by Candace Bahouth

Her fantastical shoes are mosaic.

"flower" by Candace Bahouth

Imaginative.

"china" by Candace Bahouth

Bold.

"mirrored" by Candace Bahouth

Exceptionally constructed.

another stunning Candace Bahouth creation

Utterly gorgeous.

She designs astounding furniture as well. And her grottos – oh my! But the shoes…

I fall to pieces over them. What say you?

So, I’m going to drag my ass out of bed tomorrow at the virtual CRACK OF DAWN to go watch Cars 2 with this non-blood-related boy who has stolen my heart.

"popcorn" by Homemade Polaroid

Side Note: Have you checked out Homemade Polaroid on Tumblr? If not, don’t even read the last sentence of this post – GO!

I guess this all means I’ll have to refrain from my latest midnight addiction – Instagram.

Le Grande Sigh…

by maxnathans / flickr

How many sunsets have you watched? Enough that if yesterday’s had been your last you wouldn’t miss them?

How many times have you made a wish on a faded dandelion and blown its seeds to the winds? Enough that you have no more wishes?

I think about these things sometimes, when I think of those loved ones who are no longer here to do the things we fail to do as often as we might.

Jamie died two years ago today. It feels both like a lifetime ago and only yesterday. I was transformed by having her in my life and again by her passing. I’ve walked in her shoes, literally, until the heels broke. Relationships have been forged and shattered. Lessons have been learned. I am a different human being now – because of her – than the one she knew.

by Gayle N / flickr

I cannot know what she would make of all that has changed in the past two years – in the world, in her family, in me. I miss her. But I’m okay now. I no longer need things that tie me to her or remind me of her because she’s now part of my heart strings.

And my heart is so much bigger and stronger than it was. Thank you, chica! xo

"Thor" still via Marvel Studios and Paramount Pictures

It was good. There was a story. And actual acting. One can assume neither when going to see a tentpole, after all. But, honestly, I wouldn’t have given a flying fig if the film had been devoid of both. Give me that Chris Hemsworth kid and I’ll buy whatever you’re selling. I’d even name my first child Thor, if he had anything to do with it. I’m just saying…

Chris Hemsworth as Thor via Marvel Studios and Paramount Pictures

Yum.

So, when I saw today’s #reverb10 prompt, I was in a quandary.

Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail. (via @aliedwards)

Do I remember ANY MOMENTS from this past year, much less those during which I felt most alive?

“…Tonight while we played tag for five minutes in the yard
Just for a moment, I caught you off guard…”
– Harry Chapin, “Tangled Up Puppet”

My dad used to sit on the edge of my bed at night and sing songs to me when I was a child – well, really, I insisted he do it until I graduated from high school and moved away from home. We were big on ritual in my house. Harry Chapin’s “Tangled Up Puppet” was always one of my favorites. And this past weekend, I recalled the above lyric as I found myself drenched in a moment during which I felt joyously and sublimely alive…

It was 4 o’clock on a Sunday. The air was cold and sharp, solely responsible for reminding me that it is winter even in Los Angeles. And I was visiting family in their new home.

They aren’t blood relatives – this woman, her husband and their 3-year-old son. They are family by choice. My love for them, and theirs for me, has been earned and nurtured without the weight of obligation or ancestral baggage threatening to rend the connections. The Kid has stolen my heart.

I was wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, an outfit that used to be my mainstay but has now become a sweet weekend treat – a byproduct of office-based employment. My wardrobe choice for the day was convenient since I found myself rolling around in the grass of my friends’ new front yard, growling and wrestling and laughing with the Kid.

by Lulu P / flickr

I don’t know the mechanics behind how having a three-year-old stand on one’s stomach and collapse into one’s embrace while battling a fit of giggles in order to emit a high-pitched roar in one’s face makes life crystallize in heightened relief.

I don’t care.

All I know is, those five minutes in the yard were my moment.

What was your moment?

“I DON’T LIKE YOU.”

Seriously. It’s a near-fatal knife blow to the back, through the heart, down and back up the spine, dinging every rib to finally make mince meat of the brain.

