Tuesday Manifesto

I thought about my Spring Manifesto off and on all day yesterday. I mentally added to the list, reflected on how I might accomplish some of the items, and then unfortunately, as the day picked up, I caught myself trying to apply too many of my spring-wide wishes to the limitations of one basic weekday. In a matter of minutes I was both overwhelmed and disappointed, wanting to make 2pm on a Monday as magical as the manifesto's call.

This morning, after a bit of sleep, I awoke with this thought: a Tuesday Manifesto! Though really any day of the week would do. Instead of trying to fit a season's worth of good intentions into one day, I'm offering myself and my 2pm sanity, something smaller; I'm giving my heart something a bit more manageable.

Tuesday Manifesto:

This Tuesday, I will use the early morning hours to enjoy coffee in my office, while writing a new post.

I will pack the yogurt and strawberries I forgot yesterday for a snack today.

I will read my new book on the bus ride to work and then home.

I will listen to my current favorite band while working on Visual Management.

I will take more deep breaths, and I will go outside for a break when I think I don't need it.

I will wear a favorite sweater and bury myself in it when necessary.

I will remind myself that home promises breakfast for dinner, strawberry mango smoothies, and a husband who will remind me I'm doing a great job, regardless of failures I list to him from my day.

I will trust in my voice, even when it is weak, and I will share it, even when it's easier not to.

I will allow the day to be good.

Spring Manifesto

I love the promise implied in a good manifesto. I love the way that, even when the most cynical parts of me urge resistance to possibility in what feels like futile times, the declaration of "wills" outweighs "wont's". I love that a title so seemingly rigid (Manifesto!) could contain such whimsical assertions.

A favorite artist/writer of mine, Shari, has featured her seasonal manifestos on her blog for as long as I can remember - spanning years, and cities, and sites. This past month she featured a selection of people on her page, all sharing their own Spring Manifestos, and it had my mind racing. What would I write? What do I want to see/do/make this season? And finally, what's holding me back from writing my own? The answer: nothing. So, in fine (albeit tardy) fashion, below is my own manifesto. If you'd like to read more, you can find Shari's gathering here: http://theartofseeingthings.wordpress.com/

Spring Manifesto:

This spring I will take a drive through the farm roads of Western Washington and stop at all the tiny stands for bits of fruit and vegetables harvested from the ground I stand on to purchase it.

I will slow down when I can, and remind myself that the intensity of the work season need not necessarily follow me home.

I will continue to perfect my loaves of dutch oven bread.

I will hang curtains in the bay windows in the front room and let the sun shine through sheers midday.

I will continue, even when I think it doesn't matter all that much, to buy small bouquets of inexpensive spring flowers at the market so that home will be dotted with colorful reminders of outdoors.

I will reread, as I do each year, a few Beverly Cleary books, and I will remember what it was like to be young and in love with words, and what it is like to be older and still in love with words.

I will take more walks with my cameras, and try not to only rely on the quick allure of Instagram.

I will sit on the back steps more as the sun goes down and enjoy the sky as it's painted, and I will think of this scene and then run off to read the book again.

I will write more.

I will be kinder to myself when I do not write more.

I will write more.

This spring, I will do the best I can.

For You

One day, you will wake from your covering
and that heart of yours will be totally mended,
and there will be no more burning within.
...
And the rooster will call in the setting sun
and the sun will be beckoned homeward,
hiding behind your one tree that was not felled.
-from "One Day" by Patricia Jabbeh Wesley

Dear You,

You asked for this, though I know I won't give you exactly what you wished for. I know you want answers, and I've none. I know you want soothing, but I fear this may be thin. What I wish, though I'm not sure it matters, is that these words you requested could span the digital page, reach across the physical divide that separates us, and hold you as I would, were we together. What I wish is that this not be a lament for what you're losing, or have already lost, but a cheer for the gain - the upcoming wonders perched and ready to take over your life.

I would like to say, more than ever, that you will not hurt, that you will not cry and regret and second guess and anger, that you will not be overwhelmed with moments and maybe even days of impossibility, but I know it isn't true. I would like to say that you will be okay, and I will, but I won't pretend that finale will come swift, or that you won't choose at a thousand different times, to privy comfort and safety over that future peace.

So, in the absence of all I'd like, and all the clean, neat packaged cheers, I will share a truth you know, but may not, like me, always remember. The sun rises. It comes out, even when we think it won't, in the early hours of the morning when the late hours of the evening have just kept us up, gripped with worry and fear. It comes out, even when the winter's length nudges it into quiet corners, when the gloom of colder months assures us that the warmth of another is more valuable than our own. It comes out, even when we beg it not to, and it sheds light on what we did not wish to see, and casts shadows on what thought we wanted. And then, just when we thought we could not, we see it bring to light what we needed, and we allow it to shadow what we're leaving behind.

The sun comes out and the day goes on. We go on. You, my dear, will go on.

I think it's safe to say that you will need to be brave and courageous, but those are not traits you've ever run short on, anyhow. You'll need to face yourself more than anyone else, and that's probably the biggest battle. You'll need, though knowing you, you won't want to, to let go of the plan - there's a new plan in the works and it can't give any more time to that one.

The sadness is coming, like it hasn't quite yet, but it brings with it the sun, just after the shadow, and I can't wait for you to see it...it's going to be amazing.

