thought starter.

A quote from the International Design Awards 2011 Best of Show Winner's Piece:

"Inert objects -- and people -- lose their charm pretty quickly. It's hard to be inspired by something that never changes. So get moving. Never stand still. Gain momentum. Feel free to start small -- once you begin, it'll be ease to keep going."

Jessica Kuhn, online & associate editor of HOW Magazine poses the thought of whether these words take on any meaning "to you," the reader. I find that I, along with my friends, have reached that point in our lives where we feel we've either figured it out, are on the verge of doing so, or don't think we ever will. Me? Well, I think I fall someplace in the middle of the mix; however, I'd add that it's with a hard lean toward the latter. 

Regardless, what I find to be the more pressing question is this: is it fear and/or the comfortable boundaries we set for ourselves that keep us from reaching our full potential? This happens to be a question I ask myself too often. (Maybe that reveals something about me.) The "what" may possible be within the second layer of that question, which pushes the need to take a deeper look inside to truly figure out what's most important: comfort or the satisfaction of personal success (and I'd argue development). Wouldn't we all like to have both? 

I've been thinking lately that I'll have to start working even harder in my own personal journey of life to achieve such a perfect balance. I can always tell when things get too comfortable: I grow antsy. The one thing I will confirm is that I'm definitely not "inert." Let's consider Newton's First Law: An object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force. Now apply this physics to your life. This "unbalanced force" doesn't mean you come to a complete stop, it just means you take on a different pace, a new direction. For me, the "unbalanced force" may be a new passion, hobby or interest; I thrust myself into them, exploring just enough so that I come out on the other side, once again, in balance (although I have been a bit wobbly at times). 

A little shaking up does a body good; it keeps you from staying too idle, for too long. It isn't always easy to find the motivation on your own, which is why I don't. Instead I get a healthy dose of "forces" from those I surround myself with, who are more often than not the "mover and shaker" type (my kind of style). They're the ones who keep me inspired, which is just how I like to live.

What have you done differently lately? What's inspired you? 


Just a little something to ponder in the spare minutes of your day.




~Jessie

filling the repository

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
 

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
— E.E. Cummings

Love is...

via i can read

teeny tale: the heart.

I remember the day he turned to me and asked how it was possible that the feeling of love could so easily be summed up with a heart, the heart, with a muscular organ that pumps blood, which was more than just another element in the equation of life. To him, blood wasn’t something he associated with feeling good, with feeling alive. No. Instead, it was that thing that was symbolic of pain, of being hurt. And he said that he guessed that part wasn’t completely misleading. Sometimes, he said, he thought he felt love (the good kind) in his stomach, sometimes in his head and on rare occasions even in his toes. Then he told me that to him, love was a total-body experience; it shouldn’t be confined to one organ. And he seemed so content with his conclusion that I didn’t want to tell him it was because of “that thing” that pumps through that “one organ” that he could feel that kind of love in all those kinds of places.

And, in case you missed it, here's the teeny tale from last February: conversation hearts.

olive, the littlest frenchie bulldog...ooo woo ooo

As soon as I close the door behind me, I hear the little pads of her feet hit the hardwood, her tags jingling. She greets me, presenting a toy or bone, and she sits patiently, trembling until I set my bags down to give her her first afternoon rub. I ask if she wants to go out, and her playful nature drives her to deke from left to right; she's stalling, although she and I both know how badly she needs to go. She watches me, with my coat buttoned, hat on and gloves limp, gathered in the clutch of one hand, her harness and leash in the other. I turn away, in an attempt to show dominance, but also to shield the smile--she's such a funny creature. Team Olive: 1. Team Me: 0. 


