On Being a Rich Woman
“Recognize joy when it arrives in the plain brown wrappings of everyday life.”
~Judith Viorst
Early October, twenty years back. Bedroom windows open mere inches, a soft farmer’s rain lulled my fatigue. Two felines and a down comforter kept the chill at bay. The damp, distinct aroma of autumn was loamy and deep.
Late night classical music on NPR. Antique bedside lamps aglow. In a paper-thin, stemless crystal snifter, a mellow, amber cognac. On the bed tray, a journal, hand-bound with a tooled leather cover, and a fine fountain pen. Dark blue ink in a slow stream, leaving combinations of the alphabet on cream paper, the journal a coffer of thoughts and gratitude for a door to lock, a tight roof, gas heat, for beauty, and my beloved four-leggeds.
Thomas Jefferson said, “It is neither wealth nor splendor, but tranquility and occupation, which give happiness.”
It is the silence between notes that makes music. Without that void, the sound would be an irksome, continuous, monotonous tone, like the old “test of the emergency broadcast system.”
Likewise, the moments before, between, and after an activity sometimes seem most important. Deep conversation occurs, not during the big family dinner or party, but more likely, quietly, in a coffee shop, or at the kitchen table at the end of the day. Divine inspiration comes most easily amid downtime. Problems find solutions in the shower or on a morning run, when the last piece of a huge puzzle will finally slip into place.
Basking in contentment, I was in an in-between moment, lush in simplicity. It did not require a special dress or accessory, travel, or the expensive pen or brandy snifter. Neither the type of car I drove, nor my address mattered.
Unencumbered, my senses were sated. I saw, felt, heard tasted and smelled where my true wealth lies: bliss comes quietly, from awareness, and grateful heart.
Carpe diem
Rebecca
Savor the flavor
Washing dishes has never been a favorite chore, but there is one exception— when I truly love cleaning up after a meal.
Few things are more fun than a small gathering of folks I adore. Now, I’m not a great cook, but I’ve collected simple, failsafe and tasty recipes that require little attention at serving time. But more important than the menu or the wine is the guest list. I’ve learned that people who are interesting are interested, for they inquire and listen as much as they talk. A dinner party for 4 to 6 is the perfect size— having more than six people at a table will almost always splinter into two conversations. Six or fewer and magic can happen: discussions can roam in many directions, banter is easy to follow, ah-has are abundant, and deep connections are seeded.
There is more, though—intention and meaning are my co-hosts, as ritual and history set the tone. The extra three minutes it takes to put out Mama’s silver instead of the stainless. Using my grandmother’s butter dish. Cloth napkins. The wine glasses that fill the hand so perfectly. The delightful salt cellar and tiny silver spoon. China cups and saucers or demitasse for after-dinner coffee. Candles, and dim lighting beyond the table to minimize distraction. Little footstools under the table for more petite guests, for even in straight back chairs, folks linger for two, three or four hours.
Afterward, I savor the evening as I tidy the kitchen, all but the wine glasses. Life lesson #7: always wait until morning to wash the stems.
And en route to the kitchen the next day, I stop to bask in the remnant joy, the energy that lingers in the space. Dear friends and family always leave some laughter and love behind, which fills my heart anew.
Grey is out. Gloom is Gone.
Does anyone else recall the glee when you opened a brand new box of crayons? Do you remember the smell? The perfect wrappers, the long unbroken sticks with the honed, flat, tapered point? Did you seek your favorite color first? For most of my working life, I’ve kept a full set of color markers or pencils on or near my desk. A coloring book of some kind is at hand – mandalas are my favorite. And when I have a few minutes, or need to change my state or take a break, I color.
I’ve loved fabric, paint and texture all of my life. From nail polish to make up, a gauzy floral skirt to a full-length wool cape, these elements of design still move me and make me swoon every day. They delight my senses, make my mouth water, and tickle my spirit. I learned to sew at the age of nine, to crochet in my teens, took up needlepoint in college, and learned to knit on my first lecture tour in New Zealand. (How could I be in a country with 80 million sheep and not learn to knit?) Handwork is a meditation to me, as the luscious yarn glides through my finders, developing a form and personality as I work, yet it also a social focus, as I can “pass the time of day” with others as I create.
The element of design common to all of these—fiber, paint and texture—is color, and I was blessed early on to find a way to use this passion to make my way through the world. I cannot explain the elation that comes when I find the perfect colors and finishes for a space, or what a charge it is to see it—often months later—in real life on installation day. Sometimes I just have to sit and drink in the room and sigh with pleasure, wondering what stories the room will hold in a few years—the events, emotions and gleanings of the souls that will live there.
