On Crooked Pictures (Blog #1032)

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Last night and this afternoon I read two children’s books, The Boxcar Children by Gertrude Chandler Warner and From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg (say that three times fast), both of which were delightful. I’m not sure how I missed them as a child. Perhaps this is the purpose of adulthood, catching up on things you missed before and–if you were a way-too serious and anal-retentive child like me–being delighted. Not that my childhood wasn’t oftentimes filled with magic. It was.

It was just alphabetized magic.

I’ve spoken before about being an extremely neat child, about my need both historically and presently to have things just so. I mean, it’s gotten better, but it’s still a thing. According to my family, it all started after our house burned down when I was four. “That’s when you began lining up your stuffed animals according to height,” my aunt says. I can only assume that I felt out of control, that being hyper-organized was my way of keeping the monsters under the bed.

It’s weird how habits that start when you’re a child can last into adulthood. Thirty-five years pass, and one day, maybe every day, you find yourself still being afraid of loss, still grasping for control. I remember shaking, crying when I was a child when I’d get new toys for my birthday and not have a place to put them. Everything has to go somewhere, I’d think while lying in bed. There’s just not enough space in my room. Now as an adult I’m living in that very same room, sleeping on that very same bed. And whereas a few childhood photos and keepsakes remain, everything I used to be so worried about have a proper place for is now gone, given away or sold at one of half a dozen yard sales. And yet I still worry about finding the perfect spot for all my material possessions. I still spend way too much time making sure that my books and knickknacks are sitting in the “right” place and that my clothes are arranged by color.

Pro tip: this process goes faster when all your shirts are blue or black.

I guess it bothers me that at times I still get twitchy when things aren’t just so. This evening I worked on framing two brooches and nearly went into fits because I couldn’t get either one of them perfectly centered. Or because I scratched one of the frames. Honestly, it doesn’t matter why. Having worked on creative projects before (including this blog), I mentally KNOW that nothing is ever perfect. There are always flaws. And whereas it remains my contention that it’s better to create imperfectly than to not create at all, I still experience a high degree of stress emotionally when creating. I think, What if it’s not good enough? It’s like there’s this belief that if I can exactly center my projects and perfectly align the pictures on my wall, everything else will perfectly align and–somehow–prevent bad things from happening. Prevent loss from happening. From happening again.

Of course, this is only a superstition. Caroline Myss says that all compulsive rituals (like the need to have everything perfect) is about the belief that you can hold your world in place. But you can’t. Fires don’t skip your house because your books are alphabetized. Tornados don’t pass you by because they see how organized your sock drawer is. (Mine, by the way, is pretty organized.) In short, monsters come out from under your bed whenever THEY want. They don’t as YOUR permission.

This sucks, I know.

So what, Marcus?

So we enjoy our lives and our possessions exactly the way they are right here, right now, or we don’t. We see the magic all around us, or we don’t.

In terms of things having to be perfect (even now I’m thinking about starting ALL OVER on this evening’s brooches or just throwing them away, like, fuck it, what’s the point?), it occurs to me that nothing in life is perfect (and the point is fun). I’ve spoken a lot lately about how everything falls apart, and this is what I mean. All creations are essentially like sandcastles on the beach. Only here for a moment before they’re washed away. No matter how beautiful they were, no matter how ugly or off-center. Along these lines, it also occurs to me that just as I find flaws in my projects, I find flaws in my friends and family. And yet I love them wholeheartedly. Indeed, their flaws make them lovable. So more and more I’m realizing that something doesn’t HAVE to be perfect in order to bring you joy.

Crooked pictures have a certain charm about them.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"You can't change your age, but you can change what your age means to you."

On Soulmates and Congruency (Blog #1029)

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Today I went thrift shopping with a friend. Y’all, we hit–let’s see–ten stores (and two restaurants) in six hours, and I came home with one brooch, a belt buckle, a paperweight, four books, and five picture frames. Talk about popping some tags. (That’s a Macklemore song reference, Mom). I can’t tell you how delighted I am with my purchases. And all for the bargain price of $12.50. And whereas I don’t know WHAT I’m going to do with everything I brought home (the belt buckle, for instance) I’m convinced I’ll figure out something sooner or later. For example, I’ve been sitting on an angel frame for over a month now, just waiting for the right brooch to pair it with. Well, the brooch I bought today was “it.”