Once we finally hit the drive, she heads out toward the sidewalk and I can't help to wonder if she's walking me or if I'm walking her. And as we carry on, kicking up the freshly fallen snow, I have my answer: the near 30 pounds of pure muscle that she is, is pulling me right along; I love that she gives me energy when I have none. Somehow we're running, always she leading the way, and I try to keep a decent clip in my clunky rubber boots. It feels good to get the blood pumping, and I think it's best to keep her going, to keep her warm, while my fingers begin to numb. She's nibble, and as she's dodging branches, I'm being dragged behind chuckling at the fact that this pup is showing me up. She even looks back to make sure I'm keeping up, while I look down, hoping we don't hit an icy patch. And then a neighbor appears from around the corner, and our mindless romp comes to a complete. Halt. There are sounds she makes that I was unaware were even possible, and they come out when she spies another person, another dog, anything she wants to get a closer look at. But now that she has my endorphins pumping, I desperately try to drag her back, and eventually we scuttle off. She makes her mark with a piddle on this lawn and that corner and then bounds her barrel chest through the highest snow pile she can find, only to pull me with her to pick up her other mark; the cuffs of my pants fill with flakes. 


I'm glad she gets me out when the temperatures fall below 35: my preferred lowest temp. I wouldn't want to miss this extra time with her. Just the two of us checking out the neighborhood; she's taught me to be more observant. Together, we smell what people are having for dinner and who's house that wonderful fire smell is coming from. She takes note of the dogs that have been out for a walk and probably wonders where they are now, while I note the large footprints that are followed by two smaller ones and wonder which house that father and child live in. When we return home, I wipe her paws and she bounds up the stairs. And then I sit, to write, to leave my mark, and she climbs in my lap to join. On this day, I couldn't think of anything better.

as much for me as it is for you.

Sam Beam is Iron & Wine. Iron & Wine is Sam Beam. I've seen Mr. Beam perform before, but he was accompanied by a full band; it wasn't the sweet, melodic solo experience I had yearned for. He'll be swinging through my neck of the woods again to share songs from his new album, and rumor has it that it's a solo tour. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. In the meantime, I've been enjoying this NPR Tiny Desk Concert. In the chance that I'm met that night in April with more than Sam Beam, I'll be able to pop back here quickly after the show to calm my tattered nerves. (Bonus: this gem also ends with an old favorite, thanks NPR for this little treasure.)

Tale: A Girl Named Jennifer

To most, Jennifer was just another breathing, semi-warm body that passed them on the street. She was quiet, and not because she was shy, although she was, but it was more due to a lack of inspiration – starting up a conversation about how she switched to Fresh Linen fabric softener from Island Breeze didn’t seem all that arousing. At one point, Jennifer realized she had gone 72 straight hours without a peep, not even a casual greeting to a stranger. She was alarmed by the realization and tried to start up a one-way conversation with Milo, her cat, but even he had lost interest in what she had to say over time; maybe she were better off a mute.

Jennifer, or Jenn as those on her dwindling list of friends called her, was 32, but far from having things figured out. Some might say she’s rare, and not rare as in unique, rare as in needing more time to “cook.” She was just wrapping up one hellish Saturday of pondering the value of her existence; she was caught in the toils of self-worth. The patrons sitting in the Second Cup coffee shop may have thought she were actually reading Gone With the Wind while sipping a flavored latte with extra foam, but no: 1.) she had already seen the movie, allowing her to flip the pages at random, sometimes even two at a time; and 2.) a flavored latte was too advanced and “extra foam” was not included in her vocabulary, rather a black coffee acted as her tabletop companion. Jenn scanned the pages of her dusty decoy, letting certain words surface like “courage,” “reputation,” and “my dear” – she’d never been anyone’s “dear.” It all lead to thoughts of what made her courageous, or if she ever had been, and what kind of reputation she was building up; however, she couldn't imagine she had one.

