Short and Sweet: Prickles and Sugars

This photo really speaks to me these days. It was taken at my cousin’s ranch, I encountered this still life while out on a wandering. I see so much of my own current life situation: a skull, backed by barbed wire…death binds, but also frees. There’s parched earth, but it’s sustaining a green cactus. Said cactus contains both spikes and a gorgeous splash of fuchsia floral joy.

I’m in a weird place. My career is shifting, and I feel both constricted and free, cowardly yet dauntless. It’s like I’m at someone else’s untrustworthy beck and call, all while I start grasping the wheel of my own ship. Life is like that, I guess.

Also, it’s just a super cool Texan kind of image, don’t you think?

WTF is a #CuratedLife?

I have been trying to figure out social media. God, it is hard.

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I fell in love with Facebook eleven years ago, here’s my first post, in fact, from March 25, 2008: “Aaauuuggghh! I don’t know how to do this Facebook thing!” I have evolved from silly posts like that one, with some stops along the way for oversharing or airing professional grievances online, in an effort to live a truthful life. Now I am more judicious about where that truthful life really belongs. I have gotten better at using filters and hashtags and presenting my best public self. Mostly.

About five years ago, I found Pinterest, and I could, if I let myself, scroll through pinning pictures of beautiful living rooms and historical costuming all day long. I have boards called General Geekery (for Star Trek and Harry Potter), The Democratic Diva (mostly inspirational quotes about my core values), and Women I Adore (Streisand, Streep, and Alcott). I save photos from Gilmore Girls and Supernatural and I have a new board called “It’s a Grand Baby!” That’s where I save a ridiculous number of nursery décor pins and ideas for entertaining one’s grandkids. My first one’s here and I am wrapped around her tiny finger.

And now…Instagram. I just joined that one a few months ago. It’s so dreamy! Here is where meals are perfectly plated, fashions are always forward, and delightful dogs make me smile. This is also where my favorite authors send what I pretend are personal exhortations and juicy little details about their lives (Did you know Glennon Doyle loses her keys all the time, just like me? We are so sympatico!)

No, really. My BFFS are Liz Gilbert, Brene’ Brown, Martha Beck, Glennon Doyle, Cheryl Strayed, and Oprah. All of them. They talk to me every day on Instagram. And podcasts! How could I not mention podcasts? Magic Lessons, SuperSoul, Robcast, On Being, What Women Want; these podcasts fill me up! I have a whole other genre that I love, spooky podcasts like Lore and Pleasing Terrors.

Here’s the thing about all this social media, all this curation: while I am a little bewildered, my daughters get it. In spades. It’s just how they live.

For example, my younger daughter just posted a gorgeous selfie of herself with her cute boyfriend. They look lively and flawless, with great big smiles…and she throws an ironic mouse ear and nose filter on it from Snapchat. Now it garners winks: look how pretty and yet silly they are! When my older daughter hits a gorgeous yoga pose, she somehow manages to photograph it and post it on Insta with just the right hashtag. For my senior pictures, I wore a fluffy pale blue boa and sat in front of a swirly brown background with the photographer hired by my school. For my younger daughter’s senior pictures, she scheduled two photographers and an independent studio space, complete with multiple changes of clothes, a variety of backgrounds, and my yellow bicycle with silk flowers wired to its basket.

When I was in my twenties, if Instagram had existed, it would have been full of photos of me dripping milk all over the front of my shirt or char-marked skillets full of cheeseburger macaroni Hamburger Helper (I grew up on the stuff, I raised my kids on it, and I still love it, I don’t care what anyone says). My wedding would have needed about $10,000 more to spend so that I could have all the details that make for perfect pins. My kids’ birthday parties would had to have been bigger and louder so they would stand out on Facebook and they’d would get #invited to all the #coolkids parties.

I am so glad I didn’t live my twenties that way.