It’s like every frame has its soulmate (broochmate), and you just have to be patient enough for them to meet each other.

Along these lines, lately I’ve been thinking that although, yes, some things are just ugly, most decorative items simply need the right background or environment. The above brooch, for example, just wouldn’t stand out the same against a yellow background, or in a frame three times as big. To put it succinctly, in terms of the final product, relationship is everything. A word/idea I think about a lot is congruency. Applied to my currents arts and crafts obsession, congruency asks, “Are all the involved parts working together to form a cohesive and eye-pleasing result?” If they aren’t, if the frame, background, brooch aren’t “meant to be together,” I don’t force it.

Setting them aside, I say, “Sorry, you just aren’t soulmates.”

This being said, I’m convinced most of us have the wrong idea about soulmates. Recently my mom and I were watching a tv show on which a man told his girlfriend he thought they were soulmates. The girlfriend, however, said, “I love you, I want to get married to you and have your babies, but I just don’t think we’re soulmates. I think my very first boyfriend was my soulmate.”

“Ouch,” I told my mom. “That was the wrong thing to say.”

Tact aside, who knows if these two are cosmically entwined? Hell, if they’re dating seriously, they probably are. At least in some respect. (No one comes into your life by accident.) Does this mean they’ll have butterflies for each other the rest of their lives? Doubtful. But then again, I believe that they could end up hating each other and still be soulmates.

I’ll explain.

There’s an idea in self-help and spirituality that your soulmate isn’t the person who makes your heart pitter-pat the most but is rather the person who causes your soul to GROW the most. This means the person who crawls under your skin, the one who’s got your goat, and the one you have the hardest time forgiving could very well be your soulmate. Could very well be the soul to whom–on the other side of the veil–you’re most indebted. I think about this a lot, since the older I get the more people there are with whom I’ve experienced conflict. And yet with each person and each drama, I’ve been challenged to find my voice or mature in some other way. And whereas from the outside it may have looked like a splitting off (please don’t call me again, Nancy), from the inside there was actually a coming together. That is, anytime you listen to and follow your inner guidance, you become more congruent. First with yourself AND THEN with another.

Along these lines, this afternoon at one thrift store I walked up on my friend while they were talking to the owner. He’d just handed my friend a piece of jewelry, and my friend said, “Did you make this yourself?”

Pausing ever so slightly, he said, “I did. Back in the 70s.”

Immediately I thought, He’s lying. Later my friend told me the man had said the jewelry was real turquoise, even though it was clearly just “turquoise colored.” And whereas it’s nice to have this confirmation, my point is that my intuition was talking to me, so the congruent thing for me to do was to not trust him to be honest, to not engage with him. Later, in another store, my gut told me a store owner was full of shit, so I literally walked away while he was talking to me. Normally the people pleaser in me wouldn’t have allowed me to do this sort of thing, but I thought, We know what happens when we let people verbally vomit on us because we’ve done that a hundred times before. Let’s see what happens when we take care of ourselves.

Well, I’ll tell you what happened. I walked away and I felt great. Absolutely fabulous. Then I ate this burger and felt even better.

Byron Katie says that a no to you is a yes to me. That is, when you listen to and follow your inner guidance, the answer is always yes. Yes, this brooch and this frame do (or don’t) go together. Yes, I know you’re lying to me. Yes, I’m walking away now. My therapist says when we respond honestly and authentically to people, we not only give ourselves a gift, but also give them a gift. “Even if we’re telling them to take a hike?” I say. “Even if we’re telling them to take a hike,” she says. “Because so many of us are lied to constantly. So it’s good to hear the truth for once, even if the answer’s no. Plus, whenever you’re authentic with someone, you give them permission to be authentic too.” Today my friend said, “How did you walk away from that rambling salesman so easily?”