It was a one-day journey full of pit stops, stalls, and countless dead ends. There was one road in particular that she couldn’t hold herself back from plowing down, the one that begged the question of what made her any sort of “unique,” and at the end of the day, she was one thought short of an answer. Yes, she was an only child, which made her a specific kind of special, but the fact that she was the only offspring of Sylvia and Paul wasn’t anything she could list on a resume or use to pick up men. Jenn had some oddball personal possessions that were up for contention, like the one delicate, vintage tea cup she picked up at an estate sale – it was Czech and had a matching saucer with yellow and gold deco – but the fact that it had orphan twins scattered all over eBay didn’t give her points in the precious novelty category.

As for Jenn’s outward appearance, she was pale, but lacking a sufficient amount of freckles and beauty marks for one of her fairness, which crushed her chances of having a distinct grouping of marks in the shape of Jesus, or maybe the constellation Orion. She did have one beauty mark right above her lip, but that didn’t count: its originality was already spoken for. It did, however, feed an ongoing source of interaction for Jenn; it often initiated dialog, but never graduated past that particular topic, or that stage in a conversation. People would approach her, pointing out her “Cindy Crawford mark,” and she would smile and part her lips, readying them for a response, only to quickly surrender them into a smooth, vague grin – a parting gift for stopping by to visit. Why did it have to be the same as Cindy Crawford’s? Why couldn’t it just be hers? It’s not like such a mark could only belong to one person, or that Crawford had a special allotment of them that she gave out to a handful of lucky winners; you can’t go around handing out beauty marks to people like T-shirts or sticks of gum.

In terms of Jenn’s fashion sense, she had none, which meant she either copied what she saw from a magazine; the style-conscious, often togged out gal, Vicky, down the hall; or off mannequins in department stores. Jenn wasn’t a girl who turned heads for her looks, but more often because people thought there was something familiar about her – like the sweater from the H&M window. Jenn definitely didn’t want to call attention to herself, so not being an adventurous dresser left her feeling sufficiently content.

Jenn’s predictable apparel wasn’t the only thing that was working against her; she was shaken of an interesting life from birth; “Jennifer” was the No. 1 most popular name in 1980. Unfortunately, her parents hadn’t been daring enough to veer from the given by removing an “n”; she could have been “Jenifer,” and that deletion of a single letter could have been the ticket, the one that would gain her access to a more intriguing life. Jenn found herself turning every time someone yelled her name, until she began to realize 9.9 times out of 10 it was for another girl with the same 80s name who was often prettier. There was something different Jenn always noticed when her name reverberated through the open air, through the voice of the countless unknown callers to the countless unknown “others”: her name took on an alluring attribute. It was during that ah-ha moment that Jenn accepted a name doesn’t make a person, rather a person makes a name. Regardless, Jenn still held a grundge against her overly popular name, as it induced some unfortunate situations. Like every time she'd go into one of those corner shops on vacation, the ones with silkscreen shirts of palm trees and fake bikini bodies, bottles of sand, and little license plates with names on them, she'd give the carousel a spin to the “J” names, to find the same thing every time: an empty metal rack displaying a lo-res cardboard picture of what should be there with her name on it, and of course a SKU number. The constant disappointment drove Jenn to settle for keychains and the like baring the sole initial “J”; they were easier to find in stock, and she liked to think it made her more mysterious.

Jenn exhausted the gamut of qualifying uniqueness factors until she found herself sifting through “The Black Pit” – the moniker she gave her handbag – in search of drugs to calm her pulsating temple. She wouldn’t give up; she had no choice but to do the exact opposite. If she wanted unique, she had to snatch it from every unexpected person, place and thing; unique wasn’t going to happen on its own. Jenn had to make a decision: she’d either carry on through life in her almost-non-existent way or get charged enough to resuscitate her life – she’d say yes to new experiences, see the world through new eyes, put herself out there more – and rip herself bluntly from her cozy comfort zone.

