Day 31: The Farewell

"So it's fare thee well my own true love,
We'll meet another day, another time.
It ain't the leavin'
That's a-grievin' me
But my true love who's bound to stay behind"

-Bob Dylan

 

 

As I embarked on this composing crusade, I told myself things like "you can go for it, but you'll never finish it....Attempt it, just know that thirty-one days of published content is about as likely as..."


And here I am. Day thirty-one and I'm just as shocked that I made it here as you are.  I took this seriously: purchased a new laptop and built a blog two days before, seriously. And yet, contributing to a purpose, a discipline such as this, was more a gift to me.  It lead me on a roadway back to myself, it pushed me to compose words again, and it motivated and inspired me on most days.  Other days, I felt stuck, tired, unwilling... resisting the acceleration of the vehicle I was propelling towards my intention. 

Conquering this fear and doubt has only made me challenge my thought process with other varying elements that have restrained me from striving for more.

It's farewell for now. 

But only for now.

Day 30: Death

I recall the earsplitting ring of the phone that night, followed by the gut-wrenching sound of my mother's shriek.

He was gone.

There had been an accident.  He was the only involved and as I imagined the metal of the Tacoma scraping against the stone wall before it plunged into the water beneath him, I had to squeeze, wrinkle my eyes shut, sealing them tighter and tighter in a failed attempt to expunge the gruesome visions.  My cognizance juxtaposed; I longed to know the details and also prayed the images would vacate my agitated mind.  In this era of time, the imagination labored, sweating on and endless wheel; a treadmill of speculation.  The anxiety, palpable.

My thoughts shift from gruesome to pure pain and I relive the moment I disclosed my love for him, for the first and only time in our relationship, a mere nine hours earlier.  It was a foreboding of sorts as we never really talked like that, and I recall a dizziness; as if I hovered over my body, spectating as I embraced his frail frame for what would be the last time.  And somehow, I knew it would be.  He was exposed, his dignity deflated.  He'd always swelled with pride, never desiring to present any weakness, and as a result, he was unbreakable, immortal in our eyes.  Except for that summer daybreak when we faced the harsh reality that the ticks on the clock with him in our lives were always scarce.  We'd fallen into his facade of perpetual existence, and were proven wrong.

The days that followed were hazy and despairing.  Hoards of people made appearances.  I grew ill, my state of mind gnawing at my well-being, coughing until the muscles in my side shred: torn up the way our family would be, at the loss of this man we so loved.  I spent the next few days hunched over in both my mental and physical state of being: my thoughts sickening me and my heart splitting, aching...the pain unfathomable.  

The wild, spirited nature of someone larger than life had vacated this world, and we all knew our own lives would cease to be the same.

My face compulsorily spreads into a smile when I think about those carefree summer days when he would pick us up in his truck, ask us to hold the wheel while he lazily spit sunflower seeds out the driver's window, whistling to every tune on the radio and making us pee our pants with laughter.  There were also moments of seriousness; I have a clear-as-day memory of him telling us not to cry when he dies, and that everyone dies, but to laugh when his time came, and to remember the good times.  It's hard to fathom that this conversation is so seared into my mind as it occurred when I was likely six or seven years old, and yet I guess it was one of those moments frozen in time, never to be forgotten.  I'm sure I didn't even understand it at the time, and if I am truthful with myself, I still can't understand or accept his passing.  It is a major area within me that I have yet to find peace.  A decade elapsed and I'm left feeling continuously robbed at every moment he isn't here.  His existence was stripped from us, and so often I beg the skies for omens.

Every now and then, a hawk appears, soaring a little too low to the soil, and I wonder if it's him, nearby. 

I wonder if he's there to remind me about all those times he took us fishing, always giving us the big catch, or the times he'd jump out and scare us so badly we were mute for what felt like hours...and yet once recovered, we'd gleefully run back for more.  His back massages, arm-tickles, his little giggle laugh, his extraordinary fervor for life, and his love for children. 

We didn't say "I love you," because it never needed to be said.  It was always inherently felt.

What I'd give for just one more laugh with him, one more conversation, one more scare.

And I realize;

I don't require a bird sighting to awaken in me, the truth.  That I'll never forget my uncle.

Day 29: Religion

Peace within, unwavering inherent faith in oneself, that is my denomination.
Church is a hushed Sunday morning, burrowed in pajamas, leisurely savoring coffee, a sanctuary built together.
Our vows a ritual of authentic conversation.

Might not appear quite like yours, and yet it bears truth and love above all, with a solid intent on kindness.  

My belief in divinity is simplistic.  Sacred.  It is a keen connection to self and an awareness of the repercussions of all actions.

