JMS v-neck, 4 x, preshrunk and colorfast. Hand dyed, one of a kind. $30 includes tax and shipping. Paypal firstname.lastname@example.org.
JMS v-neck, 4 x, preshrunk and colorfast. Hand dyed, one of a kind. $30 includes tax and shipping. Paypal email@example.com.
Health problems and weather have finally given way and I have been able to get back into the garage and start experimenting again. These are “warm-up” shirts, exercises in color mixing to get back into the groove. Plans, oh, do I have big plans now! The challenge will be to get the images into my head translated into fabric. I have started to name my custom colors mixes after friends who have made particular requests. In the mix up there you will find Zim’s Purple and Tom’s Yellow. Let’s just hope my notebook survives the splattering. I still have Technicolor hands.
These are what is left of the last batch of 6. I am flattered that friends grabbed the others before I could photograph them. The one on the far left with the big red spiral is already spoke for but the other two are available for adoption.
Middle shirt, purple and green, Fruit of the Loom me’s size large crewneck. $25 includes shipping and taxes.
Right shirt, dropped spiral, FOTL men’s V-neck size 2x (I think it would be fun as a woman’s sleep shirt) $30 includes shipping and taxes.
PayPal only. firstname.lastname@example.org
Fly your flag, peeps! Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes! Much love to all of you.
I went for a screening EKG yesterday and was told that it looks like I have had a heart attack; one of those silent, sneaky ones that tend to happen to women; especially postmenopausal diabetic women with polycystic ovarian disease. I have been referred to a cardiologist and expect the lecture on losing weight, taking statins, and exercising. Trying hard not to freak out too much (no pun intended) but my immediate reaction is, “Well ,no wonder I have felt like crap for so long!” and trying to come up with a plan to manage yet another chronic condition. I was very sick all last fall, 3 straight months of one damned thing after another, knocked flat on my back, and I am just now recovering. I think the infarction probably happened sometime then. I am trying not to be too paranoid about thinking that every twinge is angina now.
Ironically, a friend who was practicing her Reiki nailed it many months ago. She said she felt something going on with my heart and I blew her off. In addition to all the physical stuff happening last fall, there was some serious emotional turmoil as well. I have often said that I felt like that particular person ripped out my heart and stomped on it. I had no clue that could be taken literally. In spite of the emotional pain, he acted as a catalyst for my growth and dredged up some long-buried crap that I needed to face and clear out. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was productive.
On the dying side (after all, isn’t that what this blog is supposed to be about?): It has been frigging cold here. Snow flurries and snow on the mountain tops yesterday morning and very windy, which causes the cold to bite through to the bones. Typical Spring weather in western NC. I am itching to get back into the studio, got some special orders for friends I need to get done. And a bit of a whine here; standing on cold concrete in an un heated garage is not my favorite thing to do, even with a kerosene heater.
I have bought a planner called The Freedom Journal, which is specifically for those of us who are trying to be self-employed. I have committed to spending 2 hours a day minimum in the studio no matter what, even if it is just sweeping the floors and cleaning. Dying is a messy art. Wish me luck folks, and send good vibes. I need all the help I can get and being accountable to you will go a long way toward me getting stuff done. My goal for the next 100 days is to get all 60ish of my blank shirts dyed, photographed, and posted on Shopify. Stay tuned.
Much love to you all. Stay warm.
We are finally having beautiful weather here. It comes in spasms, but there are more gorgeous days than wet and cold. Over the weekend friends and I wrangled assorted kids,went on a picnic,and decided to teach the kids to fly kites. I sent someone into a store to buy them for the crowd and this is the one they chose for me. I hung it in the studio both for inspiration and as a memento of a wonderful day with friends who love me. It may not stay there long, however, as everyone had a blast and I am sure we will be doing it again.
I wrote yesterday about wanting to renovate my workspace. I had been looking for a grant/ business loan or whatever in order to finance it. After spilling my guts in the previous post I pulled a very large check out of the mailbox. It was an insurance reimbursement from a medical issue almost 4 years ago that I had forgotten about. It is just enough to do what I need to do if managed carefully.
