Spicing up the merchandise

Spicing up the merchandise, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

Maybe she was testing to see if anyone was paying attention.
Maybe she was testing market receptivity to broadening the product line.
Or maybe she was just having a dyslexic moment.

Sure capped our after-Christmas leisurely stroll in downtown Sonora, CA.

Meet me under the mistletoe!

Meet me under the mistletoe!, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

The misunderstood mistletoe. Dependent on trees for survival, it's been labeled a parasite for so long.

"...rather than being a pest, mistletoe can have a positive effect on biodiversity, providing high quality food and habitat for a broad range of animals in forests and woodlands worldwide."

— http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mistletoe

Turns out the the little misfit has enormous value after all.

Institutions deeply rooted in traditions and hierarchy can hastily dismiss their mistletoe workers and never count the loss in human terms. People drunk on their own power can treat their staff like pests to be eradicated.

"But mistletoe is also capable of growing on its own; like other plants it can produce its own food by photosynthesis."

— http://www.theholidayspot.com/christmas/history/mistletoe.htm

Mistletoe brings people together. (People kiss under it!) That connection, multiplied globally (over cyberspace, in this instance) sustains the mistletoe when arrogant trees refuse to lend their branches for support.

Long live mistletoe!

Shooting Down Mistletoe

Are you too adaptable to be authentic?

Ah, chameleons, the mood rings of the animal kingdom. Droll faces, fantastic emoting from the skin. We’ve given chameleons a bad rep. We watch their colors shift and dub them the icon of insincerity.

Maybe they’re just adaptable. And that can be a good thing, the thing that ensures survival. But in the human jungle, can too much adaptability cost us our authenticity?

Have you ever worked where the company culture was so toxic and so counter to your nature that just going to work everyday was exhausting? Because having to suppress your views, silence your voice and produce work exactly as specified, with no wiggle room, left you a squeezed out rag on the couch every evening?

And despite this, didn’t you resolve to work within the limitations and swallow the indignities, to nod, smile and be courteous, remember co-workers’ birthdays, stay out of the cat fights, contribute at meetings, and be a good little soldier because by golly, it was decent pay and an enviable job in a county with an 18 percent unemployment rate? Even if it was in a city rated the dumbest in the country.

But didn’t you cling to the hope that this would all lead somewhere good, that your patience, professionalism and stiff upper lip would earn respect, even if grudging, that Rasputin, the boss’s advisor, would ease her chokehold of tyranny and allow you a smidgeon of credit for a job well done, or the busybody would find someone else to water torture with her hallway pettiness?

You haven’t worked at such a place? I hate you. Hush. Let me tell my story. Re-read the three previous paragraphs, and then:

One day the Top Banana sent me a link to What life asks of us, a New York Times article. I wrote speeches for him, and this is how he sometimes generated nuggets to sparkle up his remarks. A big event was coming up, and we needed to start panning for gold.

I read the article. It touted the nobility of dedicating your life to the institution, which the author opined “gives meaning to life.” (sound of retching, mine)

Now you have to understand something. The Top Banana and I shared a cultural background, one in which the good of the group always comes before the good of the individual. I grew up on a military base and within a devout Catholic family. I had wanted to be a missionary when I grew up. I understood the sentiment of selflessness on the familial, societal, and spiritual levels.

But I wasn’t sure this was going to go over well. His audience would be several hundred young adults about to be let loose on corporate America. Most had grown up in the United States, fed from birth on a diet of Change the World, not Conform to the Firm. I asked the boss if he had intended for me to spin some of this into his speech.

You could, he said. Did I mention indirectness is another trait common to our culture?

In hindsight, I realize he wasn’t addressing the graduates with this article. He had sent it to me, period.

The Top Banana emailed me the day after I cleared out my office of its feng shui-correct décor. Thank you for your contributions, he said. My wife and I wish you and your family well and miss you already. Big hugs.

Do they make chameleon skin in my size? Will it slowly suffocate me?

Enter Microbe Finds Arsenic Tasty; Redefines Life

This more recent New York Times article talks about bacteria that by nature feed on phosphorus but by willpower (the scientists’, not theirs) subsist on arsenic. As in, poison. Toxic stuff.

“The bacterium, scraped from the bottom of Mono Lake in California and grown for months in a lab mixture containing arsenic, gradually swapped out atoms of phosphorus in its little body for atoms of arsenic.”

‘It’s a really nice story about adaptability of our life form,’ one of the scientists glowed.

While the scientists were patting themselves on the back about their really nice story, I’m thinking, hey, that was me. I had arsenic for lunch every day because the institution said so. You know you’ve sunk low when you empathize with microbes. And not just any pond scum, but bottom-of-the-lake bacterium. But wait, what’s this:

“The cells grown in the arsenic came out about 60 percent larger than cells grown with phosphorus, but with LARGE, EMPTY, INTERNAL SPACES.” (caps mine)

Traces of phosphorus remained in the bacterium despite the force-feeding with arsenic. One scientist described it as “clinging to every last phosphate molecule, and really living on the edge.”

“I was feeling sorry for the bugs,” one of them said.

Important People with compassion! Good to know they’re out there, as the ones I worked with seemed abundant in large, empty, internal spaces. And I don’t just mean between the ears.

You can live your life for the institution all you want. As for me, I will tend to filling my internal spaces, which have become less large and less empty with more time and distance.

Postscript: Within 10 months after the institution and I parted ways, the Top Banana resigned. How are we feeling about the institution now, hmm?

Abundance

Abundance, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

Nothing like paring down to bare essentials to rediscover what exactly those essentials are. In January of 2010, I scribbled some thoughts.

"There's a line from a Leonardo DiCaprio movie:

'Know what you have, what you want, what you can do without: inventory control.' 

— Frank Wheeler, Revolutionary Road

I had to pause the movie to stew in the parallel to my life right now.
The story is set in the 1950s and portrays suburban angst and lives of quiet despair within cozy white bungalows. The angst would ring hollow if set in contemporary times, when holding on to a job and a home would mean you’ve escaped the famine…for now.

Hollywood, and the fans that support this massive system, make “living your dream” a religion.