It is clean, uncomplicated, guiltless.

It is the only way I know how.

Day 28: Beauty

I am a person with over 13,000 photos on my phone's camera roll.  I am a person who cannot resist a supple suede boot, a heap of soft yarns, a trending accessory that strikes me.  I am someone who grows obsessed instantaneously.  Formerly, I saw it as a pitfall.. I am drawn to so many "things," which can be regarded as materialistic.  Working in an industry that is heavily focused on outside appearances can make you feel that way.  Unless, of course you reshape your outlook and seek the positive connections between yourself and the allure of all in which you are drawn to.  I've come to understand and respect that it is a wonderful thing to appreciate beauty in all forms.  How we dress is an outward reflection of our emotional state.  Taking moments to appreciate the craftsmanship of a hand-knit garment, every stitch carefully curated, infused with the mood of the maker in that moment, wanting to replicate that beauty in your own individual way.  I aspire to embolden that quality in others, (and it often results in excessive shopping; for that I apologize in advance).  

On the contrary, what I've also grasped is how it has promoted a state of inner tranquility.  Appreciating beauty in the external somehow ricochets and introspection subsequently transpires.  You begin accept your strife with grace and a second-nature intuitiveness reminds you: only beauty rests on the other side. All those messy mishaps, heartaches and setbacks, requiring immeasurable courage and cleanup, embody beauty, waiting to be unearthed.  Peeling back at those moments, we catch sight of our power.  Those who SEE beauty, seek it in all things, even hardship.

And you ask yourself, is there anything more beautiful than that?

Day 27: Pleasure

Why write?, I inquire.

Because it's my bliss.

I'm writing due to a compulsion to complete this commitment I've made to myself.  And in blips it feels as if I'm deconstructing that bliss by forcing this publication, tugging words and clicking "Publish," no matter if it is decent scribbles or a leftover morsel...all that I have left to contribute on that given day. 

On the contrary,  I am inciting this part of me that has been comatose, postponed until further revelation... because I cannot linger.  I can't stick around until the next inspiration comes to be.  Because, what if it doesn't?  Because, life.  Nothing waits.  There is an aliveness that I cannot suppress.  The composer in me has been unearthed, and I don't foresee it being easy to squelch.  It is, after all, my passion.  My joy.  The ultimate pleasure. 

Day 26: Prayer

I’m not exactly the praying type... which is not to say that I wasn’t raised that way.  My father brought us to church every Sunday, and my mother taught a set of prayers, both Catholic mixed with her own words, and sat with my brother and then me, night after night, as we recited them in unison. I’m grateful for this and I can say with sincerity that I would not be who I am today without these instilled values.  The power of song resounds on a soul level because of those Sunday mornings knelt in the wooden pews.  My connection to a higher being is a direct result of my mom's dedication to getting to know her children as humans, with a gentle stroke of our hair, respecting us and letting our little voices always be heard. 



I was married in a Catholic church and yet I'm finding myself to be far more spiritual as of late.  Kindness, intentional living, meditative creating, and the law of karma all encompass my religion now.  My prayer consists of the thoughts I interlace and publish, in the hopes of moving others to build their own purposed creative life. 


It might not look exactly the way my parents envisioned; it might not be in accordance with their exact dream for me.  It's not every Sunday at church, or a dedication that's identical to what I was taught.  However, I can guarantee  that the power of prayer that they have generously bestowed and sacrificed to develop in their children, is profoundly ingrained in me...spiritually, and evermore.

Day 25: Evil

There is nothing more malevolent than stripping a virtuous soul of their innocence. 

Day 24: Good

For the last seven years, I've been traveling into my New York city office by means of Metro North trains.  I've seen an extensive variety of commuters and conductors; mostly irritated, exhausted and over-worked.  Every so often, though, there is a booming voice of one conductor who never fails to smile, questioning how your morning is (or how your day was) and crack a one-liner or some other jovial antic.  He takes an interest in your occupation, relating and sharing of himself.  It was about two years ago that he started conducting my route on my return to the suburbs in the evenings.  We would chit-chat and converse about the day's happenings, and giving little thought to this exchange of dialogue, I'd step off at the platform, flutter my hand in a wave and with the click of my boots, I'd wander about my evening.  Shortly after I had gotten accustomed to seeing him on my return trip home, he disappeared.  It wasn't until almost a year later after running into him on a trip at an odd time home, I came to discover that his route had been changed.  