Until then, I offer you these humble words from very far away, and I hope I'm smart enough keep it close to heart myself - I think we might all need a reminder of sun at times. It rises, and you will, too.

Hello Monday

This weekend was so slow and puttering and lovely that I'm rough adjustment into Monday. It will officially begin very soon as I slip out the door to the bus, but until then I thought it might be nice to reflect on the glory of the restful days behind me:

-early morning coffee and pancakes
-a walk through town to the antique mall
-the purchase of a box of tiny, plastic Scottie dog charms
-the purchase of a teeny tiny version of my desk chair
-the realization that the price card "Tiny Odd Items" sums up most of my life
-a plate of Spanish cheese, a creamy wadge of brie, olives, pistachios, and dark chocolate
-a shared small bottle of Angry Orchards cider with above mentioned snack
-library trips and book sales
-cleaning the house (including sweeping! and dusting!) in under and hour
-rewarding our quick but thorough clean with another walk through town
-stopping off mid-walk for a strawberry milkshake shared with two red straws
-finishing "An Everlasting Meal" by Tamar Adler - such a good book
-watching the Charles and Ray Eames documentary
-planning my own "uniforms" like Ray Eames (the pockets in her dresses went to the hems!)
-reading this article and thinking- Yes! that's how I'd like to be described

Early On

There, then, is the role of the amateur: to look the world back to grace.
- Robert Farrar Capon

Yesterday, at the end of a long, scampering day, I flipped open the front cover of my new book and read the quote above. I was still at work, still packing up the remainders of the day, but I wanted to pause for a moment to see if there was an epitaph (I distrust many books that begin without one - more on that another time). Then, as I read this brief line, rolling it over and over again in my mind, it was as if everything that buzzed so insistently through my head all day quieted, and for at least a moment I felt a little more in control.

In the very early morning I crawl out of bed, untangling myself from Andrew's long armed grasp, tip-toeing as gently as possible through creaky old doors and over creaky old floors, and I spend the early hours in outward silence and inward chatter (the good kind). Without realizing it, part of why I love this time so much is that I can, in a way, "think the world back to grace." It's all perspective, and though that's really true all day, these early morning hours are more readily in my grasp, calmer and quieter, and easier to notice. What happens, the best part really, is that the more I look the world back to grace during the early hours, the more I see it as the day progresses, the kinder I feel to myself and those around me. It's easier, I guess, to look life back to grace when you've offered it to yourself first - when you've seen the value.

Some Days

Some days are not as neat and lovely as others. Today thumped a bit, and though I'm tempted by the metaphor of a square wheel, it often felt a bit more octagonal as it clunk, clunk, clunked.

But, some days have yellow and orange Ranunculus to welcome you home, and a new issue of a favorite magazine, and the reminder of unused bath salts, and really, as I look back over this short list, the realization that you're playing out a scene from a film centered around a woman's trip abroad in which she find's herself (and some half dressed man that just happens to be loitering around her vacation spot).

Work is busy and gaining speed, and good changes are happening and on the horizon still. I spend every spare moment curled into Andrew's side, thankful for any and all extra time I get to spend with him,comforted by the scent of his soap and the old, yellowed pages of the paperback he's been carrying around.

Some days start rough, show promise, muddy themselves, disappoint you, then surprise you. Some days don't offer such variety. Whatever the mix, I'm grateful for the kind that end with clean, warm sheets and a kiss.

The Stories

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live." - Joan Didion

I didn't intend to go so long between posts, but unexpectedly things shifted this week after a daytime burglary at our apartment. I feel so many mixed emotions about what happened - about walking in on a kitchen full of shattered glass, a missing laptop, the space on my dresser where my jewelry box used to be, the feeling of violation and confusion about "home". We've been picking up the pieces, and each day I feel better - sleep really helps with that sense of well-being.

But, and thank goodness there's a but, the most important thing I share this space with was fine, and I'm fine, too. It's pretty great to have someone that makes even the worst of situations seems simple, manageable.

I worried at first that I'd begin to hate this apartment I'd once loved so much, or our little downtown neighborhood, but thankfully, something in the past few days has shifted back, and when we took a walk after work the other night and I snapped a picture of the sky, I knew my city and my home and I would be on good terms again soon. Tomorrow I'll walk a block to the library to pick up the books I requested, and tonight, as a treat after this long, long week so far, Andrew will walk a block to pick up some delicious Kung Pao from a small, smiling woman that cheerfully said "Hi, Andrew" the minute he began to speak, and before work tomorrow I will stop into the best coffee shop in town and catch up with the lovely barista who will welcome me by name and begin my lattee right away, and when I leave I will feel more than grateful for the coffee - I will feel grateful for my home.

I'm disappointed that someone made such a bad decision, and disspointed even more that they took items from me with sentimental value that they will not be able to reap much reward from and most likely toss aside. What I am not disappointed in this time is myself, and maybe that's part of this whole 30 thing, but I didn't cry or yell or curse anyone. I've made some bad decisions, too, and I'm destined to make more still, and though I console myself with the notion that at least my decisions don't hurt others, I think we all know that's not true - emotional hurt is just as strong as the physical representations - just maybe, at times, less intentional.

For now, in the midst of theses stories I tell myself in order to live, I put myself to sleep each night with this one - about a girl and a boy who were fortunate enough to know when they hadn't really lost anything at all.