Ornamental

from sand to snow

late on thursday night, well after dark and too late for dinner, i walked in my own front door after a journey across this state that lasted twelve long hours, morning to night.  walter was back, thanks to my beloved friend julie, who had driven down to pick him up and take him back with her to ohio for playtime with her own EIGHT dogs.   we knew the snow was coming - one look at the radar map and there was no guesswork involved.  friday morning i raced around buying groceries, doing laundry, picking up mail and packages; then, right on schedule, the snow began to fall around 2pm.
 
this was no slow snowfall, either - fast and furious the flakes descended, turning my little world of firefly road into a blurry white landscape where everything looked as if it had been dusted with talcum powder.
just before twilight we took walter for a winding walk through six inches of snow up to the waterfall and pond.  the woods were silent; they towered over the path we took, they bent down before us from the weight of all that white, they bowed, they curtsied, they waved.

what an innocent and beloved face, the face of one who plunged without hesitation into the frozen twilight pond.

i share with you an exquisite blue and white silence here - just the sound of nothing, surrounding us from everywhere into the smallest, whitest, deepest here.  more trees bowing down, this time to the quiet blue water, and then, a walk back down the hill to a house that beckoned from the dark, its lights a welcome sight until they promptly went out the minute we walked through the door, five minutes after i took these shots; they didn't come back on for another twenty four hours. 

candles in abundance are lovely.  candles, and a gas log fireplace and a grill out on the deck for cooking breakfast and dinner, for heating water for hot chocolate and tea.  i loved and will always remember hearing the sound, from deep within the house, of the tea kettle whistling brightly from outside - sweet and high and completely out of its element, a songbird singing one long high note into the snowy winter night.
saturday morning came early - all that white reflecting light into the huge windows of this house - and with it, a walk with walter through the surrounding woods along the trail behind the house.  i love seeing the combination of ocracoke - its sand, its blue skies, its water and its magical tree - lying there in the mountain greenery and snow.  i've named these images "snowcracoke", just because i could. 

 

i've loved this time, newly back home, stomping down wooded trails covered in white, listening to the sounds of snow and ice crunching loudly beneath my black booted feet.  the juncos are back in abundance at the feeder, the sky today was blue, blue, blue, and i felt once again like a little girl at play beneath a blue ceiling, a white carpet at her feet.
it's hard not to grin, when hopping across shadows of tree branches, when reflecting them back to the camera with my shades for sun and snow.  it's all i can do to keep from breaking into a run, dear walter leaping at my side; it's all i can do to keep this three day memory from spilling out and over, everywhere.
julie was able to leave this morning, late, after ice and snow had melted just a bit.  the house was far too quiet in the afternoon for walter and me, and by three o'clock we were headed to the river, just as fast as i could get there through the ice and through the snow.
these mountains, just outside my front door, have never seemed more beautiful, and it is with bittersweet regret as i watch january slowly bow out, like the snow-covered trees,with gentle grace and amazing dignity. xo

one more, before i leave

 

“Your living is determined not so much by what life brings to you as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you as by the way your mind looks at what happens.”

                                                                                                                     —Kahlil Gibran

it's so damned beautiful here.  it really is.  things seem sharper, somehow, more focused and clear.  this lighthouse?  spun from sugar.  it glitters in the sun, so many fine sparkling prism lights bouncing off into the air. the pace is slower here, as you can well imagine.  traffic isn't an issue; there isn't any, this time of year.  everyone knows everyone.  they wave, they nod their heads.  they know i don't live here.  one look tells them that, one glance.  it doesn't matter.  they still smile and wave their hand. angels fly along the shore, then shed their wings for newer ones.  they fly with friends, they walk the beach right next to me, they mingle with the ones who soar with them. 

they tiptoe across sheets of water thin and cold, they peer into reflections and see their sweet faces smiling back in return.  this is a holy sacred place, of this i'm sure.  its sentinel stands firm, its guardian stands tall.  i feel so very small in the middle of this, and that is good.  i've come to gaze one last time at the beauty of this place, i'd kneel if i could in the sand, were i able to stand again with grace.  for now, my visit will suffice.  and you can visit, too.
come see:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QpF_wdMhMCA

one last visit, one last walk to see what more was hung from the tree.  i feel a trace of sadness of leaving this small island, i felt a little bittersweet regret when watching the sun set over the waters from my window at the stairs here where i stayed.  the light turned golden, then exploded and bathed everything in morrocan blood orange - vibrant, exotic, straight from the heart of the sky.  from inside i watched, until the colors pulled me out into the cold evening air, for one last glorious show.  tomorrow, i head back west, twelve hours to home, where they are calling, blessedly, for snow. 

i live a beautiful life. xo

Something opens our wings

Something makes boredom and hurt disappear

Someone fills the cup in front of us

We taste only sacredness

~Rumi

giving back to the sea

i went back to the sea again today, this time bearing my own gifts to share.  the sky was blue, much bluer than i've seen at home, the clouds in the sky were white and billowy and sheltered me as i walked back down to the tree. i don't know how to properly describe seeing this place, and how this tree on the beach left such a powerful impact on me.  but it was a joy to lead twenty two school teachers back down so they could see for themselves the magic that was waiting for them, in a tree.  they were respectful,  they were kind, and most of them brought ribbon to hang beach findings on branches and twigs; there was a kindred spirit in the midst, and she lingered there with me. 
thanks to my friend tina, i knew to bring a note along this time around, and tucked it snugly within the little bottle that dangles from sky blue ribbon and twirls so easily with gentle help from a generous wind.  what did it say?  one of my favorite quotes, which seemed appropriate enough:  We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time (t.s. eliot).  i like knowing, too, that my handwriting dances amongst the sun baked branches now, dances lightly with the breeze.

i wanted very much to give back to the sea; what did that mean, today?  this morning i sat at my desk in my room, and knotted pearls and gemstones into a length of glittery strand with colors of blue and teal and cream that reminded me of the beauty of this place.  the bronze ribbon had been stripped from a swatch of raw silk cloth given to me by a canadian friend, bought in a shop in portland two long autumns ago.  pearls seemed the perfect thing to bring back to the tree, this time around, to bring back again to the sea.  and perhaps this insignificant ornament will find its way back to the water, will lie sparkling on the bed of sand under waves that beckon to me.  that's what i'd like to think could happen, someday.  and the odd thing, the startling thing is that when i look deep into the photograph now, tonight, when i see the glowing teal orb dangling at the bottom there, i can also see, just barely, the dark outline of my body, reflecting back to me.  it's a lovely notion, anyway. xo

