Peace

Doesn't It Though?

It is a beautiful house. The kind one works their life away for. The kind that has a jet tub that looks onto a fireplace, and almost as much garage space as house. I looked at it today and the story it told has a great message.
The husband lost his wife, he fled to the palm dessert. Everything is still on the walls, all the furniture in place. His wife died of cancer. Her touches are everywhere, they were married thirty years, no children. He still hasn't been able to pack her away, there are memories hidden in these things.

She liked roses. That is clear. The guest bedroom is done up in them. And interesting finds also, things which tell a story. She was able to blend formality with comfort, modernity with the past, and she must have been a wonderful person to create such a warm home.

I came away from this experience a whole lot wiser.

1) Having the house doesn't matter
2) Having the furntiure doesn't matter
3) Having the toys doesn't matter

All that matters is being together with the one you love.

I know this lesson well.

But sometimes in this modern greedy America, we all need reminders like this one.

Grow Up, What?

You Should Be an Artist

You are incredibly creative, spontaneous, and unique.No one can guess what you're going to do next, but it's usually something amazing.You can't deal with routine, rules, or structure. You're easily bored.As long as you are able to innovate and break the rules, you are extremely successful. You do best when you: - Can work by yourself- Can express your personality in your work You would also be a good journalist or actor.

What Should You Be When You Grow Up?

Some little girls know they want to be nurses or teachers, SAHM/W's, doctors or lawyers when they grow up. They have a firm handle on where they are intended to be and what they want to do in this world. This knowledge seems gifted heartly and lavishly upon these individuals.

What about people like me that don't really grow up in a sense? Sure we are responsible individuals but lacking in that divine ordinance so to speak.

How can we possible decide on one thing when there are so many good possibilites? And if one doesn't feel "called" to a certain field, how do you go about creating another route? I think the actor option is out because I hate the idea of fame (but would like the yacht). Although, I do think the connection a performer has with the audience is powerful. I think the reclusive artist picture is much more of a romantic domain.

I was reading yesterday about the idea of creating a lot of mistakes, or uglies, en route to the really good stuff. And maybe that is what trying is all about. Producing a lot of ugliness that somehow later looks really good? Our perspectives, our views change, we have distance and see through altered eyes? Or we just improve.

And how does one express personality through their work? Well with an artist, I suppose that is natural. In the written word, presumable - doing the dishses? Well, I guess there are ways to spice that up as well, soft music or techno and a few drops of grapefruit essential oil.

I like the idea of the impressionist that I just read about - Degas. He was a recluse in Paris. He lived in a quarter where all the art supply stores were located and a lot of the other painters lived. However that is not his genius. His genius was that he hired a housekeeper (He was a bachelor). My favorite work of his is Woman Ironing. I think about what keeps me from my own art and writing, and generally it is housework and homekeeping. So I put it out to the universe that in time, I will be like Degas, an employ a housekeeper so I can focus on art. Also that I should write about it as some textile art journalist extroadinare.

Some mornings I really like my hands warmed by the hot dishwater. Once I get into them anway. And the view of my roses from the kitchen window, still and bear in winter - formed alive in my imagination, is the only peace in the world I'd want to know.

Happy Birthday

I made it around again. I earned this year.

Some years define us so sharply

we become grooved

Pattern cannot tell me the movement of the sea

it hides amoungst the random

it does what it pleases

we look to it as proof of God

that he put us here as if to order something

we cannot touch

There is no room for saddness

ballons and flowers and little pieces of romance

each trip round we want to mark

Float along, my piece of drift

that you may never touch the same swath of sea

nor get too entagled in the banks

or beaten upon the shore.