Clippings from the Studio Floor...

I feel that I begin many posts with; "It's been a while, but I'm not dead..."  Haha.  Life has been full since graduating.  There was a "Senior Portfolio Zoo" as we affectionately call it, where the year's graduating seniors present their portfolios to the invited public, most of which consists of the local theatre representatives.  I had spent the night with my friend Dani and after we got coffee, set up, and ready, waited nervously for the first people to come look at our work.  It was a good moment for me, personally, because I was stuck in the mindset that I wouldn't be designing any more, I should only amount to a stitcher, and that Neverwhere was a disappointment.  While most of it was, I shouldn't be leaving with that bad of a taste in my mouth, so to speak.  Several dear professors came to look through my work and I was admonished lovingly as to why I wasn't representing myself better.  Jennifer Lupton was the crux of my mind change, she was my scenic paint instructor, and a zany, vivacious, wonderful woman.  She looked through my portfolio, telling me in her lovingly stern way that I was shortchanging myself.  Why wasn't I listed as costume designer?  Why wasn't I giving myself credit for this or that?  It made me ask myself exactly those questions.  Why?  Because I didn't feel worthy of the titles.  I am owning up to them now.  My head is high, and I am aiming for the moon, even if you miss you will land among the stars.

 I went through Cornish Commencement and I am very glad that I did because it brought the whole process around full circle for me and provided a closing ceremony to the experience.

Tony Kushner, (American playwright who wrote Angels in America) was one of our commencement speakers, along with the incredible Mary Lambert.  I filmed Tony's speech but not Mary's and of course I was more impacted by what Mary Lambert had to say than Tony Kushner.  Go figure.  I've been spoilt listening to Neil Gaiman's HS commencement speech so many times and I badly wish I had Mary's.  So good.

Shortly after commencement I was approached to put together an Amish costume for a one woman show about the shooting at Nickel Mines in 2006.  A beautiful show, poignant and tender, called The Amish Project.  It was written from interviews, news clippings, and youtube clips.  One woman, Terri Weagant performs over 10 characters, distinguishing one from the other by change in physicality, voice, and accent.  It was amazing to be able to be a part of this show, and so much fun to work with Terri. 

6 year old Velda tells about Amish martyrs,

America works as a checker at the Big Foods on Route 33,

Anna realises she is dead,

gazing at the evening through the schoolhouse windows.

Now life is setting back into wedding planning, work, and summer!  Yay Summer!  I adore the Fall the most, but after long, grey Winters I can't wait for the sun-drenched days of Summer.  I have a few posts lined up, so stay tuned!

xoxo,

Anna

Snippets

Life has been busy post college.  Busy with remembering how to be a human, busy with visiting friends and family, busy with puttering around my little apartment.  So busy, in fact, that I have deeply neglected this poor little blog.  That, my dears, will soon come to an end.  I have books to share, documentaries to review, and sewing and knitting goodness coming your way!

In the mean time, here are a few little snippets from the past month (ish) that I have been meaning to share.

This is Shmoo.  Short for Shmooser, this delightful boy lives on Capitol Hill's Twice Sold Tales bookstore.  I went in on a whim and not only found a book I have been searching for (!!!), but got the sweetest neck massage and "purr" therapy from this sweet boy.  

There is a new "monster" in our house.  A Bandit Bunny came to join us, much to the delight of Teeny.  They have been spending the last month "bandit-ing" anything that I glance away from.  

THIS BOOK!!  I don't think I have spoken on here about my love for illustrator, Trina Schart Hyman, but (knowing me) I have and simply forgot.  I fell in love with Trina's work when I was 14, and spent countless, endless hours in the Burien Library memorising the spines of her books.  I entertained the dream of having her illustrate a children's book that I wrote, but she passed away in 2004, so I collect her books and continue to marvel and the delicate watercolour work she once did.

Swan Lake makes the fourth book in my TSH collection.  I have The Fourtune Tellers, King Stork, TSH's autobiography, and now Swan Lake.

Leaving you now with this bit of silliness from Christmas Eve.  Finally (!) got the dear man to smile for one good picture.  Ta ta for now dears!

xoxo,

Anna

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.  