“I’m not quite sure,” I said. “I just did it.” Looking back, I realize that something in me said, “Move,” so I moved. For once, I listened to me. For once, I was congruent.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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In other words, there's always SOMETHING else to improve or work on. Therefore, striving for perfection is not only frustrating, it's also technically impossible.

"

On What’s Gained In Between (Blog #1028)

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Last week I replaced a headlight in my car, Tom Collins. However, before I did, I replaced THE WRONG headlight in my car. That is, I replaced the high beam on the driver’s (my) side rather than the low beam. Because under the hood it was and is the easiest light to get to, the most obvious. Of course, the high beam didn’t need replacing, and so after I changed it I still had a light out. Y’all, I was so frustrated. I checked fuses and everything. Thankfully, I finally figured out 1) I’d changed the wrong bulb and 2) where the right bulb was located.

At which point I changed that one, and everything was fine.

Well.

Last night I noticed that my passenger’s side blinker was going out (you know how your dashboard indicator light will flash, flash, flash, and click, click, click real fast when there’s a problem), so today I removed my passenger side taillight assembly in an effort to change the turn signal bulb. So. The assembly has three bulbs, and I guessed the blinker was the smallest one. Wrong. Then I guessed it was the one next to the smallest one, and that was it. However, I didn’t have a bulb that was the correct size. Only one that was ALMOST the correct size. So my sweet mother got me the correct bulb at Walmart (she was going anyway), and I changed it.

And things still didn’t work.

What the hell? I thought.

Finally I realized my car, like all cars, has TWO passenger-side blinkers. One in the back and ONE IN THE FRONT. Oh, THAT’S the one that’s out! I thought. Duh. So I changed that one.

And everything worked fine.

Despite the fact that I often get upset in these situations–like, why didn’t I figure things out sooner?–today I’ve been thinking about how nothing is ever truly a waste of time. For example, a few days ago I framed this fleur-de-lis brooch.

And wheres I told myself I only had one shot to get it centered correctly, I screwed it up. That is, I drilled a hole in the backboard (an old book cover), and it was a little to the left. Crap, I thought, crap, crap, crap. Well, ever persistent, I made the hole bigger, until it was centered. Or almost centered. Then I invented a new way to “hang” the brooch. It’s a little hard to explain, but usually I use a screw and a nut and “set” the brooch pin on the nut. Well, because the nut would have held the screw off-center, I left the nut out and instead used a screw and a washer. This ended up being the perfect thing. Without the nut in the mix, there was a little wiggle room, just enough space for slipping the brooch pin in between the washer and screw head and holding the pin in place, on center.

I hope this explanation makes sense.

Even if it doesn’t make sense, my point is that with each brooch framing mistake I make, I’m learning. Likewise, each time I replace the wrong bulb in my car, I’m learning. As a recovering perfectionist, I wish I could get all things right the first time, but still. Next time, things will go a lot faster.

As far as I can tell, this “mistakes are required for learning” thing applies not only to car repair and arts and crafts, but also to relationships and healing. God knows I haven’t mastered those things yet. But I’m willing to keep trying, and I think we have to be. To ask for help when we need it and to keep getting back in the ring with our friends and family and our chronic problems. (And yes, I realize your friends and family may BE your chronic problems). Anyway, more and more I’m realizing that the point isn’t a quickly changed lightbulb or perfectly centered brooch. The point isn’t perfect relationships or perfect health. Rather, it’s the learning. It’s what’s gained in between the falling down and the getting back up again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"We were made to love without conditions. That's the packaging we were sent with."

On Properly Directed Imagination (Blog #1021)

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Last night when I got home from painting at 10:30, my dad asked me, “Do you want to go WORK OUT?” Well, the television was on, and–silly me–I thought he was asking about my evening and heard, “Are you WORN OUT?” So I said, “Yes.” (Because I felt like crap.) Then he asked if I still needed to blog (the answer was yes again), which I thought he asked because he was going to suggest that I go to be early. But no, he was (I found out later) trying to figure out when we’d be leaving for the gym. Y’all, I blogged until 1:00 in the morning, and the whole time my dad was patiently waiting for me on the couch. When I finished he said, “Ready to go to the gym?”