Color is free energy. The cost for color vs. non-color is usually nil, but the boost that comes from the right color for the right application is a bonus . . . a gift from the Universe. While it is merely a refraction or reflection of LIGHT, the impact is huge, and it gives me great joy. It’s akin to eating canned corn when fresh corn is available: why settle for gray when you can have pink, coral, teal, lime, or sage?
I love this video. It makes my soul smile, from hair roots (uncolored) to my toenails (usually colored). http://www.letscolourproject.com/blog/2010/05/dulux-walls-global-film-launched-2/
Carpe diem
Rebecca
A path to comfort. A path to joy.
Friends and I were discussing how we comfort ourselves. There’s food, of course: carbs and chocolate top the list for many. A cup of tea. Merlot.
“What are your comfort movies?” one asked. “What do you watch when it’s been a hard day and you want to let it go?” Second Hand Lions; Babette’s Feast; Ever After; the West Wing. Or in only 30 seconds, the Aflac commercial with Yogi Berra on YouTube will tickle my funny bone.
“Books?” asked another. Sue Bender’s “Everyday Sacred” always brings me back to center. Or Sarah Ban Breathnach’s “Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy.”
Knitting or sewing will soothe my harried soul, becoming a meditation. And a small dinner party will tickle my fancy every time.
Then there is the real funk. Surely we all, on occasion, must find our way back to joy. It’s vital for me to already know the path.
A movie can change my state — in a theater, preferably a kid’s film. I saw Shrek while sitting in front of an 8-year-old boy whose cackle infected the audience with laughter. I felt terrific when it was over.
From a deep or dark place, it takes more: I need to learn something new and fun. A photography course, or drawing, painting, silversmithing. Once the creative juices begin to flow, everything about my life works again. Everything! I’m back where I belong: joyful, optimistic, resourceful, eager, vital, excited to be alive.
There is one other thing I do regularly to not only lift my spirits, but give wings to my soul: a field trip to the wholesale interior design center. Scores of showrooms house delicious fabrics, rugs, fabulous furniture, lighting fixtures, drapery hardware, stunning art—things of such beauty they make me swoon. An hour or two fondling, ogling and imagining where this sofa, that drapery, those candlesticks, that antique table, this limestone might fit. . . and I am juiced! Color, texture, line and space are my medium, and I have the pleasure—the JOY—of being paid to use them. My work is my altar, and a way to both spread and gain joy.
Carpe diem
Rebecca
Healing Happens
The first time I saw the “s**t happens” bumper sticker was twenty-some-odd years ago, on the back of a nearly-new, shiny, wrecked Camaro. The law of attraction in action.
I broke my wrist, two weeks after moving home, office and studio. At first it seemed like bad luck. It had been a hard move. I was dog-tired, running on empty. I had no choice but to rest. With long hours of sleep and naps in between, I began to feel a bit blessed, and for the first time in months, mentally refreshed.
The list of things I could not do sometimes felt endless. Tying the sash on my bathrobe took six, seven, eight or more tries. Cutting meat was not possible. Nor fastening my seatbelt (much less a bra.) But the things that were possible—if I could only figure out how—became adventurous and amusing. The left brain would say, “this can’t be done.” The right brain would counter, “How can I pull this off?” The night I opened a bottle of wine I was triumphant. It had taken 20 minutes.
Friends and family rallied. They brought food that could be opened, prepared and eaten with one hand. They helped me dress, wrote checks, and drove when I would feel too untethered without a seatbelt. They schlepped boxes, unpacked, and made my bed (putting on a fitted sheet with one hand could be an Olympic event,) put barrettes in my hair, and hung artwork. It’s hard to be grumpy or bitter when your heart is full of gratitude.
Healing happens. One day, the pinkie finger could push the “P” and “enter” keys. Soon after I could zip and snap the waistband of my trousers. Bending my palm back enough to hold a dollop of shampoo, then massaging it into my scalp, was glorious beyond words. Pulling the gearshift in my car from park to drive made me squirm with delight. Ten days later, I could push from drive to park. To pick up and put a carrot in my mouth? Oh, my. Finally I could not only hold, but use, a fork. And being able to write! To doodle! To journal. To sign my name IN CURSIVE. I was giddy with pride and relief.
Joy can come in a package so small that we overlook it, but rarely have I known joy any greater than being able to wash my hair and sign my name. Rebecca L. Ewing
Carpe diem
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