This day of daunting introspection kicked her butt; Jenn never wanted to feel so beat down again. She pushed back in the velvet-upholstered, thrift-store-find of a chair she had sat in for the last eight hours, the worn-in springs and fabric capturing her sunken impression. Jenn had noticed the brightly painted mural of downtown, the vertical grains in the tabletop, the horizontal lines of her hands, everything except what was going on outside. With her double-breasted wool coat buttoned high and a knit cap upon her head, she gathered her things, and herself, and caught the first glimpse of the falling snow outside. Opening the door, a whoosh of winter air awoke her senses. Without consciously saying “yes,” she tilted her head back, opened her mouth wide, and stuck her tongue straight out. For a full 30 seconds, Jenn let as many of those icy masterpieces fall and dissolve. And then she carried on with a smile, knowing the snowflakes she just caught would never be captured by anyone else; it was the start to something new.

Tale: Seeing

Do you see that? A man with a clipboard, gnawing at a pencil like a bit, who’s he? Why do clipboards give people weight in the world, power to look important checking off top-secret duties from the man above? You’re not going to ask. I’m not going to ask. He’s probably just checking off the last bathroom he emptied the trash from, refilled the foamy soap in, and wiped piss of the porcelain commode. I wonder if he has kids.

What about that guy? He's in his buttoned-up shirt, tucked in, pleated pants and herringbone socks. Is the pattern for show? Was it a conscience effort? Did he go that far to think about what the world would see when he crossed his legs like a dame? What about the junk the world can’t see? People will be thinking more about that, about why he crosses his legs like a broad; real men would find crossing their legs uncomfortable. He must not be real.

What about her? She’s working as a cashier at the grocery store. She checks everyone out, literally. Ringing up baby food, Slim-Fast, Wonder bread, your six-pack of Bud. She scans you, your stuff, and by the time you’re paying, she’s judged you. Don’t let her “Have a nice day” fool you. Who makes her a judge? She’s put-together; put-together people don’t work as cashiers. But the rock on her hand and her blown-out hair mark her as someone who’s well-off. And she is, but she works because it gives her something to complain about, like the old people who want their goods double bagged: paper then plastic. She’s sick of hearing how their milk ripped through the plastic once and fell all the way down the stairs, so she does it. Maybe she isn’t better off.

What about inanimate objects? Let’s say linoleum tiling. The kind you can pick up from Sam at the local hardware store, bring back and install in a day; it’s like peel and stick square clings for your floor. At the specialized stores someone named Diane rips you off, selling it as “contemporary” flooring, when all she’s really doing is upselling cheap. It’s the kind that runs wall-to-wall waxed and topped with shiny new cars at dealerships, littered with the aftermath of unsuccessful TP tears in the bathroom of the ladies room at Wal-Mart, and with sticky beer spots on the floors of frat-house kitchens. It’s usually feathered, tone on tone, while some of the others do their best to mimic their more-desired natural stone heroes. And during awkward conversations, or the ones you rather wish you weren’t apart of, you let your body stay present and let your mind drift away, finding shapes in the design. Maybe you see a naked woman, the face of a child, a character your subconscious just created; maybe it’s the devil in disguise. Then again, you may see nothing. It takes an extra layer of intrigue to make such discoveries.

And what if you don’t see anything? If that’s the case you see nothing in the ceiling tile paneling embossed with textures. At first that is, but throughout your life you may spend hundreds of hours staring at them. Maybe at the dentist office while your spit is getting sucked out of your mouth with a tube and the hygienist is asking you questions, knowing full well you can’t adequately respond; talk about getting the upper hand in a conversation. And all you have are those tiles to look at, and after those countless hours of affixing your gaze upward, your mind digs out memories of a science class that were tucked in the folds of your brain. There was pond water, paramecium, amoeba, and euglena. And then the smell of your lab partner’s ungodly taco-like body odor resurfaces and you start choking, gagging on spit, and water, and air.