“The gym?” I said. “I’m going to bed.”

So thirty minutes ago my dad dragged my mother into the laundry room where I was working on arts and crafts and said, “Okay, I have a witness. Do–you–want–to–go–work–out–tonight?”

“Yes, I actually would like to WORK OUT tonight,” I said. “But I have to blog first.”

So here I am, blogging.

For the last two and a half weeks I’ve been fighting a sinus infection, but–thankfully–have felt better today. (Fingers crossed this trend continues.) This afternoon I had lunch with a friend. Then I went thrift shopping but didn’t buy anything (way to go, Marcus). Then this evening I did some odd jobs for a client. Then–when I came home and Dad told me my driver’s side headlight was out–I put a new bulb in my car. Then I combed through picture frames and old book covers and matched them to some brooches I recently acquired. I can’t tell you how fun this is for me. Whenever the creative mood strikes, seriously, time and my worries fly away. Magically, I’m transported to a better place.

Along the lines of creativity, this evening in an old book I recently bought (for the cover) I ran across an article about creativity and genius by the artist Frederic Whitaker. In it he compares and contrasts insanity to genius and says, “Insanity is imagination without control. Genius is imagination under control–plus the divine spark that we call driving force.” I absolutely adore these definitions, especially considering that we all too often MISUSE our imagination. For example, both me and my dad each IMAGINED a certain conversation about our going to work out (or my being worn out) last night, neither of which was TRUE. Likewise, don’t we all IMAGINE the thoughts, behaviors, and judgments of others on a daily basis (and aren’t those imaginations often negative and, therefore, pain-inducing)?

Isn’t this too imagination without control (that is, insanity)?

More and more I believe that imagination, creativity, and genius were meant for arts and crafts projects, home building and decorating, landscaping, dancing, playing musical instruments, and SOLVING problems, not INVENTING them. Because isn’t that what’s happening when we presume to know what someone else is thinking, feeling, or doing–creating problems out of thin air? I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve lost sleep believing someone was mad at me or–worse–intentionally trying to screw up my life when–I found out later–they weren’t. Like, at all. This is where misdirected imagination leads you–into the land of insomnia, anxiety, stress, and depression.

Properly directed imagination, however, leads you out of it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When we expect great things, we see great things.

"

On Miracles (Blog #1016)

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Okay. Where are we going tonight?

For the last 1,000+ days I’ve sat down to blog and had this question somewhere in my mind. Granted, there have been times that I’ve absolutely KNOWN–these are the things I want to say. But even then writing has been the adventure that creativity is, full of twists, turns, and oh-wow moments. Not one single time in the last three years have I not been surprised by what’s inevitably birthed here at this keyboard, be it a clever phrase, a happy joke, or a somber theme. Even when I’m totally blank and thinking, Well, that’s it, I’m all dried up, some idea comes along out of nowhere to save my ass. Even when I’m certain I’m creatively bankrupt, something good magically appears.

Overall, today has been fabulous. Almost everyone, or at least the news anchors, in our area have been concerned with the weather (there have been tornado warnings), but I’ve been concerned with brooches, working on framing a few recent acquisitions. And whereas I got one project done today, I’m still waiting on paint and glue to dry before I can finish two others. Ugh. Everything is always a process. Both in art and in life, it seems that nothing is ever “done.” The good news about this, I suppose, is that not being done leaves room for The Mystery. Until you’ve reached the last page in a book–the last word–the story’s not over.

This evening I had dinner with a friend I’ve known for–gosh–over fifteen years now, one of the first people I came out to. Anyway, they made spaghetti, and we did what we always do–laugh, share stories, console. Then while I was on my way home I thought about how so very often I’m worried about money but how time with an old, true friend is absolutely priceless. How even if I had all the money in the world it wouldn’t have made tonight any better.

Well, it might have paid for some chocolate cake.

But still, I was happy.

We had cookies.