I don’t dare claim the privilege of having a dream. Right now it’s a daily victory if I manage to quash the fear of my husband also becoming unemployed.

Being unemployed has me envying the postal worker who complained she has to work on Saturdays. It has me being even nicer and more appreciative toward service workers, retail clerks and food servers. Everyone with a job is doing the honorable thing.

When I did have a job, I spent money as one who makes burnt sacrifices at the altar of the implacable god of the economy. I was pumping out stimulus money in a microeconomics way, picking up the tab when friends and I would lunch. What serendipity that I spent the first half of 2009 doing what would turn out to be a dry run for being unemployed: I lived on half my net income, resolutely paying off my credit card debt with the other half. It’s how I learned what I can do without.

Turns out, plenty. I can do without twice-monthly massages and monthly chiro adjustments, haircuts, meals out that hardly satisfy, movies at the cinemax, several bags full of clothes and knickknacks on a whim every weekend, and any acquisition from a junk mail catalog."

Eleven months later, I find that my outlook is different. It's not about what we're doing without (and don't even miss), it's what we had all along that barely merited a glance.

Happy Thanksgiving. Tomorrow when I celebrate another birthday, it will be with full awareness of the abundance with which we have been blessed.

Between me and the deep blue sea

I am afraid of my sewing machine. There, I’ve said it. It wouldn’t matter much, except my fear is what stopped me dead on the tracks as I zipped along toward my reinvention. In my dream new identity, I am a derelict clothing designer, upending mediocrity in women’s apparel and thumbing my nose at cubicle convention. I offer slices of delicious escape to women weary of conforming. I aim to dress fellow misfits who want to make peace with their weirdness.

It’s farfetched when you consider that I have zero background in fashion design and business management. In the last decade I had settled into making a living writing about abstract concepts—leadership, mentorship, gender equity, the value of higher education. Every job I’ve had was a step off a cliff. I had no practice as a reporter, speechwriter, desktop publisher or instructor before becoming one. Whatever skills I didn’t already bring to the table I learned on the job. Fear never derailed me.

Most people fear spiders. I squish them without squirming. Many quake at the thought of public speaking. Pffft. My first job out of college was teaching public speaking to sophomores at my alma mater. My last day job was coaching a CEO on delivering the speeches I wrote for him.

Some people freeze on the edge of the dance floor. As an instructor in ballroom and Latin dance, I demonstrate the promenade, the Cuban chase, the infinity spin and such in front of crowds of strangers and perform several times a year.

But the domestic arts have always been my Kryptonite. That sewing machine haunts me. For years, I kept it boxed in a dark closet in a room I never enter unless I have to store more stuff. It’s not even mine; I bought it for Mom when she visited more often. Now she pleads old age. She says she’s too frail to get on a jetliner and cross the Pacific Ocean.

Summers when I was a tomboy, Mom tried to get me to sit still and learn how to sew. She was an effortless seamstress. I wore a lot of her creations. I should’ve been more appreciative. I should’ve paid attention. I should’ve made my own Home Ec projects instead of letting Mom earn the grade.

Somehow I managed to live nearly five decades without ever feeling the need to know how to sew. Call it a midlife crisis, but a year ago I burned out rehashing the same tired concepts on the job and set off to release my inner Ungaro, upcycled version.

I lurked on etsy.com forums, absorbing, keeping notes, hearting examples. I studied business start-up advice, amassed a roomful of vintage and thrifted material, took out a seller’s permit and designed a digital banner. I handsewed stitch by painstaking stitch, turning out flowy dance pants, frilly tunics, quirky skirts.

I fed my ferocious need to remake something in the image of my vision. It must be a control issue. There are few enough things over which we have control, so let’s let loose with what we wear when we’re doing something for ourselves. Let’s dress for life—not for approval.

I may have the beginnings of my business manifesto! It’s coming together and falling into place. Except for the pesky part about not knowing how to sew by machine.

Here’s the thing: most of those times when I learned how to do something new, I was doing it for the boss.  Learning how to sew will be for me—for the new me I am trying to fashion out of disheartened and disgraced remnants. Do you know what it feels like to attempt this reinvention?

My nephew, Vince, that eagle-eyed spotter of oddities that make great fodder for wry comments, noted Google map’s directions for getting to China from Taiwan. Head west, take this ramp, take this exit, turn left, turn right. They seem regular enough, until you come to:

Step#24: Swim across the Pacific Ocean.

Right. There. It feels like I am about to swim across the Pacific Ocean, and I don’t know how to doggy paddle.

Staring is taboo

Omniscient, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

The longer I live in the United States, the more foreign I feel around Filipinos.

I marked the silver anniversary of my immigration this past summer. At this point I’ve lived in California more than half my life. People from here don’t ask me, “Where are you from?” as often as they did in the early years. What hasn’t changed is the way some Filipinos react when they see me for the first time: they stare. Openly and unrelentingly, as if they were seeing me in a line-up from behind a two-way mirror.

They want to know if I’m a fellow Filipino. Unable to conclude this from my accent or perhaps the lack thereof, and hesitant to ask me outright, they resort to sizing up my features. I’ve been greeted in Niponggo by the Japanese and optimistically proclaimed Korean by a Korean. The Vietnamese ladies at the nail salon usually ask if I’m Chinese. The Chinese are extra nice to me at their restaurants. I must remind them of their eccentric aunt.

But my countrymen and women, they stare. More so the women. That’s how I know they’re Filipino. In trying to identify me, they give themselves away. We’re not talking about the adoring gaze that your dog bestows upon you post-Kibbles. I am reminded of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, in which pod people point and scream to “out” those unlike them.

Staring is taboo in most Western cultures except in Hollywood, which has its own culture the way the Vatican is a country within a city. If we lived in Hollywood, for which I thank God we do not, I am certain none of the attention would be wasted on me. Unless they were casting for the mother of Catherine Zeta-Jones, whom I somewhat resemble if my brother-in-law were to be believed.

A former colleague who expatriated to Japan encountered the opposite phenomenon: the natives’ aversion to looking him in the eye, even during conversation, rendered him an invisible, unwelcome stranger. He rationalized that in a society as compactly quartered and politely ordered as Japan’s, the last bastion of personal space is visual. Sardined in a bullet train, one must compensate for the pressing of flesh against flesh with sustained look-aways.