Now, this was by no means a devastation, however, I took notice as to how my ride became bleaker in the days that he was not a part of it.  His jet-black thick rimmed glasses and contagious laugh paired with my morning thermos of java goodness established such a positive beginning to my day.  And reversely, with his lighthearted nature, he became a consistent fixture in my unwinding from the happenings of my previous eight hours .  

This past week, he was placed back on my route and I decided to express to him how I felt about his infectious positive essence, and the influence it has on my day.  And you know what?  Beyond the fact that he was really touched, I too, was really glad that I chose not to keep this to myself.  People deserve to be acknowledged for their goodness.  So often I am fixated on the flaws and distastes that I have for others, and it's decidedly infrequent that I articulate the good.  

Goodness, I've learned, is just as abundant as it's counterpart... and it always prevails.  It's up to us to continue to gingerly lay the kindling between the logs, add crumpled remnants of yesterday's news, and give breath to the fire of goodness, to ensure it radiates enough warmth to ignite the world.

Day 23: Time

"Time had begun to dissolve into itself, as shapeless as the rain."

-Anthony Horowitz

 Time.  An organized series of moments, strung together by the way in which we choose to quantify.  Notice the clock and wait for the next minute and we've neglected the one already  given.  Living in the future is just as excruciating as existing in the past.  Anxiety ensues.  You're either distressed about what you've done or the impending days that lie before you.

It's seemingly obvious, and yet you ask yourself:  Why not embrace NOW?  

What is it about this present second that is so unbearable and cannot be faced?  We are constantly planning, worrying, and anticipating or anguishing, doubting and regretting.  Fixated on the unchangeable or the uncertain.   Buried in our work, or words or the self-inflicted overload into which we've become falsely secure.  Always too consumed, too busy, we are disconnected and unavailable to others because we cannot even be there for ourselves.  What gives?

And so we ground ourselves in a practice.  For the last year, my time travel has involved two wooden needles.  The mindful clicking as they kiss and the luxuriously soft fibers shift from one point to the base of another, and suddenly, I am locked into a current state of being.  The tension of my gauge as the fibers catch and I slip another, my mind seaming together a pattern.  The task that that leads me on an excursion, tugging my thoughts and anxiety into exactly where I am.  And bringing forth the most dire of realizations that this life can offer:

A whispered shriek that awakens the consciousness that this instant, this shortest interval of time, now, is the only place ever worth being.

Day 22: Talking

Grab the chilled glass, take a swig and let the foam tickle your throat as it dissipates, trickling down.  You swallow the bubbles on a hollow gut and you feel the carbonation seep through to your core.  The words vibrate on the table, leaping between you and seeping to the drum inside your ear cavity.  Upon tuning into an engaging story, our sensory cortex illuminates… a switchboard electrifying the listless networks in our bodies, jolting them to life, salivating for more.

Wipe the froth from your lower lip.  Tune in.  When we begin to relate to our companion, we can share in enlivening their brain cells; our empathy and our need for story embracing theirs.  The wires interlacing the dialogue between us, tethering emotions; a tapestry of consciousness and connection. 

We crave this bond.  Regardless of the nature of the exchange, that profound relation is what binds us together as human beings. It is the pulse of our innermost desires. 

Stories, deep-rooted and emotive conversation, clangs that cord.  It is the bell echoing through the cathedral ceilings of weathered, peaked walls.  We lose all sense of time and become sealed in the present moment.  Unable and unwilling to vacate, we shift our bodies to an easy position, tossing a leg over the arm of the club chair and leaning in, intently.  Waiting.

What comes next?  You pause sucking the air into your lungs and let the stories unfold.  You pay close attention, so each word permeates, fireworks exploding inside you.  Then you stand by for more. 

Day 21: Friendship

Initially introverted, always I would hide away until secure.  Tallying my allies on the digits of my fingers failed to suffice.  I am said to have expectations too great, and yet I feel I was granted an advantage because I knew the integrity injected into my consciousness was a guidepost, casting a light to attract only the most decent of characters.  I was informed at a tender age that there would only be a few, and for a bit of time it felt like that list kept dwindling.  Disheartening as it may have felt, I developed comfort in the sanctity of my own time.  I've shared how critical it has been for me to be with myself and I hope rather than sounding redundant, I can inspire you to make certain that the most intimate, compelling and rewarding friendship be the one you have with yourself.

Day 20: Teaching

I visualize the sun beating down, crusting the water-soaked earth.  Turning saturated muddy rivulets to dust: a deficit of imagination, ceasing to flow. A discipline that begs words to arise and string together, forming cohesiveness. What do you do in the face of a creative slowdown?  In an archeological dig beneath my skin, peeling back the ribs, cutting through the mess of muscle, I ultimately reach my heart, where the answer pulses with certainty in my chest.  I process the beats like Morse code. 

