The Most Beautiful Thing in the World

Once upon a time, it was a necklace; it was a pretty, token of affection that a young man selected and presented to his young wife. It was special, when he bought it; a beautiful golden trinket, enameled in green and decorated with pearls, imported all the way from France. She treasured it and wore it on special occasions and then handed it down to her daughter. Her daughter passed it on to a grand-daughter when she turned 16. That grand-daughter wore it in her wedding and later passed it on to her daughter. She still has it, for now.

Five generations, over a hundred forty years. If only pearls could talk...

Even before I knew how old the necklace was or anything about jewelry, the piece had become mythic. My mother kept it safely tucked in the back of her dressing table drawer. Sometimes she would take out different pieces of jewelry and tell the stories behind them. When I look at the necklace, I still hear the soft squeak of the wooden drawer followed by the rustle of jewelry boxes and tissue paper. I feel the heavy clank of the wobbly iron piano stool (with a lump under one cheek) that served as a dressing chair. I smell the feminine dust of cosmetics and old perfume cards and feel the heat of the make-up mirror lights that would scorch, if you touched them. This was a safe place of confidence, womanhood, and history.

I look at this necklace and strands of memories and aspirations begin to unwind. To sit on that stool was to be a woman (if only my feet touched the floor). To wear the necklace was to be a special woman on her way to a very special party. Every once in a while, I was allowed to put it on for a minute... I was transformed from a gangly, mop-headed goof to a statuesque, responsible person, capable of protecting such an extraordinary object.

The first time I was allowed to wear the necklace out of the house was for a high school dance. I attended the dance alone. I wore a hand-me-down dress and borrowed a pair of mom's old shoes. Around my neck was the necklace and it imbued me with a sense of power and confidence. I was a fearless, Amazonian Cinderella marching into that dance; I had no need for a Prince Charming because the magic was all for me.

On my wedding day, my mother presented the necklace to me and placed it around my neck. It was a right of passage. Not to womanhood, as I believed all those years ago, but to a shared history of women. I have become a part of the necklace and all its past is a part of me.

In the beginning, it was just a necklace. Five generations ago, a woman (Mary Catherine) thought it was special enough to care for it and share the story. It is not really a necklace anymore, it is a history of four lives connected through time and space by a tiny bit of gold and pearls and the slight shimmer of green enamel. It is the most beautiful thing in the world.

Craving Time with My Marker

I have completed seventeen doodles today. Before I started this project, I thought that I would have to chain myself to a chair, in order to get the drawing done. Now I find myself looking forward to sitting down with my marker and my tiny sheet of paper. I look forward to doodling the same way that I look forward to a giant double dip sundae with hot fudge and whipped cream. I began contemplating possible reasons behind my rediscovered love of doodling.

First of all, the task is small and fairly easily accomplished. It feels good to finish something. That sense of gratification sometimes eludes me, when I am staring at my giant board of unfinished projects. Significant factors are that the paper is small (I could reasonably finish a doodle in two minutes, although I generally spend much more time on them) and the scope of the project is finite (forty pieces of paper, forty days). I can gauge my progress by simply looking at the diminishing stack of blanks and the growing stack of covereds.

Second, the value of the project lies in its completion. I have neither the hope, desire, nor expectation of any gain of prestige or money from making these doodles. The only things I will gain are the freedom to draw again and the satisfaction of having completed a task. That is all and that is enough.

Finally, letting go of all rules and self imposed pressure to make it "look good" certainly makes the exercise a source of pleasure. I suppose that the rules of good design are important (although I am having a bit of a crisis of faith regarding design orthodoxy; planning a post on that later this week) but the rules are words that ultimately interfere with a physical, non-verbal instinct to create. Not thinking, in words, but rather in the movements of the hand across the page, releases the logjam of creative impulses and allows me to tap into the well of the seeing brain rather than the thinking brain. I find myself seeing the world differently; the way I saw it when I first learned to draw.

Time to take these lessons from and find ways to apply them to other works.

What is Important?

Some of the things I spend my time on: walking the dog and training the dog, cleaning the house, caring for the cats, making food, making jewelry, surfing the internet (especially twitter and facebook), reading about business and economics, listening to NPR, paperwork, watching TV shows, talking to my husband, reading novels and other books.

Things I should spend less time on: paperwork, surfing the internet, watching TV, reading novels (depending on the week).

Things I should spend more time on: going to art shows, talking to my husband, attending cultural events, marketing my jewelry, drawing, coming up with new designs.

What is most important? Family. Friends. Pets. Enjoying my work. Understanding how the world works. Being responsible. Being kind to every person with whom I interact. Living a beautiful life.

Lessons from My Pothos

For most of my life, I have been plagued with a black thumb. I couldn't keep cut flowers fresh for more than three days. And potted plants, forget it. Within a week, I could turn a beautiful, healthy houseplant into a pot of decay and mush. My dad was always giving me flowers and plants; to me, they were sad exiles to the punishing death row of plants that is my house. They were just another hopeful gesture doomed to remind me, within days, that I am an irresponsible failure (or a swift executioner).

One day, my friend Becky gave me a little pothos she had rooted and potted. Becky is a kind and magical individual who seems to have a deeply rooted connection with nature and the living world. She is a portrait of self-renewal and proof that people can choose to change themselves for the better. Simply put, she is everything that I am not. I thought to myself, "this poor little plant is doomed," even as Becky was extolling the virtues of the pothos.

In honor of Becky's faith in me, I decided to really make an effort to not kill the pothos. A week went by and the plant was still alive. Then a month. After about six months, the little guy had outgrown his pot and I took some clippings and gave rooting a try. It worked. A few more months and I had enough plant to try rooting a bit in water. Then, brimming with self confidence, I acquired a few more plants. Now I have a window full of semi-healthy, growing green things. Although there have been a few casualties along the way, including a supposedly indestructible aspidistra (thanks, Dad), most of the plants continue to grow.

Each time I look at that little pothos, I am reminded that I can change. I can be a better person. It hasn't happened overnight and I still make mistakes but little pothos reminds me that, no matter how old I get, I can still change myself. I, confirmed plant killer, can turn my black thumb to green (well, brownish green). I just have to keep trying; it helps to have friends who believe in you.

The original pothos (right) and some of its children.

Who, or what, has helped you become better? Please feel free to comment!