You are a masterpiece unfolding

Unfolding, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

Happy birthday, Scrollwork's blog. To commemorate your birth I am presently engaged in meaningful activity: swatting at house flies. Although I suspect these are actually field flies, as they are much more savvy about evasion.

We will put them to the test this evening when the hubby comes home. If he is able to flick them with his index finger, they're house flies. If not, they have come in from the fields of cow dung that dot the landscape around our lovely pastoral setting. In which case I must've missed the memo: The annual plague of flies is in town. Keep your jaws clamped and cover all the food.

So you turned a year old last August 18. Sorry I forgot. I'd been thinking you were born around the end of August. Some time today. Lucky I dismissed the advice from Judy at Cat's Eye Writer blog to take the archive off my home page. How else would I have checked?

But hey, I forgot the 26th anniversary of my immigration back in June, too. At least I'm consistent. Maybe a sign I'm less self-involved? I can only wish.

This is the part where I'm supposed to come up with a list of things I learned during my first year of blogging. That sounds like a lot of work, frankly.

How 'bout just one thing, and not necessarily about blogging, but about life? Blogging, life, who can tell the difference sometimes, you know? Absent from one, present in the other, to paraphrase Paul the apostle.

My friend, Randi, posted this quote on Facebook the other day:

"What would it be like if you lived each day, each breath, as a work in progress? Imagine that you are a masterpiece unfolding every second of every day, a work of art taking form with every breath." ~ Thomas Crum

To this, Randi added, "What a beautiful, open, and expressive way to live. This would surely take years of practice, but what an extraordinary accomplishment in the long run. This is the quality I see and feel from truly gifted people."

One of Randi's friends, with whom I am not acquainted, responded, "Beautiful but exhausting. I think sometimes we need to just 'be'." Does that sound like someone you know? Your own thoughts? Are you just barely getting to work on time after getting the kids out the door?

Randi then noted, "Ability to just be is sometimes a very hard place for those very driven gifted people to reach. So it all takes practice practice practice no matter what!"

Ever the contrarian, I weighed in.

"I am a masterpiece unfolding" sounds tranquil, not exhausting. It means to me that I feel no pressure to hasten God's work in me. Just being, I already please God because He gets all the praise for the hard work He is doing in me and through me. I am not driven to practice, only to manifest what my spirit urges.

This non-denominational opinion brought to you by Jiffy Peanut Butter."

I won't lie (I can't! I suck at it!) I'm not as Zen as that makes me sound. This unfolding thing, it looks less like the leisurely blooming of that agapanthus I documented in my front yard and more like the brittle, measured opening up of scales of my etsy-purchased cuff, above.

Sometimes it's scary. What if I unfold like an artichoke and get scraped across someone's teeth?

In the ideal unfolding scenario, we could all sit prettily on the window sill of life, strong as bronze (brass? I don't know the difference), glowing in the reflected wisdom of quotable quotes.

This is the tableau in my entryway, the face I aspire to always present to the world as it enters my domain. Now THAT's exhausting! It is the opposite of unfolding. It's staging. It's giving in and curling my hair, darkening my lashes and creaming up my face when I just want to show up happy, dammit.

In real life, this is my compromise: I unfold to my full length and breadth when the heat is on, when the sun is beating down on me and I need to muster all my strength. (Those of you in Canada and other cold climes can substitute "pouring rain" for sun; I'm in California's Central Valley, where we dry to a crisp in August.) Plus, look, this is a picture of a parasol, not an umbrella, for crying out loud.

When the test is over I tuck back into myself. Even a peacock knows how to do this.

Then it's time to go into seclusion.  Stop seeking approval, counsel, likes, attention, thumbs up. Check in with myself.

And dial up to my source.

I don't mean organized religion. I mean that direct line to the Almighty that every human being has, whether utilized or not.

And that's how the unfolding can continue. Some days I just manage to get by, tainted and imperfect.

But the potential is always there, always a possibility in waiting.