Though I sure as hell am doing my fifties that way! I have learned about hashtags pretty recently and I am working to figure out which ones grab attention; because now I am actively trying to create a new life- an author’s life- and I feel like I need to learn what resonates. It’s not that I am being disingenuous, nor am I trying to use people; but I am working to be a story teller, and in the year 2019, that just doesn’t happen in a vacuum. I have been known to post some sweaty, unflattering photos of myself, but I still keep trying to figure out the perfect angle to get a good selfie (what my mother in law charmingly called “facies” early on). When I walk outside, I am always looking for just the right bit of nature to photograph to add to my online presence, to cultivate the recognition and love of daily magic that I think is my calling. I use my bright yellow bike as a prop for my “brand,” even though I worked an acting gig eight years ago to save up for it, long before I had any knowledge of Instagram, WordPress, or Medium; or any idea that I would make a career change that would lead me to want to write and require “branding.”

I even created a Pinterest pin of my new yellow living room chairs, we’ll see if it gets re-pinned!

Here’s where I have landed on all this social media stuff: it is, for me, a gift. I can stay in touch with childhood and college friends and see baby photos of my cousins’ infants. I can post requests for advice on taking care of plants, and one of my green-thumbed buddies will help. I can see the creative work my friends are up to: wire-wrapped jewelry, nature photography, writing, or acting. I can be inspired by the aforementioned authors/encouragers. I can feel a moment of gratitude and share it unironically, with the hashtag #lovemylife.

When I feel super courageous, I can post that photo that shows the realest me: wrinkles and spots and squish and dark eye circles.

I love the online stuff, it’s like a scrolling scrapbook. I can click on any year in my Facebook timeline, and I am instantly transported. What was I doing? Where were my kids? Who did I go to eat sushi with? Why did I wear that?

Of course, there is danger in the temptation to live and love only that way, so I take care. Take care to set the phone down. Take care to look into my husband’s real eyes, not just the ones saved in countless photos in my online accounts; all while he hugs me tight. Photos of gorgeous dinners aren’t nourishing, only in the eating and sharing do we savor the flavors and reap the nutrients. Snapchat pics of our loved ones, no matter how silly the filters, don’t replace the need for touch, for listening to each other sigh or laugh or cry. Hashtag activism isn’t enough, action is required. And Pinterest images, those perfectly lit tableaux of exquisite home furnishings, can never outshine the comfort of our own homes, even if they’re cluttered or not perfectly staged. That’s life. Life is lived by being present.

PS: Here are some of the various accounts referenced here. Both my girls are building careers on SM. Give them a look!

https://www.instagram.com/hilaryallysonbryant/

 

https://www.instagram.com/libbyy.june/

 

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Dandelion Wishes

I love to go on walks, especially long rambling ones out amid nature. Walking on a track or treadmill is no fun, it sparks no magic. It’s great for exercise, but not so nourishing for the soul. So I walk on the 55 acre festival site where I work, or on the trails that connect the various neighborhoods in my master planned community. I used to walk at Lake Brownwood, when my Pop lived there, when I am particularly blessed I find myself walking on a beach or sea wall. During today’s walk, I passed so many yellow dandelions! And I remembered…

When I was a child, we kids still roamed freely in our neighborhoods, without parental supervision. There were no tracking apps to keep us on the radar. We played at neighbors’ houses until the sun started to go down, then listened for our parents to call us home. We walked to school- no moms or dads- just kids that met each other along the way and joined up to make the trek to school in laughing clumps. Since I am, and always have been, a quiet girl, my clumps of friends might only be three or four girls, but we laughed as much as any larger group. At least, they did. I just breathed little huffs of laughter- nothing to bring attention to myself.

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On the corner of our street in a Dallas suburb, there was an empty lot. In early spring, a season of soft blue Texas skies and crisp mornings, this lot was bright with abundant dandelions. You may be cringing at the very word, especially if you’re a gardener or if you grow a perfectly manicured lawn of St. Augustine grass, but I happen to believe dandelions are magic.

