Blooming Mondays: A Token Of Appreciation (rose, 07.11.11)

I’m having a moment. I’m rocking back on my heels, falling into grace and spinning in joy.

Why, you ask?

I HAVE NO IDEA.                       HA!

But I will take advantage of this bizarre state of bliss and cell-infused appreciate for life in all its mysterious facets to say thank you to you, my readers – both known and silent. You inspire me to return, time and again, to this space and place parts of myself – from the frivolous to the profound – on the page. And because I get to do that here, I’m finding the freedom and courage to do it – be all parts of me – more and more in the rest of my world.

And, holy hell, that is liberating!

So on this absurdly delightful Monday, I wish the same for you…

May you feel the freedom and courage to reveal as many parts of you as you wish today! xo

Pretty is good.

It’s been medically proven that one’s skin thins with age. That is certainly the case for me. Not that I ever had particularly thick skin. At this point in my life, however, it seems to have the strength of tissue paper. Everything breaks through.

I feel joy deeply. I feel pain deeply. Mine. Hers. His. Theirs. Yours.

Tears are frequently just beneath the surface. The difference between now and a year ago, however, it that the tears aren’t necessarily– in fact, they are rarely– due to grief. Rather, they come from AN INTENSITY OF FEELING.

ANY feeling.

This week, there’s been a lot of feeling. And a lack of comprehension.

I find I often still have the expectations of a child… that the world should be fair, that people should be kind, that individuals should help, care for and care about each other. I’ve never been sold on “greed is good.” I’ve always thought “no pain, no gain” was flawed. There are times when I consider I must be the only one who’s skeptically holding back from the catch-phrase approach to life. I don’t always have the time, energy or courage to reach out to family or friends for reassurance that others have the same perceptions of things as I do. So I come here, and to my trusty (though frequently overwhelming) Google reader, to remember that there are, indeed, people who value a sunset more than a paycheck, a conversation more than a screw and a simple gift more than a splashy acquisition.

I have a need for pretty.

Innocence. Flowers. Hot Showers. Butterflies. Faith. Rain. Smiles. Frills. Kindness.
Fur. Cuddles. Trust. Berries. Ruffles. Clean. Simple. Soft. Peace.

What a fucking relief to know it can still be found.

What does PRETTY mean to you?

Stylish Blogger Award

Once upon a time, I actually worked in the fashion industry. I repped high-end children’s clothes – and when I say “high-end,” I mean toddlers’ dresses that wholesaled for $400. Who buys that shit for a kid who will either a) grows out of it within a month or b) smears purple yam puree into the unrepairable, dry-clean-only threads upon first donning? Of course, I sold it, and I sold it well. Briefly.

But I, myself, have never been a huge fashionista. You probably will never see me on the pages of The Satorialist. (Yes, I do secretly dream of the day…) I’ve only recently started wearing dresses for occasions other than weddings and funerals. Shock of shocks, I’m kinda digging the girlie transformation. If only the acquisition of these newly discovered articles of clothing did not require a visit to the mall.

I detest malls, even the walking ones with ponds and fountains in the middle. People are at malls. And kids. Hyped on sugar. And piped-in music. Heavy on Bieber. I’m sure you’re thinking, why not shop online? That would be a great idea, if online stores took checks… or cash.

You see, I no longer use credit cards. We had an ugly fall-out after a very long, very dysfunctional relationship. We still have a daunting number of joint assets, of which I’m working diligently to divest myself. The extended family keeps calling, trying to get us back together. But we are through, I tell you!

I’ve been consoling myself with chocolate – paid for in cash, of course. And ice cream, even though I’m allergic to ice cream. I can’t help it. I made the mistake of walking into Pazzo, where they make the most SINFULLY DELICIOUS ice cream one can find outside Rome. My current obsessions are Sea Salt Caramel and Lemon Basil Sorbet – which isn’t actually ice cream and, therefore, more guiltlessly consumable. Yes, this behavior makes my tummy hurt on occasion and adds to my current Reubenesque physique. But it also helps me strengthen my resolve to get to Italy this year.

And who can find fault in that?

But what does all this rambling have to do with the Stylish Blogger Award, you may be wondering?

As part of my duties as a recipient of this award, I must reveal seven things about myself. Therefore, to recap:

1. I used to work in the fashion biz.
2. I want to be profiled on The Satorialist.
3. I like wearing dresses.
4. I don’t like malls.
5. I don’t use credit cards.
6. I eat ice cream even though I’m allergic to it.
7. I want to go to Italy by the end of 2011.

