Taking "be-ing" time...

The last several days have been difficult.  It seems that graduating from college is rather like coming home from a long, long, grueling travel.  That's it!  I feel like Bilbo coming home from his adventures with the Dwarves.  That must have been quite an odd thing for him if you pause and think about it.  He had gone from this quiet person who was more concerned with a good bite with tea, checking for his daily post, and the perfect bowl of pipeweed than anything else.  He is then swept away without so much as a pocket handkerchief, the put into danger, adventure, foreign lands.  He fights for his life.
Cornish isn't quite that crazy in the adventure that is the journey to a BFA however the bewilderment of finally being done must be quite the same.  I haven't the foggiest idea of what to DO with myself.  Obviously, I'm still working at my dear little theatre, but there is all this time to be accounted for.  I can finish knitting and sewing projects that have languished for months, and years.  I could spend all day watching movies and no one will get mad at me.  There is no more homework.  It's utterly baffling.
I have been out of sorts due to this change; crying spells, poor sleep, etc.  Sweet and kind friends remind me that this is okay.  There is no right or wrong way to feel about graduating college.  I am pleased to have finally accomplished this goal, but never really considered how it might feel.  You imagine it when you first start out, how the end goal will feel.  Ultimately it feels so very far away.  And it many ways, it is.  Four years away.  Before you know it, before you have time to turn around and draw a breath, there you are, standing at the cross roads seeking a new direction to turn.
Much of my life will remain the same.  I'm living in the same place, loving the same man, working at the same job.  Only there is more space for breathing, and feeling human, and doing life things.  If I sit down and start thinking about all of them, it gets a bit overwhelming, so I have compromised with myself.  One simple, super easy list each day.  Something out of the house, something around the house, something so easy you can't help but accomplish it.  When it's done, that's all one needs to do. Nothing more, nothing less.  Breathing, just allowing myself time to be.  Organising, ordering, cleaning, and arranging.  Little silly things that give me peace of mind and help me remember who I am.  

Craft

I am taking a class called Work In Contemporary Society.  While that could be quite boring, the instructor constantly brings the focus back around to how we as artists relate to work in society and whether our art making "qualifies" as work.  These articles from Etsy and The New Yorker echo the precise feeling I have had the last few classes but not been able to put my finger on.

Etsy columnist Chapell Ellison gets things started in this lovely little article, Is Cuteness Bad for Craft?
which then led me to Alexandra Lange's passionate Craft Wars vs. William Morris.

Both women are questioning if tv shows like "Craft Wars" (which I didn't know existed) cheapen the term "craft" for those of us who make functional crafts for a living or to feed a passion.  William Morris tried, in the 1800's, to reform the early waves of early consumerism from the beginning of the Industrial Revolution and bring consumers back to the idea of objects that were both functional and beautiful.  He would rather have one very simple, carefully handmade set of china than three mass-made overly-glitzy sets.  I feel that I fall in between his ideals and the "Make do and Mend" group.  I throughly enjoy purchasing mass made china, but at the thrift store where there is only one of that particular tea cup.  Perhaps that is leaning strongly towards my gypsy-mish-mash tendencies, but I like it that way.
I will purchase things that are new; occasionally indulging my love for things from Anthropologie, or the necessary underthings and shoes.  However I prefer the second hand things, not to satisfy some anti-consumerist notion, but rather because that is how much I want to spend on "new" clothing.  The Ann Taylor dress I paid $10 for?  That is how much it is actually worth in my eyes.  The greatness of your label name is no excuse for poor craftsmanship or cheap sewing.
Granted, I feel lucky when I can find a nice, pre-made dress that fits me everywhere, but therein lies my frustration with consumerist made clothing.  It has nasty labels that make me think I must be fat because I'm not a size zero.  That's beside the point.

The point is, Craftsmanship versus Crafty "Let's make this old thing super cute and non-functional just because I can" is frustrating for those of us who are artists and crafters.  Who love taking simple materials and making beautiful, functional items, and who sell them for a living.

What stance do you subscribe to?  Do you disagree with these articles?

Cheers,
Anna

Accepting Body Changes

   Do you have a difficult to fit body?  Mine has morphed so much in the last few years that I'm a bit in denial, but learning to cope with change.  I suppose learning to make my own clothes is helping, but when I see the size tag, that's where my (initial) problems begin.
I used to be a 36 C, size 10 pant, size 12 dress, medium, medium, medium!  I liked it.  Granted that was in Jr. High and High School, so I've really nothing to complain about.  It has just been interesting getting to know my body and letting go of clothing that I really love.