In.  This.  Case, it says.  You.  Must.  Cre-ate. 

That’s what day 20 of this writing venture feels like to me.  I have many teachers in my life; my father a retired school teacher, my mother is my personal guidebook, my husband teaches nutrition and wellness to young adults.  I set out on this mission not only to write, but also publicly share my findings of the human issues and the emotional effects of such a consistent writing commitment.   Somewhere in the last three weeks, I ended up baring my soul. I've also discovered how therapeutic that feels and how much I have available to teach myself.  How with every keystroke, I am pushing beyond a level of comfort with a new grasp of what happens when you set out to create and you end up teaching yourself something in return.

What happens when you venture out to publish the words that you pulled, hand-over-fist, painstakingly out from underneath you?  The phrases that came about when you delved into the trenches of your soul?

I've questioned countless times if this process was nonsensical.  Am I driving this cause right into the ground?  Some days I feel completely devoid of a concept and yet the practice of organizing my thoughts has been nothing short of cathartic.   Dedicated daily time intent on a practice of expression.   It is limitless, what I have learned.  

And still,  eager to gather the grains of the truth, I write on.

Day 19: Self Knowledge

I recall participating in a yoga class with inversions, legs extended overhead, no security aside from my own shoulder strength (minimal), and the stability of my upper body (basically nonexistent).  I was so petrified to try, I almost curled into a ball and cried on my mat. I was easily the most inexperienced person in the class. Rather than crying, I reached out to the instructor, and within myself, for help. One toe off the mat, the other toe. Inch by inch I surrendered and see-sawed my feet, deciding I would trust myself. Like a sculptor working with day- old clay, I dragged my tools through simultaneously molding and re-shaping my body and my thoughts.

With palms to the earth, with the blood surging to my head, stretching my feet even only a few inches, I tried expanding well past where I was even remotely comfortable. That fear washed over me and I had a choice: to drown in it, surrender to the exquisite mental pain and give up on myself, or to expand (with tears behind my eyes ready to slip out at any moment)! or to stare it in the face and decide I wasn't going to abandon my attempts.

I relied on myself for navigation through this crippling mental state.  Yes, there was a teacher, a guide, who undoubtedly supported me… and yet it was me.  I refused to abandon myself.  I bequeathed the gift of stretching, permeating that imperceptible wall and maneuvering, conspiring against my own cerebral blockade, hungering for more. It wasn't perfect.  It didn't look like anyone else's (I'm sure), my legs were shaking… flailing.  I kept having to dig deep inside and push back into the pose, only to crash back down. But it was mine. And through all the chaos and triggers happening within me, I knew one thing was certain...  Internally, it was flawless.

Day 18: Pain

The upside of pain is that it evokes a damn good story. 

Day 17: Passion

Dear Past Me,

I wish I could express to you, just how others' opinions of your choices will loose their appeal flavor and significance, little by little as you transform. I wish you knew the fervor you'd have for remaining authentic with yourself and not straying from the rhythm of your honest yearnings. That now when you go against that will inside, that gut, you'll feel it and sharpen it so that next time you won't have to feel the pain of going against your grain. 

Then again, there's no me without you, so I guess you'll have to go through what grows you. 

Day 16: Reason

It was quite literally drilled into me as I grew up that there was a primary fundamental rationale for all that came to be. And I can attest with confidence that I do believe. I was carefully taught never to judge or scrutinize any happenings with too much energy as there was always said to be a driving force as to why or how this occurred, and for that I should always remain in a state of gratefulness. I both accept and truly appreciate this advice as I near my thirties, however, as a youth, a teen with a shattered heart, a little person let down by a friend on the playground, this wasn't so accessible.

I grew up with the knowledge that I was birthed amongst family of worriers and superstitious Italians. Try and escape if you might, try and meditate on it, that nagging doubt might as well be used as a suture for the tears in our genetics... It is who we are. We worry. We can be schooled regarding every anxiety euphemism in the book and yet it becomes an unavoidable stitch in the fabric of our upbringing. I recall resenting it, wondering why my mother wasn't so keen on a friend she'd observe abandon me for a better opportunity, while I lain baffled in denial. And now I understand that she instilled a level of integrity that I wouldn't trade for all of those friends, piled in heaps today.

