The Ginkgo Bowl and Possessions of Yesterday

 It’s 3 am. I should be sleeping after a 10 hour day of work but I need to write, specifically on the word “need”. This insomnia came from snowfall brightening my window and I’m guessing resulting in my brain thinking it’s morning. Either way, it’s a peaceful insomnia. I scrolled through social media; it’s interesting all the night owl posts you miss when your bedtime is consistently before 10pm. My dear friend Jill, who has a very similar life mindset, posted a thought-provoking article on the Diderot Effect and controlling overconsumption. I’d never heard of it before, but the article defined this 18th Century theory on possessions as “the introduction of a new possession into a consumer’s existence will often result in a process of spiraling consumption.”

I could very much identify with the article’s points of how buying one new thing leads to a desire for more “new things” that are of similar status to this new thing. While I feel I’ve mostly broken that purchasing trend, I face a similar issue of possession that I need to break- here and now- to break into Van Life. This is the attachment to possessions. I’ve culled my own belonging several times in order to become minimal enough for the van, while also trying to liquidate for some on hand cash I’ll need for van payments. Oh yes, I’ve given away and sold quite a few lovely things, and yet I still have many possessions. I’ll use that word specifically because each time I attempt to look critically at what’s left (and there’s a LOT left) I nostalgically reminisce on how much this or that means to me, or justify that even though I haven’t worn a particular dress in years- I’ll need it someday. 

 Take for example my ginkgo bowl. The first time I visited Graycliff I saw this bowl, a beautiful handmade piece of pottery that I just loved. I looked at the price tag, and although far from the spendthrift I am today, upwards of $80 for a decorative piece was not a justifiable price for an impulse purchase. Yet, the bowl lingered in my mind and I ended up calling the shop a few weeks later, only to find out it was discontinued. The shop clerk, however, ever vigilant for a sale, assured me that he could contact the artist to create one just for me. Uncharacteristically I agreed and $90 some-odd dollars later the beautiful bowl came into my possession. It’s several years later, and the ginkgo bowl continually finds itself at the center of any of my living spaces, beautiful to look at, but with little other purpose than to make other items on the shelf unfit to be alongside it, itself useful only as a collection point of business cards I used to collect. I don’t need it. The ginkgo bowl, along with so many other things I own, has no place- and more importantly- use- in the Van Plan. I’ve irrationally wrestled with giving it away, how could I just give up such a lovely piece that personifies my style- and to whom would I gift it? I couldn’t possibly sell it to a stranger- it means too much! Only after reading the above mentioned article did I recognize this unhealthy attachment to my possessions and the self-worth I assume based on their possession. Add to that the self delusion that anyone else would of course assign similar worth to these items- just because I loved them.As always, writing these things down helps solidify their lunacy. If I truly desire to live the Van Plan life now there is no room for possessions of status, or defining of worth based on what I own. I seek a life that will not be easy to maintain, and certainly not attainable if I value things over being. 

I know I’ve come a long way from the girl who would easily spend $200 on a shopping trip with no need other than that if getting something new. The only store I enter regularly is the grocery store (my food habits will need to be addressed in a later self-evaluation) and occasional local shop for gifts. These habits formed more from my employment choice of choosing passion over paycheck and adjusting to a much smaller budget as opposed to self-examination of possession attachment. 

Now, having realized my roadblock, everything must go. No more nostalgic feelings attaching importance to objects- whether it be deriving self-worth from owning lovely things or the memories the item stirs. . Memories and objects get me nowhere on the road to Van Life. I often weary of listening to certain people reminisce over the same memories year after year, with no new additions to their memory bank. It seems dismal to remain attached to a single, circular set of the same memories that seem to play like broken records for an otherwise uneventful life. I feel the time for memories to take full center stage in my life is that day I can no longer physically make them. A day I pray is far in my future, but of this I am certain, it is not today. 

Guilt over selling or giving away thoughtful gifts must also be set aside. Friends: if you see a gift you purchased for me up for sale, I hope you understand it’s true worth is in propelling me towards my dreams, and that I value our friendship far more than the tokens of it we’ve exchanged over the years. 

 And so, the ginkgo bowl must go, along with every earthly possession that cannot presently be of use inside the van or needed for present living. If there is anything of mine you desire, please ask for it; I’d gladly fill friend’s homes with things I once loved. You might be gifted one of them either way, and what you do with it is truly up to you. Things are things, I seek connections and experiences first and foremost.  I can hold on to a dress, or a bowl until I die- but the relinquishment of possessions of yesterday results in the realization of my dreams today. 

Craftswoman of Connection

 "Bonnie, put down the phone, and pick up your pen."

