It's All Happening: Mondo Beyondo Update

heart in Union Square, San Francisco

At the beginning of the year, I wrote a retrospective on 2007 and a Mondo Beyondo Prospective for 2008. (Find out more about the Mondo Beyondo concept.) I named 2008 my year of Opportunity, Abundance, Prosperity, Plenty, and Creation, and made a list of intentions for how I want to live and what I want to do. I also named and claimed some Mondo Beyondo dreams for this year and beyond. I'm amazed and joyful and humbled and pleased to see several of them coming to fruition.

I wanted: "to start creating mixed media art and find my own path as a visual artist." Next week, I'll go to my very first art retreat, where I'll take a painting and mixed media class. I'm also taking a travel journaling class and attending the Superhero Life workshop. I'm particularly excited about this last one, as it's being taught by the Super Duper Andrea Scher of Superhero Designs. I met Andrea very briefly at the BlogHer Swap Meet this summer and can't wait to learn from her. Plus? Her lovely assistant will be Jen Gray, who I "know" through blogging and a few emails. (It's hard to know if the word "know" is really the right verb in these cases, isn't it?)

And as if that weren't enough, Jonatha Brooke will be providing camp fire music, Boho Girl Denise will be running around taking artist portraits, and Kelly Rae Roberts, one of my favorite artists, will be hosting a discussion about living the creative life.

But wait! There's more! I was serendipitously connected with Kelly Barton of Camp Indigo Soul to share a rental car between the airport and the camp. After connecting with her, I realized that she is the woman behind one of my favorite Etsy shops. And speaking of serendipity, I'll also get to meet the inspiring Liz Elayne Lamoreux of Be Present, Be Here and The Little Room Etsy shop. (Remind me to tell you the funny little story about how we "met" online.) I'm also looking forward to meeting Kirsten Michelle from In the Land of the Lovelies.

I have a feeling that once I get back from New Hampshire, I'll be gushing about all of these women and more, as well as the whole Squam experience. (fair warning!)

I wanted: "to uncover and be at peace with my decision about having a child." Although I haven't reached a decision or a place of total peace yet, I have had a major epiphany in this realm, which has helped me to understand the swirl of emotions surrounding this issue for me. I'm not ready to tell that part of my story yet, but the plot is definitely taking a few twists and turns.

I wanted: "to spend a week at a writers' retreat somewhere beautiful, comfortable, and nurturing." Earlier this year I reconnected with a writer friend from college (hi, Jamye!). Several months ago, she asked if I would be interested in joining her and some other women on a writing retreat. The details are still unfolding, but it looks like this little dream will come true the first week of November.

At least one other Mondo Beyondo dream is in the works and looks like it will become a reality. And that's just what I can see. What if all the others are unfurling in their own way and time? I don't know where my dream cottage is yet, but I'm sure it's out there.

There is more of the year behind us than in front of us, but there's always time for dreaming and scheming. What are you up to lately?

Laundry: A Poem

image by charlie cravero

I'm trying something new tonight: sharing a poem with you. Seeing this artist's rendering of dryer lint reminded me of a poem I wrote in college. The scene that unfolds in it is fictional, but feels very real to me.

I'm rather shy about sharing this with you. Poetry is like singing for me: I enjoy it, but haven't the faintest idea if I'm any good at it. With my narrative non-fiction writing, I can usually get a handle on things and decide if a piece is good, or at least passable. But my own poetry leaves me baffled. I know I like some of it, but I have no bearing beyond that. Perhaps therein lies my answer: If I like it, it's good (enough) for me.

And so, I stand up and sing in front of the world:

Laundry

The agitated sloshing of cold water Tide
Is white background noise
To accompany silent swirling snow outside.
Two chairs from the door, resplendent in purple polyester pants,
And a gold paisley shirt
Plumps a sitting woman, serious about her breathing.
Across the room, brown and stout, the change machine crouches.
A small boy, same shade as the machine, though slighter in build,
Reaches on tip-toes to feed it a limp dollar,
Laughing with accomplishment as four shiny quarters clatter
Into the curved cup.
In the corner, farthest from the windows
(Though the fluorescent lights allow no shadow)
Entwines a couple, as agitated as my washer.

A harsh buzz,
The spin cycle stops.
Time to dry.
I open the smooth white lid to towels and shirts
Stuck, wet heavy cold, to the pin-holed sides of the steel tub,
Like people pressed to the walls of that amusement park ride
Spinning wildly and the floor dropped out and your face flattened
With the pressure.

The lint in the tray is soft speckled grey:
Leftovers of some stranger's laundry.
I'd like to keep it --
Collect the lint of a hundred machines,
Weave a familiar eclectic sweater
To wear when the wind threatens my warmth.
Instead, not to look odd in front of the wheezing polyester woman
(now sucking on a soda)
I toss it away and heap
My own into the dryer.