Possibly the most effective and earth-shattering reasons was the story of my Nanny and my Dad. You see, I grew in a home devoid of unjust criticism of others. I viewed us as a perfect family unit, and to be perfectly honest, even with our own complications, our marriages and children, I continue to do so. My grandmother and grandfather had the proverbial rug torn out beneath them upon learning the news of my father, a then, two-year- old boy, had been diagnosed with polio. Previously vaccinated, he was affected with a limped gait and one leg significantly smaller than the other. My grandmother was devastated, visiting church on a regular basis, praying for reason. She wanted, no, NEEDED to know why this happened to her son, her baby.  While enduring the pain of this reality, she remained indebted to her belief, this all had happened for a notion far beyond her comprehension. That is, until 1968, when the Vietnam war began.

My father's draft card arrived, as did that if his good friend. His comrade was obligated to serve his country, and following several months abroad, gave his life in doing so. My father's card read the same. Their birthday months intertwined like a twist of fate unbeknownst to any of them. Due to a chain of unforeseeable events in which my grandmother sobbed amongst the saints, begging God for reason, her answer finally arrived. All of the misshapen pieces, the distress, the prayers, the wondering; "why us?", were mere stepping stones that lead them to this moment; my father's polio was a gift. THIS was her reason. Her baby was not to die at war... There was far too much for him to accomplish before his time on this earth was severed.

Instead, he became a teacher of special needs.

This is not a heavily discussed topic in my family. Primarily because we were taught never to  see this as my father's ailment. If anything, it was his power. It drove both compassion and passion in him, traits that dominate our gene pool..quiet as we might be, we are anything but passive as a result.

I barely remember my grandmother. I internalized her kindness and how she used to feed me savory egg biscuits at her breakfast nook. It's basically stories of her that flicker the flame of her life in my heart. But I will never forget her faith and conviction for her son.  She taught and still teaches me that life throws a wrench in our plans. It doesn't care what we want. And yet, we must always find reasons to believe.

Day 15: Freedom

I didn't plant flowers this year. Or herbs. Just didn't harvest them. We went without fresh parsley in our summer salads, without mint in our chilled, sweaty glasses. We did without blooming flowers; our scrolled hanging wire baskets left barren, without the sinewy blooms cascading over its edges. Instead, I collided with a restlessness this year and a crippling uneasiness that stubbornly refused to cease. 

I used to believe that freedom is a clear day, ascending into the clouds, bound on a foreign adventure. The haze of the light reflecting between the glowing fuschia and soft orange clouds off of the metal wings. And now... now I know better. Outside circumstances can be flawless. You can be sitting in an outdoor cafe, enclosed in peace, enveloped by the ones you adore, still trapped in the confines of your mind. And yet you're growing. And growth is messy. Slow. Excruciating, and yet liberating.  When you begin you can't imagine getting any bigger. Or how you'll ever survive. And yet you do...not only do you merely withstand, you thrive. And once you've cultivated something new, a crisp truth unfolds... the buds arrive on their own. Tiny buds, contained with immense possibility. They'll flower in time.  Time. Just knowing this, that bit of conceivable awareness of the potential in this small force of life, is enough. And then you're free. 

Day 14: Laws

There is an irrevocable mandate that one must adhere to.  A law of sorts, that stands as a guidepost, a current of intelligence that ebbs and flows, traveling deep within our bellies.  There are plenty of resources when there comes a juncture and we must decide.  A little jolt of adrenaline coursing through from the pits of our core, to the tips of our fingers, letting us know very simply; YES, or NO.

Intuition is the guiding force in my life.  There is reason, there is our knowledge and experience, and then there is the paramount mode of operating and sifting through our choices.  The difficult piece becomes unearthing the distinction between fear and following our gut.  It is beyond pure emotion.  Our intuitiveness is our bodies’ communication with the earth and with our practicality based on our past, yes, but also our connection to the current moment.  My feet planted, in my most tranquil state, is when I can best hear my intuition speaking.   It is booming when I am still, and silent when I resist. The answers manifesting when I give myself the space to breathe.  And when I do, magic ensues.

Day 13: Crime & Punishment

Self deprecating thoughts asphyxiate.  Gulping for breath, we search for flaws within. We stunt our personal growth with all of the "I think I can'ts."  I am beginning to notice how I silently speak to myself.  How I approach a new project; often with an adverse attitude.  It used to be that I'd tell myself that if I endeavor unfamiliar settings with despondence, I could manifest a positive consequence. Superstition gets the better of me and I become fearful.  Anxious about the things I have little control of, regardless.  I recognize how hard I am on myself.  It probes the question: why do we punish ourselves for crimes we have not committed?   Why is it that when I commence a knitting project, there is an expectation that I will never master the unfamiliar stitches?  When I commit to a writing challenge, I expect to flounder?  What infractions from my past grant the torture I ensue?  