Golden Slumbers

As I walked home tonight I realised just how much I missed a real summer.  Not in the sense that the weather has been a let down, but in the things I used to do as a kid.  I stopped for a moment, the street light shaded by an overgrown laurel, and looked up at the stars.  For the first time in years I could make out Orion's Belt and the Dipper.  And childhood came rushing back to me...
...Summer was waking up in the morning and pulling something on, carelessly -as children do- because all I wanted to do was be outside.  The sweet smelling damp from the night clinging to the soft blades of green grass, tickling my bare feet.  When afternoon came the water hose came out, filling up the long outgrown stiff plastic kiddy pool my parents had purchased from the drug store just up the block.  Sunlight dappled our faces as it streamed into the teal pool, glimmering turquoise in the shadows.
I miss the taste of water drunk right out of the hose, cold against my cheek, metallic against my tongue. I miss the smell of water drying on my skin, bits of grass and pine needles stuck to my feet and legs, musty and comforting all at the same time.  I miss the sound of the wind dancing in the towering pines that flanked the little outbuilding of a garage.
Summer changed and became lounging in the house shaped canvas tent that smelled faintly of tar and gunpowder.  Lying on camp cots, reading while the breeze whispered through the tent flap, just cool enough to read a book.  Summer became dozing under the apple trees, listening to cherries fall to the ground - "plop" - and setting traps for moles.  Stab a cherry on the end of a thin branch, bury it in a tamped down mole hill, and lie on the grass - still as statues - trying not to breathe, waiting for the branch to wiggle.  Holding our breath as the tiniest and pinkest of noses snuffled away the cool brown earth to wriggle at the sun.  Summer was running around in our Vietnam-era army fatigues after dark, with Storm trooper rifles that glowed red.  Hiding between the shadows of the fence and the neighbor's floodlight.  Sneaking up to the back deck where my father stood sentinel with a huge flashlight, sweeping the back yard like a guard tower in a war movie.
Summer was the scent of citronella candles burning on the back deck, late into the night as we played round after round of 21 or Gin Rummy, moths bumbling into the large deck lamp like drunkards.  Summer was turning off all the lights and lying on the deck watching the International Space Station pass over head, a tiny bright star that moved too rapidly to be a satellite, growing brighter and then dimming as it moved across the heavens.
Summer was endless glasses of homemade lemonade.  Syrup made from boiling lemon rinds and sugar water.  Eating strawberries dipped into sour cream and then into brown sugar, the red skins bursting inside my mouth, juice running down my chin.  Melons, honey dew, cantaloupe, watermelon, chilled in the refrigerator and eaten with greedy enthusiasm.
Summer was endless play time, staying up late because it was often too hot to sleep.  Reading books until the sun warmed you into slumber.  Slathering skin with sunscreen from a bottle with a little girl on the front, getting her panties pulled off by an overly enthusiastic puppy.  Soaking endlessly in kiddie pools, mud, utterly sodden grass and loving absolutely every second.
When I say I miss summer, this is what I miss.  The unencumbered summers of my youth.  The entire days dedicated to splashing at the beach.  The fading golden light that made pure magic of each day.
I do not smell the pine trees any more.  I smell cigarettes and fumes from endless cars.  I do not splash in a yard, despite being too big for the kiddie pool.  I take a shower at the end of a long sweaty day to wash the stink of the city off my skin.  I squint at the stars, so faded and dim against the light from the street, apartments, and bars, trying to see the velvet indigo of the sky above.  I miss how it was almost always cool at night and the frogs came out to sing me to sleep.  Now there are only sirens and raucous college students to lull me into slumber.  My hobbit heart misses the Shire.

I know there will a yard someday.  I know there will be another house.  I know I will have a place where I am the grown up who slices up the watermelon and makes lemonade.  Who walks up the little hill to the drug store to lug back the stiff plastic kiddie pool to splash around in.  Who slathers tender baby skin with sunscreen and splashes shrieking children with the hose.  Until then I hold the memories of childhood close, remembering their textures and sounds and smells.  Looking forward to the future.

On Being a Geek

So, Shaming.  Let's take a moment and talk about that.

There are so many kinds of shaming out there I can't even begin to count them.  Let's focus on geek shaming.  Not just girl shaming (which is really sad) but geek shaming, because I've been thinking a lot about it this week.

Because I am a woman, I am more aware of the girl shaming that goes on.  Fat shaming, skinny shaming, the list is endless because women can be vicious.  Geeky guys who think that girls can't also be geeks?  What. The. Heck?!  (The Doubleclicks have a brilliant response to that)  But we're not opening that can of worms right now.  That is for another, much longer, post.

I want to talk about geek shaming.