I am still in tears over it.
It is the dark of the year, the dormant time when nights are long and cold and the days are too short to accomplish much. It is too cold in the garage to dye and I spend time wondering if I can afford to do the renovations required to make it an efficient dye studio. I want space and equipment to turn my mental images into reality. I follow other dyers on Facebook and goggle at the things they produce. I want my own voice with color and pattern and chafe at my restrictions. And I want validation. I want others to like what I do and buy it. I don’t want to have to pitch to the lowest common denominator in order to make a few dollars, but I need time and resources to practice and develop. I feel guilty taking advantage of other’s differences in order to advance my own needs. Compromising principles and ideals puts food on the table, however. Finding the balance in that is always a problem.
Whine, whine, whine. So easy to do when you are cold and lonely and recovering from yet another betrayal by the old body. In my head I am still 30 yet my body is rapidly approaching 64. Genetics, karma, and bad habits are catching up with me. People say that age is just a number. Will somebody please remind me of that when my knees don’t want to bend the way I would like them to?
We incarnate here for the Great Work whether we are conscious of it or not. In our own feeble, fumbling ways we are all searching for the Middle Path and the way back to the Source. Robes and badges and ranks and tools and systems are just distractions. Attachments to structures are useful, but are full of pitfalls. We wonder why schisms develop and groups squabble among themselves. Finding the balance between the tools we need to do our work and the Work itself is a struggle.
It has been said that the Universe (whatever that is) recycles situations until we learn the lessons. Life is a spiral. Sacred geometry and all that. So now I am looking at a repeating situation in my life and wondering just what the Universal curriculum is in this particular turn of the screw. It ain’t my first rodeo and I am seeing a pattern here. Methinks there is fuel for more therapy in this.
I own the qualities of being ornery, independent, and rebellious. My motto should be “The Emperor Has No Clothes” and if I ever get to change my current one I will most likely switch to that. Imperator non habet vestimenta.
In my rambling adventures through this particular life I have found myself again and again in situations requiring a level of obedience and submission that I struggle with. I recognize the need for structure, organization, and self-discipline in my life and will not argue that fact. But there comes a breaking point. That point occurs when the outer trappings of the inner work become more important than the work itself. When rank and badges and testing and degrees cease becoming symbols and become validation for egos or, worse yet, distractions and a way of hiding from the unpleasant truth that the Work engenders. We have to hug our Shadows. I am old friends with Kali-ma, Hecate, Isis, and any other name you would like to hang on that archetype.
Where is the balance here? There needs to be some system to communicate responsibilities within an organization. Signals as to who to go to when certain needs arise. Yet, repeatedly when I have reached out to others of “higher rank”, the “shepherds” or “leaders” of whatever group I am currently involved in I have been met with dead ends. Broken and crying in instructor’s offices, on meditation cushions, in the middle of ritual, in the hospital; I have lost count of the places and times and situations. Poor, pitiful me. I toss their rule book out the window and whine when they don’t like it. My personal alphabet doesn’t aline with theirs and I want so badly to belong, yet I can’t swallow all of the Kool-Aid required to get there.
So, what is the lesson here? That my path is my own and that I am my own shepherd? Yes. Always. There is no arguing with that truth. And I should give up asking for validation from other people? Probably, but that is a tough one for me. I feel like a single cell in a larger organism. I am unable to isolate myself from what surrounds me. I just ain’t wired like that.
BUT. . . .(you know there is always at least one of these). . . I wonder if I don’t know the correct way to ask for help and comfort. How many times have I been told that I am too blunt and too direct? Or is it ego and the shadow self coming forth? and on and on and on ad infinitum with the navel gazing. Or is it, as a good little Buddhist, am I once again tripping over my own expectations and here is something I need to let go of yet again? and again and again? ( I am nothing if not stubborn.) And do I need to recognize that those I ask for help have clay feet and love them anyway? (The answer to that one is “of course.”) Dukkha is a wobbly wheel.