“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” —Albert Einstein

cloud dancing and a magic tree

this morning came earlier than usual for me, with an insistent alarm clock telling me get up, get up, get up.  it was only after i walked out the door to breakfast that i realized the rain was pounding against the walls and windows, the wind was tearing at the building's every seam.  i wasn't teaching until this evening, so i gratefully hunkered down in my room with pearls and pliers and whittled away at the hours by doing what i know to do.  in the afternoon, after lunch, the rain subsided, but the wind did not.  i didn't care.  off to the beach i went, prepared for the harder elements because i did not care. the walkway ended, just like that, in tall dunes of sand.  covered by wind, by nor'easter water, the weathered boards led upward to nowhere and to everywhere. the skies look blue here, but grey they were, and grey they remained while i walked and leaned into the wind.  i had never before, until today, witnessed sea foam being whipped into light-as-air meringue, fluffy stuff that blew across the sand and parted at my feet, poof - just like that - then scooted farther down the strand, looking for all the world like soft white clouds dancing there at my toes. it was magic, watching the wind whip the foam up into the air, watching it flip and tear it into a dozen smaller clouds, watching the clouds come flying past my feet and breaking into a hundred smaller batches.  i love and live for times like this, you know i do. i tried, ridiculously, to capture the moment as a video with my camera; never before have i pressed the video button, so i'm surprised it even worked - never mind the wind noise, the dark lighting, the naive angles and footage.  you still get to see the dancing of the clouds, right here (and if you'll listen very carefully, you'll hear my southern drawl whispering in grateful astonishment at the end; "i've never seen this!", i think i say):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBFmXpxZSDI

and then, there was the tree.  oh! this tree.  magical, mysterious, a gift to the world, and - at that one solitary moment - a gift that was meant just for me. i could see it from far away, while clouds still danced past my feet.  and when i drew close, it made me gasp and took my breath away: 

decorating its bare sunbleached driftwood limbs were all manner of flotsam and jetsam things - pine cones, holey oyster and cockle shells, a battered rubber glove, a rubber rimmed round mirror, bits of a hawaiian shirt, clear tree ornaments still holding spoonfuls of salt water, miniature bottles swinging by ribbon the color of sky in the wind...  frayed rope in aqua, knotted cord in red; urchin egg sacs, sea netting, seaweed, sea hair.  a gift for the sea, from the sea.  and, a gift for me.

standing on the sand there, clouds whipping past my feet, staring at the tree as its ornaments flapped and fluttered before me, i felt a little like scout or jem finch, after finding their miraculous treasures in the knot of a neighborhood tree. 
the carved soap boy and girl, the sticks of chewing gum, the pocket watch with frozen hands: they were all right there today with me, dangling in that tree. 
i'm reminded of a poem i once wrote about a bottle tree.  i'm reminded of pippi longstocking, of my long ago childhood, of so many wonderful and remarkable things.  i am reminded of everything. xo

postcards from the outer banks

swans:  not the sort made of paper or rock, but swans that are real, from the faraway tundra, swimming in abundance in the waters off of hatteras, a narrow finger of an island that led us here, pointing south, to ocracoke.  you can see how large they are when comparing their size to that of the canadian goose pulling up behind.  grace defies size; these big birds seem to skim the surface of the water with no effort on their part at all.  that, i suppose, could be a fine example of a genteel southern woman of age:  beauty and grace in unflinching repose, with feet that paddle furiously below the surface, discreetly out of sight. 
the journey has been long - we left yesterday morning at 10, spent the night in raleigh, left there this morning at 5:45am and arrived here at the southern tip of ocracoke by 2pm.  there was rain that splattered windshields, there were long bridges that wound around, that ribboned up into the air and down again, there were clouds that parted and gathered, parted and gathered, off and on, up and down, this way and that, all day.  who can predict the weather?  who can say what it will be doing five minutes from now?  it mattered not, today.  this day, we rose two hours before dawn, and rode and drove, across this vast state to its wispy, willowy edges, to a place where land meets sea and holds itself together with a sprinkling of sea oats, with dunes that come and go with the passing of storms, where winter mist blends road and sea and sky together into one soft blurry vista, there stretched out quietly before me.  i've come into my room this evening, when everyone else is across the way, and i stare at the walls painted the color of the sea, in summer.  they are a gentle green, tinged somehow with blue; they are the color of a place that is all but foreign to me.  they are the color of the summer sea.  and i am standing here, leaning against the sea green walls, wrinkled and aging and unadorned, i stand here listening to the rhythm of my beating heart, i stand here missing home and listening to my heart that sounds like the quiet winter sea.

