Beauty Breaks Free

I stood there crying at the polling place. It was 6:07 a.m. And as usual, I looked bedraggled: clean wet hair, no longer dripping; sun screened face, gleaming makeup free; glasses, shielding my tears.

You might think welling up befits a woman--weeping may be because I am a woman witnessing a woman's name on a ballot for president. That is my gender. That is the backdrop; I can't dismiss it. But that isn't what caught my throat.

Beauty draws out my tears.

And what about beauty this year? Where is it? Where has it been? Here. All along.

Beside, in front, and behind me were neighbors. I recognized very few. I'm new. I wouldn't even say I have roots yet. But they knew each other. Back slaps, good mornings, asking personal questions of each other. Here were humans. I found them. It was so strange to see a face not illumined by a blue light. Strangely beautiful to see eyes looking into eyes. This was beauty.

Then I saw a Beauty.

A woman held herself two steps from the bottom of the staircase. She was in her 80s maybe 90s dressed, not like me. Cherry red tam and matching coat, crisp pants that broke at the shoe, as they should. Her cane may as well have been a scepter. Regal. Erect. A queen, gripping the banister.

A woman offered her a chair and another waved it away and said, "She prefers to stand."

She prefers to stand.

This woman, her age, her gorgeous skin tone said she knew a time when she could not vote, when laws prevented it. Have you been full-hand slapped? Had the tears knocked onto your face? This was a slap of a thought. That was reality. And here she was resplendent.

My feet walked down each of the piano key stairs. My community surrounded me. Each of us there, at the core of it, for the same reason: to make something because we can.

We vote to say we are human. To say we are here. To say life matters. To say others matter. To say we have free will. And then to prove it.

That moment. That coming together was transcendent. A chorus. Holy. It was a sight to behold. Even though my eyes bleared it.

I don't know what will happen next. How it will unfold. But you can't snatch humanity out of a heart. You can't shrink down what a person is, who they are, how they live. No matter what the votes say and the power it grants. And if they try? Well...

I prefer to stand.

Consider Claiming Halloween, Feminists

I was better than Beyonce.
What a fun sentence that is to write. But, it's true. Last year, I was hands down better than Beyonce and her Halloween costume. While she has more money, fame, and skin pigmentation (so jealous of that last one) than I do, her version of Frida Kahlo paled in comparison to mine. I can prove it.

Her Frida Kahlo:

Photo credit: US Magazine

My Frida Kahlo:

I look fierce and pale as my skin is, I otherwise nailed it. The surprising things about this was people's reactions. First, the majority of people did not know who I was (sad), and presenting myself to the world with atypical beauty (a lot of facial hair) made people uncomfortable: staring, staggering backwards, not looking at me when talking. It was quite the experience.  I wasn't fitting their mold. 

And it made me remember what Tina Fey said in Mean Girls and reminded me of Community Season 1 "Intro to Statistics" episode:

Annie: Oh Britta! You look adorable.

Britta: Thank you! I hate when women use Halloween as an excuse to dress up like sluts, you know?

Yes, I do know. Do you?

I've been thinking about it and the expectation that women will wear a sexualized costume on Halloween is wrong. To be sure, women can be all the things: smart, funny, cute, strong, sexy. 

But October 31 feels like a messed up Neil Armstrong quote:

That's one skimpy costume for women, One giant leap backward for womankind. 

As a woman I want to be taken seriously. I want to be able to work and be paid the same as my male counterparts. I want justice when people harass and abuse me/us. And yeah, I want to look sexy, but for me, I want to do that on my terms: my own time, in my own way, not on a specific date with a costume from a bag that frankly should involve more cloth. 

So, I submit to you an idea:

If you're a girl, reject the Halloween costume industry. Here are some reasons why:

1.) Education & Appreciation

I was a famous historical noteworthy woman who everyone should know. It was a little discouraging that people didn't know who Friday Kahlo was, but that makes it all the more important to educate them on WHY she's a big deal.  

2.) The Whole Enchilada: Brains, Beauty, and Creativity

You won't be dressed like anyone else because you thought of it yourself. No hiding in the bathroom for you. You can proudly say you thought of your costume yourself, made it and are owning it. Those are pretty hot.

American Girl Dolls

3.) Living It Out

This year, I dyed my hair red on a whim. It was late at night when my inhibitions were down, but in the morning was embraced as Kimmy Schmidt---my favorite role model for resilience in 2015. By being like her, by committing to the role, I felt stronger. It came at a good time, because I was feeling more brittle than unbreakable. 

4.) Womanhood

Think of the future. I want to use this holiday from here on out to be someone notable and praiseworthy and to inspire other women to do likewise. Who knows, maybe it can propel us into a better place. Maybe that way our daughters won't understand or be able to understand Mean Girls. Now there's a thought. 