Recently my hubby was talking about getting a tattoo.  Of course, he wanted something that is incredibly geeky and this is why I love him.  So we chatted about tattoo shops and I mentioned one that I really enjoy over in Greenwood.  He pulled up their website and was looking through artist profiles when he came across one woman (it's an all girl shop) who "enjoys "vikings in loin cloth", Dune and an array of hobbit-nerdiness. Not in a multisided dice weirdo way, but more like an alternate universe way"  His response to this was to close the browser and yell at the screen.  I was very confused because I didn't take it personally.  So I asked him why he was taking her (seemingly innocent) comment so personally.  Of course the moment I asked that question, the answer stared blankly at me.  Because my sweet husband is one of those "weirdos".  My husband plays table top games, Magic The Gathering, D & D, Warhammer, the list goes on.  What right does this woman have to laud her particular brand of geekery over other geeks?

What right does ANY geek (or nerd) have to tout their brand of geek as more geeky than others?  To call other geeks "weirdos".  Have you forgotten what it was like in school?  We were ALL called weirdos.  We were the underdogs who got beat up because we LOVE weird things that the other kids didn't.  It was an amazing moment of revelation to realise that I too, had on occasion, held my geekery over others.  Shame on me.  Shame on you.  Shame on us all.  

We are geeks because we don't want to be like other people.  Because we want to be different.  Because we like different things.  Even if we can't understand why some people geek out over sports, fashion, etc doesn't give us the right to treat them as they treat us.  In fact, it should make us close our ranks and support our fellow geeks even more, regardless of what we all geek out over.  

I happen to be a knitting, costume history, fabric, sewing, LOTR, Dr. Who, Star Wars, TNG, Miyazaki, book geek.  My husband is a D&D, Magic, XBox, Video Game, science, reading geek.  Our kids, will be AMAZING.  They will be (hopefully) geeks like their (future) Mommy and Daddy.  We will raise them not to shame others, but to accept the differences.  After all, if we all liked the same thing, that would really get boring after a while.  

Darlings, don't shame others.  Listen to their passion for something you don't know about.  Watch their eyes light up and sparkle as they talk about what they love.  Understand that your eyes do the exact same thing when you talk about things you love.  Be a loving, accepting, open geek/nerd.  

xoxo,
Anna

Sunlight through Fog

Today Seattle is covered in fog.  The air hints of the fall crispness yet to come.  Weather like this makes me reflect on life, not really sure why, but it does.  This September will be the last time I go to college.  It will be my last orientation, my last few classes, the last time I get grades.  I don't know quite how to feel about it.  Certainly there is the feeling of elation, I'm finally going to get that pretty piece of paper with some calligraphy on it that tells the world I have spend over $90,000 and am now a completely qualified human being.  Then there is the apprehension.  How am I going to make a living?  How am I going to afford anything after this?  I need a car, and insurance for that.  I need a heart monitor, and insurance for that.  The list is endless.  I know I will make it all work out, I always do.  I just have to sit a worry for a spell first.
When one is a child, we spend all our time wishing we were older, bigger, stronger, faster.  Wishing ourselves into adulthood.  When one is an adult, you wish life were slower, simpler, quieter.  Wishing ourselves back to the peaceful simplicity that is most childhoods.  You don't worry about repaying your college debt, or buying a house.  These things simply are there for you.  It is the beautiful, dreadful thing of being responsible.  Or worrying over where the money is going to come from to pay for this or that.  You can sit around wishing your whole life away.
I'm not wishing I was a child any more, nor am I wishing away being an adult.  Today I do wish I knew what the future held.  I wish I could peer into it's depths and know where I'm going next or what I am doing after this chapter.  But then, what fun would life be if we knew everything to come?  Yeah, we might be able to be more prepared or something, but still.  You'd end up dreading things rather than being elated to have them.

So I sit at my desk and watch the crows quibbling on the rooftops and I reflect on where  I have come from and where I want to go.  I consider all of the ways to make the future my reality.  

Farewell Sweet Maggie

My step-grandma passed away April 28, 2013 after a long decline from Alzheimer's disease.  She came into our lives in 1991 when she and my grandpa married.  It was a second marriage for each of them, and it was much needed companionship.  She was a brilliant cook, often just cooking by instinct rather than from a recipe.  She also sewed without using patterns.  

The sad thing was that I never really got close to her until after she began to decline.  She wasn't a mean woman, just not the squishy milk-and-cookies kind of grandma.  She didn't want us to sit on the floor, roughhouse in the back yard.  I chock that up to the time she was born and raised in and not any form of malice or spite.  She loved us in her own way and we loved her back in ours.  