rock paper swan

soon enough, off i go again, all the way over from here to there.  here in the mountains it has been grey, cold, and rainy for the past two days, with tomorrow promising more of the same.  there was a very small window of nothing wet falling from above sometime around lunch today, so quickly i threw on mucky jeans and walking shoes while walter danced in happy, excited circles 'round and 'round; he knows the routines all too well these days, and as soon as i start stuffing my feet into shoes, he begins his bouncy dance.  such a good puppy dog - he minds on the leash, stays to the right, knows when to speed up and when to slow down again - all good and admirable things.  i wish everyone else could be like that, i do.  we didn't linger at the river; the clouds overhead began to thicken and darken again, began to hang a little closer than i found comfortable, so the treasure hunt was brief.  what i did uncover, for the second time in a month, is the palm-sized stone you see resting there below my wood slab heart (a love gift from my son robin, who saw the heartly shape appear when working with tree cutters late last year).  the first time i found the stone, half buried in sand and looking like a heart until i pulled it out of the ground, i didn't see the benefits of hauling a heavy anything all the way back home.  not one shaped like a swan, anyway.  but today it seemed more beautiful, and profound in some odd and inexplicable way.  how often, anyway, does one come across the same rock twice?  i stood there in the noontime grey, and saw how closely this stone resembled a paper origami swan, its neck crisply folded down, its wings tucked in for floating on a pond.  i was reminded of the black swans, spotted in droves (or flocks, i suppose), drifting aimlessly in the distant marshes of new zealand.  my heart dipped, at that memory, and into my pocket went the stone swan.  now it rests, as you can see, next to some large spiral shells that i gathered when i walked the autumn beaches of new zealand, a year ago last may.  walking back down the trail, heavy swan thumping in my fisherman's vest pocket with every step, i thought that a rock resembling paper resembling a large bird was a marvelous thing, and realized with a start what a provocative title for my non existent book could be:  Rock Paper Swan.  indeed.   we shall see, then, won't we? for the rest of the afternoon i finished putting together delicate bracelets that remind me of things that wash up from the sea - driftwood, seashells, bits of beach glass, bits of water and sky and bubbles and faraway shimmering horizon vistas, bits of everything.  it is a lovely pleasure to gather completed jewelry in volume like this, to photograph it in limited, slanted light that reminds me of the beach on a blustery,wintery day.  i can hear the seagulls as i tuck and arrange the pieces, i can feel the salty wind kissing my cheeks and playing with my hair.  these will go across this vast, wide state with me; perhaps they won't come back; perhaps they'll not want to stay after all and will come home to the mountains again.  we'll see. 
i finished my second piece of "twelve month" jewelry for myself, this afternoon, as well.  you may recall the wonderful vintage compass, a generous and treasured gift from a student and friend when i taught at artfest in port townsend last spring.  it's been removed from its seafoam blue green velvet ribbon (a gift from my sweet friend lorri, who is a master with dye and a fellow gatherer of beautiful fabrics old and new), and i've made a second simple piece with the velvet to wear layered together with my "north star" design. these jewels will adorn my own neck as i walk the beaches of ocracoke, as i gather bits and pieces of the ocean to bring back home with me.  i think that it would be a good thing for you all to try this for yourself - to make something just for you, once a month, whatever you wish it to be.  make it through and through with emotion that is wrapping itself around you right now, right here, this month, today.  that's what i'd like to come home to:  stories from you, telling me what you have decided to make, and why, just for you.  jewelry, a painting, a handmade book, a poem, a song - whatever you'd like to have, as a gift from you, to you.  does that sound like a plan?   see you then. xo and, on a final note, here is a little gift from me, to you, something that i read tonight from Anthony Doerr's intoxicating Four Seasons In Rome (the man is fast becoming my favorite author):

"Not quite black, not quite gray, in the hand a starling shimmers with greens and purples, like a puddle touched with oil.  Lovely, but common, too, and the rampancy of starlings more than anything casts them as grimy, despised birds.  They take over winter feeders, pave neighborhoods with excrement, eat the seeds for winter wheat.  But above Rome, in winter, they assemble in flocks ten thousand strong and put on shows that take my breath away.

Tonight there are three flocks.  They stretch into quarter-mile bands, winding apart, then slowly snapping back together.  In one minute they are three separate helices, a heart, a velvet funnel, two falling scarves.  A flock swings closer to us, a shower of black against the blue, plunging in coordination --suddenly a thousand birds turn their wing tips to us and are gone."

incredible. xo

winter loves

winter, in the mountains.  one would think there'd be no color, no variation of shades to where one can rest one's eyes.  i recall hearing, years ago, a man my age - from florida - saying how ugly he thought the mountains were in winter.  go home, then, i wanted to say, but refrained.  instead i defended the stark beauty of this season, when trails are much cleaner, when woods are free of weeds and snags.  i can see rocks and boulders pushing out of the ground, i can compare varying shades of grey and brown.  and then there is the green of moss, which never goes away.  this river is where i've begun walking with walter on almost a daily basis; his youth and energy require the outings, my spirit needs them as well.  so, off we go in the afternoons, when the sun is its strongest and the trail least frequented. there is a wonderful little stony beach where we stop to rest, to poke around, before we turn around and head back in the direction we came.  sometimes there are fishermen there, and i stay respectfully away with my overly eager water loving dog; but mostly we have the place to ourselves, and i'm able to pocket a few treasures - heart shaped stones, beaver gnawed sticks, an occasional lost finding that has washed its way ashore (see the necklace in my banner?  that metal piece, an open "frame", was half buried there in the sand).  long fingerling stones, small flat discs, tiny hearts of slate, bits of tumbled glass - all go into the pockets of a fisherman's vest that was my brother ben's, something he wore in the last photographs i ever took of him, four years ago.  i think he likes seeing me slip on the khaki, watching me, from wherever he is, traipse down the trail as sunlight dances across my back, my hair, my arms and legs.  there is a small pile in my studio of treasures waiting to be used; there are drawers full of stones, just waiting to be drilled.  they've been there for years; now i add to my stash, and pull out pearls and gemstones in shades of cream and grey and brown when i get back home.  into the studio i walk, into the studio i scoop out pockets; and onto the back of my chair goes the vest.  these things have such strong pulls on me, the walks, the visits to the rushing river:  i see the nature that surrounds me voicing its beautiful self in quiet ways that are ornamental. i leave at the crack of dawn this saturday for my annual twelve hour trek to ocracoke island, on the hauntingly beautiful outer banks of north carolina, where i'll be teaching a group of 24 public school teachers (and librarians, counselors, coaches) how to make a book, nina style.  can you see that my mind is already thinking of ocean water, of the sea?   winter on that remote island, accessible only by ferry, is my favorite time of year to be there; tourists are non existent, streets are bare, and beaches are virtually empty.  yes!  i'm not nearly emotionally ready to be taking off again, you know i'm not; walter and i keep growing closer and closer, his little personality developing and spilling over at an amazing rate.  but he will be in the best of loving hands while i'm away, and i'll have new vistas to share with you upon my return.  i can smell that briny, musky air already.  sweet ocracoke:  i'm there.  and when i'm home again, walter and i will head right back to that rushing mountain river, the one that cries out my name.  xo 