   First major change was my bust.  I didn't think my bust would change that  much when I started birth control pills, but it did.  Plus getting pregnant compounded that problem.  The change: 34 DD and a 41" bust.  Uffda.  I've always had a larger torso because my ribcage is nice and roomy, add some shoulders on to that, and you've got problems with arm holes, sleeves being too short, etc.  The list was long to begin with.  Add 5" to the bust and then nothing fits.

   In the last year or so I have finally come to accept and truly embrace this new body.  Yes, there are days when I'm bloated or feeling heavy and I'm not such a great fan.  Despite the "off" days, I work to fill my closet with things that truly fit.  Not sort of fit, not almost fit, not it-really-doesn't-but-if-I-ignore-it-the-problem-will-go-away fit.  They. All. Fit.  It is so liberating.  Knowing that no matter what kind of day I'm having, no matter what, I can reach in and grab anything and it will fit.  I don't have to plan (much, anyway) on wearing one thing because I'm feeling larger or smaller.  I don't want to live my life like that.  "No lunch cause the jeans don't fit days"  I want to eat lunch and wear those jeans.  They might be a size 12 now and a grown-up brand (Lee versus Old Navy) but they all fit.  I also stop myself from buying things that almost fit.  Things that I could morph to fit me, but really?  Do I take the time to do that as often as I should?  Nope.  If it doesn't fit, don't buy it.  Best lesson of this year.

   I am working, sometimes unsuccessfully, at eating differently and exercising more.  It is so easy in the summer when I'm home all the time.  During school it's a little harder to carve out an hour for a walk.  I'm hoping for 30 minutes before I eat lunch, but we shall see.  I don't mind walking or being out in cold, wet, windy weather.  I grew up in Lincoln Park (in West Seattle) year round.  I love being outside in the Fall and Winter.

   Anyway, back to bodies.  I feel that mine is so unique (and, really, whose isn't?) that I dislike shopping for ready made clothes.  I don't want to feel bad for being an XXL at Old Navy nor do I want to shop at Torrid so I can feel better about being a smaller size.  I want to wear clothing and not care.  It's those darn little labels that make it difficult and easy not to care.  That make us think we're all supposed to be a certain size.

   New York photographer Bill Cunningham photographs street fashion as well as going to Paris Fashion Week to report for the NY Times.  He won't photograph clothing that wouldn't fit on a normal woman.  He doesn't care about brands or lines, he cares about how clothing fits.  He dislikes the mentality that some people have about needing to all be the same.  "Cookie-cutters are boring!" he says.  He would rather photograph personality and style than stick-figures with perfect pouts.

   As a woman who doesn't feel that she could ever "fit in" with the society of High Fashion, I appreciate it.  I dislike Fashion because it jumps to affix a label on me, on everyone.  You are skinny, you are fat.  Really?  Who put you in charge of how my label?  I am Anna.  That is my label.  I am Just  Right.  Some girls are naturally skinny, some are naturally larger, some are in between.  It's all OKAY! There are no "Fashion Police" who will plaster a label on your forehead.  No, we do that on our own, like drugged fashion acolytes who don't stop and think outside the box.  Who don't question the pill.  We close our eyes and stick out our tongues for the Wafer of Absolution from the High Priest of Fashion.

   If that is where you want to be, that is fine by me.  I just don't want the label.  I am not fat.  I am not anything but beautiful and myself.  I am Anna.  You are You.  I respect that.
  The greatest thing we can ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return.  Learn to love yourself.  Challenge what you think and believe.  Put love out into the world and it will return to you.
Be Groovy.

The End of Hatred

I have spent a great deal of my youth being angry.  Angry at circumstances I could not change, angry at the past for mucking up the present.  Angry at my perceived imperfections that I could not magically change.

Today I spent time cleaning up my pictures.  Innocuous enough, you think, yes?  I spent several hours looking through photos of myself.  Pictures I took during various stages of life in various degrees of self-hatred and self-love.  And you know what I discovered?

I am who I am.

Oh, yes, I can change a few things about me; keeping up with good diet, regular exercise and all that rot.  But what I found as I looked into my own eyes was that I didn't hate who I am anymore.