Who will I be next year? Brene Brown? Marie Curie? Not sure. But I can promise to keep the bar raised high and my hemlines low. 

Warning: Coloring Club Brings Out Inner Child

Coloring and coloring books designed for adults is an ongoing new trend. It's a way to unwind and let go of the day. The difficulty in relaxation via coloring is you let your guard down to being yourself. The self that I am, I discovered, is a competitive take-no-prisoners coloring champion.

I know this because when someone jokingly asked me if I was feeling competitive I said,
"Yes. But I'm competing against myself and clearly I'm winning." 
Then as proof I held up my artwork. I was not joking; something had come over me.

I'd been looking forward to City in a Jar's first Coloring Club Night for a full month--RSVPed, blacked out the evening on my calendar, etc. Even though every correspondence stated Blick Art Supplies had generously donated coloring pencils and crayons (and they sure did!), I wasn't leaving the evening to chance. I carried in my own 48 crayons conspicuously bulging out of my purse.

I can say it was a little intimidating walking into Urban Chestnut knowing no one. High school cafeterias sprang to mind. I credit the communal tables. The 48 crayons, at at that point of the evening, made me feel a little too overeager and sheepish as I scanned the crowd. I saw no other 20/30 somethings toting personal boxes of crayons.

After checking myself in and locating the gorgeous artwork by Julie Hill Drawings, I had to find a spot.

*Gulp*

I'd sniffed out between checking in and getting the art, this was not a roll in stag sort of event. People came in alone and united with friends. They were in tight clusters of 3 to 7, which made it necessary to utter the dreaded words,

"Can I sit here?"

Thankfully, I got a "yes," as an answer, and got to tuck into some great coloring.

Later, when someone walked up to my table and asked if she could use some of our crayons, I felt a little too good. I immediately gave myself a pat on the back for being prepared. I'd scooted down and told myself I would share, if she sat next to me, but in between back pats the other table members said "No."

She was forced to either 1.) steal the crayons** or 2.) walk away. She moved on, and I realized our true selves, our inner children (as promised) were coming out, and apparently, they don't like sharing.

So, what did I learn at coloring club? 

1.) Go it alone (if you can't locate friends to come with),
2.) Come prepared; it can't hurt. 
3.) Reign in your inner child: share and scoot over
3.) Soak in as much as possible. 

Really, I haven't changed very much from childhood to now.


Want to share my crayons with me next time? Let's be friends and go together. RSVP here, and don't wait too long. Tickets are limited.


**I may need to write a short story about an adult who steals the crayons at coloring book night and the fallout that occurs because of it. Spoiler alert: it will escalate quickly.

Words Escape Me

Well hello there. I've been breaking the first rule of blogging lately, which is blog.
That was profound. Maybe you should write this down:

Rule #1 of blogging: Blog.


I haven't been writing lately because of my other rules: be positive, don't complain, work through your feelings first before telling others. Truth is things have been downright exhausting, hard, and sad lately.

To keep all of my rules, I'm not going to go into it as yet. Just know that 2.5 weeks ago I intended to write a plucky piece about other things you can make when life gives you lemons. And I wanted to make this phrase viral:

When life gives you lemons, make lemon curd. 

Curd is such a gross word; it fits.

Here were the pictures for the positive post that I didn't write. This picture symbolized the things going wrong:

make lemon curd

This one represented controlling the "lemons" and making them into something useful and pretty:

bunt those lemons!

Shortly after taking this I almost keeled over because I was taking them on my back porch and overheated. I fled to Target to use WiFi, drink water, and get Advil. (I couldn't go inside my apartment because...it was filled with an asphalt smell. So much lemon curd to be made!)


At any rate, things have been difficult, and one thing I know and learned was after a lot of stress a person's higher level thinking skills (including creativity) plummets. It's simple brain chemistry. My brain was/is trying to help me survive.

I can fight. I can take flight, but unfortunately, I couldn't write. The thoughts were too visceral too raw, more meaningless onomatopoeias than words. It felt so unlike me that I wondered if I had brain damage. I asked friends if I seemed somehow altered, dumber, to test me, to be honest. But really it was my brain on cortisol over far too many days.

I think I see a glimmer after today of finding words again, which is a relief because I need to write to earn my keep.

For me, health and writing are linked, and they come only with quiet, peace, stillness and being alone. Are you that way?

I sat in silence for hours and hours driving. Hours and hours at home all alone. Hours in silent exercise in nature and another hour getting a massage. And I can hear myself writing now in my head.

So today I learned:

Until I am composed, I can't compose. 

Open Swim (not Sink) St. Louis

I wish you could have been there.
I wish you could have splashed in the water.
I wish you could have seen the dazzling smiles the spectrum of skin.
I wish you could have moved aside for children scaling the perimeter, unable to touch bottom, unable to swim...yet.
I wish you could have heard the collective joy and music rippling around and through the scene.
I wish you could have helped strangers offered to fix their goggles, to find their mom.