When I got home I helped my dad put a homemade dog bed (fashioned from old bath mats and a comforter) in my parents’ room for our family dog, Ella. My parents have a waterbed, and there’s a crawl-through space, a hiding area underneath the headboard where I guess Ella likes to go to chill out, get away, and rest her paws. Anyway, I positioned her new bed inside the crawl space, and she went right to it. Later I checked and she was still there, totally relaxed, content. This is my point about being happy. We make it complicated, but–really–it takes so little. Currently I’m in a comfortable chair sipping hot tea and listening to the rainfall.

What more do you need?

Now, an hour ago, just before I sat down to blog, I checked my bank account because I need to pay bills tomorrow. And whereas I’m not destitute–y’all–it wasn’t pretty. Hell, it hasn’t been pretty in years, especially since I closed my dance studio and started chasing my dream of being a writer. (My therapist says, “You ARE a writer.” So I correct myself–chasing my dream of being a PAID writer.) Ugh. I have friends that make both positive and sarcastic comments about how NICE it must be to sleep in every day and spend my days reading, writing, and–now–framing brooches. And, y’all, it is. It is NICE. But trying something new and living a non-conventional life always comes at a cost. And whereas it’s not always a financial cost, it often is, at least for a while. I add “at least for a while” because that’s my hope, that–sooner or later–the lean times will fatten up.

Dear God, please make it sooner.

Earlier tonight my mom sent me a glorious and emotional video and testimonial by Steve Harvey. Essentially, years ago Harvey was on his last leg, down to his final $35, when he was offered a stand-up gig in New York. Phew, you might think, but Harvey didn’t live in New York and–newsflash–plane tickets cost more than $35. But then–just like that–two other stand-up gigs came through and Harvey was able to make the New York gig. From there, his career took off. Later Mom and I were talking about it, and she reiterated Harvey’s advice–never give up. Because you’re CERTAIN to not succeed if you quit. But if you keep going, well, anything could happen. God could step in.

“That’s one thing about God,” I told Mom. “He always waits until the last damn minute. He’s so dramatic.”

“He certainly can be,” Mom said.

That’s Mom, ever the diplomat.

Getting back to creativity and writing and the idea that you never know what’s going to appear, I suppose this idea applies to our lives too. That is, just when we least expect it, something good comes along. My therapist says she’s noticed this happens a lot for me. Whenever I’m down and thinking, I am SO SCREWED, the universe saves my ass. Out of nowhere, a check shows up. An idea comes along. Even it’s not a windfall (so far it’s never been a windfall), it’s enough to get me through. Regardless, I’m always left dumbfounded, amazed. Just like I am when I consider any good fortune, including any good friend who comes into my life. I think, I never could have planned this. I’m always so surprised. That’s the thing. You never see miracles coming.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Perfection is ever-elusive.

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you never see miracles coming

Steadfast (Blog #1014)

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Well crap. It’s two in the morning, and I’m just now starting to blog. Now, for the last two hours I’ve been right here on this laptop working, trying to add a page to my website. I’ll explain. Today and for the last two days I’ve been working on framing brooches in such a way that they can still be worn. That is, so that they can be used as art on your wall or art on your person. And whereas I still have a few more in the works (the paint’s drying), I finished enough this afternoon that I took pictures of them, uploaded them to my new Instagram page (@broochesforbros), and officially opened shop.

That’s right, I’m selling them.

“Be sure to cross-pollinate,” my therapist said when I told her about the idea a few weeks ago.

“Huh?” I said.

“You know,” she said, “share them on your Facebook page and blog.”

Anyway, that’s what I was trying to do earlier this evening, add a page to my blog menu about the brooches and embed my Instagram pictures. In theory, this is easy to do. HOWEVER, when I started my Instagram page a couple weeks ago, Instagram said I could use the login for my @meandmyshink account in order to make things less complicated. But if you want to embed your Instagram photos on your website, you apparently have to have a separate login. Ugh. This took took forever to figure out. But thankfully I did figure it out (after a lot of Googling and cursing), and the new page is up now.

You can check it out here. (The picture at the top of the page looks like this.)

