Out of the Box

So, it's been awhile.

Over a year since I've written anything.

And what have I been doing? (Outside neglecting this blog and ignoring the occasional request for a post?)  I haven't been making pots. I haven't been posting on Etsy. I haven't been building my business.

I have been fixing the house. I've been going to work. I've taken some time to visit with friends. But mostly I've been re-examining myself.

Yeah, I do that a lot.

And what have I come up with?       Boxes.  And labels.     I'll explain.

You know those people who've always known what they wanted to do with themselves? The hairdresser who cut Barbie's hair and did all of her friends styling for prom? The musician who picked up piano by ear and scored all the leads in high school musicals? I have friends who seem to know in every fiber of their being that they are teachers. Or artists. Or entrepreneurs. Some of them describe it as their calling. Or sometimes their purpose. Even my husband has a little bit of this. Farming is clearly in this man's heart and soul.

I remember recognizing this in some of the kids I grew up with. Sally carried around a sketchbook and drew all day: Artist. Bobby was the captain of every sport: Athlete. Sam and Ben and Stephanie excitedly talked together about math and science: Academics. It all seemed so simple for them. Neat and tidy. They could be packaged, boxed and labeled. No muss, no fuss, no wondering. All of their questions already answered. What do you want to be when you grow up? Where do you want to go to college? How do you define yourself?

No problem. Just read the label on the box.

It didn't feel so straightforward for me. Sure, I had some talents. I sang, but I was no show-stopper. I liked to draw a lsome, but I could only do it from life, not from imagination. I was smart, but I was no scholar. To me, it seemed the only box I clearly fit into was the one marked damaged goods.

I spent a good chunk of my youth in that box. Maybe even some of my adulthood. I closed up the flaps and rifled through the detritus, eagerly scrutinizing every chip and crack I could find and occasionally chasing off intruders with shards.

I wasted a lot of time in that box until, fortunately, a series of college electives lead me to stumble over another one.  Sturdier.  Marked "Potter". "Ceramicist".             An artist after all! 
And over time I found more packaging, other boxes I could climb into. One that said "wife". One that said "homesteader" or something close to it. One that said "family member". Each box with it's own label, it's own set of characteristics to define myself with. It's own set of parameters. And then something happened.

I began to feel claustrophobic.

The same boxes that I had been relying upon for structure now felt like six sides pushing in. And I had been shrinking myself to fit inside them, snipping off the bits that seemed to counter my labeling. Putting aside parts of my personality that couldn't be well categorized. Making myself smaller.

I've tried to think of other boxes that might better fit me. Again, hoping to discover my true calling. Find my real purpose. But the truth of the matter is that maybe I don't have one. And whether I'm making pots or making pickles or change my last name it still doesn't define me. And that's okay.

Because I've realized that I still have a label. And it's actually the one I've had all along. The only one that really describes me heart and soul:


"Incredibly capable".

And those boxes? I'll hold on to them. Because now I recognize what they're really there for.

They hold my tools.

Thankful

The day before Thanksgiving at my job-type job is kind of a big deal.

In fact, it's THE big deal.

And after all of the hustle and bustle, the planning and prep, the checking and rechecking and then checking again, I'm often left feeling a little dazed, a little directionless, a little confused come the actual holiday. It would be easy to simply let it pass by in a frenzy of activity. But I like what this holiday stands for, and now that I've regained my bearings I'd like to take a moment to look back. To reflect.


And to give thanks.


Truly I am one of the lucky ones and have much to be thankful for. But this year in particular:

I am thankful for the change in seasons. For the chance to reset, re-assess and shift pace.

I am thankful for wood heat and cold storage.

I am thankful for a strong cup of coffee, a slow cup of tea, and a good bottle of wine.

I am thankful for family. Old and new. Blood, in-law, or otherwise. You continue to make me the person I am today and I am so grateful.

I am thankful for good neighbors.

I am thankful for raw milk and fresh eggs.

I am thankful for this old couch. Where after a long day C. and I can relax and sleepily say silly things to make each other giggle.

I am thankful for wool socks and down blankets.

I am thankful for cheese.

I am thankful to tears for good friends, no matter how seldom I see you. You hear my complaints, offer me wisdom, and call me on my bullshit. I am honored to be able to explore life in the company of such talented, entertaining and insightful people. So thank you.

And for my husband C,
I am every minute thankful for you.

Sign Says

I have a sign hanging in my kitchen reading: SIMPLIFY. It's one of the few things hanging in this house, and by way of commenting on our decor a friend of mine likes to joke that it should read Simplified instead.

It's not particularly pretty, and it's certainly not original, but for me it's less of a statement in design than it is a convenient reminder. To take a step back. To focus. To prioritize.

I've been looking at this sign a lot lately.

Remember  this past Spring? I was practically aflutter with plans for the summer season. Nothing too grand - some gardening, some jam, a little paddling around in our kayaks. And how much of that came to fruition? Very little.

There were the weddings of course. And pink dress notwithstanding (You know I love you H), they were WONDERFUL. But the rest of it? Fallen by the wayside for no other reason than I was busy.  Just busy. The kind of busy that only begets busy. Busy doing all of those things that we convince ourselves need doing before we can go do the things that we would be doing already if we weren't so darn busy.

Now, as far as problems go this one doesn't merit much complaint. And I won't paint this too dark a picture. Compared to a year or so ago things look much rosier. And generally speaking, they continue to look up. But all of this busy? I wonder.