I had those pleasures and more at our Pool Party.
It was a sight to behold: neighbors, friends, and strangers-- a jubilant jumbled buoyant mass
Knotted together.
As it should be.

Happy to be together.
Happy to claim a new season.
Happy to swim,
St. Louis.


*Special thanks to everyone who helped make the Marquette Pool Party  an event I cherished. That means you, Cara Spencer, Blank Generation, Sleepy Kitty, Black James, Southside Forever, Mayor Slay, and Parks Department,

Overheard in St. Louis

Not so long ago, I was walking to a coffee shop in a suburban-ish neighborhood. I was approaching a group of three workmen getting ready for their day to begin. Two had perched themselves on the trailer bed full of equipment. One was facing them and the homes. I could hear what they were saying from 15 feet away because of the quiet hour.

As I approached, I saw one of the men look up into a yard. He made a glottal noise- a mix between a grunt and scoff.

"They have a 'Black Lives Matter' sign."

I stiffened and felt my pulse quicken. Instinctively I was preparing myself for whatever he was about to say next. Trying to anticipate it, so I could respond.

Then I heard...

"Black lives do matter." 

One of the man's partners spoke up. Simple. True. Stated without anger by an African American.

There was no response. Not a rebuttal or effort to refute. It was so unlike what'd I've seen unfold online. No splitting of hairs. No, "But all lives matter," retort.*

Just, "Black lives do matter," and silence. It was beautiful, really to see and hear. It said it all.




*If you hadn't noticed already, this is an axiom leveled to negate the point of the Black Lives Matter campaign. Both are true. One needs to be said more and lived out.

We Are So Fragile

Maybe you have to know darkness before you can appreciate the light. 

Madeline L'Engle

Sunday was like any other. I was running late and to my car, 1/2 my makeup on the other 1/2 in my bag as I locked the front door and turned to dash down the stairs. That's as far as I got. The back window of my car was bashed in. I took one look, said "Oh" and pivoted to go back inside.

This was dangerous -- not the circumstance itself. I knew it would be costly and cumbersome and rain was on the way. Those weren't the dangers. Those were the facts. My danger was emotional, knowing that one random act of violence could set off a chain reaction in how I see the world. How I would respond. How it would strike my thoughts and could shatter my emotions. This isn't the first window I've had busted out, so I knew. The first time I convinced myself it indicated a coming lifetime of navigating the world and it's problems alone, unsupported, and vulnerable. It was damaging train of thought triggered by broken glass. Since it happened again, what would follow?

That past reaction let me knew I needed to proceed with caution. This isolated act of destruction could destroy something far greater, if I'd let it. I started the mental list and the calls: police, insurance, glass repair, car dealership. I studied the weather and reached out to a few friends.

Then I started to catalog and collect things of the day the good things. I knew the stress and heightened sensitivity would allow me to remember vividly, so I tried to shore myself up attending them rather than my feelings.

I remember things like:
The black cat chasing robins in the lawn;
The cashier's "I'm New" badge;
A bird that pooped on my hand (Ok, who wouldn't remember that?)
That my neighbor drank chilled white wine on her porch;
Someone left a frying pan on top of the dumpster.

Those were just things, but good happened too.

My friend drove his car around a marathon to help me buy groceries.

The sun came out.

All of the neighbors clucked their tongues and shook their heads.

Passers by looked at the scene in a horrified way, revealing what I think to be true, that this is not normal to do or to see.

Just when I thought it was impossible, I got those blasted UMSL parking stickers off the window after all. (P.S. UMSL, I still want my money back.)

In addition to the good things I observed, I learned a few things I maybe wouldn't have. And for me there's something inherently thrilling about learning things.

Things I learned: 

1.) Bricks can't be dusted for fingerprints because they are too porous. (I don't believe this, but that's what the dispatcher told me.)

2.) The police department when filing a report takes down (seemingly) irrelevant information like birth date, marital status and ethnicity before they ask you what's wrong. I get it! I'm single in my 30s and white, okay? It hurt my feelings.

3.) I like motive. I want to know the motives behind people's actions. The thrill of destruction was too foreign  a reason for me in this case.  Instead I decided the person had a vengeful dislike for Ernest Hemingway. Therefore, I learned I shouldn't have 3 Hemingway novels in my car at any one time, since it evokes an irrational brick wielding wrath.

4.) I'm sensitive. (See number 2.) I didn't learn this, just confirmed it for the zillionth time.

5.) I want to reason with people and set some ground rules. So you're going to destroy my car, okay. Please do it in a somewhat controlled and considerate way and heed these:

• If you're going to throw a brick in a car window, then don't do it on a Saturday night. Every repair place is closed on Sunday.

• If you're going to throw a brick in a car window, then don't do it in April. There's so much rain to contend with and it will be a mess.