And yet, sometimes, it takes stacking up some of your accomplishments to recall where you've began.  Reflecting on your changes in the face of challenges.  Projects you've began and torn out.... and those you've satisfyingly observed grow and expand.  And when everything feels heavy, stagnant or too difficult, you remind yourself that it is with composure and trust, not punishment, that you thrive.  And you learn to grant yourself reprieve.  

Day 12: Buying & Selling

Chest throbbing, palms dripping.  I approach the neatly stacked distressed denims in an array of shades; from charcoal to indigo, navy, cobalt, slate to stone, all the way down to white-wash.  I seize as many as my already-overflowing, quaking arms can carry and head to find the perfect grey t-shirt, even though I already own about seventeen in varying heather tones.  With one of my jackets, I complete my signature look (once again); I update it for the season.  My collection of edgy leather, or non-leather moto jackets include embroidered, studded, distressed, blush-tones, grey suedes… the list is endless.  Purchasing for me is a sport.  There’s an excitement about creating a look that I cannot fathom every growing tired of. 

Selling is the same… I start out more hesitant.  Will I be impressive?  Will I represent my company well?  Do I know all of the answers?  The profuse sweating continues.  I am a walking paradox; simultaneously an introvert and a character all stitched up in one.  My nerves splitting me at the seams and yet selling shares a comparable elation to buying.  There is an end result of satisfaction.  It’s a business and yet it is also a contribution of merchandise that I am proud and contented to deliver.

These two worlds peaceably coexist in my world, as one cannot thrive without the other.  It’s the ying to my yang… or should I say, the credit card to my wallet.

Day 11: Clothing

Food, clothing, and shelter; the three basic human requirements… the fundamentals of our existence. Sure, we’ve been taught that we require far more than these integral demands, however let’s agree that these are the basics.   Clothing has a tendency to feel least significant and yet it contains boundless meaning.   Fashion decisions announce us to a room before we utter a single word.  Our dress can be made to feel frivolous or superficial, when in actuality there are a varying degree of hands that have a role in the fashions we select.

I have a rich history with fashion.  Though it was long before my time, I can practically hear my grandfather’s hefty metal scissors click and snip; precisely shearing multiple layers of thick fabric in the fashion district of Manhattan.  It was the late 1930’s; he was a Master Dress Cutter in the heart of the Garment Center and my grandmother a seamstress; their contribution to the trade spanning over several decades.  I envision the gentle press of my grandmother’s foot driving the pedal of her sewing machine, its constant hum forming seams on garments. 

My genetic code is backstitched with an intense joy for dressing that reflects the times and the identities of those adorned in it’s history.  We drape our backs with the moods of the moments.  And now, I belong to a contemporary generation of makers.  The gentle click of my wooden knitting needles as the luxuriously thick wool or supple-soft Pima cotton glides from hand to hand…and I can’t imagine a life without creating, without crafting. This industry is simply sutured into my DNA and I maintain the strong intention to share and entrust this offering to the makers and artists of the future. 

Day 10: Houses

Home; a white Cape Cod with black shutters and a cranberry door, set behind a towering Japanese red Maple, planted over three decades ago when your brother was born.   The smells of Italian cooking wafting up the slate blue carpeted stairs, with Norman Rockwell scenes hung intermittently on the way up.
It is the soft sing-songing voice of Mom, awakening you.  The reason you still ring her on your way to work every morning, even since you’ve married and moved.  The soothing sound of her voice to begin the day, will always be home.
Home is Dad hammering away in the garage, always engaged in woodworking or undertaking a project to enhance the beauty of the family's safe haven.  Home is the echo of the melodies; the hum of voices of your brother and Dad, the picking of acoustic guitar, the harmonies, the inflections of their voices, traveling from room to room.

Somewhere along the line you grow up and move in with your boyfriend.  You approach a space with four white walls and it seems hard to imagine this house as a home.  So you slather the walls with primer, two coats cappuccino, a brick red accent room, and already the warmth has begun to spread.  Quilted cotton bedding, wood floorboards, farmhouse accents and an array of speckled golden glass votive holders give the necessary touches. It has a homey feeling, and yet suddenly, the truth surfaces.

Home is really when you slept on the mattress on the floor those first few nights when the space lacked any furnishings.  Talking into the evening without any cable, without any distractions.  Home is cuddling beneath the stars with a blanket on a chilly fall evening, hoping to catch a glimpse of the meteor shower.  Home is shrieking with laughter until you are both breathless.
Home is returning to the Cape Cod beneath the oak trees, plopping yourself on a rustic counter stool in the newly renovated kitchen, sipping wine, chatting with Mom and Dad.  You realize that together you make the starkest of houses into a home merely by being present and alive inside it. 