I know I have 38 years on a three-year-old. I know I’m supposed to be a rational human being, one who has worked through all my childhood issues, one who is loving and empathetic and above petty tantrums, one who knows that young children are simply testing boundaries and have yet to discover the use of their middle finger for anything but retrieving hardened snot from their noses. But…

I may never recover from the emotional devastation wrought by a well-timed, “I don’t like you.” It is far more effective than an adult, “FUCK OFF.” And there is no appropriate come-back.

I am (just) stable enough to refrain from a sharp, “Well, I don’t like you either, so there.” But I did think for a few minutes that it would take up permanent residence on the tip of my tongue.

I should be rewarded for my control. With chocolate. And maybe a stuffed animal.

Of course, the Kid got over the whole drama within five (or fifteen) minutes. I, on the other hand, may be truly traumatized by his tantrum.

Are we friends again? Are we? Are we?

If only money grew on trees.

Or came more frequently and fluidly from the activities I do which feed my soul.*

It’s the gossip that bothers me the most. The tense whispers. The snickers. The HOURS of inane conversation about this or that person. It isn’t all negative, per se. But it is just SO MUCH CLUTTER.

I already have PLENTY of clutter, folks!

Debating for 45 minutes the size of a belt buckle some dude wore on a reality show does NOT improve my life.

Pointing out the flaws of those with whom we sat in a meeting does NOT improve my life.

Clearly, it entertains many people. Perhaps, I am simply too self-centered to understand its merits. All I know is, it exhausts me to overhear it, it bores me to engage in it, and it has the stickiness of oil on a feather.

Now, if someone wants to talk about the tragedy of oil on feathers, I will gladly engage. Unfortunately, that does not seem to be a topic of interest for the office gossip girls.

What’s your take on a little gossip?

***

*Never fear. I am, indeed, working on this being more than an “if only,” with the help of Chris and Danielle and all of you. But it’s all happening at an annoyingly GLACIAL pace!

Watts Towers

What is it about living in a city that makes one less curious to explore?

When I travel to other cities, whether in the U.S. or abroad, I wouldn’t dream of missing their highlights. But when it’s home, there’s always tomorrow, or a self-conscious “cheese” factor, or the comfort of routine that keeps me from pulling out my map and my camera.

I’d heard talk of Watts Towers from the very first day I arrived in L.A. It’s the story with which people juxtapose that of the Watts Riots, to illustrate how this town is complicated and surprising. The riots of 1965 were a violent manifestation of fear, a push-back against hatred, intolerance and injustice. The towers, constructed from 1921 through 1955, were an artistic expression of peace, possibility and beauty. Quite a contrast. One I wanted to see. Or so I kept telling myself. But I never got around to it.

patterns

Then, three things happened.

1. I created my Intentions list at the end of 2009 – a huge long list of random activities I dreamily professed to want to experience. Suddenly it was all on paper, in front of me.
2. Then, I made it public by posting it here – that made, and makes, me feel oh-so-much-more accountable than those thousand-and-one lists I’d always scrawled in random notebooks or the back pages of my journals. I’m no longer the only one who knows how much I sit on my ass and talk big. Still, though, it took an outside force to get me driving across town on a Sunday afternoon.
3. If the ever enthusiastic Dian hadn’t read my list, seen my intention to visit Watts Towers and spontaneously agreed to join me on my venture, I’d still probably have no idea how inspiring broken bottles can be.

Simon Rodia spent 34 years collecting broken things, the stuff others see as junk, to create a vision.

DO SOMETHING BIG.

That was his dream.

perspective

He didn’t become a millionaire. He didn’t cure polio. He didn’t advance technology.

He constructed beauty out of trash.

broken bits

He’d never trained as an artist. He was a construction worker.

He didn’t seek or gain fame (at least not in his lifetime). He had a failed marriage. His neighbors thought he was crazy, and that he was designing a hazardous blight on the landscape.

He had a day job.

vision in pieces

And every single day, for 34 years, he came home and built these towers. At night, after an exhausting day of physical labor. On the weekends, when others were going to BBQs or the beach. He hand-selected every single piece of broken bottle, chipped china, shattered glass, and discarded tile. He had no architectural drawings, sketches or plans to consult.