• If you're going to throw a brick in a car window, then make sure they have a garage.

6.) My neighbor gives good hugs. She unhesitatingly took me into my arms and said, "This is such a violation." Then she let me use her garage until I got everything fixed up.


7.) The support of others makes a world of difference.

STL Heart Card
julie.johnson11007@gmail.com

Thank you to everyone who helped me. You reacted with protective compassion when I needed shielding.

Revive Your Wardrobe this Spring

There is one closet in my apartment. It is one of the drawbacks to living in an older home. I have still managed to fill this, 2 dressers, a wardrobe, and a few storage containers of Spring/ Summer or Winter/ Fall clothing (whichever seasons aren't happening).

I own a lot of things. A slightly embarrassing amount, really. But I have achieved it all economically. After moving to St. Louis, I got almost all of my clothes at The Scholarshop. Check them and their mission out here. Then I discovered the better Goodwills in town and let's not forget clearance racks.  

But lately (the past 3 years) I've been able to "shop" at clothing swaps around St. Louis. I've gotten more than my money's worth, have been able to completely change over what I own, and feel like a champion. 

Now, let it be said, I don't want to be a clothes hoarder. Before I ever go shopping, I comb through what I don't wear, or don't like anymore and discard. Only after that will I seek out "new to me" things.

Mostly I donate clothes to Revive Thrift Shop. It helps the Mission St. Louis JLT program, and I feel good about the work they are doing in my city.

Then there's the swaps. I am only familiar with 2 and really that's all I've needed to keep covered and layered up for every season.

I often go to Perennial's (and just went last weekend) held once or twice a year. (They also have a clothing swap for men and one for home goods!) 

And then there's the swap that was my introduction to the concept, The Covering House's Swap Till You Drop.  (The next one is April 18th!)

But let me explain something that happens to me at clothing exchanges. After a bit of milling around, surrounded by other people who are finding cute things and apologizing for bumping into strangers with their reusable bag, I start to get a little...frenzied. 

If you've ever been to the pay-by-the-pound Goodwill, you've seen this happen to a group of people. Swarming, territorial behavior that really someone should study and write a psychology paper about. (Someone do this for your thesis and dedicate it to me! It's a great idea.)

I feel it slowly start to well up in me.  It's an "I want that" mentality that springs to mind when a stranger pushes a hanger over revealing something that may or may not fit, and she starts to reach for it. Maybe I could grab it away. Maybe I could say "look over there" and distract her. Once I even thought of pulling a parka that looked as if it was made of hemp out of a person's over-stuffed bag. "She'd never miss it," I rationalized. I'm not Rastafarian, so why did I want it? Because I could have it.

This is the temptation of free things. It's easy to lose sight of what you need, want, and what is just questionable. I truly get into a bit of an alternate reality thinking. Whatever the reason, the proof is in my bag.

Once I get home from an exchange, I realize first, that I have more than I thought. Mostly I donate more than I take away, but it's still a bit surprising as I hoist it into my car. Then take out the things and spread them out at home so I know how to go about washing them. That is when it starts to dawn on me that, "maybe I shouldn't have brought this home."

I have a very loose concept of what I would wear at a clothing exchange. I won't be wasting my money and it's an opportunity to try something new with no regrets. This is how I came to try high waisted pants, crop tops, started my crochet cape collection, and learned about sweater skirts.

But I have also come away with other treasures like...

a belt with jungle beasts and bejeweled eyes
Nothing say fashion quite like elephants and panthers around your waist. Don't they look scared?

a power drill without bits 
Because sometimes you've got to fix stuff...or be almost ready to fix stuff.

These shoes 
Great for weddings where a certain former someone might be there. Of course he wasn't, and I almost died. 

a polyester vest with a yarn apple on it 
2-4 sizes too large and...why?

high waisted Wranglers that double as a corset. 

A shirt that says "chillin' like a villian" 
made for a child under the age of 5 (One you will immediately regret wearing when you bump into an ex. He didn't see the shoes; he saw a sweated up penguin t-shirt. Awesome.)

And it goes on.

If you want to revive your wardrobe this spring, do it. Follow these simple steps:

1.) Donate first at an organization you can get behind.

2.) Swap without regret. 

3.) Then after you get home see if you too brought home treasure or questionable items.

4.) Re-swap your questionable items...or

5,) Recycle your shouldn't be given away clothes at H&M. 

Did something come over you at your swap experience? Come away with something inexplicable? Not to worry! Tell me about it on the Facebook page. I want to hear about it. We can commiserate. 

Bright Spot(light) on Central Public Library

You can smell the copper before you touch it. Then, there's the feelings of betrayal and stupidity when the door labeled "PULL" is locked.

I made it to Central Public Library on Olive Street downtown for the first time. When left to plan my ideal day off, it made the top of the list. (It's second only to the SLAM, which is always closed on Mondays--a fact I always forget.) Now I'll remember Central is open!