I do not believe in separating myself from the world, of building up so much detachment that I do not react to what is around me. I refuse to be “above it all” and I have no desire for a teflon shield. I came here voluntarily and I wallow in the world I have helped create. I have found that the more time I have spent on the cushion or my knees, in prayer or meditation or whatever you want to call the act of plugging in to that which is greater than us, the more connected to the “all” I am. The fewer defenses I have, the more my boundaries erode. The more urgency I feel to respond to brokeness. And I try in my own small ways. Daily I realize how little power I actually have when it comes to grand gestures and the birds remind me that it is the little things that matter as I fill the feeders.
Aaaaaaannnnnnddddd. . . . here we go with the pop psychology. . . .allow me to throw around a few familiar terms here: “healthy boundaries”, “self-care”, “empath”, “codependence”, “inner child”, “PTSD”, “12-steps”, “unresolved anger.” Had enough? I can give you plenty more.
We all need our “tribe” and modern society no longer seems to support that. If you look around you at many social groups; religious, spiritual, or otherwise; the “heavy lifting” seems to be done by single older women, largely because the men don’t seem to be able to live long enough. The crones. The ones with the time and resources to care for the children, volunteer, do the administrative work, count the birds, rescue the strays, and organize the thrift stores. They are the ones who take up the slack when the “shepherds” can’t. I could go on a rant about who cares for the elders in our society. Too often it is a one-sided relationship. And I could be ranting based on anxiety about my own rapidly approaching elder-hood.
As one who was born bossy and had responsibility foisted on me at a very young age, who does not know how to behave otherwise, and who has spent most of my life as a leader and instigator of one sort or another (often not voluntarily) as well as being a compulsive nurturer I have fought many battles over the idea that those who lead others; call them “pastors”, “temple chiefs”, “sergeants”,”teachers”, “gurus”, or “managers”, as well as whatever other words you can dig up in the thesaurus, have a responsibility to care for their followers. In my many years of battling corporations my biggest and most wearying task was making sure that my staff was cared for, that their needs were met. Because if my people were not whole they could not serve those who were not. And I always thought that my staff should not have to ask or act out in order to get what they needed. They needed structure and rules and direction, but they also needed someone to realize when they needed support and propping up when the work became overwhelming. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs was drilled into my head in school and daily I see how it can be applied. I think if Jesus were to speak in contemporary jargon it would have been the basis for the Sermon on the Mount.
Spiritual types of the “mindfulness” persuasion talk about “presence.” It is the quality of being there, in the moment, with whatever is going on, and not fighting it. Sometimes it can be unsettling to be with someone who is present. They see through your smoke screens and love you anyway. Often they love you in spite of/ because of your bullshit.
It is a quality I have often seen develop with age and experience as well as time spent in contemplation. There are reasons that in some societies the elders gravitate toward the monastic life. And I wonder if it is part of the reason that elders are no longer cared for in contemporary Western cultures. Elders remind us that our physical containers wear out and “presence” reminds us to get our heads out of our own asses. It is a daily practice to be present and we often fail at it more often than we succeed. The point is to keep trying. Use whatever you need to use as a reminder. One well known teacher uses the sound of a bell. I often use a piece of jewelry.
It is when the mechanisms of mutual support break down that a group splinters. Egos get in the way. Much goes unspoken. Hurts fester. Employees resign. Customers get pissed off. Confusion reigns. People squabble and fight back. A cohort gets pissed off over the interpretation of a verse in their version of the rules and trots off down the street to do their own thing and the cycle begins all over again. It isn’t always a bad thing, growth often requires it, but it can also be an unecessary waste of time and energy as well as causing rifts between people who are already too isolated by their own egos.
Nothing lasts forever, but if we take on a task and set ourselves to accomplish it, the shepherds need to look after the sheep and quit worrying about all the shiny baubles, spiritual merit badges, certificates, and extraneous regalia. We need each other, not the gadgets.
Going to therapy is all well and good, but it is no substitute for connection and community, for spending unstructured time together, hanging out and simply sharing who we are. It takes time to be comfortable with each other and to be vulnerable. Strength comes from our vulnerability to each other and our mutual trust and interdependence. We learn how our pieces fit together in order to build something greater.