I feel it behooves us to retain identifying behaviors that would preserve our heritage in this diverse land. We can be mini versions of Vatican City. Thus, I am preparing to engage in staring, and not only dabble, but be downright adept at it.

Apart or a part? Are you a soloist or orchestra player?

Fruit, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

Are we better as part of something bigger than us, or do we hit our peak potential only when we tune in to what makes us unique? Do we bear more fruit—or sweeter fruit—on our own or on demand?

I was getting ready to send out a Friday wind-down greeting on Facebook. The message would have encouraged friends and family to put down the workday yoke, take off the company mask and spend time being only who they choose to be as individuals. Easy for me to say; I've been self-employed for a year.

Would the transition be at great cost? Would it make their Monday mornings suck even worse? Is it all that bad being part of a machine that works, given the stability and benefits?

I chafe at the good-soldier expectations that come with employment but look around my house and see everyday examples that more can be accomplished as a part of a whole—even as a mediocre part: one light in my outdated chandelier; one blade on the ceiling fan; one leg on the table.

When I post status updates as a dance teacher, the key message is, "Join us!" The implication being that life, meaning yours, is lacking if you don't learn to cha-cha with us. I position our dance studio as something you need to make your life richer, to color the corporate grays away.

When I post a link to this blog, the message is "Come away with me." Turn your back on the blur and static, and focus on this one thought of mine, how it affects you, what thoughts it might provoke.

For a loner, I'm such a joiner. For a joiner, I'm a loner. I am an intensely private introvert who has built a career that hinges on incessant public contact. I am a regular contributor of photos to flickr.com who has yet to join a flickr group even when I know that it will spur me to create with even more passion. I am the youngest of six who lives 8,000 miles of ocean away from siblings, has visited once in 25 years, and has never wished I had a twin. But I devour the substitute memories contained in my sister's Facebook album collages!

I am a believer in the Christian faith, embracing the definition of sanctified as "set apart from the world," yet intrigued by the Buddhist perspective of everyone and everything being one and indistinct. The latter viewpoint draws me in with its take on suffering, conflict and oppression: if ego is a fictional construct, conflict with another is conflict with ourselves. Why fight? Being oppressed (by bosses, road rage drivers, rude customer "service" clerks) is less a personal affront, because even the oppressors suffer—from their own diminished status as human beings lacking in compassion.

I am a Filipino ex-pat who has by choice acculturated apart from the immigrant community, but has of late realized that my privilege as a bicultural person comes with the duty to voice the experience to validate the experience of others.

I am the patient nibbler of pomegranate and atis, with seeds that must be teased apart but flesh that my mouth can only appreciate en masse.

Speak the truth in love

A friend of a friend shared on Facebook the other day, "One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter."

My friend then quoted Henry Vandyke: “Tact is the unsaid part of what you think; its opposite, the unthought part of what you say.”

Expressing ourselves triggers vulnerability. There could be good or bad consequences for both us and the ones who hear our words. I once heard a simple, memorable, and sensible gauge for deciding whether to say something or not. I wrote about it
here. We ask ourselves, "Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?" If it meets all three conditions, then we may say it.

But what if it's true and necessary, but unpleasant? I thank God I'm not the boss who has to take employees aside and tell them they need a breath mint. Or the cop/minister/doctor who has to let a family know their loved one is a fatality.

In our ordinary lives, the unpleasant truth is more likely to be that someone is driving us crazy. I'm so lousy at lying I don't even bother. I haven't been a big fan of white lies, either, but I've managed a clear distinction in my head between hypocrisy and civility. Even if I can't stand the sight and sound of you, if we have to work together, you can always rely on my professional courtesy toward you — no matter how big of a jerk you're behaving toward me. Once that working relationship is over, though, you won't see me initiating or reciprocating any social interaction. My silence will say what was left unsaid. (Hear that, former co-worker? former boss?)

I wish I could be as unambiguous with the friends I've de-friended over the years. I stopped all contact with the first one because she was the kind of flaky we're all supposed to outgrow; the second for her undeserved sense of entitlement (to my resources, time and undivided attention); the third for unrelenting, clueless self-centeredness; the fourth for crying over the smallest thing, thus turning the office into a daycare circus; and the fifth (and last, I hope) for being a staggering, obnoxious drunk at a party while expecting me to babysit her.

I haven't begun to figure out if there might have been any way to speak the truth kindly to any of the aforementioned. As relaxed as I usually am about friendship, my standards exclude the flaky, the leeches, and the heavy baggages who don't even try to control their emotions or addictions. If you come up with a loving way to say that to a person, you know where to find me.

Deadline

Requiem, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

"I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid."

— T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

Same sky, same window — altered view

Sky, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

A year ago, I drove 100 miles to work and back each day. In the winter, there'd be many days when the tulle fog made it impossible to see beyond my own car hood. I had to keep inching along or risk being rear-ended. It took a great deal of willpower to get up everyday and get behind that wheel, knowing I had two hours of white-knuckled steering ahead. I tried to remind myself that somewhere beyond all that claustrophobia-inducing impenetrable shroud, beyond the dead quiet isolation of the back roads, there was still a sun that shone down, invisible as it was to me at the moment. I projected myself by sheer imagination into that clear, calm, sunny space.

Know that the fog is fleeting, and the sun will always win out.

Shine your light anyway

Find your way home, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

In grade school, we were taught to sing,
"It is better to light just one little candle than to stumble in the dark,
Better far that you light just one little candle — all you need's a tiny spark.
If we'd all say a prayer that the world would be free
The wonderful dawn of a new day would be...
And if everyone lit just one little candle
What a bright world this would be!"

With my dimming memory (which I blame on perimenopause, the convenient catchall for all my physical woes), that's my best recollection of the lyrics, anyway.

Yes, it feels so good, freeing and cathartic to vent to a friend, write an angry letter (then rip it up), or come up with one brilliant retort that silences that irritating little yappermouth who's been snarking up your tree.

But if that's become a way of life for you, not an occasional release of steam, I'm guessing you're walking around with your finger on the giant button labeled, "Just try pushing this."