The inside of the building is gorgeous. My 1:08 minutes ticking away on the meter out front wasn't enough time to see all of the rooms. I went quickly from floor to floor, neglecting the books entirely. There was no time to drink in the surroundings AND to touch spines and eye-judge covers (as I love to do.) 

The design woven into each floor to help direct you from where you are and where you want to be caught my attention and admiration

as did the creative work space and the unique details. 

This is the ceiling!

Unfortunately the Children's library won't let in child-less adults. But they do have nice androgynous gummy people standing guard. 

Oh and if you feel like you've died and gone to heaven, you haven't. That's just the bookshelves glowing. At first I thought it was just the books radiating renewable energy. Exactly how took a bit for me to figure out. I did run my hands over it to figure out the trick--built in bulbs. 

Quickly, my time was up but well spent.

Oh, You'll Do.

It was an unfortunate evening to come home to an empty house. Empty, describing the amount of chocolate there. She dug around in various places for plausible stashes and then uncovered some Baker's chocolate. "You'll do," she said. But, like all encounters that begin this way, it ended badly.

Remember, Every Night is Ladies' Night

It was about 2 weeks ago that I declared to a complete stranger and a friend
"I hate ladies' nights."

This was not a good way to respond to an extended invitation to go out with some women later that week, yet there it was.

I'm not sure how this conversation went precisely, because memories are a tricky thing, but I can try to recreate what I believe truly happened.

Looks. 

Silence.

Me, instead of back peddling, charging forward.  

"I've been thinking about it and I don't know if I am going to find and meet a man, but I know where I am definitely not going to find him.

He isn't: 
1.) in my house (and if he is there, he's a creepy stalker) 
2.) at my parents' home or
3.) at a girls' night."


I think there was some feedback at this point, but the truth in my logic was finally finding words and I didn't stop.

I went on to explain that I keep getting invited to girls' nights by my women who are primarily married and dating. They want to hang out with all women. They get excited about these times, while I fight off mounting feelings of frustration or even anxiety when invited to one. For me, every night is ladies night. It's called going home.

When I unlock my apartment door I might as well yell inside "Welcome to ladies' night. WOOOOOO!!!"

Or really upon entering any establishment:

"Helloooo coffee shop. This lady has arrived, so the drinks are on me!"

Not sure how to respond to a "Let's do a girls' night!" I may respond with sound effects. Sound effects are highly open to interpretation and aren't exactly lies.

"Ohhhh"
"Eeeee" 
"MMMM"

What do those mean? It's up to the listener to decide.

What I am doing in that moment is doing mental math. I'm tallying up all the hours I will be surrounded in the land of women and all the money I spend in that world. And I am freaking out. "Nooooo. How am I going to ever find someone if I am spending all I have in this insular bubble?? I'm not. I'm just not! Men don't like to  go to wine painting parties. And I don't either!! I can't afford this." 

Meanwhile what I really want to do, if  not be with a significant other of my own, is hang out with BOTH sexes. Provide the opportunity to meet someone. To not sit around and hear about husbands and boyfriends or kids when they aren't around. I'd much rather be around all of them and get to know them.

Is this too honest for you?

With my wits about me I realize that it is nice to be invited to things. And I also see that possibly women who are requesting these events are striving to strike up balance in their lives. Possibly they are feeling an inequity in how their time and money is being spent. So much time around their spouse/ boyfriend/ kids is time not spent around other women.

So if that is sound, then logically it holds that the feelings that I am experiencing are equally valid and true. I have an over abundance of "girl time" with myself and 80-90% of my free time activities are spent with women and it's too much. I need something in the middle.

So, if you invite me to anything girly in the coming future, thank you. I'm grateful. But can we make it a Co-Ed night? Dinner party, poker, laser tag, dancing, bowling, movie, whatever??
Bring men, women, and children and we'll have a good time.

Weekends are for Thinking

Can you recall the look on the Dowager Countess' face when she asked "What IS a weekend?"

It looked like this:

sourece: midlifeboulevard.com 

And up until a few months ago, I would have asked the same thing. What is a weekend? What do you do with one?

I made a great change in my life. One that forced such questions on me. And it has taken quite awhile to realize it, but I changed jobs. 

I changed careers, really, in August, and I didn't tell you about it. I stayed basically silent because I didn't know the proper "how to's" that the circumstance required.

I didn't know how to tell my (former) co-workers; I didn't know how to share the news, so I basically skirted all of the issues.

Not until about Thanksgiving did I start to realize  the changes. I wasn't mashing potatoes with children for a 35(ish) guest feast at school. I wasn't brainstorming a secular, though recognizable, song to sing at a winter themed gathering. I wasn't teaching.

