibit at the Nelson. The exhibit was full of notebook paper sketches of food pairings. It really was looking at someone's creative journal and the process that goes into making food into an art. I wandered that exhibit looking at it in the veiled way you would look at a car crash. Wanting to look, but not wanting to look out of respect for that individual's privacy. When I journal (not often enough) I don't write anything more exposing than I write here, but the journal is mine and mine alone. I write with the idea that no one is going to send me a text saying "hey, you forgot to dot your i's and cross your t's." This was kind of why I took that picture up there on the Map of Creativity.

If I'd been on my own that day, I probably would have just sat down on the floor and copied this down in a notebook of my own. As it is, I've taken to blowing up sections of it at a time on my phone to study it.  Like maybe if I follow the map and decipher the notes I will find the key to creativity. I am constantly standing on that line between inherent creativity and learned creativity. My science brain is always taking apart and dissecting the very word "create-ivity" and what it means to be creative. Cre.a.tiv.ity: the use of imagination or original ideas, especially in the production of an artistic work. What is artistic work? If anything the Ferran Andria exhibit is an example of the subjectivity of art. Placing this fruit shaped into perfect circles next to that vegetable chopped into squares next to a pate mouse pipped into a rose shape is in fact a piece of art. A fleeting piece of art, but still. I struggle the most with all the things I think I am not. I am not an artist or a writer or a mom. I am not a girl;I am a woman.I am not a woman; I am a girl. Several weeks ago I went to yoga class. I had taken my everything journal with me because I had gotten there early and used it to jot down things before class. I set the journal on the counter while I signed in and the teacher noticed it and said "Oh..that's a big notebook. You must have a lot to write." I laughed and replied "or nothing at all."

So what this Map of Creativity does not tell you, is how to change your idea of what you are not. Under "Personality Requirements" it lists attitudes, abilities, feelings and capabilities, but does not elucidate on what kind of attitude or type of abilities. Because I can have an attitude. I can have feeeelings. I may or may not have abilities and or capabilities. So what happens if I'm lacking at least two things on this list?  Am I incapable of using my imagination or generating an original idea? These days, I feel that's just it. I have a lack of imagination, a lack of vision. At least I thought maybe that was it, but then I started to think maybe I lack discipline. Maybe I just need to start showing up. An hour of devotion to my yoga mat. Twenty minutes of sketching and taking notes in my journal. Maybe an hour of actual writing. 

What if I started small? What if I just started showing up for something every day?  

TO WRITE OR NOT TO WRITE

I'm sitting here looking at the calendar and it kind of makes me want to throw up. This is the last week of October. The very last week of October. I didn't even carve those pumpkins we put on the porch for Fall decorations. Wait...since I never carved scary faces on them, that means I can leave them out there as Thanksgiving decorations right? Harvest theme? I like to think Martha Stewart would be applauding my decorating ingenuity right now. She may even overlook that one small pot of mums where all the flowers are missing their petals because something ate them. Needless to say that I've let the bathroom remodel consume my month of October. So much so that I didn't realize that November was right around the corner. November should come with a concierge or social secretary because as I look at the calendar, I start to hyperventilate. 

November is also National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I knew it was coming up and the idea of it has been tickling the back of my brain, but I haven't said any thing about it. A couple of days ago, Michael said "hey, are you going to do your novel writing thing next month?" and I kind of just stood there gaping at him. First of all, I repeat, I have not said a word about NaNoWriMo since this time last year. Secondly, I didn't even know he was paying attention. Actually, I'm kind of impressed. I honestly thought the only thing on his radar right now was baseball. After I got past the shock of the question, I managed to mumble out something like "I don't know." Because, I really don't know.

I'm kind of in a mood of letting everything fall to shit and just starting over in the New Year. I feel fat and lumpy. Things around the house seem kind of dirty. The garden is an over grown mess. I mowed over tomatoes last week. I know I shouldn't eat the cookies that someone brought into work. I know that there's going to be a bucket of candy sitting in this house Friday night and that I shouldn't sit on the couch and shove miniature candy bars into my face all evening. But I really feel like throwing my hands in the air saying "next year, I'm going to lose 10 lbs! But for now I'm going to be a lazy slob!" That mindset is sort of applying itself to every aspect of my life. Next year, I'm going to work harder on being a better photographer. Next year, I'm going to do better on having activities planned for Cabbage weekends. Next year, I will write more. Next year I will be a better version of myself or the self I am right now.

So...getting myself involved in NaNoWriMo this year doesn't really fall in line with my whole fat lazy slob plan. In fact it's just the opposite of that. It will require me to make time between chores and The Walking Dead for writing and finishing up that stupid memoir I started forever and a day ago. Michael even said that I could just pick up where I left off and I can think of a million excuses for why I can't just pick up where I left off. I am more prepared to get out of doing NaNoWriMo than I am prepared to participate. I am all set and ready to not do this. Except Michael followed up his with questions with "I really think you should." For some strange reason he believes in my writing. He thinks I can write something longer than a blog entry. Part of me wants to laugh at this belief and part of me wants to actually believe he's right.

I guess that means I'm doing this. Maybe I'm doing this because someone else believes in me.  Maybe I'm doing this to pull me out of a slump. Maybe I'm doing this as a last ditch effort to salvage the year. Sending out 2014 with an accomplishment. Something other than gaining ten pounds. 

LOVE THURSDAY

Jeff shot this giant rubber band over into my cubicle one day. I could have shot it back to him, but instead I've left it by my key board. In those down times when I'm reading something or listening to someone, I'll pick up that rubber band and twist it around. One time I set the rubber band down and saw familiar shape. I laid the rubber band down in the same shape on my sticky notes and drew in some eyes and a beak. It wasn't much, just a few dots here and there and that rubber band was turned into a turkey. 

It was a simple moment of creativity. Sort of like finding shapes in the clouds. Since that day I've made it a point to take a few minutes to throe down that rubber band and find a shape. I never force it. If the image doesn't come to me quickly, I set it aside for another time. It's like solving a puzzle. I like to think that solving this puzzle makes me better at solving bigger, more important puzzles. 

Happy Love Thursday