I guess it’s been one of those days. This morning I woke up sick again (it’s been ten days now), and that’s starting to wear on me. Then this afternoon while mounting a unicorn brooch (I know that sounds funny) that I thought would be super simple, super quick, I ended up nearly pulling my hair out. Because first it was difficult to get the unicorn to “sit” on an angle, and I was convinced it wouldn’t work horizontally. Unicorns, after all, don’t trot, they fly. At least in my fantasies. Anyway, then because the frame was older than dirt (or made of some strange material), it cracked when I tried adding a hanger to the back. Well, I persisted, and it cracked again. “Crap,” I said. “Crap, crap, unicorn crap.”

THANKFULLY, things with the unicorn brooch finally worked out. There’s a saying in house remodeling–caulk and paint make it what it ain’t–and I guess that applies to brooch framing too. That is, once I finished, the cracks either weren’t visible or simply added to the piece’s character.

Ugh, all that stress for nothing.

Another thing that had me worked up this evening was announcing to the world (my Facebook feed) that not only was I making art, but also selling it. What if people don’t like it? I thought. What if they think it’s outrageously priced? This is something my therapist and I have talked about ad nauseam, knowing your worth and having the confidence to ask for it (and, when necessary, demand it). Earlier tonight I was thinking about what I charged for dance lessons when I FIRST started teaching almost twenty years ago and what I charge now (it’s significantly more). And what I COULD charge if I were in a bigger city (or just felt like it). Anyway, it’s been this long journey to get to, “Hey, wait a damn minute, I’ve got something good to offer here,” instead of just giving everything away.

You know, so people will like me.

Just before I decided to close my dance studio and have my estate sale a few years ago, I wrote an essay about how dissatisfied I’d become in my then-current life. (I read the essay on this page in a live video titled May 4, 2018 (To Celebrate Blog #400).) Anyway, part of my dissatisfaction was the fact that I felt like I had gifts (dance instruction) to offer my community, but that my community–at least at that time–wasn’t interested. Over three years later, this continues to be a fear, that others will see my talents and passions as, well, useless. Or, if they do indeed find them interesting or novel (get it? I’m a writer), they won’t support them, support me, with their dollars. Because let’s face it, you can say it’s fabulous that there’s a new dance studio or restaurant in town, but if you don’t GO THERE, then do you really?

Now, this isn’t a guilt trip. (Guilt be damned.) I’m often the person who doesn’t go to the new restaurant or–gasp!–buy a friend’s new book. At the same time, I’m often the person who does. So I get it. Being a human is complicated. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Whatever. But sticking to the perspective of the creator, the person who’s trying something new, this is why it’s a fearful thing. You think, Is this going to fly? Sure, it’d be nice to stay home and make framed brooches all day, but at some point they’ve gotta sell because, quite frankly, I’m not independently wealthy and can’t afford to keep up the hobby if they don’t.

It’s just math.

Now, the good news is that I’ve come a long way in the last few years. That is, back then I wasn’t sure WHO I was if other people weren’t interested in what I had to offer. NOW I absolutely know who I am. If I go the rest of my life and never sell a(nother) dance lesson, a framed brooch, or a book I’ve written, I absolutely know who I am. I know what I’m good at, I know what brings me joy, and I know what sets me free. In this, I am steadfast. More and more, I want to do only those things that make my heart sing. Regardless of how anyone else responds. Would I love to have the support and praise of my community? Of course. Who wouldn’t? But I know I don’t NEED another’s affirmation to define myself. No one does.

At least, no one should.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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So perhaps perfection has little to do with that which changes and everything to do with that which doesn't. For surely there is a still, small something inside each of us that never changes, something that is timeless and untouchable, something inherently valuable and lovable--something perfect.

"

The Seeds from Which Your Strength Tree Grows (Blog #1013)

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It’s 1:50 in the morning, and I can’t stop coughing. Today I told a friend I’d been struggling with sinus stuff, and they said, “You and everyone one else.” So that’s nice to know. I’m part of a group. Gosh, it feels good to be included. But seriously, I’ve had so many upper respiratory problems over the years, it’s easy to forget that I’m not the only one, that other people catch things too. That things go around here on planet earth. But remembering that we’re all in this sickness thing together–I guess–makes it more bearable. What’s the saying? Misery loves company.