Sticking to my rules about being positive and not sharing things I haven't fully processed, I can't get into the "whys" of resigning from the teaching world. But I can say that I changed careers and it was (and is) a good thing. 

Now, I'm a writer--a copywriter. This too hasn't sunk in. When someone asks me what my job is, I go blank. I can't do my well practiced explanation of seven years:

I'm a teacher. I teach kids from 5 years to 12 years old. They are deaf and teach them to talk. No, I don't know sign language. Yes, they use devices like hearing aids or cochlear implants. 

(Can you imagine trying to explain this at parties? It was challenging.) 

Now what do I say? My new career is still in mental line to register as a job, so there's typically a long pause, and I ask myself, "What do I do?" It's an uncomfortable moment, but indicates how little the reality has dawned on me. 

To explain why my thoughts are so backed up, I am already a slow processor. Very very slow, especially with things that matter and will change my life. Maybe I am slower than the slowest snake at digesting things. And like them, I tend to swallow things whole instead of biting off more than I can chew. 

As a background, I've been working steadily full-time teaching at school, working internships on nights and weekends, working side jobs (wedding coordinating and Etsy store), volunteering, taking classes and applying for jobs for so long steadily working towards the goal of changing careers that I didn't know what a weekend was.

Then I actually changed careers and paused my University of Missouri St. Louis classes and wedding coordinating, and felt a gap open around me. You would think it would feel good, but it's like stepping out of a concert and hearing a ringing in your ears that isn't there. What should feel good is disorienting. 

Part of this disorientation lies in my growing awareness of the changes I set in motion. I have to label things out, since I didn't take the time (or couldn't take the time) in August. 

These are my work clothes.

This is my commute.

This is my alternate route to work.

This is my desk and computer and chair. 

These are my co-workers. 

This is a nice place for lunch.

This is the way to go home. 

If it sounds detached, it's because, for me, that's where I'm at emotionally. This time (and typically) I've not processed huge life changes. [And when I have taken the time, it backfired and missed opportunities that would have been open to me 4 days earlier.] So I jump and feel my way through later, which is something I'd like to unlearn.

But that is something I'll have to try next time. All I know now is, I have weekends. I have Saturdays and Sundays to think about this new career and possibilities and how I feel and think and wonder about everything that happened these last 6 months. 

Chain of Hearts

"I know you're sad. I'm so so sorry."
These were the words my mother said to me the moment stepped into her home after I'd finished my drive from St. Louis city to Illinois the morning of Tuesday, November 26th.

After a night of unrest and protesting in my neighborhood, I decided to leave early for Thanksgiving. "Leaving early for Thanksgiving" was the rationale I applied, but it did not help me lessen the feeling I'd relinquished something dearly loved without any opposition. It didn't undo the label I earned and given myself, coward.

The words would not come then; they barely come now.

If my heart were to break, I would not be surprised to find a rusted box of tangled chains within. I can feel them: heavy, tarnished and cold chafing together inside me. I can taste the bitter metal in my mouth, I can feel the corrosion on my fingers. These are the chains, twisted into a grotesque Gordian knot, that I wish I could undo. Let me name them:

This one is fear.

This one is anger.

This one is shame.

This one is helplessness.

This one is love.

This one is hope.


This chain is fear.
This is the fear that drove me to Illinois. Not the fear of white. Not the fear of black. Not the fear of law, enforced or broken. I feared the fear of what one fear-filled person can do. Then another. Then another. For fear grows like a disease and anyone can catch it.


This chain is anger.
Searching #Ferguson on Twitter to see if I was safe or not in my home, I saw cold, bald, distilled hatred. Hatred I had never seen before. My stomach lurched. Like a reflex, I suppose it tried to purge the poison I'd read. But it was too late. No retching can unsee the wretched hatred I beheld there.

This chain is shame.
How can a man or woman hate another? How can any one race hate another? How was I so blind? How could I so naively trust that others see what I do--the image of the Almighty? How can I ask someone to trust my fair skin if there's is different? How can I ask that now?

This chain is helplessness.
Lord just--
Lord, just--
Just--
My prayers, so charred and brittle, they break off and fall silent for the Spirit to interpret.

This chain is love.
I cannot fix what I do not feel. I cannot find what I do not see. I love. Help me to love more. Help me to love honestly and boldly. Help me to learn of Your perfect love and teach it and learn it again when I forget. I am so forgetful.

This chain is hope.
These are the magic words my dearly loved student taught me to say.

Her: I'm sorry Miss Martin.
Me: It's ok.
Her: I'm sorry Miss Martin.
Me: I heard you sweetie. It's ok.
Her: (Starting to weep) I said I'm sorry Miss Martin.
Me: Hey...shhhh. It's okay...I'm not angry...I...I forgive you.
Her: Okay. 

It took me far too long to learn to extend this forever forgiveness.

Me: I'm sorry.
Her: It's okay Miss Martin. I still forgive you.