I don't secretly hate my curly hair, my near sightnedness that requires glasses, my seemingly oddly shaped body.  For a long time I have lamented my apparent "lack" of curves, my lack of femininity, and it wasn't until I actually sat down and looked at myself that I realised I am precisely who I am meant to be.  This may be a bit "old hat" to some and for those of you who know me, this may sound a little silly.  Truth is, I go about my day worrying about what you all think of me.  I worry about my appearance, I worry about my body shape and how people perceive me.

Today that all stops.  

Today I am tossing worry, self-loathing, self-hatred, self-mutilation out the bloody proverbial window!

I am Anna.  I am Anna More.  

I am 5' 5" tall, I am 170lbs of awesome and I don't care who knows, and FUCK the BMI ratings.  

They are wrong.

I love every inch and ounce of me.

Now, this isn't an instant thing, what happened today was a turning point in my personal thinking, in my personal journey.  I am taking a different path.  Perhaps parallel to the one I was traveling along previously, but even large ships travel in small gradients to make vast turns.  And what is life but one long jumble of turns and jogs? 

This is the woman who my children will know as their mother.  This is the woman who will make a name for herself in the world.  This is me.

thank you for reading this far.  Thank you for loving me this long and this far. xoxo ~Anna

Summer Mood Board...

Faces

3 months

11 months

18 months-2 years

3

4

5

Inspired by this project 101-Women, I was curious to see if I couldn't construct a file of my face as it ages.  Granted, I could do this by scanning and scouring my parent's picture albums, but this is what was on my harddrive.  It still strikes me to this day that I have looked in the mirror at least once a day at this same face and have watched myself age.  Not that I could put a movie together in my head, but still.  It kind of makes me want to take a portrait once a year on my birthday, perhaps, to keep track for the rest of my life.

Perhaps this is an apt wrap up for visiting my 90 year old step-grandma today.  She is 90 today!  I can only wonder if I will live that long.  Her journey is not without troubles.  She may be celebrating 90 years, but she cannot recall who she is anymore.  Nor who we are, what year it is, or who is president.  She doesn't remember.  We do though.  We go out to her with a pretty new shirt and sweater and hug and kiss her because we love her.  You can't help it, she's too darn cute.  And I sit, watching my mother spoon feed her bits of cookie soaked in milk-tea, and wonder about life, the universe, and everything.  Hoping I will have a daughter or a daughter-in-law who will love me so much as to spoon feed me cookies and sing old songs on my 90th.

The Passing of a Generation

It's been a while!  Goodness.  I've been busy with life and work, as well as things that I've been making. I enjoyed the production meeting for Cornish's production of Pride and Prejudice in the fall.  Lots of wonderful ideas.

My family said good-bye to my paternal grandfather on Father's Day.  It seems odd to be happy for someone to pass away.  While I miss my grandpa, I am happy to know he is without pain or suffering and dancing up a storm with my grandma who went before him.  I know they are both happy now and that thought comforts me. His memorial service was last Sunday and it was a beautiful celebration of family.  We ate good food, told stories, and passed out some of his treasures to his children to be cherished and used.  How odd that generations should pass so close to each other.  I just don't think about how you will loose a generation fairly close to each other.  I lost my maternal grandfather in 2009, and now my paternal grandfather in 2011.  I have one step-grandmother left.  It's sad to think of the generation lost with their wisdom and stories.  Makes me wish I had asked them more questions, had them tell me more stories.  Lessons, wisdom passed from the old to the young.

Got Rhythm?

Well, I am surviving.  I am not quite yet in the thriving mode, though I confess I am too hard on myself.  Here I am, stumbling admirably through my first week (got that, FIRST week) of Cornish and I'm already wanting to make more progress than is physically even possible.  I look forward to finding that groove, where I can be effortless in finding my class and knowing what comes next, instead of this herky-jerky sweaty hurry that I'm stuck in for the next little while.  It's really okay, I have made friends, and I have a locker and everything, but I'm not in the groove yet, and I so wish I was.

I did, however, find my most favourite place in the whole wide world.  Okay, the second most favourite, but still.  I found the costume shop.  Sad to say, I don't have pictures yet, but it's glorious.  Stacks of boxes of neatly labelled fabric.  Notions that could choke a horse.  Mannequins, scissors, sewing machines, and sergers, oh my!  I could live in there, with the exception that I doesn't include Nate.  Pictures are forthcoming, but for now it's just good old words.

