Cath, etc.

The End of an Era

Don't fall off your chair now. Here I am (hello!), emerging from the deep caverns of my lengthy but much-needed blogging hiatus to talk about something so near and dear to my heart, it's like a child. For our beloved Paper Crafts & Scrapbooking magazine is closing its doors, and there's not much more gut-wrenching or monumental to this little corner of our paper crafty world than that. As someone who had the utter privelege of being at the center of much of that magazine's history, I simply couldn't let this opportunity escape--this chance to say one final good-bye.

In fact, it was just a little over a year ago that I was saying my own personal good-bye to Paper Crafts & Scrapbooking magazine. After 8 1/2 years as an editor and 5 years as the creator and author of the Moxie Fab World, I made the painful decision to step down, mostly because I was simply exhausted and burned-out from blogging. And now, here I am again, saying good-bye, this time to a magazine that has provided untold inspiration to an international group of paper crafters, whose positive energy and encouraging spirit has connected us all to one another, for nearly 11 wonderful years.

And while Paper Crafts has meant so many different things to so many different people, for me, it was an incredibly stimulating job in which I was lucky enough to be a part of a phenomenally talented team whose main goal was, simply, to inspire paper crafters all over the world.

From the initial concept meeting to writing the call; to evaluating the submissions; to sending out the acceptances; to writing and then editing the instructions and copy; to preparing the projects for photography; to shooting the photos; to designing the cover, openers, and layout; to writing the cover call-outs; to first, second, and final proofs with even more editing in between, and still more editing after that; before sending it all on to the printers--e-v-e-r-y  s-i-n-g-l-e  i-s-s-u-e was prepared for our readers with professionalism, enthusiasm, and love--and all within seven little months before the on-sale date.

 

Early in our process, we enlisted the help of Paper Crafts Pros Alisa Bangerter, Nichole Heady, Wendy Johnson, and Sue Neal. Kim Kesti became a PC Pro later, and we asked Teri Anderson and Alice Golden to fortify the ranks. This photo even includes Valerie Pingree, our very first Editor-in Chief.

Later, the Paper Crafts Pros were re-branded as the Go-to Gals and included such talents as Teri Anderson, Maren Benedict, Heather Campbell, Julie Campbell, Kimberly Crawford, Kim Hughes, Kim Kesti, Laina Lamb, Jennifer McGuire, Windy Robinson, Betsy Veldman, Laura Williams, and Jessica Witty.

We got together once a year for Editorial Board meetings where we ate and laughed, brainstormed and planned.  We met at CHA where we walked the floor and talked shop.

We watched trends. We explored techniques. We found ways to make paper crafting the seasons and holidays continually inspiring.

We pumped out break-through special interest publications. We invented a holiday. We hosted a couple of cruises.

We launched a blog. And then another. And became very popular on Facebook.

We had a tremendous amount of FUN:

 

...and became very good friends:

 

And you know what? From Day One I knew that I was part of something special, and that this would quite possibly be the best job I might ever have. I am incredibly grateful to managers such as Stacy Croninger, Jennafer Martin, and most importantly, to Jennifer Schaerer, each of whom saw something in me and encouraged me to stretch my wings and fly.

It was a rare and wonderful thing to learn how magazines are put together and the process by which they become a cohesive whole, and I still can't believe that I ever got the chance to do it in the first place. To have done it in this amazingly creative industry, this beloved connective hobby of ours, was a gift beyond any I could have ever dreamed or imagined. I learned so much about so many things, and I will be forever changed in phenomenal ways by the experiences that I had, and by the people I met along the way.

These photos say it all--these people, these experiences, the good work that we did, will live as cherished kernels of goodness deep inside of me...

...as long as I have a heart that beats.

Yours in honoring the end of a most moxie fab era,

~Cath

PS You should have arrived here from my good friend, Alice Golden's blog. To continue on the hop, be sure and pay a visit to the ever-inspiring, and my fellow New Hampshirite, Cindy Lawrence.

Hello, August

tinywhitedaisies

You are a signal. A nudge.

A harbinger of urgency.

You beckon, Quick! Before it all slips away!

You arrive, and suddenly, the days that drip with sunshine are numbered.

And yet, summer's pull, that enticement that urges me to languish in time as the days lengthen, warm, and swell with a certain nectar of loveliness--seems to become more and more elusive as the years wax on. I am lost in my work, keen to fulfill my duties, programmed to stay on task.