I must also direct your attention to five bloggers I’ve recently discovered and to whom I wish to bequeath the Stylish Blogger Award in the age-old tradition of paying it forward:

1. Bob’s Head the Gong
2. Allie’s Hyperbold and a Half
3. Emma Tree
4. Jonathan Fields
5. Tara’s Scoutie Girl

Some of the above bloggers are so well-established that you may feel compelled to slam your head into a cement wall at my claims to have only recently discovered them. Others may be new to you as well. Regardless, I urge you to check them out. The venture will be worth your while, I promise! They are all off-the-charts STYLISH!

Now, I shall take my curtsy…

by Sebastiano Pitruzzello / flickr

Every day, in the few moments (or hour) between when I wake up and when I get out of bed, I am full of plans for the day – a to-do list, goals and aspirations even. By the time my feet touch the floor, however, distracting thoughts rush into my head and all order is made chaos.

As an example:

I decided to finally clean my house this weekend. I make this decision every weekend. But this past weekend, it was REALLY GOING TO HAPPEN.

I started by sweeping my closet. The broom was close at hand, having been propped against a wall about a month ago as a hint. I began to sweep. I realized that I would need to move my shoe rack to get to the floor underneath it, so I did. In moving the shoe rack, I revealed a migratory herd of woolly mammoths disguised as dust clods.

Terrifying. Disgusting. Mesmerizing.

I decided I couldn’t let this occur ever again and immediately lay all blame at the feet of an ill-fitting pair of shoes hanging on the rack, which clearly symbolized the tipping point of clutter and were preventing me from having ever previously moved the shoe rack while cleaning. I concluded that they must immediately be put in a pile to go to Out of the Closet.

That led me to wonder what else needed to go to Out of the Closet.

There was a spoon in the kitchen that I didn’t much like. And a few hair bands in colors I never wear.

In removing the spoon from the drawer in the kitchen, I felt compelled to straighten all the silverware so that the fork prongs might not jam into the cabinet every time I tried to shut the drawer.

Much time was then spent debating with myself whether I needed three purple hair bands or just one. I compromised by keeping two, in different shades.

And then it was nearing sunset.

by Laurenz / flickr

I can’t possibly clean after the sun goes down. How will I see what I’m doing? Particularly when there’s no one around to remind me of electricity…

This is my spider problem, you see. Every thought sends my brain shooting in 17 new directions. Every path of action ends up developing a barrage of detours that keep me from any final destination.

by DOS82 / flickr

This seems to work for Google. But, clearly, it doesn’t parlay into the same results for me.

I end up wondering why I’ve been cleaning for five hours and have only successfully swept my closet. And why, once again, the day is done and I haven’t written a damn blog post.

I would be post-less today as well, except that it’s 105 degrees at 6 am. At the END OF SEPTEMBER, PEOPLE!

Normally I’d be blissfully dreaming and preparing to ignore my alarm for a sufficient amount of time to make me late for work. Instead, I’m awake and hot. So I’m finally letting you inside my head again.

Aren’t you better for it?

I feel pity for anyone who lives on the East Coast, or in the South. Having grown up in Colorado, and now residing in Southern California, I don’t know how to work with the whole HUMIDITY thing. I love waterfalls, but not when they are running down my back in the form of sweat. It was so humid in the Big Apple this past week that I could barely breathe. Where are gills when you need them?

by Patrick Theiner / flickr

Also, there is no sky in New York City. You have to be in the middle of Central Park or high up in a building to get any sense of a horizon. Very strange for someone like me, who has lived most of her life with the wide open expanses of the West.

by John "K" / flickr

I’d never noticed that before – that you can’t see the sky – and I’ve been to the city many times. I was born there. I have family there. It’s a great place. But I’m a West Coast girl. This trip reminded me how very much that holds true.

I stayed at my aunt and uncle’s place on the upper west side instead of in the hotel at which BlogHer was held. They have a gorgeous, rent-controlled apartment for which I might kill if I didn’t a) fear CSI technology and b) enjoy their company so much.

I could see the sky from their multitude of windows.

But I had to take a subway to the conference, which was in midtown.

I’m pro-environment and sustainable living – and was thrilled at the chance to chat with fellow BlogHer attendee Green L.A. Girl at Friday’s breakfast – but putting me in a subway on a humid, August morning with half of Manhattan is not the way to sell me on public transportation. I loved the Metro in Prague during the two years I lived there, but it was clean and air-conditioned and, honestly, I might have liked people more back then. My tolerance for human populations has lessened the longer I am among them. I really like my car. I like the bubble it provides me. And the control. I freely admit that living in L.A. has made me soft.

One-on-one, however, people can be amazing. At BlogHer, I could have talked (and DID, in some instances) for hours with Denise, Melissa, Lindsey, Jason, Justine, Silver, Amie… Old friends, twitter friends, strangers turned new-found friends.