Excuse me while I hack up a lung.

The good news is that I typically don’t cough much during the day, just at night while I’m trying to blog or sleep. But take this afternoon, for example. I was able to work on framing my vintage brooches for several hours nonstop. And whereas when I first started this project things went pretty quickly because I was permanently fastening (glueing) the brooches to the backboards (old book covers), things are taking longer now because I’m non-permanently attaching (hanging) the brooches on the backboards so that, in addition to being able to display them on a wall, I can also display them on my body.

Yowza, yowza.

Here’s one I finished today.

The most difficult part about this entire process is hanging the brooch where I think it’s most aesthetically pleasing. In this particular case, the middle. And since THAT involves drilling holes in the backboard, well, I’ve really only got one shot to get it right. Now, I’ve found ways to allow myself a little wiggle room, but it’s only a little. So this is where my Inner Perfectionist comes in handy, since he helps me get the details right. And when things aren’t EXACTLY perfect? Well, then, I have to tell him to shut up. Because projects like these are meant to be fun, not self-tortuous.

One of the things I like about framing vintage jewelry using old book covers is that it’s a way to not only be creative but also breath new life into forgotten objects. I love digging through a pile of used books and, upon seeing one with a lovely cover, thinking, You! How has no one noticed you before? I’ve got just the right frame and just the right piece of jewelry to put you with, and then–I promise–you’re going to shine. That’s the deal with creativity. You have to be able to look at something someone else would throw away and see gold.

My therapist has a saying–potential, not pathology. This phrase was recently brought up in the context or our going forward. That is, rather than focusing on what’s wrong, we’re going to be focusing on what’s right. Not that there’s anything wrong with focusing on what’s wrong. Sometimes you have to know what’s broken before you can fix it. But once you’ve focused on what’s wrong (I’ve been in therapy for almost six frickin’ years now), well then, it’s time to take your broken and scattered pieces and put them back together into something new, beautiful, and useful. It’s time to breathe new life into YOURSELF. It’s time to make YOURSELF shine.

This evening while I was working, my parents were watching The Batchelor, which means I was watching The Batchelor. Anyway, after one of the girls talked about her difficult childhood (I missed all the details, but someone important died), my dad the cynic said, “WHERE do they find all these people with their sob stories?!”

“It can’t be THAT hard,” I said. “Everybody’s got one.”

But seriously, don’t we? Lately I’ve been talking about how our challenges aren’t personal, and this is what I mean. When everyone you know or are related to has had someone die of cancer, or been in a terrible car accident, or been divorced, beaten up, cheat upon, or neglected, how can you claim that your problems are unique? Now, I’m not minimizing them. They are unique to you. And important for your journey. At the same time, I AM trying to take the sting out of them. I’m trying to get you out of victim mode (pathology) and into your power (potential) by helping you see that these things–these very shitty things–simply happen on planet earth. To everyone. Because this is the shit happens to you, and you, and you planet.

Why we signed up to come here, I’ll never know. I’m convinced, as a friend of mine says, we must have missed something in the fine print.

At one point while I was working today, my dad said, “You know, you mother and I don’t always get to see you actually doing the things you like doing [like dancing, writing]. But I’ve been watching you paint and drill and glue and and everything else this afternoon, and you look absolutely content.”

“Hum,” I said, “I am content. I really enjoy this.” That’s another thing about this planet. Despite the fact that some terrible things can and do happen (and that they can and do happen to you), it’s still possible to be content, to be happy. Even while you’re coughing up a lung, it’s still possible to find peace of mind. This is one of the gifts of doing The Hard Work, of looking at the most challenging and shitty events of your life and shifting your perspective about them in such a way that they become your greatest assets, the seeds from which your Strength Tree grows. Because that’s the deal, it’s not what happens to you, but what grows out of it. It’s how YOU grow out of it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing is set in stone here.

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