And you're not happy. So who's got the remote control on that?

How do I know? I fight that battle in my head every day, dear reader. I'll be serenely picking cat fur off the furniture one moment, and the next my heart will be pounding as my thoughts careen toward My Personal List of Unjust Utterances.

Grrr, I remember a host of cutting remarks that have knocked my ego onto its front teeth or dared me to unsheathe my saber of a tongue.

"I would never wear something like that." (It's good to know your limitations, girly.)

"I could never live where you live." (You'll never have to, you have Doctor Daddy buying you a condo.)

"Isn't that a stretch for you?" (I can stretch far enough to connect my knuckle to your jaw.)

"You'd be pretty if it weren't for that chin." (I'm Leno's love child.)

"You speak English very well." (for a non-white person?)

"My wife says you did better than she had expected you would." (And you have no qualms repeating this to me?)

"You have young children, you should be home with them." (from a two-bit editor trying to intimidate me into quitting)

"We picked the other applicant because she's young and single, and her interests reflect that." (from another editor who forgot there are things such as birthdays, weddings, and oh, this little thing called non-discrimination)

In the tradition of Dave Barry, I add: I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

Funny how my usually foggy memory manages to retrieve all the bad things without delay. I have yet to locate the manual on setting preferences for memory access. I think the drop-down menu is in the vicinity of the heart, not the head.

By the time I'm to the bottom of My List of Unjust Utterances, I'm walking around in a dark cloud of buzzing flies and dust the likes of which Pigpen in the Peanuts strip has never seen. It won't take much effort to grow that list. Or balloon that dark cloud.

But would those trapped miners in Chile choose to stay in darkness? That would be insane. The world cheers, and I right along, as each miner is brought back into the light. I just need to snatch myself back.

If only it were as simple as switching on my head lamp. I am always on the prowl for switches that can toggle me over to the bright side. Happily, it doesn't take much to do that, either.

Today, my friend, Jan, posted this thought on Facebook:
"Being happy doesn't mean everything is perfect. It means you have decided to see beyond the imperfections."

Aaaand I'm sunny-side up again!

The keyword here is 'decided." Happiness is a choice. It's not contingent on every condition being met. (But I do think happiness and hope are intimately related.)

In the quiet evening hours, my husband is used to me randomly piping up, "Contentment." I'm bookmarking the moment. It's a good way to balance our interaction so that not everything that comes out of my mouth is a whine.

What do I choose to be happy about today?
How about this: you're reading me right now. You've given me your time. You might decide to sample a couple other posts here. You might even come back. I'm on cloud 9! (That's the cloud above the dark cloud.)

"I see you," as they saluted each other on James Cameron's Avatar. I see you in Australia, China and the Philippines lighting up on my analytics audience map when my Canadian, Mexican and U.S. readers tuck in for the night. I see you in the U.K. and Germany checking in. There you are, Saudi Arabia. Hello!

You've lent your energy to this space we've carved out for us, not even two months in existence. My Follow widget works now, too -- woohoo! Hearts to Kristine, my first official follower who isn't related to me by blood or marriage. Soon the little page views counter will say 1,000, and we'll all be flicking on our lights in the darkness to let each other know we're here.

Be brave, say something out loud in the comments section, OK? I'll be listening for you, dear one.

The Demise of Clockwise

The Demise of Clockwise, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

I call out, "Get into Line of Dance; move counter clockwise around the ballroom."

The students freeze. Faces blank out. To a generation that tells time by cellphone, clockwise is archaic. Even those with alarm clocks on their bedside table rely on LED numerals. They can't read what the big hand and the little hand might be trying to tell them.

The generation gap spans widely at the dance studio where I teach. But that's OK. You couldn't get me to tell time by the sundial in my garden. And the only time we've ever used the likeness of an hourglass was with a miniature minute version that timed my daughters as they brushed their teeth.

It's not the speed of technology I rue, it's the lag of language. And it goes both ways. In another class, one of the 20-something teachers, instructing the men not to squeeze their partners' hands with their thumbs, said, "Your partner is not a Gameboy." Dead silence from the mostly middle-aged crowd.

Despite these minor communication blips, the art of ballroom dancing continues to find appreciation across all age groups. It's a joy to watch our students become fluent in the language of movement, attuned to the meaning behind the lift of a hand, the nudge on the back, the flick of the wrist. They grin widely as they jump on the rhythm train and it takes them on a breathtaking ride. Amid the huffing and puffing, there are outbursts of frustration, but just as many bursts of applause and hop-skips of delight.

Learning to dance requires such absorption in the moment that whether the class is an hour or three, it's always a pleasant shock to glance at the clock—the one with the big hand and little hand—and find we've been fastforwarded. We set goals for the next class, review the accomplishments of the hour just passed, and hug friends who were strangers barely an hour before.

If that big clock on the wall could wear a smile on its face, it would.

Can creativity be a liability?

One of my strengths, it seems, has a downside. And oh, has it ever been a thorn in my side! Often complimented on my creativity, I have also borne it on my back as my cruel tormenter. It fans my fear of mediocrity. I labor to buck the predictable.

The predictable is comfortable! Familiarity breeds comfort, not always contempt.  I color outside the lines and it's curtains for me.

Now, when I say creative, I'm not talking about Van Gogh-proportioned, cut-off-my-left-earlobe angst. (I remember as a child being horrified to learn this about the painter.) I am nothing if not even-tempered day to day as well as in crisis. Nor am I inclined to blow things out of proportion, as author Pearl S. Buck describes:

The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him, a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death.

Please, no. Particularly the part about failure being death. I'm still alive!

Copyblogger's Brian Clark wrote about mental blocks to creative thinking, particularly the pressure to conform and be viewed as "normal." He calls it the unquestioning consensus that inhibits your natural creative abilities.

Commenter Frank observed:
To revisit Point #7:

“Most of what keeps us civilized boils down to conformity, consistency, shared values, and yes, thinking about things the same way everyone else does. There’s nothing wrong with that necessarily, but if you can mentally accept that it’s actually nothing more than groupthink that helps a society function, you can then give yourself permission to turn everything that’s accepted upside down and shake out the illusions."