 I've always had an unhealthy addiction to my phone; I don't deny it, and my addiction can be justified (somewhat) by the social media accounts I run for a non-profit and a few businesses, as well as the online class I'm teaching. But not really. That's hardly why I pick up the phone. I'm constantly checking- for what- I can't even say entirely, but as I've been giving myself time to think about it, I know why I look. I'm looking for connection. I'm looking for a virtual substitution to all the hugs I've had to forego this year. I cannot tell you how hard it was to train myself not to reach out and hug people during these past eight months. I'm a "hug first ask for forgiveness later" type of person. I can't tell you how many handshakes I've mutated into hugs in my life. People need hugs, and I can usually feel their relief in the return squeeze once I've initiated it. I'm small, but I'm a good, solid hug. It's my thing.  Thank goodness my son loves physical touch as much as I do, and he never turns down a hug from me. Thanks, Joe, you are truly a wonderful human. 

I'm writing today primarily to break the technological bond I've created with my phone to fill the hole of human bonds. That sounds ridiculous once I've typed it, but it's true. I find I can't read a book like I used to; every page or so, I pick up my phone- and this habit ruins the reading experience. To read, you leave your reality and enter the book's reality. It's a wonderful suspension that I have enjoyed all of my life. If a book is good, I'll forego sleep to stay suspended in its world. I want that back. I need that back. I've just started a book I just know is one that can take me for hours into another connection. I struggled just the same with the first few sittings. Now, I turn my phone off to read. Honestly, nothing in the world matters as much as my own mental health.  There. I typed it. Now to believe it. I can change nothing in the world around me other than my way of living and moving through it.  Have to believe that one too. 

I still have astronomical goals I set for myself. I would like to say I'll try to be a bit more realistic with them, but I don't think that is going to happen. I don't mind being alone. As a matter of fact, I very much prefer working alone, sleeping alone, and having large blocks of time in nature alone. But I am a creature of connection. I enjoy connecting with others, connecting others to each other, and others connecting to me. Through military leadership training I discovered I was a natural facilitator, and this role follows me to almost every work and social position. 

What's ironic is that all my connections that I truly long for NEVER come through social media. The people I've lost touch with, even before the pandemic, oh, they're all on there, and lurk at the edges of my profiles, but we don't connect on there. I've honestly slowly replaced people with accounts of botanical art, plant memes, and inspirational quotes. People's baby pics and other repetitive media still slither in, but it's not connection. I don't even know what it is. It's a poor substitute for human interaction, that's for sure. 

I find that any time I make a drastic sudden change, I'm not one for sticking to it. I'm better with the slow, sure, stepping away from a thing or habit. It's honestly the same way I learn. I would consider myself a slow learner, mostly because I do not feel confident about a thing until I am well practiced. Others have always called me a very fast learner, but my confidence far lags my mastery. I don't practice something confidently until I excel. I practice something slowly and methodically, and somewhat timidly, until I excel. That might sound like an odd distinction, but it is something I know about myself. I rarely give advice for the same reason, unless I am pointedly asked. I wasn't always like this. Part of it developed from a friendship and observing this friend's mannerisms. This friend isn't one to voice an opinion unless asked. But ironically, he is always being asked for advice or an opinion. When he gives it, there are tempering words, such as, 'in my experience' or 'from what I have seen' or my favorite 'most generally'. No, my favorite would have to be 'I don't know'. For one of the most knowledgeable in their field, that is a phrase he says often and without chagrin. There's not tempering it with- "But I'll find out for you!" or any guessing shills. He knows what he knows and that's all he'll tell you. But I digress.

I'm actually picking up writing this post a few days later than the above, after my most inspiring day of
the week- Monday. Yes indeed, there was genius in making Monday Woodworking Day. As winter progresses, the one day will turn into several. I am pleasantly surprised how much I love woodworking. It is a magical craft and skill that I am just in the very beginning stages of learning, and the possibilities are truly ENDLESS. Right now I build weaving looms under the guidance of long time craftsman Craig Vogel, owner of Lost Pond Looms. It has been a wonderful friendship from the start, from the music he has introduced  me to, as well as talking about so many subjects and his wonderful teaching and encouragement as I learn this new craft. Truly friends: find mentors in multiple disciplines. Not only will they teach you their craft, but lessons from their life spill out and over in everyday conversations. Plus, the man has great taste in music and knows all the history to every musician that comes over the speaker. This connection is truly a blessing, and not only for a year such as 2020. 

Woodworking gives me the same space to ponder things as weeding a garden does, There's usually one or more power tools running so we only talk during breaks. Today, I pondered about how at 38, I am picking up an entirely new craft, and the possibilities for future work and creation are inspiring. Then I began to think about all the different "jobs" I've had since I was 15, when my mom signed a slip so I could take my first legal job as a library clerk. I can't remember what I "wanted to be when I grew up" as a child. I thought about how odd it seems to me that we condition children that what they will be  is usually a job title. Teacher. Firefighter. Lawyer. Doctor. I've never been good at defining one career for myself. And today, I realized why. I don't want to be one thing, or identified by the work I perform for money- at least, not anymore. Oh, I went through those years where I was proud to puff out my chest and say I worked for the federal government, or I was a horticulturist, or a teacher. But no, I don't want any of those titles to define me.