shadows and light

can't see a thing, really, can you?  that's what photographing things in this house is like, mid winter.  the sun comes streaming directly into these south-facing windows, making whatever it touches become washed out and bright, and shadows fuzzy and dark.  that's life, isn't it?  a lot of blending of shadows and light.  good and bad, up and down, negative and uplifting.  how we manage to balance the two is entirely up to us. i spent this rainy, foggy weekend right here at home, quietly puttering about in socks and comfy clothes, sitting on the sofa in the evening with a tray of pearls and gemstones in my lap.  it's wonderful to be able to work this way, under the warm glow of a tabletop lamp, walter pushed up in a tight little ball next to my lap.  he is in that adolescent, awkward stage where he isn't quite sure how to go easy and gentle with his affection; when i see him coming, i brace myself and the tray before he flings himself down hard on top of me, on top of everything.  we had our walks at the river - and actually ran into another springer spaniel named mocha who, turns out, happens to be a brother of his from the same breeders in north georgia.  the walks are becoming a whole new form of meditation for me again, something i used to enjoy a long six years ago. i've been enamored of late, as you can plainly see, with the simple act of knotting pearls and gemstones onto silk cord; it's almost as meditative as placing one foot before another and walking down a graveled path that leads along the river and through the woods.  to sit quietly and string a glittering gemstone onto delicate cord, to tie a knot, to lace another pearl of varying size behind the one before, brings pleasure and comfort to me.  there is a fire in the hearth at night, there is walter at my side, there is art being transformed through my fingers and into strands that can be worn by others around their necks or wrists.  this brings me happiness, and pleasure, and peace, and i realize more and more these days how blessed i am to have the luxury of working at home, of selling the things that i make. i'm going to try something different here today:  rather than taking so so so much time to list each piece on etsy with this painfully slow connection of mine, i'm going to show photographs of each "poetry stick" necklace, and - if you want to purchase one in particular (they are all priced at $350.00), leave a comment here stating which one you'd like (check comments to see if the one you want hasn't already been sold).  i will then send you a paypal invoice to the email address that you list. sorry, but i'm not able to hold or reserve a piece for you; payment needs to happen as soon as i've sent you the paypal request.  these necklaces can all be adjusted from 19" to 21"; the beauty of them is that the pendant of mica and 20 gauge sterling can be removed so that you can wrap the pearls and gemstones around your wrist as a layered bracelet, or wear the simple strand alone or layered with another of my necklaces - three pieces in one, in other words.  i took the phrases from a tiny little dilapidated book of thomas campbell poems, published in 1846 and given to someone attending dartmouth college in 1854.  i'd unearthed this splotchy little jewel of a book some ten years ago at the library's used book store; it measures a tiny 2 3/4" x 4", is falling apart at the spine, and had been tucked into a box on a shelf in the studio all these many years.  the words are so small that they fit quite nicely, yellowed and old, on a narrow strip of silver, protected by mica. each has a poetry "stick", in varying width and length (longest is 2 1/2", shortest is 1 1/2"), and one of my cast sterling bird charms at the bottom.  be sure to click on any of these photos to see more detail.   i love this design, so much;  i hope you will as well.
"midnight star" - lovely blue peruvian topaz, faceted pearls, smooth pearls, labradorite - you can see the strand below. 
next is "hope is thy star" (SOLD) -
a lovely strand of natural tones.  pearls of varying shapes and sizes are strung with smoky quartz and labradorite.  this one reminds me so very much of my walks along the river; see the strand below. next, "soft as dew", with lovely green shades that remind me of ferns and moss in the summer: tied into a strand are faceted beads of green amethyst, prehnite, jade, and peridot.
on, to "power of grace" (SOLD):this beauty is strung with faceted and smooth pearls, garnet, tourmaline, and ruby: i love the variety of reds, and all the different shapes.  there are some especially lovely garnet nuggets mixed into the fray.  note how the color changes in different types of light (like life). (power of grace, SOLD) on to "poet's eye" (SOLD), another one that reminds me of a walk through woods in winter: this strand consists of varying faceted and smooth pearls, smoky quartz, rutilated quartz, and labradorite - here we have my favorite, because it reminds me of the sea (where i will be headed at the end of this week, to teach; the road is always beckoning, isn't it?).  when i hold this piece in my hand, i can smell the salt, i can feel the breeze in my hair.  the words are incredibly lovely, as well; i call this one "every wild explore": and it is one i think i'll regret to bid farewell.  its strand holds pearls, amazonite, peruvian opal, chalcedony, moss aquamarine, and one stunning large micro faceted butter yellow citrine, the color of that golden last light of the day.  (SOLD) finally, we have "pensive beauty", which speaks of sunsets, or early rosy morning skies: its strand is quite similar to the grace one, above, and consists of faceted and smooth pearls, garnet, tourmaline, and rubies.  some of its color, too, changes in the light from deep merlot to deeper rosy pink, just like the changing colors in the sky.
i've enjoyed trying to capture the spirit of these pieces throughout today, not an easy thing to do at all with shifting winter light.  i'm on a roll, and will be making more of these to list in my etsy shop.  these, too, will head over there if they aren't purchased through ornamental.  while i will try to remember to come back and mark the purchased ones as sold, keep in mind that the one you choose may well have sold, it's best to double check the comment section.  also, i apologize for this, but i am absolutely no longer doing commissioned pieces, should you wish to see a different color or wording.  and, if i've not received payment within 12 hours of your request, i'm afraid i'll have to relist the necklace. 
finally, i'd like to thank you all again for your positive comments and your bids, regarding the necklace i auctioned for a $500.00 donation to Doctors Without Borders; it means a great deal to me to read your lovely words of encouragement and support.  i urge you, if you've not yet done so, to make a donation to the charity of your choice.  make sure it is a legitimate one, by all means, and do a bit of online research to find how best to direct your donation.  many, many heartfelt thanks to all of you for being here, and for reaching out in such a loving way. xo

grace

the morning i woke up after getting back home this week, when all that golden sunshine was washing over everything and drenching me in happiness, i walked past the refrigerator (as i do 100 times a day) and noticed, for the first time, some of the magnetic poetry snippets scattered there across its side.  the whole thing is covered in single words and a few single alphabet letters, there for anyone who happens to fancy making a bit of poetry out of randomly joined words.  new poems appear from time to time, and eventually i'll notice that the words have been rearranged into something fresh and new.  i never know the authors - i mean, i know them all, this is where i live, but i don't precisely know which friends or child wrote what. grace is glorious, isn't it?  and deep within all of us, believe it or not, there is a generous dose of it, lacing our troubled hearts, wrapping itself around our naked souls.  sometimes it takes a little nudge, or a bigger bump, for it to bubble and rise to the surface, the balm of it surprising me with its timing, its ability to soothe.  sweet grace.  thank goodness for its ability to forgive, to nurture, to heal. 