I still forgive you.
I still forgive you.
I still forgive you.

The words of our children. The words of our Savior. The words that He will speak to un-knot the
chains of my heart and then beat them into crown.

Come Lord Jesus and heal our world. Heal my city. It groans for you.

The Fault in Our Stairs

There are so many perks to owning or renting an older home in St. Louis: the charm, the neighborhoods, the older trees, the unique floor plans and architecture.

However, there are a few things inherent to the older homes that are problematic at best, the closets and the staircases.

I have been on the lookout for a wardrobe, since my home has one closet; I found one last weekend. After asking around, I got my friend to agree to help me transport it. We were two girls with a truck and the open road limited only by our upper body strength.

As it turns out that was a pretty great limitation. We got the furniture in the truck, back to my place, and on the porch. I suggested we stop there because my staircase is scary steep. But my friend decided we shouldn't give up before trying.

Tried we did.

First pulling, then scooting and lifting stair by stair. At a certain point, I thought we would very likely win a Darwin award for this effort. "What will I say to Steve if I let Natalie get smushed by a wardrobe before the wedding?" I kept thinking. But it made it up to the landing and there we came to a crossroads. Definitely we make a good team and I credit our communication prowess more than any brute strength.


With a lot of older homes, as I said before, the stairs are problematic. One case has a 360 degree turn from bottom to top. The other has a 90 degree angle and right at this bend we had to stop.

Brainstorming, wiggling, leveraging didn't work. After about 20 minutes we had 2 very viable ideas on how to get the wardrobe up the last 4 steps, but we also agreed we lacked the arm power.

And here it sat.
And sat.
And sat.
And sat.

I've imagined many grim and cartoonish scenarios about it sliding back down the stairs, possibly killing me or my cat, and most certainly smashing everything so if I am not killed I will have to pay for the damages to the home.

I have done extensive cat jumping simulations to test it's precariousness. And it has passed, while the fear has remained. I felt better leaving the house after adding a counter balance Because if there's one thing Autumn has taught me, it's that everything's better with pumpkin on it.

And here it will continue to sit until more friends, of the male gender, come and to help me.

Where Do You Go with Your Artist's Heart?

Tonight I got the very wonderful experience of going to an enchanting studio space in Shaw neighborhood.
First of all, if you are not from St. Louis, you likely now have heard about Shaw neighborhood, the recent violence, protests, vigils and Ferguson October. This story, this coverage, this light shone on our prejudices and hate of my beloved city is heart rending.
And when my heart is rent, I need to condition it and coax it back into being whole.

This need for nurturing led me back to the Shaw neighborhood. [Isn't this how so many things go? You go to the painful place to help heal?] I lived on Shaw, worked at the corner of Tower Grove and McCree, dog sat near the corner of Klemm. For four wonderful years, this was home.

Here I was, at the place I had scouted out months ago not knowing what would be inside. I loved the outside sign, font, and name. If there is a such thing, I had shop window love at first sight, I had it. The only other time that has happened was when I saw Winslow's Home going in. And boy was I ever right about that place. And I was right again.

As it happens this window and once empty space I became smitten with while commuting to work turns out to be an artists studio. Union Studio has several artists' work and wares on display, while also providing them with place a to work. I happened to be there after learning about an open studio night. Show up and make things in this gorgeous space? Yes, please.

I met two of the artists, Mary Beth and Leah and after a little chatting was put to work--exactly what I needed. There was a cooked fiber(I don't recall the name, but it's not indigenous of North America) in a pot that one of the artists, Leah, showed me how to pull apart, reform, and flatten into a shape. She seemed concerned and apologetic for using me in this way. How do you tell a virtual stranger, "I can't control or shape anything else in life, let me have this thing?" Slow, methodical, tactile, this helps free my mind and spirit.

I kept at it for 2 hours. And we talked the sort of talk that you have when you're making, about St. Louis, the art scene here versus Kansas City, our backgrounds, the history of paper making, the art in the room and the stories behind the pieces. I'm not exaggerating when I say everything in Union Studio is art: soap, scarves, paper, the table, etc. Even the wet fibers  the ugly semi sticky masses I was mashing together, flattening into discs will turn into something translucent and beautiful.

It was a relief. To come out of the dark into a bright and inviting space to talk and to learn and to try. I recommend, if not here, that you try this "making" with your friends or find an artists guild and meet them.

Oh and guess what? I'm back to writing again. Surprise.

Recycling at the Mall: Some Tips

A Saturday morning phone conversation with my brother:

Him: What are you doing today. 
Me: Well, I'm going to the mall.
Him: What... Why?
Me: I'm going to go recycle some things.
Him: Oh I knew something had to be up, you wouldn't just go there. What kind of recycling?

I'm so glad he asked. It makes for a perfect setup for this post.  But before I get into what and where to recycle at your mall, let me commend my brother.

