I think that, on some level, people react in the ways we expect them to, and when we give them the opportunity to have a new, different reaction, we may be pleasantly surprised. I remember when I was in fifth grade, I was a “Marshall” for the kindergarteners – I helped them at lunch time and when they left for the day. Sometimes I would play with them at recess. I had “favorites,” mostly little angelic girls that were fun to play with. And then there were the trouble-makers – the bullies who were always getting in trouble. Gerard and Alfred (I can’t believe I remember their names). I was warned about Gerard and Alfred when I first started marshalling – “Look out for those two – they are trouble.” And sure enough, I often had to pull them off of each other, or stop them from throwing things at those same angelic girls that everyone loved. I could not figure out why they seemed to be so evil! One day at recess, I decided to take a different approach. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I thought I would try playing with them. To my surprise, they were incredibly excited, and played in a well-mannered and sweet way for the rest of the day. I had stopped persecuting them before they even had a chance to show themselves. I expected more of them, and they lived up to my expectations. They never went back to their bullying ways, and I learned a lesson I will never forget.31 March, 2008
Expectations
I think that, on some level, people react in the ways we expect them to, and when we give them the opportunity to have a new, different reaction, we may be pleasantly surprised. I remember when I was in fifth grade, I was a “Marshall” for the kindergarteners – I helped them at lunch time and when they left for the day. Sometimes I would play with them at recess. I had “favorites,” mostly little angelic girls that were fun to play with. And then there were the trouble-makers – the bullies who were always getting in trouble. Gerard and Alfred (I can’t believe I remember their names). I was warned about Gerard and Alfred when I first started marshalling – “Look out for those two – they are trouble.” And sure enough, I often had to pull them off of each other, or stop them from throwing things at those same angelic girls that everyone loved. I could not figure out why they seemed to be so evil! One day at recess, I decided to take a different approach. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I thought I would try playing with them. To my surprise, they were incredibly excited, and played in a well-mannered and sweet way for the rest of the day. I had stopped persecuting them before they even had a chance to show themselves. I expected more of them, and they lived up to my expectations. They never went back to their bullying ways, and I learned a lesson I will never forget.
09 June, 2007
Unfinished, Damaged and Broken
My mother has a table in her dining room. It’s the same one we had in our kitchen when I was growing up, and it bears the marks of three children learning to hammer, write and sew. Over the years, its joints have loosened, and the only way to keep the whole table from listing is to shim the centermost legs with cardboard. As the misshapen little squares of cardboard are compressed, they shimmy out of place, and get kicked across the hardwood floor. In a ritual-like process every few days she collects them all again, adding a new one from time to time, and props the table up again. In this way, she lives with this thing. I doubt it has ever crossed her mind to repair or replace it.
How many of us live with objects like this – things that don’t quite work anymore, or maybe never did, but we adapt to them and make them work, never noticing our own sometimes Herculean efforts to do so. It’s these little liabilities and handicaps that we live with every day, and the adjustments we make to accommodate them, that intrigue me.
I've been creating a body of work for a show next month at the Centrum Gallery at Oregon College of Art & Craft, and these are the ideas that are inspiring me. I'm exploring them in several ways, in addition to making more traditional jewelry (more on that later). Here are some more things I've been thinking about while producing this work:
Sometimes we just swaddle things that are broken, rather than mending them. We wrap them in layers of softness for protection. Or maybe we pin them together and keep on using them. Everything is fine. Denial.
What does it mean that so many of us get into the habit of starting things that we can’t, or don’t finish? We end up with the flotsam and jetsam of unfinishedness hanging all around us – eventually forming tangled barricades between us and the ability to complete anything. And when we know how good the accomplishment of finishing really feels, why do we procrastinate and handicap ourselves by constantly overfilling our plates?
When are things that are not whole still recognizable? How many, and which elements need to be there before we know the name of a thing? With objects, I think it is more obvious when a loss has occurred; when something is missing it’s a tangible thing. But there are a lot of people walking around with big chunks torn from themselves, and you still recognize them as people.