i have a little exercise i like to conduct with my workshop students, when there is an afternoon lull in energy and the chatter has slowed into silence while they tinker and toil away.  tearing out random pages from a vintage text (think reader's digest condensed books here, something you won't mind disassembling), i distribute a page to each student, tell them to blindly place a finger onto a word, cut that word out, repeat, repeat, repeat.  when they've gathered three or four or six into a little snipped and scissored pile, i have them scramble and re-form into words as you see here... random notions that bubble to the surface, much like grace.  out of nowhere or everywhere, into the here.  combine those words with a tiny image - a hand, an eye, a pocket, a diminutive tree branch - and a story is begun, just like that.  who knew?  i love this moment in the afternoon, or even the late morning, when the beginnings of narration begin to flow; it is a lovely thing to stand back and watch as a roomful of artists' proverbial light bulbs turn brightly on above their heads.  the illumination is incredible, the energy crackling around them something amazing to feel and see.
word as ornament, word as art - a language we share, something next to our heart.  grace.  compassion.  truth.  love.  hope.  courage:  all of them beautiful, all of them real.  we only have to open up our spirits, our minds, we only have to reach out, to act upon those concepts, to make them a true part of our day to day lives. i wanted to thank you all again for stepping forward and helping me to do whatever i could, whatever was in my own small realm, to help with the earthquake victims of haiti.  your incredible bids, your words of encouragement and support, your prayers are all deeply, humbly accepted with the utmost of gratitude and love.  hope is a wonderful thing.  and grace?  you've shown me that, without hesitation, this week. may we all, forevermore, stand between the gentle silhouettes of sheltering angels.  xo

p.s my sweet friend shari beaubien contacted me yesterday to say that she'd been inspired to conduct an auction on her own blog.  i'd like you all to hop over and take a look at her lovely artwork, make a donation or a bid if you can.  her heart is huge, and her spirit is dear.  shari's blog (click to link):    http://www.sharibeaubien.typepad.com/

reaching out - and an update

AUCTION UPDATE:  man, oh MAN.  i am deeply deeply humbled and amazed by the outpouring of support you've given by bidding, and bidding again, on this piece.  the bid is at this point (6pm Friday) all the way up to $500.00.  imagine what that money will do for getting medicinal help to those who need it (so many, so so many) in haiti!!!  remember, bidding ends tonight jan. 15, at midnight.  thanking you all for everything - for being here, for sending such positive words of encouragement and support, for bidding on this necklace, for continuing to come back again and again.  i don't even know how to begin to say thanks, but - thank you.  thank you, thank you.  xo
i live in a fog, sometimes.  often, really.  i don't have radio reception out here, i don't watch the news on tv.  so when i heard yesterday evening about the horrific earthquake that leveled much of haiti, i was horrified that i'd posted such an ignorant, self centered post yesterday morning about being back home, where all is cozy, all is good, safe, secure.  i lead a pampered life, by worldly definition, with a heater that comes on, water that flows from a faucet, food that is readily purchased twelve miles down the road.  my walls have not fallen in on top of me.  in short, i'm ashamed at my head being stuck so far down into the sand.  what to do?  how can i help?  i'm listing below a couple of places that i know need our money - now.  they need it now. 

doctors without borders

american red cross

center for international disaster information

i pulled all three of these links from the white house official site.  what else to do?  as an artist, i can donate funds from a piece of jewelry that i'd been working on for a valentine piece, tucked away since before the mayhem of the holidays.  this isn't my original idea, i've seen a couple of other artists offering their help in this same way; but the need and desire to help are mine as well, and i'm reaching out in the only way i know to do right now.  the message seems appropriate, and i'm hoping that someone out there will feel that this is a worthy cause and contribution (click on any photo here for a closer look; pardon the light - this wonderful winter (sharp) light washes everything out; i'm in a hurry here and using whatever light is available this morning). 
bids will start at $75.00, placed by leaving a comment here at ornamental; the auction will close at midnight, tomorrow night (friday).  at that time, i'll send a paypal invoice to the winning bidder's email (make sure to leave a link for me when you comment, please), and make a contribution to doctors without borders/haiti relief, then will send the receipt to the winning bidder as well.  i'll add $100.00 of my own funds to the amount.  shipping charges will be waived. woven into this piece are faceted rubies, pink tourmaline, bronze freshwater pearls, and a faceted garnet dangling in the back.  the locket is silverplate, lined with maroon suede.  the small sterling heart there to the left, dangling, is from the amazing collection of candace wakumoto; some of her designs are sold in the shop of my fellow jewelry sweetheart friend, andrew thornton. 
up at the top i've attached a small mother mary charm, something i discovered when opening a wonderful package of gifted antique findings and treasures last night from another lovely reader, martha appleberry (thank you martha!!!); it seemed quite fitting for this particular piece.
the necklace, made with deep red sari silk and strips of stretchy dark red netting and suede, adjusts from 19 1/2" to 21 1/2".

anyway.  i thank you in advance, for helping me to help, in this way. meanwhile - do whatever you can, however you can.  reach out.  somehow, some way.  xo

and one more thing - a reader, ruth savoy, sent a link to this blog written by a family living in haiti, The Livesay (Haiti) Weblog, for a very real, close hand look at what is happening in the aftermath of the earthquake.

bliss

listen to this, a huge, heaving sigh of exquisite bliss:  late morning back on firefly road, after sleeping until the unheard of 9:45am (remember, i'm still on alabama time, but still!), and walter was basking in the warm sunshine pouring through my south facing bedroom window.  it is an amusing thing to walk past the door (off the kitchen, oddly enough) from time to time and see him shifting positions as the sun crawls across the width of the bed.  good dog - brown fur all toasty, white fur not so much. i stumbled around the rest of this short morning taking photographs of everything bathed in that warm, golden light; it seemed to cast another sort of glow on things that oftentimes i tend to overlook.  it felt so blissful, so quietly right to be back here in my own little place i call home on firefly road - so peaceful, so restful, so right.  hello, little tree from the living room mantel, hello rug that i brought back from my parents' old bedroom.  funny how i'd not noticed the rug so much when it was surrounded by furniture, resting there on wide plank floors.  but when i picture it now, through memory, i hear the low groan of loose floorboards that protested each time i stepped there to pick something up from the dresser top my parents shared.  i see so many things in the colors of this rug, which - perhaps not so oddly - are a perfect mirror of the colors in the larger oriental rug i have here at home. staring into it, i see the ocean, i see transparent beach glass of puget sound, i see the deep deep north carolina mountain winter sky.  i see porcelain, i see ivory, i see mirrored childhood dreams.  and now i have all that right here with me, it seems.