When the dandelions were bright yellow flowers, they were inhabited by “tickle bees.” I don’t know what they are really called, but that’s what we called them. We left our houses a few minutes early so that we could spend a few minutes hunting for tickle bees in the empty lot, and if we found them, we gingerly caught them in our fists. They couldn’t sting, so they buzzed around in our hands until we put them in our pencil boxes and let them out at lunch recess, by which time our pencil boxes were covered in yellow pollen.

As the days lengthened and the temperatures climbed, the dandelions became fluffs of white, upon which I made secret wishes. When I blew on the puff, the wishes scattered into the air, magic would awaken, and my wishes just might come true.

My wishes were for a mother who was well, books to read, friends, blue eye shadow, Sean Cassidy records (and to marry Sean in my boldest wishes), spelling bee victories, and dance lessons. For my grown-up self, I wished for a handsome prince to be my husband, sweet babies to play with, and a pretty house that was always clean.

I got most of my wishes. Some I left behind in childhood, like marrying Sean Cassidy. Some I regret, like the shimmery blue Maybelline eye shadow. Some I never saw come true. But most, I did.

Dandelion wishes were seeds of a life. A messy, magical, life.

I used to love watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show with my parents. I didn’t really understand all of it, but the opening credits were so exciting: beautiful brunette with confident stride and wide smile throws a beanie into the air and gets a perfect freeze frame set to a musical button. I am not the girl who “turned the world on with her smile,” I am too quiet to make that much of an impact. But I have learned to make a “nothing day…seem worthwhile.” That’s what most days are, right? Nothing special days filled with jobs and meal preps, laundry and carpools.  My friends, that is where magic lies. In those nothing days.

Sure, I have taught some kids, earned a master’s degree, and shared a few blog posts, but nothing big. Nothing impressive.

I have just walked a quiet, normal life of maintaining a marriage, raising three kids, teaching school, walking dogs, dieting, and making new throw pillows.

I am just the average middle age lady, with a little extra on the hips, a few crepe-y wrinkles on my chest, an inordinate fondness for the color yellow, and a deep love for my sweet husband and kids.

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Empty lots and front lawns not only contained magic dandelions, they also hid vicious stickers: little burrs surrounded by sharp points that embedded in skin, socks, and even bike tires. They were awful. They drew blood. They sometimes buried themselves so deeply that it took a deep breath and fierce courage to pull them out of my foot. Is life full of magic wishes? Yes. But is it also full of stinging hurt? Oh, hell yes.

I feel like maybe my story is like a lot of people’s. Lots of little bits and pieces that make up a life. Touchstones that lie alongside each other on the path that makes the road that makes a journey. That make up a person. That make up a soul. Dandelion seeds that, once blown, float in the wind, sometimes landing in fertile soil. Sometimes landing upon rocks or thorns. Sometimes coming true but turning bitter. Like the Biblical parable of the sower, sometimes we have a say in what seeds take root, and sometimes we are at the mercy of the wind, the rain, the sun, and the birds.

And thorns that leave scars.

I believe, down deep in my bones, that life is magical, and that making the attempt to approach each moment with a sense of wonder enables us to live beautifully, no matter our circumstances.

I believe that my mission, my personal legend, my work is to help others see, create, and accept the magic of their own lives. I listen. I write. I hope. I pray. I dream…

But I don’t dream of big stuff like fame or a million dollars. My dreams are made up of tiny glittery thoughts, like dandelion pollen, a fine yellow dust that softens what’s hard and enables new growth. I dream of my children’s affection, the comfort of my home, reading and telling tales, belonging to a group of friends, and great big glasses of pinot grigio.

I dream of feeling secure.

I dream of feeling content in my own skin.

But mostly, I dream of joyous, magical grace and forgiveness.

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Short and Sweet: Vintage Spring Radiance

“It is so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun, to have lived light in the spring, to have loved, to have thought, to have done.” -Matthew Arnold, 19th century English poet

It’s the first day of May, the grass is lush and green here in south Texas. The evening breezes are gentle, the morning sunlight is soft. My grandmother, pictured above in her teens, lived her life in the softness of a heart filled with Divine light. Happy May!

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