That moment in a conversation when things click and the thought blindsides you: I really like this person, I’m going to know her/his name, I am listening, this matters.

People terrify me. I’m afraid that I’ll appear idiotic, boring, self-obsessed, insensitive, dumb, needy, egotistical… I never know what to say. I assume the person with whom I’m speaking would MUCH RATHER be talking to someone else, anyone else. And I forget that, frequently, the person with whom I’m speaking has many of the same fears. So it’s fairly remarkable when I step through my insecurities and I can sense the other person has stepped through theirs and, if even for a moment, there is contact.

That’s what BlogHer was for me this year… CONTACT. And I look forward to next year in San Diego for a bit more. But I could not have been happier late Saturday night as the conference ended and I made my way uptown for the last time, knowing that I’d be heading to Penn Station the next morning on my way to the shell-strewn beaches of East Hampton…

(to be continued…)

Actions and I are having a little falling out at the moment – lots of miscommunication, the silent treatment, ineffective communication, etc. In fact, I’m feeling very abandoned, if you wanna know the truth. Actions seem to have deserted me entirely. So rude.

Every day, I set out with grand plans. But then I hit the snooze button. At least five times.

And that pattern is repeated throughout the day. Metaphorically speaking. I DO get out of bed, of course. The distraction and procrastination provided by the proverbial snooze button, however, is incredibly effective. It comes in numerous packages and flavors, but the result is the same. Time is “stopped.” Action is delayed.

Which means my laptop never gets turned on, I don’t write that great post that’s been peaking out from various dark passageways of my mind, I don’t visit my lovely friends at the long list of glorious blogs cluttering my RSS feed, my eyes bounce over my Twitter feed. Stories remain untold. Designs remain uncreated. Business plans remain undeveloped.

The only way to defeat the snooze button is to ignore lethargy and to relinquish comfort.

The only way to step into action is to force engagement.

So I’m forcing engagement. My brain is as foggy as it always is when the alarm goes off in the morning. Except that it’s not the morning. But I’m getting up anyway… after I hit snooze just one more time.

How are you and your snooze button doing? Have you turned it off yet today?

self-evidence + authenticity

I’ve been thinking about COMPASSION a lot these last few days, since I saw it on the list of topics provided by Dian as part of her SE+A challenge, which I’m doing in tandem with Bindu’s 21.5.800 challenge and Chris’ EBK and Danielle’s FSS (I’m an affiliate) and my laundry. I know I have need of more compassion, toward others and (I begrudgingly admit) toward myself but, as with every emotion, it can be awkward and uncomfortable.

The American Heritage Dictionary defines compassion as:

“deep awareness of the suffering of another coupled with the wish to relieve it.”

I’ve got the first component of compassion pretty much mastered, and that’s part of the problem. I’m so aware of the suffering of others that I can become overwhelmed by it and shut down. Too many stories of rape, abuse, torture, injustice, loss – whether it originate in Rwanda or the Gulf waters or next door – make me crash like a computer with a crappy firewall. I listen to every tale, I feel every cut and I cry copious tears, even when my eyes are dry. I lack an effective filter. My only recourse is to unplug. Then, however, I’m disconnected from my humanity, which isn’t a particularly ideal situation. Or so I’m told.

The second component of compassion – the wish to relieve suffering – can be tricky too. I’m aware that abusers are frequently also victims, for example, but I become ambivalent when confronted with whether they should be alleviated of their suffering. Anger, indignation, fear, and helplessness suddenly appear in the sandbox.

So, having true compassion for others is a noble challenge.

Having compassion for myself, on the other hand, is nigh on impossible.

I know this from experience.

by MysticMoon14/flickr

In addition to all the complications already built in to feeling compassion for others, a slew of new pesky elements come into play when I attempt to direct it inward.

PERFECTIONISM

I screwed up something at work today. Actually, I didn’t screw up. Someone else wasn’t prepared. The end result, however, was that I was unable to perfectly complete my task. There were no serious, or even trivial, ramifications to the event. Yet, I was ready to burst into tears. The intensity of my reaction stunned me. I understood that there was no need to tumble headlong into fear or self-loathing. AND YET…

I was engulfed in my need for perfection. Why?

CONTROL

The need for perfection is really only a facet of this greater need: control. If I do everything perfectly, then I control the situation. This is an illusion, of course, but a VERY VIVID ONE. If I control the situation, then I DO NOT NEED YOU. If I don’t need you, then I DO NOT HAVE TO FEEL.

If I don’t feel, then I don’t fear, or fail. I also don’t learn or grow, but – PSHAW! – who needs that, right?