How many things do we have in our lives that fit the description of unfinished, damaged or broken? How many parts of ourselves can be described as such? We shove them in drawers and boxes, out of sight, and ignore them. But they are there, filling our inner worlds with imaginings of elements that finish them. Inside, we are striving to fill those voids all the time. When we turn our focus to them, we can mend them with little effort, and the clutter is cleared away. This is what meditation does for me.
What does it mean that so many of us get into the habit of starting things that we can’t, or don’t finish? We end up with the flotsam and jetsam of unfinishedness hanging all around us – eventually forming tangled barricades between us and the ability to complete anything. And when we know how good the accomplishment of finishing really feels, why do we procrastinate and handicap ourselves by constantly overfilling our plates?
When are things that are not whole still recognizable? How many, and which elements need to be there before we know the name of a thing? With objects, I think it is more obvious when a loss has occurred; when something is missing it’s a tangible thing. But there are a lot of people walking around with big chunks torn from themselves, and you still recognize them as people.
How many things do we have in our lives that fit the description of unfinished, damaged or broken? How many parts of ourselves can be described as such? We shove them in drawers and boxes, out of sight, and ignore them. But they are there, filling our inner worlds with imaginings of elements that finish them. Inside, we are striving to fill those voids all the time. When we turn our focus to them, we can mend them with little effort, and the clutter is cleared away. This is what meditation does for me.
08 June, 2007
Driving a 1985 Toyota Tercel is like riding a Bucking Bronco
=
Today was the second day that I drove my new old car - thanks, Deb! Towanda, my trusty 12-year-old Saturn station wagon refused to serve another day on Thursday morning, and I thankfully had a backup that's been living in my backyard like a wild animal.
The Toyota has some years on her. The ceiling is falling down, necessitating a reclined position for me to drive. The seatbelt has been sewn back together after losing a battle with an unattended dog. And the transmission has - well - sort of a mind of its own. Oh, and there's no power steering - a good reminder of how out-of-shape I am! The brakes work great, though - and really, that's what counts, right?
It's kind of exciting driving this car, in a white-knuckled kind of way. As I was careening up the hill to get myself home from work today, first gear kicking in and then failing, the car literally bucking beneath and all around me, I realized how like riding a horse this experience feels. There's this odd sense of taming a beast about it. You are not solely in control of what direction you go in, whether you go forward or backward, or at what speed, but you just do your best to be responsive to whatever it tells you it needs for you both to agree on an outcome. You adjust your movements - the pressure of your foot on one petal or another, the gear you choose, how you turn the wheel - until you're in sync. And sometimes it works.
It's kind of exciting driving this car, in a white-knuckled kind of way. As I was careening up the hill to get myself home from work today, first gear kicking in and then failing, the car literally bucking beneath and all around me, I realized how like riding a horse this experience feels. There's this odd sense of taming a beast about it. You are not solely in control of what direction you go in, whether you go forward or backward, or at what speed, but you just do your best to be responsive to whatever it tells you it needs for you both to agree on an outcome. You adjust your movements - the pressure of your foot on one petal or another, the gear you choose, how you turn the wheel - until you're in sync. And sometimes it works.
Dipping my toe in. . .
This is all very unexpected. I didn't anticipate that I would be starting a blog tonight. But today at work, I was asked by our Communications Director to fill out a short questionnaire asking about by favorite things. We're fishing for someone to write a story about me, and I had to provide some preliminary information.
I was surprised at how good it felt for me to write for that. I wrote more than I thought I would, and felt my mind really opening - stretching, as if after a long sleep. It felt good, and I realized how much I missed writing for myself. So here I am, writing for myself and anyone else who may care to read - you, Gentle Reader. Welcome.
I was surprised at how good it felt for me to write for that. I wrote more than I thought I would, and felt my mind really opening - stretching, as if after a long sleep. It felt good, and I realized how much I missed writing for myself. So here I am, writing for myself and anyone else who may care to read - you, Gentle Reader. Welcome.