I will keep the sweet moments of dancing with her in the living room while Ella Fitzgerald serenaded us.  Giggling over the cute, silly things she said.  Kissing her utterly adorable nose!  

How much she loved my Grandpa.  

Mary Margaret Nightser Labouy Wildi 

1922-2013

There was a viewing, and many dear friends from the neighborhood she and my grandpa lived in came to pay their respects.  

My mother and neighborhood friend admiring Maggie's dress.

Mr. Parker and his sweet Mama!

Viewings can be weird for people.  Some people, like my fiancee find them morbid and weird.  This turned out to be a wonderful time with family and friends.  We told the best "Maggie Stories" and laughed until we cried.  It was wonderful.  We celebrated that she wasn't in pain any more, that she was at peace at last.

Maggie and her Georgie <3 p="">

Silent Mamas

Mother's Day was, until three years ago, a day of celebrating my mother and looking forwards to the day I can be a mama too.  It wasn't until I endured, suffered, experienced loosing my own tiny little baby that I came to think about the mothers who don't show any outward signs of being a mama.  And I want to acknowledge them too.

This would have been my third mother's day, and then my child's third birthday.  It still is my third mother's day, and I'm kissing my little one in my heart.

This is my mother, and the mother of four children.  She also lost a little one, and waited eight long years before she and my Dad welcomed me into the world.  Aslan, the cat in the picture above, was her other baby and I am sure helped fill the void in her heart, at least until I came along!  

Heehee.  Sorry, buddy.

Arasmus is my Aslan.  My snuggle buddy until such a time as I have children or am able to get a puppy.  

Celebrate the Mamas, and then take a quiet moment to send comfort to those whose time will come.  Send them love and peace.

The Good in the World

It's Monday.  Often it's the difficult day of the week because we're all still luxuriating in the weekend, so I have a pick-me-up for ya!

This video, from dash cams in Russia made me all fuzzy inside, and perhaps tear up a little.  It's not the cats that were rescued, or the mama duck and her ducklings.  Not the wonderful people who towed or pushed other cars back onto the road.  It was the people, mostly men, who stopped their vehicles, got out and helped elderly ladies cross a busy road.  In America, we take little notice of elders, particularly as young people.  They're grandparents who are visited occasionally, but we don't live with them like people in other places do.  They aren't another set of parents, a source of wisdom and comfort.  While mine weren't necessarily all of that, I did love them and have a very soft spot in my heart for elders.
If you see someone who needs some help, try offering.  Give them a smile and an arm.  It's unusual for the older folks and they'll love you for it.
I was at a show at the Paramount where the stairs to the ladies room are quite steep.  People were flowing up and down around this tiny woman at the top.  Holding on to the railing and peering down nervously.  I stepped up beside her, letting traffic flow around me, and offered to walk her down the stairs.  She smiled and took my arm, and we chatted amicably as we descended like queens. Slow, stately.
There, at the bottom was her husband, looking around for her.  He relaxed when he saw I was helping her down the stairs.  At the bottom, I bid her good day and handed off the darling to her sweet hubby.  They thanked me and went in for the second half of the show.

I don't tell you this to pat myself on the back, I tell you this as an example.  It works, and you end up glowing with happiness after you do it.  Always ask if someone would like some help.  It's like that scene in the movie Amelie, where she helps the blind man to the entrance of the subway.  You'll end up all glowy, just like him.

xoxo,
Anna


p.s. - when offering a hand to an elderly person, be ready to take some of their weight.  Go slowly and don't rush them.  They can be fragile creatures, who need someone to be a little stronger than they are.  

Veg versus Meat

I just finished watching this documentary and I'm astounded by some of the results published by the four doctors featured in this film.

Yes, the film promotes veganism, but it never says no animal products.  It strongly suggests that a solely plant based diet is the best, however diets low in meats and dairy are good too.  I love meat and cheese, but lately I've been eating less red meat and more fish and chicken.  My body seems to have a hard time processing the red meat so I save it for special occasions.  As a devout omnivore I resonate with many of the ideas put into my head from the Department of Agriculture, such as "Where do we get calcium?"
Well, duh.  From milk.  Studies in this film show that too much milk other than non-fat is actually detrimental to bone structure and leads to brittle bones.  The other question that got me was "Where do we get protein?"  From meat.  Western diets are heavy on the meat, and American diet most of all.  It wasn't until my family when on the South Beach Diet that I began to realise there is protein in so many other foods!  Legumes are amazing!

So what this film has taught me is that I really ought to up my fruits, veggies, and whole grains and continue how I am.  It's not bad.  I could throw in more exercise but that's another blog post.