And yet, I do feel the draw, the compulsion to heed August's warning. For in it, she reminds me:

Flickr

...that summer used to mean wiling away the hours climbing the stories-tall pine tree at the side of the house, searching for the end of the world at the top of the branches, being mindful of the pine sap in every step, challenging myself to go two, maybe three branches farther than I did the day before, until my mama calls me in for tuna fish sandwiches, some cold grapes, potato chips, and graham crackers filled with vanilla frosting--chocolate if I'm really lucky.

 

masika wa

...that summer used to mean long, hot days at the neighborhood pool. Diving for stuff. Playing trolls. Daring each other to jump off the high dive. Sharing a Dreamsicle afterwards. Eating it in the viewing stands up top, everything echoing, the noisy pool sounds warbling in our plugged-up ears, distorted and clangy. Halos around everything we look at with our itchy burning bloodshot red eyes, thinking, goggles are for sissies.

Flickr

...that summer used to mean staying up late watching Johnny Carson with my dad. Popping popcorn and adding too much butter but just enough salt. Making Kool-Aid. Opening the windows wide in the hopes of a breeze. In the discernible background, the creek rushes by, there is a symphony of crickets, and big bugs crash against the front French windows in search of light. There is also laughter, and the knowledge that love is more true here than in extraordinary events.

 

Etsy

...that summer used to mean campfires and marshmallows, book-reading marathons, and amusement park rides.

 

Etsy

...band camps and drive-ins and night games with friends.

Etsy

And even now, as the Dog Day's moon makes her way back to full, and those carefree days seem ever longer ago, I make August's list in an effort to capture a hint of that young, fun-loving girl:

• Pick blueberries until my fingers are purple
• Bake a pie, a buckle, and a crisp
• Visit the ocean, at least one more time
• Explore Boston for a day, or maybe even a weekend
• Read two more books
• Eat more lobster
• Pay my respects to Robert Frost
• Eat fresh basil and ripe, home-grown tomatoes until they're growing out of my ears

Perhaps the activities have changed over the years, and perhaps I often feel too busy to truly savor the magic that is summer, but August is calling me, and I best not keep her waiting.

How 'bout you? What are your must-do's this August, and what did summer used to mean to you?

The Innocence in Sleep

To save my marriage, I started sleeping with earplugs.

Mark has chronic allergies. We knew it wasn't a good sign when he sneezed hundreds of times on the day we moved into our home. Literally. He thought his ribs were broken by the day's end. After a trip to the allergist's office and a ridiculously itchy and pustular series of scratch tests later, we found that he's allergic to absolutely everything that grows in our neck of the woods in addition to dust and mold.

That's like everything that exists in the world.

For my part, I am extraordinarily sensitive to noise. And I mean on the level of utter ridiculousness. I can't read or write if there's a speck of noise around me. I am insanely and quite unreasonably irritated by loud gum-chewing and/0r popping, the flicking sound of fingernail-picking, fidgety noises of any and all types and varieties, and if you're unwrapping a piece of candy clothed in cellophane at an arts event within  my earshot, you may just want to brace yourself for the intensity of crusty looks I'm going to throw your way until you stop.

And since I'm laying it all out on the table here, I have been, on many occasions, referred to as the nasal Nazi.

As in, if someone has a stuffy nose, I am through the roof. Especially when there's all that wheezing going on at dinnertime. Please, people. Deal with your boogers before the swallowing begins.

So, 'round about the time when my girls got to be high schoolers with curfews and I started sleeping even lighter than I had since the days they were born, the whistling, popping, snoring, and wheezing that was my poor husband's attempt to sleep through the night brought our marriage close to nuclear annihilation.

He had a decongestant. And a nasal spray. And a sinus rinse. But he hated them. And they weren't always effective. If he remembered to take them.

On sleepless nights I would listen to him wheeze and snap and pop, and in my frustration, wonder if he'd taken his meds. The next morning came the inevitable grilling. If he hadn't taken his meds, then it meant that he didn't love me enough to remember. If he had, then I would feel guilty about the questions and even worse about the sleep I was continually losing.

It became, at the very least, a touchy subject.

Until the day I realized that I could sleep with earplugs. Not that purple kind made out of latex because those just make my ears itch to the point where I'd consider cutting them right off, but the white foamish kind that blank out all sound, enveloping me in a cocoon of silence that belongs just to me.