You do, however, have to be prepared to be seen as interfering with the function of society. That can be a very dangerous place to be – thus all the groupthink.

"Creativity is best achieved by people who know that it is not always a perfect good. It has its price, and the price is sometimes very high. You threaten people – sometimes very ambitious and intelligent people, who can retaliate."

I've learned to be skeptical of opportunities that purport to seek my creativity and exuberance. I made the mistake of accepting such an opportunity, offered by ambitious, intelligent, uber-accomplished but rigid thinkers. I tried but failed to please them. It's true what Seth Godin says, that you won't succeed by giving people what you think they need — you must give them what they demand. They demanded obeisance. Before I realized it, I had been pounded into a dried out bouillon cube version of my formerly inspired self.

Many creatives must not only live among pragmatists but make a living with skill sets that don't involve creativity. It's still a pragmatist's world down here among the rank and file. We die a little every day, not from failing, but from gradually losing the will to try something innovative.

These past 11 months after walking away from a salaried position, I gave myself permission to try chucking the cubicle that had shaped me in its likeness.  I was selective about where I applied next.  From refusing to be square, my bank statements dwindled to a series of round zeroes. I wasn't surprised. As long as my spouse remained employed, I was willing to fail — in the eyes of the income-driven, anyway — to revive the parts of me that had fainted from the drought.

Failure of this kind does not equate with defeat!

Everyone has a someday list. Someday I'll find the time to dabble in photography...to dive into a craft project...to tackle that mess in my closets...to startle my inner entrepreneur awake...to dive into the mosh pit of social media...to finally unleash a blog and let it drag me in whatever direction it takes. I checked off everything on my list.

For me, the terror of unstructured days gave way to stretching out the day as far into night as my stamina would allow. I still forgot to stop and eat lunch on some days, but now I was working on things that fulfilled and challenged me. I discovered there were still things that could surprise and move me.

What remains to be seen is if this spate of productivity will stay constant and cushion me when I return to the pragmatist's world. Or will I have to hold up a white flag and whisper "Shush!" to my creative side while I'm at work?

Tell me if you've been through something similar. How did your cubicle rejection turn out?

Say what? The malady of malarky

There's always more than one way to view a situation. Take this photo. It could be saying any number of things to you, including:

Come to me, and I will give you rest.
I'm letting go.
Go in peace.
Kill the fatted calf.
I want what's rightfully mine.
I give up. I can't get through to you.
I'm going to wring your neck.
It was this big.
Hocus pocus.
Hubba-hubba.
Come give your Auntie a big, slobbery kiss, you darling boy.

I know you'll come up with some good ones.
(And when you do, share them in the comments section!)

It's a wonder we understand half the things people say and do when we have all these filters to warp the message.

That's why I think writers and professional communicators are vastly underappreciated. Ditto lyricists. The good ones manage to craft a message that slogs through the muck of our mindset at the moment. The excellent ones even make it look easy. The slimy ones churn out steer manure and call it a compliment.

Since the professional message-senders have such a tough time, there ought to be a reciprocal career for professional understanders. Not merely interpreters, but honest to goodness understanders. Maybe they're already employed, but their titles obscure what they do. Some are called shrinks or spiritual advisors. Or mothers, best friends, soulmates — the latter group unpaid but no less skilled at what they do.

Assigning meaning is a human ability. It's usually exercised in snap decisions, first impressions, and unfortunately, gossip-mongering. Discovering true meaning is a function of the intellect working in harmony with the soul, usually over time.

How to reverse the pollution of misinterpretation? I'd say we start by practicing two clichés that have undeservedly earned a bad rap.

The first is, "Give the other fellow the benefit of the doubt."
The second is, "There's always two sides to a coin."

I promise to pause before deciding to believe that So-and-So said Such-and-Such. I commit to considering what else the other person could have meant apart from how I took it to mean. I will make the effort to run my strong opinions through the sieve of "Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?" to choose how and which ones I do express.

And if I forget, leap to conclusions, take instant offense or swallow a flatterer's line, I promise to view a poorly dubbed martial arts movie. The mouths not matching the words will serve to remind me that the pollution of misinterpretation will persist unless I do something about it in my own small way.

How did you choose to make your mark today?

Nerve endings, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

You can make your mark on the world with the sizzling, searing force that brands cattle. If you crave dominion over people with a herd mentality, that might work for you.

Or, you can weave your mark into the warp and weft of conversation, interaction and transaction. You become integrated and integral to the fabric, and ripping you out will mean destroying the fabric.

Consider your approach as you go about your day.

Looking in windows

There's a pile-up of coffee filters on my kitchen window sill this week. It's a signal (SOS) to the joggers and dogwalkers that the person who lives here is on deadline. Panicked by my procrastination. Fighting the sleepies. Coffee to the rescue.

Didn't housewives of old put pies on their sill to cool? At least that's what I remember from cartoons. My poor passersby will have to settle for used filters. I'm recycling them when they're dry.

Do you glance into people's windows when they leave the drapes open and turn on the lights at dusk? I do. My husband's usually at the wheel, and I have the luxury of rubbernecking. I like to project myself into what I imagine life might be like in their homes.

When they see the coffee filters, what would my life seem like from the outside looking in? Would they want to trade places with me?

One thing for sure, our house seems like a friendly place to dogs and cats who are passing through. One morning we awoke to find four plump puppies on our porch. They'd been dropped off across the street, judging from the crate that lay on the curb. They made a beeline for our house.

The neighborhood cats lounge on the lawn, slinking off when we appear at the door. Everyone is welcome. I logged the visit of one of them here.

Five Septembers ago, the cat who would be ours for life showed up.  We didn't know it at the time. He was a few notches higher in feline beauty than the rest. But it took a gunshot to the chest to prompt me to claim him.

I'll tell you about it when I get my head above the pile of compositions awaiting my editing.

Beauty in surrender

Surrendering to time, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

Grace and calm acceptance
Dignity in unheralded effort

How to stop hoarding and start green stockpiling

One recovering shopaholic makes peace with the new minimalism

One of my favorite tasks when I wrote for a newspaper was to profile collectors in California’s Central Valley and Sierra Nevada foothills. We featured folks who collected nativity sets, plaid lunchboxes, antique kitchenware, and so on.