back in montgomery, daddy sat in his chair, a new spot for him, a new place for them, and when i told him how nice it felt to be sitting there with him, he looked me squarely in the eye and said "you can go home again".  why, yes, you can.  and that word "home" can mean so many different things.  my home here means softest solitude, and a trail outside my back door that leads me through the woods, it means a short drive to the river, where walter and i went first thing once i was dressed.  it was a crisp and breathtaking walk, this day, when the sun was warm and there was a coating of snow that surprised me, that had me smiling from the unexpectedness of it.  the gifted snowy woods of winter, oh! so beautiful.  and home to me.back here at home again, i worked on photographs of another unexpected something that the very talented artist red weldon sandlin had sent from atlanta to lucky, grateful me:  i love the box, i'll hang it just so, there between the beautiful faces that misty painted and sent to me, so long, long, long ago;i love the way her pigtails point out to the side, i love the little bird she holds there in her hand, i love the message red snipped out and pasted there below.   and inside, i loved what was inside as much as what was out; i love the word across the charlotte's belly (it shall always be mine, that word, i'll hold it next to my heart forevermore), i love the sweet face, i love that red made it just for me.  and i love that on the back, pressed into the porcelain, and painted over with red, is the artist's name, which happens to be a favorite color of mine.
i love that she wrote me a note in her spidery block writing, i love that she stitched it so randomly across the top, then wrapped the whole thing up in a yellowed old page from my favorite book (and movie) of all time.  inside the box, there is a grand, grand wish, and i will place it, as i said, there on my bedroom wall between the other two beauties hanging there, so i will be able to take it down, turn it around, and read it when my spirits are low.  they do get low, you know, and then again i have my boundless times when i want to reach up to the sky, to grab it and give this big old world one of my great bear hugs.  like this.  can you tell?  i'm reaching out to hug you all, even the ones who don't care.  because i do. xo

i me mine

it's been a long, cold, exhausting week for all of us here in alabama.  how about you?  the temperature in balmy heart of dixie montgomery hasn't gone above freezing all  week, and naturally it is that much colder at home in the mountains.  i received an email from my landlord last night telling me that my pipes are frozen and the house has no water, that the sliding glass door lock (which snapped and fell off the morning i left a week ago, thanks to the forceful break in and then the cold, i guess) has yet to be replaced, that the ten tall pine trees crossing the entrance to my flat back yard and drive (which fell with the heavy snow in december, before christmas) have yet to be cut up and taken away.  i realize that much of this is out of anyone's control - cold weather, trees that fall, metal that snaps - and have decided to make the most of the delays by staying in alabama yet another day.  such good news to be facing, when i had planned to drive back home today.  life has glitches, yes it does.   "such drama", wrote yet another reader, in response to my last post.  damned straight, is all i can say.  what of it, reader?  i vent here, and more often than not, i praise life's wonders as well.  stick around long enough and  you'll see that for yourself.  or don't.  that is your privilege as a reader.  your choice.  stick around, or go away.  it matters not to me. there is something so utterly sad about seeing one's mother's kitchen cabinets completely bare, after standing and tossing out old jars of baking powder clumped into one solid mass, saving one jar of salt and throwing out two more.  i love this photograph, sad as that sounds:  i see the original lettuce green paint (one of my favorite colors, still) that she chose for her cabinets' interior, all the way back in 1972, i see the new york times article praising the merits of hot ginger tea taped to the inside of the door and recognize snippets of myself there, within an empty spice cabinet.  and the sofa that they've had for all my life?  it's covered in red billiard table wool.  deep, deep red.  no wonder i love my own red sofa as much as i do. i was raised to detest overhead lights - detest isn't a strong enough word here, perhaps i should say loathe - and whenever i've moved (every five years since i was 18), it has been paramount to unpack those table lamps and get them plugged in and on.  the warm glow that a lamp casts on the rest of us, on furniture, on softly painted walls, is good medicine in the depth of winter cold.  i've not known what else to do, other than to plunge into boxes and begin to sort things out for my mother, while daddy sits in a chair, confused.  there is one central room in their new home that has become a heightened focal point for their new life - there is a big tv now mounted on the wall, there are the familiar oriental rugs, there are the handwoven baskets gathered from here and from there, all of them containing (in their emptiness) stories and histories.  i am seeing, now, where i get my penchant for having a story, for telling one.  i see where i get my tendency to gather (and clutter), to hold on to trinkets that mean nothing to someone else but everything to me.  my first heart rock came as a gift from my father, when i was maybe ten years old; ever since, i've gathered them, and i see heart shaped stones on tabletops and in the windowsills of this new home.  for the kitchen window, i placed one there, beside the little wooden bird who sat for something like twenty five years on the windowsill of the other house.  the one that is now 75% empty, and cold. i say that daddy is confused, and yes this is very much true; what i've not said, at least i don't think i have, is that mama is rattled as well.  she doesn't get this way with life, but a drastic move from a home that they built, a place where they lived for thirty eight years, has her standing in the middle of the kitchen floor staring out the window late in the afternoon, frozen in thought between the here and the there.  this feels like limbo for all of us, but especially - completely - for the two of them.  last night when i drove in the freezing dark from their new home out here to where i am staying with my sister and brother in law, i turned to my beloved NPR, and the montgomery station was playing an andy williams version of macarthur park (who knew?!).  i'm not sure why, but the tears welled up and a lump in my throat grew while i barreled down the interstate to the organized comfort of ellen's sweet house.  andy williams.  i think that andy and that old song must have summoned, like the sense of smell so often does, something from the recesses of my buried memories, something about the old, old house where i lived from birth until i had turned sixteen and we moved out to the place called foxwood that i've described with such tender poignancy and love.  it made me sad, it made me think of times long gone, it made me feel for my parents, nestling down there into their new home, turning 'round and 'round like an old pup making a bed wherever it can.  this new place is becoming lovely, yes it is, and i'll be relieved when the day comes that my mother calls and says that the old attic and garage and closets are all empty, that the old place has been cleaned and scrubbed and is ready to place on the market.  and i never thought i'd hear myself say that.  it was with profound relief that i witnessed her finally, late saturday afternoon, sitting down to read the local paper, putting up her feet, drinking a waterford goblet full of her favorite white wine.
thank goodness for family.  thank goodness for my sister, who loves me regardless, thank goodness for my mother and father who live this life still, in relative sound health.  thank blessed goodness for my boys, who are plunging and plundering forward headfirst with separate lives of their own, who love me as well because i am their mother, because i love them fiercely, because we all happen to cherish, to savor, any time we are given these days to spend together - laughing, crying, yelling, in silence - whatever.  we cherish that time, and staunchly guard and protect it with everything that we have.  i feel this way, too, about my blog, about the things that i write.  most of you understand that this is a place for me to vent, to gnash, to wail; it is also my place to share, to urge you to take the time to notice the intricate beauties of this life, the small ones and the big.  and there are so very many.  i thank all of you for taking the time to respond with heartfelt comments, with your understanding, your appreciation, your support and your love.  and for those of you who don't want "drama", who tire of this writer using the word "I" or "me" or "mine"?  go away.  off with you.  be gone.
no one is forcing you to read the things i say, here at ornamental, no one is duct taping you down and making you suffer through anything you do not want to do.  i did not publish a book for which you paid.  these words are here, for free.  read them, if you want, or don't. 