As our society wobbles toward major changes, requiring uncomfortable and possibly dangerous conditions, all we are going to have is each other. Would we not be better off to develop the skills and systems we need to build and support community now rather than picking up after the next major disaster? Or will the disasters and upheavals be the impetus we need to learn how to work with each other? Funny how it often happens that way.
This post has nothing to do with dying or color. I feel the need to talk about my recent adventures so please bear with me.
Here is what I have been through in the past month, and these are just the highlights. All of this is on top of struggling to control my type 2 diabetes, with blood sugars all over the place and diabetic burnout on top of it all. There has been fallout from recent attempts to adjust meds and an allergic reaction to a medication my endocrinologist tried because I was having unpleasant side effects from the one I had been on for 5 years. So far 2017 has not been my year.
It is difficult not to be bitter and angry and feel sorry for myself, but I own my part in all that has happened. I am not a helpless victim. There have been good lessons presented and my heart has been touched in ways that may not have happened otherwise.
I have always been extremely independent, Type A, super competent, over responsible eldest child, self-educated; in no way a shrinking violet. rather a galloping extrovert. My style has been “full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes”. I took care of others and did not trust others to take care of me. I had all the answers or knew where to look them up. Defense mechanisms from trauma, anyone?
I have had to learn to ask for help and to allow others to care for me and to realize that there is no shame in it. Through all of this, I have learned who my real friends are. I think my daily habit of keeping a gratitude journal has paid off because there has been so much reason for gratitude in all of this. And I have been surprised at the people who have come forth. Everyone has busy, full, lives and too many obligations and I deeply appreciate those who took the time to show up and demonstrate compassion and care for me. I cry a little thinking about all that has happened.
There was the friend who can barely keep herself fed and housed, but who brought a gift bag of things to distract me and who works night-shift but showed up on my doorstep one morning when I needed someone to talk to.
And the person who came every day, who brought my favorite chinese food in the middle of the night, who has also been a listening ear and a source for feedback when I have needed to talk, and who dropped everything and took me home from the hospital when I needed to leave earlier than planned.
Another person whom I have not known for very long, who drove 45 minutes to visit me and sat open-mouthed during a discussion I had with someone else about gastrointestinal illness and fecal transplants. She later texted and said that she would offer her stool if it would help me get better.
Someone I had not seen in 2 years brought me flowers from her garden twice, and remembered that they were the ones my grandmother had nicknamed me for. She also turned up in the hospital with a goodie bag and has promised me home-made french onion soup for behaving myself in the hospital.
My ever patient sister visited my house twice a day to feed my furbabies in addition to stopping by the hospital, and vacuumed up the ginormous dustbunnies that had accumulated in the corners of my house. She provided entertainment for both me and the hospital staff by filling in daily goals and activities on the whiteboard in the room.
And there was the unfailing kindness and compassion of the hospital staff who took the time to crack jokes with me, provide extra bottles of shampoo to bring home when I talked about how nice it was to have fluffy hair, and gave me a tube of body cream because they thought I would like the way it smelled. They smuggled in real coffee when all the cafeteria would send was decaf. They hung out in my room when they had time, told me their stories of kids and nursing school and crafts and gardening, traded medical care war stories, put up with my goofy jokes, and laughed at my snarky comments. I do not handle confinement and restriction well and they made it much more tolerable.
Recent events have changed me. I have learned, perhaps a little bit, to allow others to love me in their own ways and, maybe, to love myself a little more in the process. I have learned to ask for help. Stubborn and hardheaded that I am, it often takes whacks from the Universal Baseball Bat to drive a lesson home. Trying to be woke is an ongoing process, it comes in waves, and the Great Work is never accomplished in a straight line or through a tidy procedure. We all wander and lessons are provided when and where they are needed. To paraphrase a famous Rolling Stone song; we don’t always get what we want, but we get what we need. We are ever the Fool about to step off the cliff. What else can we do but laugh at the cosmic joke and keep on keeping on, remembering to be grateful and recognizing love in the little things?