Collectors have a peculiar mindset. They lock onto a category, then hunt and gather with ferocity. They know the stories behind each of their finds.

The question that nipped at my ankles was, “When is it collecting and when is it hoarding? Where is the line?”

I asked one collector, “When do you know you’ve collected enough?”
“When the space you’ve dedicated to it is full,” he said simply.

For some, that space is expandable. That’s probably why storage rental is ubiquitous in the United States. For others, the space never reaches capacity, because it’s an emotional void.

U.K. blogger creativevoyage noted,

"…once people are doing what they love they need less money because they need fewer ‘treats’ to get through their horrible jobs.”

 Is this hitting close to home? Oh, all right. I’ll be the bad example here. Geez, chicken.

Here’s my story, sad but true.

In the early ‘90s, having acquired a house to fill, I amassed clothes, shoes, purses, tchotchkes and kitsch to hang on walls or arrange on surfaces. I call it overcompensation for a childhood clad entirely in hand-me-downs. Raise your hand if you were the youngest of six. Sympathy clucks all around. Mini me owned exactly one doll (beheaded by brutes my parents swore were my brothers) and two stuffed toys—Dopey and Mugsy—memorable in their scarcity.

“Shopping is right next to happiness on the spectrum of emotions, I guess…”

— Seth Godin

Many items ended up cohabiting in our garage for decades. I eventually exhumed these finds as ambiance setters and statement pieces in my office, where most people didn’t know what to make of them. Taken together, the knickknacks proclaimed, “Here works a woman who, unlike you, never asks, ‘What is it for?’ She is fascinated by non-functional objects. She has no intention of ever finding a practical application for any of them. They are all loved for themselves.” The merchandising stopped just short of commanding the viewer to embrace the eccentric and kiss her ring.

Part of me still likes to think that had I worked within a markedly different company culture, the statement might have been interpreted as, “You have entered a safe zone for creative thinkers.” I call it overcompensation for a career spent trying to fit square pegs in round holes.

When the new minimalism took hold, I declared myself a conscientious objector. I understood how the purging of possessions might seem a logical response to the crappy state of the economy. But all it does is feed the delusion that conscience-stricken, privileged people, by choosing to have less, somehow level the playing field between them and those summarily stricken from the payroll.

I can attest to this, because one morning I was the first kind of stricken, and by that afternoon, I was the second kind. And we had fun, fun, fun till her daddy took the T-bird away.

Purgers have a choice. They are not choosing to be poor, merely divested of their clutter. The masses of nouveau poor do not, generally speaking, receive gainful employment from one’s tidied up closet, with the exception of the relative few who work for the charities that resell these purged items. To my knowledge, a purging by one household has yet to avert a foreclosure next door.

However, something good has come out of the nation’s urge to purge. Most unexpectedly, I have found my great love of acquisition for its own sake replaced by a more consuming passion: upcycling. Global handmade marketplace etsy.com’s credo, “reuse, repurpose, recycle” has inspired many avid collectors, including me, to redirect their energies.

Upcyling is the new collecting

I still shop, but now each trip is a thoughtful acquisition-for-mergers endeavor. Of late, I have been merging the collar of a serviceable shirt with the plain neckline of another; the crinoline of a child’s outgrown outfit with the scalloped hemline of a shrug. A lace scarf has fused with the sleeve of a handsewn ballgown. The embroidery on a pair of jeans is affianced to the bodice of a fall frock.

Resulting from these mergers are morphed apparel with renewed purpose. The target market is the mindful consumer unmoved by mall mentality. Where purgers and mergers intersect, crisis gives way to opportunity.

Upcyclers aren’t hoarding, we’re building inventory for our small businesses. Mission-driven collecting seems to have dissolved the retail therapist bent in me. In the transition, I may have upcycled myself.

We do it not just because it’s healthy for the environment and our pocketbooks, but because it’s challenging. It’s creative. It’s collaborative, in that inspiration on what to do with tarnished silver spoons (make garden markers!) in turn inspires ideas on rescuing shrunken wool sweaters (make felted flower brooches!) Who else is going to find uses for the piles and piles of stuff that the new minimalists evict? Might as well be us, and we might as well generate some income out of upcycling as much of it as we can.

Our reputation is as shiny as a ketchup-burnished penny. Upcycling is the new collecting. The new minimalism isn’t so objectionable to me now—as long as it’s practiced by someone else.

Purge away, America. We await your discards with relish.

What sort of things have you rid yourself of lately?
What have you happened upon and triumphantly taken home to transform?

Pina colada slipdress

Am I done? Is this too much?

I began embellishing an apple green slipdress on August 26.
This is what it looked like. I shelved it for about a week while I wrestled with decision-making. There are always too many options, too many ways to go with an upcycling project like this.

This dress marked a turning point for me. Previous to this, I let my own peculiarities rule. The armpits always had to be concealed, since we raise our arms in much of the choreography we teach at the ballroom dance studio. I always asked myself, "Would I wear this, and will it fit me, in case no one buys it?"

Now I'm able to distance myself from the wearables I create. I have way too many clothes as it is! These things I make will need to find other homes. I cannot pre-judge them as potential rejects before they've even had a chance to be seen.

Once, I bought a particularly frivolous pink lace jumpsuit on etsy. I'm not one to censor myself with the ever-practical, "But where will I wear it?" The seller wrote, "I knew you were out there!" when she shipped it. I'll have to remind myself of that when I cross over to the seller side of etsy. As one of the bloggers put it, "You're not trying to convince people to buy your product. You're looking to reach the people who will."

My hero

Pensive, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

Salmon-flavored cream cheese, licked from a spoon. Oceanfish paté-style canned food. The overgrown corner of the garden that serves as both a lookout spot and Fort Kitty. These are a few of his favorite things.

"You've been home alone too long," Steve said when he heard me talking to Charlie. "You talk to the cat and the laptop." I think Steve minds only because he keeps mistaking my out-loud remarks for attempts at conversation with him.