 i'm reminded, offhandedly, of  a story i just recently shared with one of my lovely readers:  when i was young, and had just graduated from college, i was living with my parents again (who at that point were the age that i am now - daddy playing his harmonica, mama teaching and continuing to make beautiful things of art), working the evening shift as a lab clerk in a montgomery hospital, the one where i was born.  those were miserable times for me, working a very unimaginative job under fluorescent lights in a place with no windows, sitting behind an antiquated computer logging medical information into file after file after file.  there are those who excell at this sort of thing; needless to say, i failed.  long story short, i was walking one early morning with one of the med techs, named phyllis, and commented on how much i liked the sound of wet gravel crunching under my feet.  she turned to me with a look of utter disdain on her face and sneered that i got pleasure from the "weirdest damned things".  she meant it as a seering insult, i took it as a compliment, and i've not forgotten her comment to this day.  there are many people just like phyllis in this world, young, old, rich, poor, self employed and not.  how we choose to live with them is completely up to the rest of us.  me?  i choose to be right here, telling my stories, expressing my joys and my sadnesses, liberally peppering my emotional overflows with I and Me and Thee.  

i'll leave you this morning (and no, i'm not headed home after all today, i'll wait until tomorrow when the pipes will hopefully have thawed, when trees will hopefully have been cut and cleared) with these plaintive thoughts:  picture me standing in the middle of that new place, staring at boxes, befuddled as to what to do next.  imagine hearing, out of the blue, the sudden sweet sounds of a harmonica, rising softly into the evening air, coming from my parents' bedroom, where daddy had unearthed his handheld instrument from a hidden spot in a drawer.  picture this, too - i'm sitting next to daddy's chair, enjoying with my parents an early evening glass of wine.  daddy reaches out for my hand, holds on to it, will not let go.  i have my camera, as usual, right next to me.  i take the photo.  he never knows.  i have this shot, forever.  i do.  lucky me.  blessed mine.  xo

life throws rocks

i'm going to keep this brief today; there's lots to do.  i've been in alabama since monday, packing and unpacking at both the new and the old houses where my parents lived, have lived.  it is a time of change, a great time of upheaval and renewal as well.  things change, as i've written of late; things don't stay the same.  you'll all have to excuse me if i write of my feelings, anytime that i do (which, don't you know, is every time i write); you'll have to pardon the flowing of thoughts that deal with change and age and loss and also, many times along the way, love and beauty and life and love again.  that's what i do.  that's how i live my days.  there is the good, there is the bad; i walk a tightrope of emotion stretched between the this and the that, i don't stand underneath on the ground and wish i had taken a risk, wish i had joined a circus so i would know of adventure.  life is a circus, at least mine is, and i'll be damned if i am going to write an insipid little blog, free for all of you to read, that speaks of nothing but surface and roses, of beatitudes and pleasantries.  on monday evening, after i'd driven six hours to get here, after working hard to wrap things up at home (i am self employed, remember this as well) so that i could be away for the week, i received a very unpleasant comment on my blog from a reader who'd not bothered to leave a pleasant one in the past.  i was stunned by what she had to say, out of the blue like that, and quickly deleted it, then went to bed. today, i think i'll share her words with you, so you can see what it's like to keep a public blog - a microcosmic "world" here, for all of you to see.  99% of the time i receive the loveliest, most encouraging and supportive letters; and then there are the one or two rocks that get hurled this way, out of malice and discontent:
 " i keep reading your blog akin to passing a car crash I can't help myself but to look and consider myself lucky I hope you have the chance at another Christmas spent with your old folks your prolific use of the word I in all your posts of life spells out your agenda to a tee not selfless but selfish no matter how you try to set it straight. why aren't you helping you're mom and dad with what may be harder for THEM than YOU oh spoilt one, seems like she may need you now? If not, then don't cry here on your blog when they're gone (i see it all now, lots of reflective heart rending loss?) Grow up little girl, this world is not all about you." 
she's right.  it isn't all about me.  what she doesn't know, what none of you could ever know, are the things between the lines, the emotions that criss cross between parents and children, between friends, between total strangers.  there is not a complete story written here, and for anyone to judge me for something not said, or even said, is unbelievable.  i've been trying to tell myself that the author of those words has her own set of problems, her own insecurities that she is hurling at me.  believe me, i've felt unkind things about all sorts of things in this life - people, events, inanimate objects - but i try to write only of my emotions here (that's what a blog is for, yes?) and not go on and on about the roots and branches of the things that bother me.
meanwhile, i'm off to work at my parents' new house today, i'm off to sit with daddy and unpack boxes while he sits and laments and laughs and sleeps, there in a chair in the middle of the kitchen, there in the car out in the drive. 
i'm trying to be the picture of cheerfulness in the midst of the moving storm, i'm trying to offer help to my mother who doesn't know how, in her confusion over this, to tell me precisely what to do.  she disappears for most of the day, off to get hair done, off to search for a list of numbers, while i pack dusty old wine glasses i've not seen for 32 years, while i sweep the dust from the corners of an empty room.  i've peeled photographs off of kitchen walls, i've made trips to the store to buy warm chicken and cheese sticks and wine, to get a flowering plant with some color to put there in their family room filled to the gill with brown boxes. i spotted the heart rock i gave her years ago, there on the table surface in the warm evening light of the new home.  this pleases me.   it is supposed to snow, at home.  i'm fighting the pining to get back home to the snow.  this is home.  there is home.  this, and there, and all points in between.  xo