Marriage saved.

But then, last night, I woke up for no good reason whatsoever and was having a hard time falling back to sleep. Mark had been tossing and turning as well. So, I took out my earplugs to see if he was awake. It was then that I heard it. The peaceful rhythm of his sleepy breath, in and out, in and out. Calm and deep, he filled his lungs which nourished his heart which sustained his life while I imagined the untold dreams that splashed like watercolors on the insides of his eyelids. I nuzzled in closer and listened, really listened, the warmth of his face and the curve of his arms like a shelter. In and out. In and out. And in and out.

The sound of sleep. The thread of life. The primal gift.

I can't give up my earplugs. But I can remember to listen to the innocence in sleep.

Happy Birthday, Old Pal

Dear Scout,

In your 14 years of living you have been the best kind of friend. You are loyal, you are loving, you are dependable, and you are one of the best listeners I have ever known.

You have brightened our lives with your smile, your amazing ability to catch Frisbees, your love for ice cubes, the rope trick, and your mind-boggling ability to understand English.

The little brother to our two daughters, you have herded them up the stairs before bedtime, nipped at their heels when it's time to go to the bus stop, and allowed them to tease you relentlessly without ever (really) complaining.

You've been an amazing guard dog--protecting us even from our friends--and you've patrolled our yard with meticulous skill, chasing away those pesky cats and their attitudes, various invasive gophers and their bothersome hills, and those annoying hangers-on dogs down the street.

When the agressive magpies move in each spring and squawk at you around the perimeter, thinking they own the joint, you give them the what-for. 

You've had a steady diet of wasps and bees--your flying jalapenos.

Your love for chasing the garbage cans up and down the driveway twice each Thursday--a trick you learned from your mentor, Odie--remains the highlight of your existence even today. And we love that you love it so well.

Because you see, we love to love you. And it's all because we know how much you love us in return.

That's why it doesn't matter so much that you insist on eating the steer manure mixed in with the soil we used to set the patio stones so the moss would grow. That's why we don't mind too terribly that you eat small rocks, sticks, and who-knows-what-else on your nighttime rounds.

That's why we don't bother too much about the fact that you rub your snout all over the TV room couch, eat our dryer gasket--OK, I know, you were just a puppy then, and  it's high time I let that one go--or eat a bunch of grass in an effort to help yourself vomit--which sometimes ends up in our house.

It is, however, exactly why we've been so distressed by your recent decline.

It breaks my heart that you can no longer hear my voice, or anyone's voice, and that your rear legs give out when you try to walk up the stairs.

I worry that you are often incontinent, that you sleep as much as you do, and that sometimes it's all you can do to get yourself up from a sitting position, let alone a lying down one.

It frightens me when I walk past you when you're sleeping and you do not stir. I often watch you, my heartbeat skipping, to see if you're still breathing, like I did today.

We give you your medicine, we massage you at night, we clean up your spills.

Because we love you, Scout, as you love us, and wish that you could stay forever.

I don't know if you'll have another birthday, buddy. We're not even sure you'll last the winter. But since you can't hear me, and because I need to say it, I want to thank you, Scout. You've been the best dog that any family could ever wish to have.

I love you, Scout. May your remaining days, weeks, months--and dare I say--years, treat you with the same kindness with which you have graced our lives.

What's Your Style? Making a House a Home

We have lived in our house for over 14 years. Neither my husband nor I have ever lived anywhere for such a long time.

 

While its original owners were thoughtful designers who added touches that gave their new home old-house charm, over the years we have learned to add special features that have made it distinctly our own.

We began with a style. Mark and I are especially fond of the Arts & Crafts movement. This style is all about making your home simple and functional, and bringing the outdoors in as much as possible. We wanted our home to be colorful, inviting, and warm. And so, gradually the white walls succumbed to yellows, reds, and greens, and we covered everything we could with wood. The journey began in the dining room:

I am one of the luckiest girls in the world because not only do I have the most wonderful husband a gal could ever hope for, but he is also a gifted wood-worker. He added wood to the ceiling, a wainscot to the walls, and he framed every window, of which our home has many (another major selling point.) We special-ordered a frieze from a company who makes reproduction wallpapers in the Arts & Crafts style and loved it so much, we decided to carry it into the family room:

Mark continued incorporating the Arts & Crafts style in that room by chipping away the old brown fireplace that overpowered the room and hand-cut the tiles for our new one, adding built-in bookcases on either side.