And what do you see in love? Being able to agree to disagree? How sad is it that some have only known it as a slap in the face, followed by apologies, and a forced embrace. Others only get it when their partner’s voice is laced with booze. For me? I don’t know. Maybe it’s taking out the trash or organizing the bills. Or how you tell me my hair looks nice. For you? Maybe it’s when I pick food from you beard. Maybe it’s in a kiss on the cheek, followed by sexual propositions and screwing.

What have you painted your life with? Maybe you don’t paint at all. Maybe you choose to draw. Maybe you see in grayscale. Maybe my view is in ROYGBIV. Maybe it’s because the way I see the world is advanced. Because maybe we see only as much as we’ve let ourselves observe and experience. And maybe I’ve done more of that. But who’s to say? I’m sure there are things that you see that I don’t. Our picture of life may never be the same. Like the other day when we saw that old man walking through the cemetery with a single rose. I saw him as a grieving widower or maybe someone's loyal son, and then you told me he looked like a man who led two lives—the rose was for his deceased lover.

teeny tale: silent smile

you know, i really miss the snot out of you. & then he heard a lightweight sigh from the other end. not knowing if it were a sigh of relief or if his choice of words hadn't been well received, he second guessed his quick release of feelings; girls generally didn't care for snot. & then right before he opened his mouth to offer an apology, she spoke: your timing couldn't have been more perfect; that's just what i needed to hear. really? he asked. absolutely, i've been stuffed up for weeks! and she could hear him smile in the silence right before he laughed.

teeny tale: warmth.

Her pockets were filled with tissue lint, and a tube of sugar plum balm to pack her lips with a punch. The elements naturally painted her ivory cheeks with color, like the stain of two strawberries left on grandma’s linen tablecloth. Upon the misfit strands of hair straying from her knit cap, crystals clung, layer atop crunchy layer. Her tread slow, yet steady, made for sloppy impressions, and her narrow feet turned fat. Beyond the naked branches, between the crisscross of X and Y, she spotted a doe a deer a female deer. Its long limbs and slender stature highlighting a female presence, which made her feel safe. Yet the doe’s unbreakable stare and painful stillness provided the evidence: she was wild, and there would be no protecting where fear was found. A slight hang of the head marked her embarrassment, and without sudden movement, she carried on down the sloping spine of the trail. Her brief moment of incapacitation had been enough to send a chill throughout; the heat she built was so easily lost. Slowly hunching, she began huddling her own limbs, drawing them closer. Within her mittens her thumbs bowed and popped from their individual vessels to join the other four; just like how those who stand apart from others secretly wish to be included; even her thumbs had felt alone. Strength comes in numbers. And so, too, does warmth. The easy truth quickened her pace, turning it into an awkward jog. Beneath the icy surface that had covered her coat, a flood of excitement cascaded; just like the water racing beneath the ice of the creek below. She ran for the warmth that would keep her going, and for the warmth that would welcome her when she reached home. 

teeny tale: needed.

She pulled up slowly; the gravel popping beneath each turned tire. And there she saw it. He had found this spot some years ago, bare: what he took as a kind gesture from nature, a welcome invitation to settle among the towering knotty pines. It was a hardy build, constructed from eastern white pine, kiln dried, its dovetail corner notching a work of his own hands--a practice he was taught by his father who along with the skill, shared the tender story of its assumed origin, one of a farmer who sat, marveling at the wedge-shaped tails of some neighborly doves. It was a simple technique, and a simple means for a father and son to bond. 

From the interlocking hand-cut joints of boxes, to dresser drawers, to the logs of his own home, the size of his projects grew with time, as he had with age. There was much he could do for himself, and that which he couldn't merely filled a thimble--something he neither owned nor would ever know existed. She still longed for the days before his hard-working hands, once smooth, turned calloused and cracked; it seemed both she and his leather gloves became a cozy luxury--something his simple life could do without. But for as much as he didn't need her, she was still in need of him. Yet she sat alone, staring down the narrow drive that led to him; the steady stream of smoke pouring from the flue being the closest to him she would get.