Day 9: Sorrow

Early morning when the sand is practically untouched, the sun beats on your back, probing you to chat,

With yourself.

You dig through wet grains of salty earth;

You beg the tide for answers.

You pull, dragging a trail behind you.  In hopes of a profound something, that will answer what’s tugging at your heart.  What’s keeping your eyes open past the sun slipping…

Down,

Down

Down.

When did you become so…

Down.

The waves like a massage for the unclear mind and the anxious heart.

You only hope to bring a few grains home tucked in between each crack your my mind. 

Day 8: Joy

The wafting aroma of garlic, tomatoes and basil reached upstairs, all the way to my corner childhood bedroom.  One of the primary scents of my youth, the reminder upon awakening that it was Sunday morning. As a teenager, I would rise closer to noon, padding downstairs in a concert tee and plaid shorts, drawn by the pull of the scents. My mother would fix me a breakfast of freshly fried meatballs paired with a hunk of Italian bread and a little sauce.  I’d always ingest it too hurriedly, scorching my mouth and regrettably numbing my taste buds for several hours… and yet it was well worth it. 

Growing up in a close-knit family, we would gather every evening for dinner as a family, however it has always been those late afternoon to early Sunday evenings that are distinctive. Even today, my husband and I gather around the table together with my mother and father, brother, sister in law and their two babies.  Twirling spaghetti or stabbing penne, slathered in the marinara and ricotta, sprinkled with Parmesan or Pecorino Romano.  Smearing every extra bit with that thick cut seeded bread, our plates left so clean we could practically re-shelf them.   Exchanging the experiences of the previous week, laughing and eye-rolling at my dad’s stories heard over and over, and now, giggling with our little nephews, taking note of the wonder in their big moon eyes.  I am liberated with the sound of my father's laughter mirrored with my own, a deep conversation with my mother, the guitar strumming resounding in the background.  My brother and I joking, teasing.  This bliss translated into my relationship with my husband, including and sharing in these minutes with him.

And then I place down my fork, take a sip of my red wine, pause, take a quiet look around the table, and revel at this glimpse in time.  We are the same family around the same table and yet we grow and age with every photo, every gathering. 
These simple moments are irreplaceable; the source of all my joy. 

Day 7: Work

I laugh at today’s topic and almost feel absurd writing about it under the title “work,” because my employment is a paradox: it feels nothing like work, and my boss is nothing like a boss.  It feels inappropriate to even address her as my boss as she’s a friend above anything else. She has regarded me like a partner, rather than just her employee, and places a high value on my creative input. (Can you tell that I adore her?)

Upon entering the gold-leafed ceiling Accessories building on Fifth Avenue, the elevator operator greets me with a smile and lifts me to the seventh floor with a little stomach flip, and I’m off to steal the day.  (We’ve since turned to automatic elevators and it’s so sad, as our building was one of the last in New York to maintain this feature).

As I approach our floor-to-ceiling glass windowed showroom, I acknowledge the contrast of the white showcases against the espresso floors, allowing the colors of our merchandise to emerge.  I take my seat in the back office and casually sip my cappuccino, as endeavor to sift through emails and handle the day’s tasks.  In our open-layout office space, there are no walls that divide us; we collaborate and exchange ideas and personal dialogue for the entirety of the day.  From inception to design, creativity is crucial.  Skimming through various categories of color cards (pebble grain, smooth, crocodile, and snake, to name a few) of varying supple non-leather materials, we seek the perfect emboss, hand-feel, color and shade for the handbag style we are developing.  We search runway trends, street style and multiple magazines for new looks that are fashion-forward however that would reach and accommodate the masses.  We present our line to buyers and while my hands tremble, clammy, my voice quakes when presenting in our showroom, it is absolutely gratifying when a style is adopted and considered for an order.

Even the shipping process requires creativity and attention to detail. Choosing a timely boat to sail in the merchandise, consolidating and routing it properly and right on time is a job in and of itself… and I love every stinking minute of it.  Sure, we are met with frustrations and issues, and yet the problem-solving often involves taking a bit of action and also letting go and inviting the answers to materialize.  I so admire the fast decision making of my “boss” and her evasion of stress.  She bypasses any bit of needless affliction, and she consistently seeks ways to make our jobs simpler and more efficient.  It is just one of the myriad of lessons she has instilled in me.