I just might be the Lunatic you're looking for?

I have problems. Everybody does. The thing is that most people, myself included, go about our days ignoring our problems or denying they even exist.

Part of me really misses living in a household where we all have problems, but no one really said anything about mine. They went seen but unspoken. It led to crappy self-esteem and one hell of an act. I can make the people I love believe that I'm okay. That I don't hate myself anymore. Hell, I've lied to my therapist. The thing that bothers me is when people see it and say something about it. Put my problems in my face. Reflect back to me exactly what I loathe and spend most of my time wishing fervently would just up and disappear. That's the funny thing about problems, they don't just melt away like ice cream left out on the counter. They can sit there and be medicated into submission or hibernation, or they can be gouged out and vehemently killed.

I desperately want to sit with a therapist for perhaps a month of sessions and come away magically cured. I want to ignore the fact that the world doesn't work that way, and I must come to grips with that fact.

People used to tell me all the time; "You're such an amazing person! Never change!" and I would wonder why anyone would think that. I'm an actor. You hide what is ugly with smoke and mirrors so you only show what people perceive to be lovely and admirable. People have also told me, through tears, that they wished they could be more like me, or be me. I also can't understand why anyone would want my life or my psyche. I have more problems, idiosyncrasies than the Eiffel Tower has bolts, or something equally applicable. The frustrating part is that I'm not changing as fast or as much as I would ideally like because I keep hiding. I hate being exposed because I have problems. I have problems because of my childhood. The wheel turns on and on but I go no where.

Why did all this come up suddenly? Because I was thinking about all the little lies and acts my amazing fiancee sees through. It's like he has The Sight and can see into my Faerie land, only he can see what is real and what is glamour. I don't feel worthy of his love, but I am so very grateful for all of it. For the sweetness and the silliness. For his serious moments, and his tenderness.

Keep it Simple. . .

Elizabeth Zimmerman used to sign most of her knitting newsletters with this sweet and oh-so-wise bit of advice: "Knit on, with confidence and hope, through all crises." This wee phrase has stuck with me for a long time and it proves true time and time again. Like yesterday.

I find myself with such a huge amount of time on my hands I've forgotten how to use it all in an effective manner. I'm also looking for a new job, so that takes priority. I hope on the computer first thing, cup of coffee in hand, and troll the interwebs for employment to get me through to September when school starts and I have a work-study position. Once I've applied for at least one job a day, I am allowed to spend the rest of my time as I please. Yesterday was a disaster, to say the least. I was forcing myself to work on a project for which I had no gumption to do much more with. As an artist sometimes you have to force yourself to finish something, but this was supposed to be for the pure pleasure of crafting and there wasn't any joy in it. Wisely, I abandoned it before I got to sewing and frustrated, cleaned up the apartment a bit, sat down and knitted. I watched two movies while my fingers flew and the tension in my body eased. My knitting tension was just fine, in case you're wondering. ;)

The day ended well, with dinner of delicious grilled salmon and lots of snuggles from my honey. Today I begin with what I learned yesterday in mind, take it easy, keep things in perspective, and go for walks. Simple!

A box, labeled Hope.

Indulge me in a moment of reflection and sorrow.

I don't know why it's on my mind so much, but I look at friends, blogs, women who are going to have their first baby and all I can do it miss the one that I lost. Perhaps it hasn't been long enough for the emotion to ebb fully, not that it ever really should, but you know what I mean. To recede to the point where I can be happy for the other women and not feel that little nagging voice that says, "You almost had this." As if I never will?
That is not the case, I counter. I will have children, just not now. Not anytime soon. I want to finish college, and find a stable job in theatre, or teaching theatre and then, when I have the means and the peace of mind, then I can try again. I can try at all.

For now I tell myself that I can't and all it does is make me sad. It makes me worried. I pray for peace, I beg God to make it go away - the wanting so very, very badly - make it go away until I have the time in my life. I can't afford to want a sweet baby right now. It's not an option. It just doesn't stop the wanting inside. So I knit, I keep my life busy in a good way, I spend oodles of time with my honey. And wait. With deep breaths, with patience, with love, I wait. I send prayers up to Heaven to the little one that almost was, telling them I loved them while they were here, and the family that has gone ahead of me will love them until I am there.

*sigh*

And now back to your irregularly scheduled knitting and theatre drivel. Thanks.