The cat and the laptop have become my must-haves during this reinvention phase. Although I think the cat has a few more merit badges. He has singlehandedly averted empty-nest syndrome, underemployment stir-craziness, and perimenopausal mood extremes. No prescription necessary.

Blue toward blue

My morning glory seeds took their sweet time germinating, and finally, close to summer's end, one Heavenly Blue bloom. The vine was happy to twine around a rickety branch pruned from the nearby tree. 

I feel protective of it. It seems to do just fine when the wind kicks up. It just clings tighter. The soil isn't fertile or watered often, but that's how morning glories thrive.

It's keeping an eye on the sky. It doesn't know the word "impossible." It might be thinking it's a tree. By fall I hope it will at least have clambered over the fence and gotten a glimpse of what's on the other side.


It's hard to resist the urge to make it a metaphor. Late bloomers, ugly ducklings and fledgling small business owners. Check, check, check. Here's to all of us!  Let's keep our eye on the sky, and cling fast to what keeps us grounded. 


Morning glories turn their trumpets to the sky, and nothing in nature mocks them for it. They do not aspire to be blue, they embody blue.

A glimpse of what's possible

When the puppy next door isn't pushing her nose through the hole, begging for a petting, I can pretend that the pixies who flit through my flower garden perch in this space mid-flight and are silhouetted against the light.

Clearly imagined

A dose (nose) of reality

Moss and magenta, a pleasing pair

Sometimes taking a quick detour yields pleasant results. I was intent on finishing each sewing project before starting a new one. There's only so much room on our dining table for the piles and piles of fabric, thread and trim that get edited down to the ones I actually use.

The current project had been a lime and lemon-colored slipdress, but that got preempted yesterday. I needed something to wear to the waltz workshop I was co-teaching this afternoon. I pulled out a long chiffon dress that had been hanging in my closet for more than a year. Then I remembered why I hadn't worn it recently: the chiffon overlay had shrunk in the washing machine, but the polyester lining stayed the same. So now the lining was showing. I had to shorten it.

I lucked upon the right shade of magenta lace in my stash to lengthen the chiffon hemline. But I noticed how much the magenta just popped while lying next to a moss shrug and a chartreuse blouse, from which I had harvested strips to add to the hemline of the lime slipdress.

The gears started turning, and I added more to the dress than just a lacy hem. You can see its evolution at my flickr site.

View more photos here.

Lemon Lime slipdress — 3rd in a series of, gasp, 24

I'm working on a green and yellow upcycled slipdress now.  I seem to be obsessed with slipdress alterations, even though I know summer is quickly petering out and I should be devoting time to fall and winter accessories. 

I think part of the story of my etsy shop will be "One torn chemise; 24 spruced up slipdresses." For context, I'll direct viewers to the story in my profile about how much has changed in 24 years, from a rude comment about my torn chemise to my quest to bring out the beauty in something discarded.

Here's the story:

Twenty-four years ago as a fresh immigrant and impoverished newlywed, I relied on thrift stores to clothe myself, my two preschool stepdaughters and infant daughter. My husband had asked me to give up my job and stay home while the children were young, and, wanting only the best for them, I did.

One day, my husband remarked unkindly on the large rip in my chemise. 

It wasn't until a decade later that I developed enough assertiveness to remind him of that remark and retort, "It never occurred to you to buy your wife a new chemise." Another decade would pass before I realized, "Hey, why didn't I just darn the darned thing?"

Fast forward to today. The last child has left the nest, and her bedroom is now my haven for creating and crafting. I've filled a closet with vintage gowns, lingerie, scarves, aprons and gloves, all queued for metamorphosis into daywear extraordinaire. I study junkmail catalogs for trends and "aha!"s the way I used to digest academic journals in grad school. In the process, I've honed my eye for handwrought embellishments and quirky touches. I love these timeless beauties almost as much as my rescued Maine Coon — but never the twain shall meet.

And the husband? After an extensive five-year renovation (separation, counseling, everything short of a lobotomy), he earned the privilege of remaining my mate. We grew to appreciate and respect each other, and have entered a blissful state with a giggling grandson to enjoy!

Honored by a visit

I went out to look for Charlie and bring him in yesterday when it hit 105 degrees. I looked over the porch railing and saw this white kitty with one funky eye lounging amid the periwinkle like she had come to a spa. 

The other day I saw her on the swing when I peered through the blinds. I thought for sure Charlie would chase her off when he saw her. (I'm only assuming it's a she.) But when I opened the door, there was Charlie, hanging out on the porch, not minding at all. But white kitty decided it was a good time to go home. Maybe she'll get used to me and not slink off next time.

How much is that kitty in a stroller?

One fall I had to spend a weekend working at a conference in Berkeley, CA. It's two hours from home but only an hour from hubby's worksite, so we booked ourselves and our 18-pound cat, Charlie, into the pet-friendly hotel where the conference was slated.

First night: Charlie stayed under the bed, except for a brief time next to me in the middle of the night. Second day, he used the plastic shoe box I had filled with litter and set on the bathroom floor. I awoke at 3 a.m. smelling poo, and discovered that he had peed in the box but pooed on the floor next to it. I had brought a small broom and dust pan for such contingencies, and mouthwash to disinfect. No problem.

By 10:30 Saturday morning, I was free of all work obligations. Steve was working the entire Saturday, so I changed into jeans and took Charlie out in his stroller. A couple of women gasped, giggled, and then went, "Oh, how cute." A boy playing ball on the hotel lawn had the last say: "It's a lion."

Charlie and I enjoyed a two-hour hike along the Marina and the bay. Along the shore was a man arranging rocks in stacks that defied gravity. "Wow," I said as I passed. "Just something to do," he shrugged. "I'm all for it!" I called out, which brought a smile to his face.

We passed a couple of big dogs, but they were on leashes, so there was no trouble. Charlie retreated under the canopy of his stroller whenever he was feeling insecure. The rest of the time, his huge green eyes peered through the mesh, noting the ducks, the boats, the kids, the sources of different noises. He had ample room in the stroller to stretch out his two-foot furry blond frame and 16-inch bushy tail.