 I have one goal in being, and that's a van (or bus) dwelling woman who travels and connects Veterans to resources, their own potential as farmers, and the public to them, as well as share my abilities and skills with them when I visit. I want to be armed with so many tricks up my sleeve and hats I can wear to be able to lend all of myself to the people I connect with on my journey- be it by digging the earth, framing out a door, crocheting a scarf, capturing a photograph, or crafting words to tell their stories. I strive to be a multi-skilled craftswoman who can put my heart, soul, and hands to work for those I love- and those I have yet to love, on this journey. 

I just KNOW woodworking will plan a role in the Van Plan. Not only is Craig going to let me use the shop to build out the conversion, but the skills I'm learning will travel with me and are added to an arsenal of experiences and skills I've learned in the different jobs I've had over the years. Have you heard that Disney song, Try Everything? I take it to heart, and I'll never turn down the opportunity to learn a new skill or job that truly lights my passion. So I won't go to my grave having over 20 years in a steady secure career. Good! That's not the goal! My goal is a lifelong journey of connection and learning, and I must say, looking back over the last twenty-three years of "work" my direction has stayed consistently on point for such a storied career path.  I'll end this post by saying I've recently started an Etsy shop, Heron and the Chickadee, where I intend to sell prints of my photography, as well as other hand made creations, and some day soon, my wood crafts. The name will have to be another story. My life is full of stories, and I plant to keep on crafting them with every new day I'm given. 

Skin Splitting

I haven’t written at all this year. And here it is September.  I feel so far from that brave person who articulated thoughts, dreams, and direction nearly every month on this page. For I feel that I have done none of those things this year. I have plodded through months of uncertainty concentrating on one steady foot in front of the other. And this is no condemnation on myself, merely an observation. I am careful to avoid all words that have been used to the point of wear for this year. This year like no other. Oddly, one of tremendous change yet based on my lofty goals, no real movement. My bus is still a series of plans in several notebooks.

It’s not as though I have been idle; I have been extremely occupied. This year required flexibility, I was needed- as a mother, a colleague, and that’s where I’ve been. I regret nothing. Time is precious and I can truly say it was spent on the precious this year. In the end, my progress is judged by the fullness in my heart, which is overflowing with Loves. Therefore 2020, your demand for a detour seems appropriate. But the dream returns as an unsatisfied hunger pang- and so I turn to my writing to focus my thoughts. 

One thought that came to me the other day was: 

Why do we always compare our growth to the metamorphosis of a butterfly?

All the instars blurred together as mere development for the final, beautiful stage. And yet, there are many insects whose mid-life cycles are more valuable than their final emergence. In fact, one could argue that the final stage of the butterfly is highly valued more because we as humans can easily recognize it and find it aesthetically pleasing. 

I recently was able to spend quality time with a dear friend that I have not seen since May. She commented that she knew it was way too long- not only for nourishing our friendship but also that whenever we went long periods without seeing each other I was the type of person to go through complete metamorphosis and she knew she had to get caught up to wherever life had taken me these past months. 

And it’s true. I haven’t written in my blog since December of last year. I re-read my post, as I always do, to gain insight into where I left off the last time I was inspired to write. To see if I’ve had any shifts in viewpoint. In life trajectory. To gain perspective for my current instar. You see, I don’t believe in doggedly pursuing ANYTHING that no longer serves my growth. I don’t mean this to sound like I make 180 degree turns, but more the splitting of skin that no longer houses the next stage of growth I find myself. Some instars are merely bigger goals that mirror a previous stage, while others are seemingly complete transformations with wings or new legs with which to journey. 

So where, exactly, am I right now? I have been voraciously munching on nourishment- building strong friendships and alliances, practicing my craft in the field, and lastly moving to a new home where I feel free to relax my guard- and write again. Oh I know the mantra, write every day whether you feel it or not, but to me writing isn’t a “practice” or a “job”. It is verbal explosions that come close to these transformations, literal markers whereby I can record the next stage of my life path. These ten months were a time of necessary nurturing, an unavoidable pause to fatten up on love, both to my son, myself, and a tight circle of people that I carry in my heart. And now, I feel the skin splitting. My arms and feet aching to move in ways the previous me was incapable of doing. I don’t guarantee wings and a striking array of colors. I can’t say anyone will even recognize the change. But I feel it’s undeniable presence, as only a transient being of uncountable life stages can.