It was all in his head.

How’s that for commitment, for faith, for trust?

dreaming big

Do you have a dream that strong and clear?

To be honest, I’m not sure I do.

But I’m working on it. Are you?

I saw a girl wearing a yellow coat today. It reminded me of you. Many things do.

It’s been a year since you left. I’ve just recently rediscovered my feet, that they belong under me, and that I can use them to stand and move forward. You’d probably say, it’s about damn time.

A lot has happened in the past 365 days. You’d be ecstatic about some developments, but I know you’d roll your eyes over much of it. Or maybe you would have accepted the humanity of it all with more diplomacy than I.

I wonder if you’d change your views about death it you had it to do over again, or if you’d still think it all ends point blank. I wonder what new secrets we would have shared in the past year, and which ones we would have continued to keep to ourselves. I wonder about a lot of what ifs. The wondering doesn’t stop me in my tracks as often today, though, as it has done.

Your mom, in the midst of her grief, told me that would happen:

Eventually the smiles transcend the tears.

She didn’t say it exactly like that, and let’s not even mention how strongly I wish our roles could have been reversed so that I was providing her comfort instead of seeking it, but I’m so grateful for the wisdom in her words.

I went camping this weekend. Yes, camping. You should have seen the night sky, Jamie. It was amazing. And it made me laugh.

There are no answers, chica. You already knew that. Like so many other things I’ve learned in the past few years, and particularly in the past 365 days, it took you to teach me this lesson too. I’d hold up a Whiskey and Ginger to you, but that’s not really me.

Another thing you’d have pointed out if you were around.

Instead, I’ll smile every time someone walks by vainly trying to pull off a yellow coat as well as you could, and my heart will crunch at odd moments when I hear a specific song or remember a particular event or see a convertible, and I’ll walk through the rest of my life with a little more light and a little more shadow to my soul than I had before I knew you.

I miss you, chica. And I thank you. And I honor you. And I love you.

Cheers. xo -em

p.s. Did I tell you I’ve stopped drinking coffee? Crazy, huh? But I’m eating chocolate again. For the moment. My feet are in desperate need of a pedicure. And I’m considering cutting my hair. See all the drama you’re missing? 

p.p.s. Yes, I will see the next Twilight saga. But, seriously, only for you.

by Sharons Web/flickr

An amazing event happened yesterday as I was waiting in line at the post office. A man in front of me started dancing. He had on headphones. He wasn’t shabbily dressed, at least not for Hollywood. But he wasn’t just nodding to the tunes. He was FULL OUT GROOVING. And everyone else in line immediately averted their eyes, glanced nervously at each other and took a step back, including me.

And then, I was struck by a thought.

Why are we all reacting with a combination of fear, embarrassment and pity? Why are we assuming he must be some homeless dude off his meds?

Why does this man’s joyful dancing terrify us so, and make us so uncomfortable?

WHY AREN’T WE ALL DANCING WHILE WAITING IN LINE? Seems like a damn good use of our time…

If there had been any kids under the age of 5 in that line, I’ll bet they would have joined that man.

***

In the moment, as I looked around at the group of “adults” in which I found myself, I felt a little sad for all of us, for the exuberance and self-confidence we’d lost, for the self-consciousness and inhibition we’d somehow acquired.

I wished for a camera, to capture this man’s freedom. But then I caught sight of a woman ahead of me who was slyly attempting to record the line dancer with her iPhone.

She had a smirk on her face.

I wondered where her little video would surface, and with what kind of commentary. I had a sinking feeling the sentiment attached to the image would not be one of celebration but rather one of ridicule.

The man caught sight of her as well. His face suddenly sagged. He appeared to visibly shrink. He stopped moving. The music continued in his headphones but he became one of us, one of the expressionless adults standing in line.

It made me want to cry, to scream, to apologize, to encourage him to dance again, to dance in defiance myself.

But I did nothing.

And then a postal worker called out, “Next!” and the line moved forward and we all lost a chance for… something.

But I’m adding DANCING IN LINE to my list of intentions.

Would you have the courage to dance in line?