He is a very smart man who knows me well.
He knows I would not go to a mall just to shop.
Further he knows I would not use my precious Saturday hours to battle finding a parking spot, looking for pants that just don't fit and spending too much money.

That's not to say I would never go to the mall.  I would and I do. Occasionally.

I would go to the mall to: 

To buy an Auntie Anne's pretzel,
To watch a movie, or
To fix a wardrobe emergency. 


What is a wardrobe emergency?
A wardrobe emergency for instance could be if your strapless bra decides to cease having elasticity in the middle of church, slips around your waist and can't be convinced it is not belt. This is a wardrobe emergency, and it warrants leaving service and driving straight to the mall.

Here I was, instead of the above reasons, taking old things to the mall and leaving them there.

I've been taking bottle caps to the mall for years.
Did you know the plastic used on soda bottles and milk jugs can't be recycled normally?

Aveda collects them and...at this point I have heard 2 different things.  I have been told/ read that
they turn them into new bottle caps for their products. (Now their caps are recyclable so this possibly changed). Saturday I was told they redistribute them to schools to use to make art projects.
Either way, I feel good about it.

Next, is a new one.
Did you know you can recycle old clothes at H&M?  Recently, Julie Johnson photographer/ blogger/ friend from Life Astonished posted about this not so long ago.

I know some of my clothes are so ratty they should not go to Goodwill or any other clothing donation for that matter, and consequently I have held on to them. But no more! H&M wants my old clothes. It wants your old clothes. It wants old clothes.
And if recycling pitted out ripped up clothes and freeing up closet space wasn't enough of an incentive, they also give you an in-store coupon for your effort.

Finally, one you probably know about, is shoe recycling. Look into where you can recycle your old shoes. I typically do a shoe roundup for me and my friends every couple of years and take a trek out to the Nike outlet, but more and more stores want your rubber soles.

See? Malls have something for everyone, even for the wary consumer.

Today's lesson: Do a little research, reduce, reuse and recycle.

How to NOT Wait by the Phone

We've all played the waiting game at one time or another, staring at a land line or cell phone willing it to ring or vibrate. Be it for the doctor calling with test results, the verdict on the job you interviewed for or the fulfillment of the "I'll call you" promise, it's downright uncomfortable.

I've been in each of these scenarios, but the most frequently occurring for me is waiting to see what a guy meant when he said he'd be in touch.

I have come to conclude (without criticism), that often a guy will say "I'll call you"  when he really means "please get out of my car, now." This seems to be the simplest way to get me to go away. I can't say that I fault the men-folk who have promised a call in the past and not honored it. I wonder if they thought I would burst into tears or refused to get out if they had simply said the truth, which is: "Yeah, let's never do this again. Ever." All this translates to is that I never know what will happen after stepping out of the car.

Often I catch myself creating elaborate stories to explain the silence. I try them on one after another like I'm shoe shopping.
Maybe he was caught in a hold up at the bank and is the only hostage still inside.
Perhaps there was a family emergency and he is fine, but grandma? Well...
He's somehow dramatically injured and whispers to a friend that they need to make a call to a girl, but they don't understand his gibberish.
After trying out a few of these scenarios, I know I have gone a bit batty. Perhaps it's a bit romantic to kill off a potential leading man or to put him in harms way, but also it's really morose and twisted.  Essentially this line of thought says, "I like you enough to fantasize your death as a plausible reason for you not contacting me; this collateral damage is superior to thinking you were lying."
Not good.

What I do know is the waiting game is full of wasted time, emotional energy and fantastical deadly stories, and I'd rather just re-channel all of it.

Here's what I've come up to do instead of waiting for technology to beckon me to converse... or not.
You should try some.

1.) Do something you typically put off.

For me that means either painting my nails and or shaving my legs.
How do girls do these things consistently?
Both take way too much time. And wet nails are essentially a prison sentence. I can't not use my hands, so it's always a mess.

2.) Go on a walk and find things.

While on a long ramble, I found this rock. It told me to turn it over,

and I was in a listening mood, so I did,

and I gave it some relief.


3.) Begin a series of hilarious pranks.
This is Yolanda the pregnant (and formally naked) paper mache yogi. I discovered her after she'd been kicked out of her home. Perhaps she was banished for being with child. Since the time I found her, she's been outfitted and passed along from friend to friend.

 

This week she baked cookies for a friend and delivered them in person.

I plan to write Yolanda a genesis story sometime in the near future.


4.) Write a blog post about not waiting by the phone. 

See what I did here? Yeah? Enough said.



5.) Put your phone somewhere where you can't see it and dance.

Really dance. And shoot, sing too. No one will see or hear and you'll feel better because that's how we were wired.

Be who you are, singing and dancing on the earth. When you do that, a phone, ringing or silent is of little importance.

Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free.” 

― Rumi