ps.  to all who've written, here and privately - so many! - i thank you, thank you, thank you.....xx

sparkle, away

i sat here at my little blue green table by the windows this morning and stared at the tiny vignette i had placed there, at the back corner, over the holidays.  so much sparkle everywhere, so much reflected light.  i'm always reluctant, always late, to begin the arduous process of packing away all the pretties that i had pulled out from boxes and paper the first week or so of december; the colors, the glitter, the sparkle appeal to this magpie spirit of mine, and it's tough for me to summon the energy to wrap them all up and store them away for the rest of this new year. i feel like that little snow child, reaching up for the bird in the nest, for the top of the snow covered tree.  so now, i wait for snow to come again, i wait for the rest of january and february to unfold and wrap themselves around me.  i used to dread those months, i did.  it wasn't until i moved out here nearly five years ago that i began to embrace the cold, the barren branches, the wider skies, the grey, the white, the stark contrasts, the brilliantly painted sunsets splashed behind the maple tree, the early nights, the stretched out evenings.  it took me forty eight years to realize the beauty of this season, to see the gifts that winter brought when cold winds came sweeping in. i guess you could say i'm not the fastest learner; but i do finally learn, and i do take time to appreciate the changes that the seasons bring.  i like to think i do, anyway. i'm not making these sunsets up, i promise you.  they happened in december, there towards the end, and i know that throughout this winter, they'll happen again.  i'm lucky that way, living here where the sky is so stretched out before me, where the mountains don't ever go away.  it matters not if the colors are bright, i also like the varying shades and hues of bluish setting grey.

so, goodbye inside sparkles at my little winter desk; i think i might go find a twisted branch, stick it in a heavy vase and lace the thing with little glistening lights.  that way, when darkness falls early and nights are quiet and long, i'll have the sparkle right here beside me to watch over and to keep me comforted, snug and safe.  and then i'll have the dark, when the lights are off, i'll have the soft and velvet winter dark that is long and is soft, and a dark that welcomes me to sleep, to quiet sleep.  xo

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

                                               - Wendell Berry

true

this day, and yesterday, dawned foggy and white, a perfect beginning to a fresh new year and new decade.  ten years!  i stood outside, barefooted, on the deck just after midnight when fireworks rumbled and boomed from somewhere far across the mountains, and thought back to what has unfolded for me over the last ten years.  it was a startling thought to think back to the many aches and pains and roller coaster joys, so vast! so grand.  ten years is a lot of time to group in a tidy, neat amount like that.  ten years.  i caught myself thinking ahead to the coming ten, and was aghast at myself - thinking of loss, thinking of age - when i stated out loud to the shrouded blue moon that these next ten would be trying, at best.  NO! i shouted, i really did, you take that back - and i did.  i literally raised my arms up to that mottled, full moon sky and said i would be deeply blessed.  and so i shall.
time brings with it, always, great loss and great joy; such is life.  we live, we lose, we gain and share and give away, day by day.  the passing of these hours is subtle, so quiet - we notice not the changes that are slow in coming, only the ones that jolt us, like death or birth or joining or pulling apart.  my mother spends her days right now, from beginning to end, packing and packing and packing some more; "i can't see the progress", she says to me each night.  and each night i say to her that life is like that - slow and inevitable, but moving forward just the same.  i tell her that her work will feel minimal until one morning when she stands before that very empty house.  when the progress is right next to us, when we are there in the thick of it doing the best that we possibly can, we cannot see the deep, green forest for those proverbial single trees.  so maybe, i'm thinking, this fog says a lot about a brand new start; and when that fog lifts, when the sun comes out or the rain and snow clouds gather and then they burst, the change is evident.  that's what i'm thinking this morning, anyway; new truths may surface that are altogether different, by tonight.
keeping a blog is an odd thing, for me.  i crave my quiet time, my solitude, even as i'm wanting to be with loved ones, with treasured friends and family.  i am a private person in many ways, and in writing a blog that is freely broadcast to the reading world, i am recklessly tossing out my emotions for all that world to see...  sometimes not an easy thing to withstand.  writing these things down, and then sending them out like this, gives a new meaning to accountability.
anyway.
i decided to spend my new year's eve working on a piece of jewelry for myself, something i very rarely do.  you all seem to enjoy hearing about the various pieces that i create, about the stories that inevitably rest behind each thing i do; i thought i'd tell you, today, about the piece i created just for me.  and in doing this, i've been inspired with the notion to make a new piece at the beginning of every month this year.  i'll be twelve pieces of jewelry richer - necklaces, bracelets, earrings or pins - at the end of 2010. 

about a month ago, i  received an weathered, yellowed hymn page from an etsy seller that was enclosed with some gift tags i ordered; the hymn was "Shall We Gather at the River", and you all know why those words rang so true for me.  carefully i tucked the weathered song page away, and then yesterday i spent a few peaceful hours fabricating what you see here, finishing up perhaps an hour before my clock struck twelve.  all of my current loves are there - the knotted gemstones, the drilled river stones, vintage words under mica, the resin charm, an old brass pocket watch chain.  the frame is something i had found last week on my little stone beach at the river; i'm not sure what it could be, but stuck it deep down in my jeans pockets so i could bring it back home and work it into a piece of jewelry.  the back is silver, words hammered with a new metal stamp set that frustrates me with its discrepancies.  but the words are true, the words are mine, and i am drawn to those waters, indeed.  shall we gather memory?  i think we must.  i do. last week, after hearing how i had hightailed it back home on christmas eve, my wise, sage friend and mentor lynne perrella wrote and said that perhaps i should name my home "True North", for all the comfort that these four walls bring to me.  i think that she is right, and after reading her words, i pulled out a lovely old compass that a student had given to me back in early april, a gift that was lost in travel for many months until i found it a few days before lynne wrote.  i've pondered these words, the true and the north, and have decided as well that my word for this year shall be "true".  it is a simple word, four short letters that rhyme with you, with blue, with new.  my mantra has always been the words of shakespeare, "to thine own self be true", even when i've felt selfish or overly focused on myself when dealing with those who surround me.  but truer words have never been spoken, and i will wear these words deep in my heart, will honor this word of truth from here on out.  it is my beautiful word, this is so very true. xo