~A

Open your eyes, dear child, your dream has arrived.

I feel like I'm living in a dream. Which, oddly enough, is true. I have dreamed for this moment, this turn in my life for years. Years and years and years. I have longed, hoped, wished, and cried many silly tears to reach this turn into adulthood. I am engaged, but in my mind I already think "wife". In my mind I call my fiancee, "Husband" and it makes me smile. Husband.
To have a man who loves me so very dearly to want to share his life, the rest of his life with me thrills me to my very core. I admit to not thinking very highly of myself. To discrediting my talents, my personality, my beauty - even that word applied to me gives me pause. I am beautiful. Four years ago I would have scoffed at such a statement. Pretty, maybe. Beautiful? Please.
Then I met my love. He looked into my eyes and told me I am beautiful. I am wanted. I am worthy, I am loved. A year later I believe it. Mostly.

It has been a whirlwind three weeks. One week I was moving in with the darling man, the next we were engaged and now? Now we're setting in to living with another person. I'm settling my things into his apartment, he's adjusting to having a "roommate" for the first time in eight years or so. Lots of adjustments.
Lots of small flickerings of temper ending with a conversation of better understanding. All couched in crazy love. It makes me happy to know that while we're both driving each other batty, we can still look at the other with a knowing smile and say, "You're crazy, but I love you."

A wise man once said, "the greatest moment is when you're living your dreams, awake." It is so very true.

Image:Stiletto Heights

She trudges on

I am in a bubble of space that isolates the outside world from my senses. Touch comes slowly, sounds are the first to assail my battered mind. Thoughts, words come last. I am drowning in my own despair. I know I need help, but don't know if I will get the right help, or if the help will fix my despair, depression.
I pace my floor at night consumed with thoughts of feeling alone, ugly, worthless, useless and concluding that I should leave this world. What's the point of going on? I'm not sure if this stems from loosing love I thought would last forever, in addition to just being depressed anyway, but it hurts. It's affecting my work, it's affecting my life, my future. There are too many people who love me for me to be so selfish as to leave them all, but that doesn't stop me from thinking about it. I want to take the pain I feel inside and make it physical. I want to hurt as much in my skin and muscles as I do in my heart and soul.
So I go to work because I know it will distract me from my pain, but it doesn't cure what hurts. Which makes me wonder, what does hurt? And why? Where do I get the idea that I am ugly, horrible monster of a person to the point of not valuing my own talents? To the point of considering wasting my talent in forcing my own death. Death comes for us all, it's what you do with your precious life in the meantime that makes legends or fables or changes in the great wide world. I am just silly enough sometimes to want to make my death come sooner so the world will no longer be troubled with trying to keep me here.
I am sad to loose love I thought would last forever. It weakens my faith and hope in the future. In the fact that there is someone, made especially for me to spend the rest of my life with. I am shattered in this resolute faith of the hope of love. I want to drink until I pass out just so I sleep through the night. I want to beat my body until the bruises show, purple and black, badges of my heart's pain. I want to cry until I can't cry anymore so I purge all the pain from my soul. I want to be happy again and dance in the sunlight. I think I know how to accomplish this, but it's going to take time and patience and hope. Trust in the future, in the promise that the future will be different and that difference will be better. Please, God, let it be so.

Big League...

I start school tomorrow. And it's nothing simple like Highschool or Community College. This is the big league baby. The Art Institute of Seattle. Ack! I know I'll be okay, and I'll get the hang of things, I just wish I knew which books I need to take and if anyone will be nice to me?

Goodness. I may be an adult but I still have the same worries I did when I was in grade school. I suppose some things never change, then eh?

Autumn Child

I don't know why, but for some reason I am most pensive in the Fall. Perhaps it's because I was born then, and I've come full circle for another year. I can't say exactly, but I don't mind it. I'm in love with the lush colours, the smells, the crispness of the air. It's all so much that I feel like I want to explode with happiness.
Perhaps it is simply the turning of a season, because I feel in love with the new, upcoming season in the Summer and especially in the Spring. Of all four my two favourite are Fall and Spring. They are the most turbulent, the most alive, full of colour and life and wonder. And rain. I love rain.
In the meantime, I knit away, working on gifts for family and friends, product to sell on my Etsy ( Hibougirl Crafts ) and marvel at the wonders around me.

~ What seasons do you like best, and can you say why?