Are you getting by today, or unfolding toward the masterpiece you were meant to be?

A mother's unspeakable loss

Rubi Esperanza Rios

by Celia Lupercio

my Rubi my jewel

my daughter my heart

my hope to move forward

the creation to this unconditional love

i miss you i miss you

as you are not

in my arms nor in your crib

not eating dinner nor playing with your sister

not at the park or with your tias

not here not now

but gone

i will love you until forever

and treasure ever moment that we had together

i will get my strength from up above cause you're with Jesus and in his arms

i miss you my baby

my Rubi jewel

but i will meet you and you will lead me

just like in the dance you saw us perform

the night before you went to heaven

oh how i miss

you

my baby

Rubi
August 11, 2009 - July 31, 2011

Dear Readers,
This is a guest post from someone dear to me. I have invited her to respond to your comments here, but should she choose not to, be assured your sentiments will reach her.

Redemption at the grocery: a Take Back Your Pride coupon

How do you recover from a creative lull? Feeling scraped-out hollow after the dance showcase, I took drastic measures: I photographed produce. Doesn't everybody recharge at the sight of food?

OK, I'm more normal than I let on. I didn't set out to stalk celery (ahem), but weeks of artistic sugar low were beginning to worry me. Dust thick enough to plant potatoes had settled on the blog, the upcycled clothing shop and my photography on flickr. Finally, I felt a familiar stirring. We were downtown at Greens Market when weird beauty beckoned.

These remind me of Rembrandt's tulips

Squished squash petals—say that three times fast.

Nippled tubermajigs

Redefining beauty by Scrollwork

Came the showstopper. Christi, who works there, said, "You should've seen it yesterday when they were in bloom." But I like it better like this, all gnarly and writhing. So much more pathos. They seem to be cringing from the glare, collapsing into themselves in the retreat.

It reminds me of a recent conversation I had with my youngest daughter, nearly 24—the age I was when I had her. She's probably the only person on this planet I can be most transparent with, and we take turns being the fount of wisdom for each other.

One of the phrases I don't particularly care for is "for your age." You look good/you're fit/you're doing so well—all great compliments until they're followed by "for your age." Most younger people haven't felt the full impact of such a backhanded compliment.

But for the first time, in the context of our conversation, the phrase took on the best meaning intended.

A few days ago, I'd been knocked off my rocker by a friend's action, which had ricocheted at me out of nowhere. My usually imperturbable self-esteem had taken a hit. All because the friend had reneged on our previous agreement and chosen someone over me THEN lightheartedly cited the younger woman's physical attributes in his defense. A double whammy.

Times like these called for not just any BFF, but someone who owes you big-time for the 11 1/2 hours of contractions you endured to push her out into the world.

"Dialing Boo," my cellphone said. I felt comforted already.

My baby girl and I have perfected the art of debriefing and consultation within the window of time that is her lunch break. I've taught her well, by example. When it was I who had a day job we slotted her calls between deadlines. Now, apprised of the crisis in ego, she repeated to me a customized version of what only days earlier I had spoonfed her when she was reeling from her own oh-no-he-didn't situation.

"You're awesome."

"I'm awesome," I said flatly.

"For your age," she continued, specifying the components of awesomeness in my personhood.

"That girl," she added—and here's why I think she is wise beyond her years—"she's just young and beautiful, but she hasn't done anything with her life yet."

"She's your age," I noted. It didn't faze her. This girl, flesh of my flesh, could suspend her own need for validation for the moment to throw me a lifesaver. I took it. She'll need it back someday in the not too distant future, and I'm keeping it warm for her.

Because really, what other defense do we have against the obvious onslaught of time and the sharp though unintentional jab of a friend?

"You should've seen me when I was in bloom." No, that does nothing.

All we can do is point to our progeny and hope the blind can connect the dots: She's a beauty, and some of that must've come from, um, me.

As for the friend—Are you going to Scarborough Fair?