We filled our home with colorful Arts & Crafts light fixtures:

...and have added furniture pieces that are made in the Arts & Crafts style including this clock that I gave Mark for our 10th wedding anniversary:

...an A-frame sideboard and mirror in the foyer:

...and a Morris chair:

We've carried over the Arts & Crafts period with the artwork that we've put on our walls as well. Each has a special meaning to us because we've bought the pieces on different trips that we've taken together. Here are two paintings that are reminiscent of Japanese block prints (popular in the Arts & Crafts movement) that we found on an anniversary trip to Orcas Island, Washington:

We've brought the outdoors in with this piece we found on a trip to Boulder, Colorado:

And we continued with the presence of wood with this carving we found on San Juan Island, Washington:

And while we've had a lot of fun carrying the Arts & Crafts style throughout our home, that doesn't mean that we haven't deviated and included other things that we love just as much.

A little bit of country on a door in our downstairs hallway:

A hodge-podge of favorite things from our fireplace:

Framed oils that were painted by my grandfather:

The handmade Seasons quilt hanging in the staircase:

...and some cute above the kitchen sink:

What we've discovered along the way--and our home is still constantly evolving--is that it's important to choose a style that is inspiring to you, put some sweat into creating it for yourself if you can, save your money for special pieces that will last, and pepper it with meaningful items that make it uniquely you.

For home is where our stories unfold. It's my hope that those stories, and the people who tell them, will feel warm, comfortable, and loved.

You're welcome to stop by anytime.

In the meantime, I'd love to hear what your style is, and how you've made your house a home.

Oh! And I've also got a winner! Congratulations go to Jacky Scales! You're the winning comment on my Happy World Card Making Day post! I'll be contacting you via email to get your address so I can send you your Cards by Cath cards, Jacky! Woot!

Rant

Dear Grocery Store Checker,

I bought several of these reusable bags at your store. I have two sets. In two colors. One set for each car. So I can be environmentally responsible no matter which vehicle I am driving. For it is, indeed, entirely too much to ask for me to remember to transfer my reusable bags from one car to the next. I'm covering all my environmental bases here. For I do not wish to contribute to putting plastic garbage bags into the ecosystem at this alarming rate nor do I wish to play any part in using up all the resources it takes to manufacture them so that they can be used an average of 20.36 minutes--the time it takes me to put my groceries in the car, drive home, and put them away in my cupboards-- just so they can be put into the ecosystem at said alarming rate.

When I come to your line, I like that you are enthusiastic about my reusable bags. You take them cheerfully, setting one up for my fruits and veggies and you set aside the rest for all the rest. You are apologetic when you forget my $.05 cent refund per each and grateful when I tell you that it's fine, I'm just glad I've saved a plastic tree or two. Then you laugh a little, and I feel good about having brought a little cheer to your day. It's like we have a relationship, you and I, for that one little minute, even though I've been in your line a thousand times and you still need to ask for my ID. But that's another discussion.

I'm writing you today to encourage you to think a little bit about why your customers are using reusable bags. Remember, I bought the reusable bags so I wouldn't use plastic anymore. Right? When you put only 3-4 items in each of my reusable bags (like you do with the plastic kind) and then have to resort to additional paper or plastic bags for what's left over, you are missing the point entirely. The reusable bags I purchased are sturdy--because they are--what was that? Oh yes--reusable. You can put all kinds of canned goods in one bag, you know, lots of heavy stuff, and while I may need to use two hands to carry the bag inside my home, that beats the alternative.

Also, if something already comes in a handy container that's easily carried--like a six-pack of beer, milk, or a turkey--I don't need a bag to help me carry it. It already comes with a handle.

And while I appreciate that you have many fussy patrons who would like their meat bagged and double-bagged, even bagged separately from their other groceries, I'm just not that finicky. I don't get all bent if my perma-sealed chicken touches my refried beans. I'll be lucky if I can get that chicken out of its plastic sheath when I get home without losing an eye. Besides, if I choose a piece of meat that happens to be a little leaky, I do grab one of those recyclable vegetable bags you've got up there so it's not bleeding all over the entire place. If it's not leaky, then I figure the package it's in is good enough. Same thing with toiletries, cleaning products, and fruits and vegetables. If it doesn't come in its own skin, I've already protected it with one of those thin little see-through bags, which I will bring back to the store to reuse on my next trip...unless, of course, they contained something leaky.