And from that first concept, to the multiple samples that achieve the precise styling, the ‘ding’ of the purchase order email coming through (I swear, an email has a different sound when it is an order!), I still have trouble believing how fortunate I am to be creating for my livelihood and to “work” with a friend.  When that train ride feels like six-hundred minutes rather than sixty, and when I find myself yawing at the 5:45 am wake-up (one day I’ll be a morning person), I remind myself just how lucky I am to be “working” in this creative field beneath the wings of a woman of integrity who has shared the particulars of this accessories business with me, who has become my good friend.

Day 6: Eating & Drinking

“Bonjour, Madame!” says the toothpick-shaped waiter, in his breezy accent, so thick and sophisticated.

With my lopsided messy bun, I sweep the wisps of hair that habitually fall over my right eye and I gaze up at him, grinning.  My thick handmade Peruvian wool herringbone scarf and light distressed denim studded jacket are just enough to keep the crisp, cool air at bay.  Only two words necessitate this conversation and they might possibly be my most beloved alliteration on the planet: "Bordeaux and baguette” (sil vous plait!)

I’m sounding really cultured and elegant here, but the truth is, I don’t speak a word of French, unless it means food or drink.  Well, actually…unless it means a baguette carved horizontally, perfect top half to bottom half proportions.  Slathered first in butter, then homemade apricot jam (or really, any jam).  The impeccably crisped flaky outside with a softer middle, only achieved with the local water.  I wish I could tell you I savor each morsel, but I am American; I certainly do not eat with the grace and eloquence of a French lady.  I devour that thing.  And then I order another.  Pair it with a cappuccino? That java goodness topped with frothy foam and “chocolat de poudre, sans sucre” (chocolate powder, no sugar), and I could sit outside in a wicker chair sipping and observing passerby’s all day. 

What is it about a good cup of coffee or wine?  It’s almost an out of body experience.  One sip and I’m transported back to those cobblestone streets, the smells of fresh breads and pastries enveloping my senses.  And it’s not nearly the same in New York.  The wine in Paris purer, the coffee richer. 

I am not the museum type.  I could care less about checking off the sights and scenes any travel guide will inform you is a necessity to this city.  To me the experience of the local fare, getting to know the attitudes and fashion of the people is how to truly acquaint with a new city.   Saunter down the narrow streets, pick up an armful of soft blush peonies and stop for an onion soup in the afternoon.  Let the city in and taste it.  We travel because when we arrive home, a piece of it invariably remains within us.

Day 5: Giving

 -Janis Joplin

In the subject and spirit of giving, it dawned on me that possibly I should consider the gifts I’ve imparted upon myself.  Holding my sacred space and relishing quiet moments of solitude, indulging in an engrossing read, constructing fabrics with my hands and the gentle glide of wooden tools, the excitement of the inception of a new product, stringing my thoughts into readable material.  All of these creative outlets become an offering to the world, and yet they are also a gift to self. 

I am a firm believer in that making oneself the primary recipient of care is the only real way to tend to the dependents in our lives.  For whatever reason, we are made to feel egocentric when we devote time to accommodate our own needs first and I only wish that we could dismantle this rationale.  I am noticing an expanding dialogue as of late, especially on social media lately “self care.”  Public Figures and bloggers alike posing the question; “how do you carve out ‘me’ time?”

It’s both fascinating and disconcerting that we have to search for the time to satisfy our desires, or our creative cravings.  I see my best friend, a new mother, feeling wrong about longing for this time to herself.  Why?  How can she truly mother her child without giving to herself, first?  And yet, as a commuter, I am given these hours each day to utilize at my own discretion for just this.  I used to fall into the pity party when questioned about the length of my commute.  Yes, it is long.  Yes, there are days when I am tired and just want to hit that magic button and teleport home.  I used to really resent my train ride, and sometimes, I still do. I’m human, after all.   Until I adjusted my mindset began treating it as my hours: the only ticks on the clock that no one could take away from me.  It is my gift to myself to establish this investment in ME.  

Impulsively, I purchased a laptop last week.  No real research as to what I necessitated, no real plan, except that I haven’t owned a personal computer since college.  With only an intention of finding a deeper purpose in my craft, I decided to use it to share the thoughts that consistently buzz in my mind.  And with a night of little sleep, a jolt of caffeine, I make sure that my time is spent however I wish. I still struggle with what I “should” be doing and no doubt do I battle with remaining in the present moment, but from the time my feet extend from the platform to the comfort of (hopefully) a window seat, until the final terminal notification echoes from the speakers inside the third car, “This is your final stop, Grand Central.”  In those sixty or so minutes, I effort to appreciate the process and the journey, rather than solely the destination.  And I make sure that I give to me, so I can step out of those otherworldly doors onto 42^nd street, and give of myself to the world.