In the corner, the couple giggles.
The little brown boy stares until
Mother reprimands,
Her arms full of kiddie clothes,
A yellow, green, and white box of fabric softener wedged between her chin and chest.
The boy spies Polyester's Mountain Dew and clamors
For more change.
Another washer shutters to a stop.
The girl of the couple swings her tight acid washed jean hips to the machine,
Peers inside, unsure of the next step.
I wonder if her man will strut to her side and save his distressed damsel;
But he just stares at her backside leaning over the open lid.

A click and a beep.
My towels are warm and fluffy,
But too worn
For a Downey advertisement.
My basket piled full of woven lint,
I set it on the orange plastic scoop chair beside me.
The smell of static-electricity,
Like metal-vegetation:
Tiny crackling sparks as I pull apart
Washcloths and socks,
Pillowcase and bathmat.
The mother drops a small pair of overalls
And the boy asks me, "Do you have a quarter?"

Saturday Sayings: Change the world

image by exfordy
(it's so much better bigger)

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.

~Margaret Mead

Acts of Love

photo by dusdin (modified)

"I see your dishes are all done!"

It's a little joke my mom and I have when she comes to my house. If there are dirty dishes piled up on the counter and in the sink (as there all too often are) she kindly ignores them. But when the kitchen is free of dirty dishes, she says, "I see your dishes are all done!"

Without context, that phrase makes her sound like one of those harpy mothers who show up in bad chick-lit novels and mediocre sitcoms. But it's not that way at all.

After several years of being a married woman and trying to "keep house," I confessed to my mom that I was embarrassed my the near constant state of disarray in my home. I love a clean, orderly space. I can even create one. I just have trouble maintaining it.

At some point, I stopped trying to pretend that I was a domestic diva--at least in front of my mother. Even though she's always kept a clean, neat, and well-organized house, my mom's never been one of those white-glove-test types or one to cast disapproving looks at the stacks of magazines and mail that regularly commandeer my kitchen island and dining room table. Still, I wanted her to be proud of me, to show her that I'd learned something about domesticity from her. Finally, I had to admit that housekeeping just wasn't my main gig.

I think the joke about the dishes started as her way of giving me a pat on the back, of saying kudos on getting the dishes done--something that she knew wasn't always the easiest or highest priority on my list. In those moments, I'm seven-years-old again and she's praising my picture for the school art contest. I don't care if it's the best. I just care that she sees it.

I admire my mom's ability to stick to a schedule, complete a task, focus on what needs to be done. But I've also seen how it forces her to push herself unnecessarily when she's weary and how it makes her feel guilty if she allows things to fall below her usual standard.

She once told me, "I wish I could be more like you. You seem to be able to just let things go. I can't do that." She was referring, of course, to my ability to let dirty dishes stack up in the kitchen, to let paper pile up everywhere, to forgo vacuuming for much too long. And as weird as that sounds, it really was a compliment on what she admired in me: my ability to put myself first sometimes, to choose fun over chores, and to say "I'll do it tomorrow" if I'm too tired to do it today.

After dinner a few nights ago, I loaded the dishwasher and looked at everything left on the counter that either can't go in the machine or just wouldn't fit this time around. In addition to the usual pots and pans, I still had a bunch of plates, bowls, and silverware left over. I thought about just washing the big stuff, but it seemed silly not to do a few extra things while I was at it.

I rinsed half a dozen pieces of silverware, a little metal bouquet, under running water. The sound of forks, spoons, and butter knives clacking together transported me back to the kitchen of my childhood, where all dishes were washed by hand, all the time. Back to that eat-in kitchen with the ceramic-top stove that was once blown out of the wall when our neighbor's ex-wife came crashing through it in her car. Back to the counter tops that old Aunt Martha insisted were much too poorly lit every Thanksgiving. Back to the mint green vinyl chairs with swivel seats and legs with wheels. Back to dinner being served every weekday at 4:30 when Dad got home from the factory. Back to when Monday nights meant swiss steak and mashed potatoes, and Friday nights often meant a pizza box atop the plastic tablecloth.

I looked at my hand holding that silverware and saw my mother's hand. I felt the hard curve of wet metal that she's felt thousands of times. The moment expanded so that I was my mother and she was me. The moment contracted so that all truth and love and acts of kindness were there in that little handful of metal. I finished the dishes and thought to myself, "I see all your dishes are done."

Small is Beautiful

See that new button on the side of the page? Isn't it lovely? In a land where bigger is constantly touted as better, and size matters most in everything from McMansions to McMeals, it's nice to remember that small can be beautiful. And I'm not talking about in a good-things-come-in-small-packages-diamonds-are-forever kind of way. (Although good things often do come in small packages. But diamonds, while hearty, are not indestructible. But I digress...)

Inspired by their session at BlogHer '07, Rachelle Mee-Chapman (a.k.a. Magpie Girl) and Jen Lemen are reminding us that blogs (and other endeavors) don't have to be big to be beautiful. Behold the Small is Beautiful Manifesto:

• We believe stories are valuable, no matter how many people read them.
• We believe following your passion is more important that watching your site meter.
• We believe in the handmade, the first try, the small start, and the good effort.
• We believe that small is beautiful.

Find out who else is part of this little neighborhood, consider moving in yourself, and check out the Rachelle's Small is Beautiful Saturdays.