Watch this with and open mind and let me know what you think!

xoxo,
Anna

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.

1988 & 2012

Before we left, we had to take a snap semi-recreating the one above.  24 years will really put some height on a gal, eh? 

Morrison - Part One

Edit: My Mom corrected me to my referral of our location.  Since I have only ever lived in the Pacific Northwest, traveling to Illinois felt like going "back East" when, in fact, it is the Midwest.  My Midwestern Mother said so, and since I correct people that I'm not merely from "the west coast" but from the Pacific Northwest, specifically, I respect being proud of where one comes from.

I apologise for my absence!  I didn't realise it was actually that long since I posted.  Nearly a month.  Goodness.  Life has been whirling by full of adventures and story.  It is unique that I should help clean out two family homes in one summer.  Perhaps not so unique, but I've never had to do that before.  

This story takes us back East (excuse me!) to THE GREAT MIDWEST, to a sweet, tiny town called Morrison in the state of Illinois.  

There is a family home there from my mother's side of the family on Grape St.  The property has been in the family for a very long time, 130 years or so now, and two houses have been built on it.  The first was sliced off of it's foundation and relocated in town.  The second, the house that is there today, was built sometime around 1918 atop the former house's foundation.  My grandfather was born in that house and his sister, my great aunt, lived there for many years after she raised a family in Seattle.  It was interesting to see how special this house was for my mom's family who live in Wisconsin.  This house is to them what my grandfather's house in Seattle is to me.  A special place filled with memory and story.

The first time I visited was in October of 1988 when I was on the cusp of three years old.  My parents were back to bury my Grammie Lou (my mom's mom) when she passed away after a long battle with Leukemia.  I have a few very vague memories of the trip.  Waking up on the air plane and trying to find my house.  Pushing a little orange and yellow plastic shopping cart around the neighborhood.    

Now, 24 years later, I make different memories.  I wondered if things would jog the memories of my younger self, but nothing in particular presented itself.  On Thursday night we packed, wrote emails, made phone calls, checked, double checked, and triple checked the to-do list.  I became my mom's Personal Assistant for the evening so we could stay on track.

At about 6 in the morning we made it out to the airport and the general feeling of anxiety subsided into an unabashed sense of excitement for the adventure we were about to embark upon.  The first flight was a series of cat-naps, punctuated by the stewardess asking if we wanted anything.  A little more sleep, perhaps?  Seattle to Chicago passed quickly enough and we found our gate at the large, tangled web that is O'Hare Airport.  

Lunch that was hastily purchased in Seattle was consumed happily in Chicago.  We wondered later why on earth we bought it in Seattle, when there were plenty of places to buy lunch in Chicago.

Our next flight was a little hopper, about one hour, which took us to Moline, IL airport, from there we carpooled with Ann (My mom's cousin) and Aunt Marion (Ann's mom; My mom's aunt) on the final leg into Morrison.

Yes, that is a gleaming Dodge Charger.  We drove a muscle car through the corn fields in semi-rural Illinois.  It.  Was. Awesome!

The first stop once we reached Morrison was at Sullivan's Grocery store just off of Main Street.  We obtained the absolute necessities; Coffee, bottled water, and ice cream!

Once we reached Grape Street, we settled in to chat and open up the house.

While the gals chatted downstairs, I allowed myself to slip away to do a little poking around before we raised too much dust.  My first stop was upstairs in the attic.  I have been in many an attic before and every time I found myself wishing it were a little larger, a little more finished, filled with REALLY old treasures.  It wasn't until I came to Morrison that all my wishes came true!

Trunks filled with decades of correspondence, clothing worn by ancestors, furniture, chamber pots, obsolete books, and dusty prams.  This attic was perfect in every way shape and form.

a hammered dulcimer

the tiny spot is the moon, the large one is my camera flash

water heater

the oh, so beckoning stairs...

Bright and early the next day we set about cleaning.  Starting with the garage.  License plates from as far back as 1938 decorated the rafters, while tools and gardening detritus leaned up against any available space.  And if that wasn't enough the entire place was coated in a hearty film of dust and spider webs!  Whew!

We swept, bagged, dusted, schlepped, hauled, and paused for sips of water.  Around lunch time we began to look about for another task, or a dumpster.

Great Aunt Marion and Aunt Margarete came out to have a look-see at what we had accomplished!

Grape St. garage has grape vines growing along the front.

So very clean!  I leave you here whilst I prepare parts two and three of this escapade.

Cheers, darlings!

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