During our stroll, I met another hotel guest, an older woman who owns two Maine Coon cats she'd named Bart and Lisa (after the Simpsons).  Maine Coons are cousins to Norwegian Forest cats, so she had a soft spot for big cats like Charlie.

By the time we got back to our room he was much more relaxed. No more hiding under the bed. He patrolled the room like he owned it. I went to lunch at the hotel restaurant with a good book, then took a two-hour nap. When I woke up, I had a crick in my neck from the hotel pillows. I should've brought my memory foam pillow.

On Sunday morning, the three of us strolled along the shops on Fourth Street in Berkeley. So many people came up to point out, "That's a big cat." (Uh, thanks, we would never have guessed.) Either they owned regular cats or their kids wanted to look at the giant cat. A woman said to her friend, "He has a little pink nose, awww..." One woman glanced into the stroller, perhaps expecting a human baby, and exclaimed, "Oh my God."

Steve walked a few paces behind, catching comments I probably wasn't meant to hear, like, "That poor cat." That one got under his skin. He brooded about it. I left Charlie with Steve for a few minutes to browse in a stained glass shop. A woman came in and announced to no one in particular, "That cat is not happy." "What's the matter with it?" I asked her. "There's a cat oustide, in a stroller." "I know, it's my cat. What's wrong with it?" "His ears are pointed straight up." "Oh, he's overstimulated, that's all. Too many strange noises, " I said.

Later, Steve came up with what he would've said had he heard her: "Oh, he perks up when he's around intelligent people."

To wiggle or not to wiggle

I was at the dance studio one night learning the rather raunchy dance called bachata for a performance. Those of you who have been dancing a while will understand where I'm coming from.

I think you'll agree that the healthy perspective to take on sensuous dances is that since we've committed to dancing it, we may as well give it the sensuality it deserves. Otherwise, why bother? why go half-baked? why not just dance the waltz, for heaven's sake.

The reason I bring this up is that another dancer, a woman in her early 20s, shrieked her disapproval when she saw that I was showing one of the male students how the hips move in the bachata. We were both facing the mirror, no body contact, and I had offered the analogy of the Tahitian dancer with the sharp hip up-bump.

I never feel like I have to defend myself and my teaching, but it does annoy me to have such infantile reactions. Later, the same woman objected when she was dipped "too low" by her partner because she didn't think it was refined (what with one leg curled around the guy's leg, a low dip would expose your undies unless you planned ahead and wore bloomers or booty shorts).

For someone who flits from beau to beau in the lifespan of a fly, she struck me as someone who "doth object too much."

If I want to let my inner sexy girl out via dance I will, because my lifestyle is blameless and I have no need for putting on virginal airs. Unfortunately, I will also have to put up with people with saintly pretensions as they barf their hang-ups in my face.

Keep the change

Strolling along Union Square in San Francisco one weekend, we passed a beggar. Steve dropped a couple of coins in his hat. Next thing we know, he was right behind us, hollering, "You can keep your nickel." I take it he was insulted. Steve told him to give it to someone else if he didn't want it. I was relieved when he eventually quit trailing after us.

"I can't believe you gave him a nickel," I told Steve. "I gave him a nickel AND a quarter," Steve clarified, but he'd been too flustered to point it out to the man.

Who the heck gives a beggar such a paltry sum? But what nerve for the recipient to reject it. Doesn't he know it's not a beggar's market?

The church of St. Peter and Paul was a few blocks away. We entered and took in the grandeur of the interiors. Stained glass, balusters, columns, carved wood confessional booths, the works.
"There's something comforting about old churches built in the grand style," I whispered.
"Yes, this one reminds of me  Las Vegas," Steve  said.

By golly, he may be right. Doesn't one of the hotels recreate a baroque outdoor scene indoors, with convincing clouds on the ceiling and a thunderstorm?

"The clink of change dropping into the candle box sounds like the slot machines," he added.

Suddenly a short Chinese woman thrust a $5 bill at me. "Do you have change?" she asked softly. Turns out she wanted to light a candle, and the sign asked for $3. I thought, goodness, if you want a prayer granted that badly, just drop your $5 in and say, "Keep the change." Same thing Steve kept trying to persuade the beggar. Out loud, I apologized for not having change.

Buying our return ticket on the train, Steve was approached by an older man accompanied by his daughter.  They were from Baltimore -- "Baltimore, Maryland" he specified, as if I might not know where it was. "Welcome to California!" I said, and they ignored me. We showed them how to make sense of the route map and the fare chart. Steve kept telling him he could just drop $20 and get two tickets, and the change would remain on the tickets for their next time on BART.  But I could tell he didn't want to spend more than he had to, so I asked, "You'll likely be getting on BART again, won't you?" "Never," he said. Poor things. They didn't seem like they had a good time in California thus far. They just wanted to keep the change.

My life as Goldilocks

In this installment of As Scrollwork's World Turns, I bring you a snapshot of the ol' hubby.

Steve is just getting so forgetful. I awoke the other morning to his mystified observation, "Someone's been using my toothpaste." He had found it next to my toothbrush cup rather than at his own sink. So I roused myself enough to remind him that when mine had run out, I had asked him to get a brand that we both would like — no cinnamon-flavored toothpaste this time, please. He'd presented me with a tooth-whitening, breath-freshening purchase, and I'd given it my Good Housekeeping seal of approval.

But we are so used to having separate toothpaste tubes, separate milk cartons (I drink soy, not cow's), and separate paychecks that this whole conjugal property concept has thrown him.

Someone's been eating my porridge. My life as Goldilocks, if she'd married one of the three bears.

Another morning he asked me where the umbrellas were, so rather than explain how to find one, I got up and hung one from the front doorknob while he got ready. After much hugging goodbye, he left...the umbrella. He called me at noon and I fussed. "You'll catch your death of cold," I said. Nothing like granny-generation isms to bridge the age gap between us. To humor me, he said, "Yes, I might die."

The good thing is, he hasn't given up on supposedly learning Mandarin from a set of CDs borrowed from the library. He listens during his commute, then comes home muttering monosyllabic, guttural sounds, assigning meaning to each: "meme means daughter, wa means I..." I suggested he email my Mom in Mandarin and his eyes widened. "Will I have to use Chinese characters?" he said.