Also, if I don’t feel, then no more tears – not even the dry-eyed ones. (Johnson & Johnson taught me well!)

via Johnson & Johnson

STRENGTH

We’re taught at a young age that we must avoid association with certain labels at all costs; nobody wants to be a CRYBABY. Boys don’t cry. Professionals don’t cry. Strong people don’t cry.

There is a saying that gets bandied about hallowed halls and recovery rooms which professes, in far more eloquent words, that we should embrace weakness, not strength.

A strong branch breaks; a weak branch bends.

Without flexibility, adaptability, movability… there is no change, no evolution, no metamorphosis.

Which is great. For rocks, Creationists and Heidi Montag. Perhaps.

Compassion is kept at arm’s length. Connection is severed. Humanity is denied.

AW, HELL.

There’s that wee issue of HUMANITY, again.

I want that. And, much to my chagrin, it seems humanity and compassion are kinda inseparable.

So I guess it’s time to leave the over-crowded sandbox and schedule those two for a play date.

Any suggestions for what we should do?

the challenge

Today is the first day of @binduwiles‘ challenge, 21.5.800, and I am absolutely terrified. I’m feeling completely overwhelmed by life at the moment. My TO DO list is a roving monster of infinite size and, worse yet, it’s a monster with whom I very much want to be friends. The majority of items on it are things I REALLY WANT TO DO. But I’m tired and sick and emotional and unanchored, all of which has a funny effect on the monster and transforms it into a very intimidating beast. My body is betraying me. My head is freeze-dried. The white noise of the world has become a cacophony of echoes.

This challenge could not have come at a better time.

I find sanity in writing. Putting words to paper – any words, in any form, to anything resembling a blank, white page – SILENCES my brain. It is a strange alchemy that I care little to explain. I’m simply grateful for having stumbled upon the phenomenon. One of my biggest life challenges, however, is letting myself obtain that level of sanity.

I love yoga. I love how aware of my body I become when I do it. I love how strong and supple my limbs become. I love how I can feel SPACE within, and through, me. I love the rooting that happens, the invisible threads that develop between me and the ground, between my physical being and the physical earth. I love sinking into the floor and reaching for the sky. Another of my biggest life challenges, however, is letting myself be in space.

So this 21.5.800 challenge upon which I’m embarking should be interesting. I think it may be all about SILENCE and SPACE. But I wouldn’t be too surprised if it also becomes about SONIC BOOMS and KALEIDOSCOPES OF COLOR.

Only time will tell…

Will you be coming on the journey as well?

Why?

I guess I’m not quite as ready for change as I thought. Or perhaps, more accurately, I do not have the funds or css/html knowledge to create my vision in a new template with any greater satisfaction than that I find with the original.

And change simply for the sake of change is not my objective.

After countless hours – truly a ridiculously alarming number too large to share – of scrolling through the hundreds of free themes out there, I selected a couple that I thought might maintain elements of my original design while also lightening things up a bit to reflect the shift I’m trying to make in my life.

I tweaked the first option as best I could, but there were a few elements – the yellow highlighting and the chartreuse floral – that I truly despised, and which seemed to be locked in to the theme.

First New Look

Then, a trusted friend and loyal reader informed me that the theme showed up broken in her browser. There was no question, then, that it must be rejected forthwith.

Yes, I said FORTHWITH. I watched Lost In Austen last night on Netflix – feeling very anglophile today.

On to the second option.

Second New Look

I tweaked this one as well, also within the limitations of my html knowledge and patience. It was fine. Very readable.

But SO FUCKING BORING!

It just felt plain, plain, PLAIN. The simplicity of it seemed devoid of character.

For me.

I know a blog is about the words. But I’m never just about the words. I want to enfold you in an experience. I want this to be place you can sink into or dance through, depending on your mood and mine, but mostly I want you to FEEL and THINK and BE.

And I didn’t feel anything when I looked at that design. I felt entirely objective and ambivalent, like when I glance at the LA Times while in line for my egg sandwich at Starbucks. I wasn’t curious. I wasn’t invested. I wasn’t drawn in and made to feel present.

Now, I realize that you may feel none of these things anyway when you visit Pleasure Notes. But I do. And, after this little experiment, I’ve realized I don’t need to change the dressing on Pleasure Notes any more than I need a boob job or liposuction to reflect better self-esteem. Not that I’m equating the significance of a change in blog design with that of plastic surgery, but I’m hoping you get the picture. So for the time being, I’m opting out of change.

At least change of the cosmetic sort.

My original Pleasure Notes template:

Original Look

New Look, Option One:

First New Look

And New Look, Option Two is what you are reading at the moment:

Second New Look

No promises regarding which of the three directions I’m going, but I’d really love your feedback – which is your favorite and why, pros and cons, etc.

Thanks a ton, my lovely readers! Hope you’re having a delightful weekend…

xo