In fact, by not understanding all these nuances behind the reason why I take care to bring you my reusable bags, you've created a whole new grocery-cart-emptying behavior. When I take my groceries out of my cart, I am careful to make eye contact with you and mention that my meat does not need to be placed in a separate plastic bag and hope that you'll convey that message to the bagger. When I see that he has not understood, then I've got to communicate it again, which makes me feel a little bit high maintenance and a lot whiney. When the six-pack of beer or the milk goes by, I've got to grab it before it gets into the bagger's hands, so now I'm feeling a little territorial and predatory. When the tiny bottle of aspirin I bought is about to be "wrapped," I'll feel obliged to say, "No thank you. I don't need an additional bag. The package it comes in is just fine." Unless of course I've had to intercept the bagger an annoyingly high number of times beforehand, in which case, I might just let that aspirin get wrapped in its own, special, protective plastic shell so it doesn't taint the rest of its little grocery friends. Which just makes me cranky.

For really, when we go to the grocery store we buy just as much packaging as we do food. And while I realize that we have to have ways to contain and convey the food we consume, we all really should be thinking about the tremendous amount of resources it takes to get the food we eat to the table.

Thanks for listening,

Cath Edvalson~a patron who's just trying to save a few plastic trees

Muffin Top Schmuffin Top

Photo Credit

So, back in the day, oh, on or around a little over a year ago, I started the Eat Less Move More Diet. Nothing formal or prescribed, just an attempt to embrace the weigh-loss-equals-calories-in-minus-calories-out formula.

I had lost 15 pounds by sometime in November and for a variety of reasons I explain here, had the goal of maintaining my weight loss before digging in and losing more. I read a book called Younger Next Year and adopted its tenets:

• Exercise six days a week for the rest of your life. Recommendation: an hour a day.
• Do serious aerobic exercise four days a week for the rest of your life.
• Do serious weight training, with weights, two days a week for the rest of your life.
• Don't eat crap.

I did and have been doing all these things. Religiously.

As I became stronger and stronger, though, my weight started to creep back up. I figured I was building muscle. Yeah, that's the ticket. Muscle weighs more than fat, and as I watched all the muscles in my body transform from the inside to the outside, I felt OK about gaining it back. My skinny clothes still fit, so all seemed well and good. I was feeling great and looking great through and through.

But then that obnoxious muffin top started bulging its way back into my life. I don't know who invited her to the party, but it certainly was not moi.

I scoured the Internet for solutions. I watched The Biggest Loser. I became inspired by Helen. I mean, if a woman just two years my senior could lose 140 pounds and run a marathon and win all that money, then what did I need to do to ramp up my weight loss?

I turned to Jillian Michaels and Lance Armstrong. I got on their websites and started figuring it out all over again. I read articles like this and became increasingly confused. I decided to add time and intensity to my workouts. I vowed to eat more low-fat protein and cut back on carbs (again) even though that's all I wanted to eat (ever.)

I mean, I can ride the elliptical for an hour-and-a-half at the top resistance level and barely be out of breath burning as many as 1500 calories at a pop. The next day: weight gain.

I can go on 14-mile hikes and hardly be sore afterwards. The next day: weight gain.

My dilemma: I am burning hundreds and hundreds of calories a day in my workouts and I'm absolutely s-t-a-r-v-i-n-g to death.

The math was not adding up. Calories in minus calories out was not equalling weight loss, it was equalling weight gain.

So, I decided to talk to my doctor about it. Have my thyroid checked. Do the bloodwork. Prove that I do indeed have the World's Slowest Metabolism Evah.

Of course my thyroid is fine (despite the many, many times I can't get warm to save my life even in the middle of summer with socks, sweats, and a sweater on under all the covers of my bed for over an hour.)

My cholesterol levels are the best they've ever been. I mean off-the-charts stellar.

I'm as healthy as that proverbial horse.

So, I'm telling my doctor this entire, sad story, and he actually says to me, and I quote, "I think you ought to stop exercising so much."

I about fell out of my chair. He acknowledged that that was a strange thing to hear from a doctor, and I'm sure we all agree.

But what he said next was quite profound to me. He said, "We exercise to maintain our weight, we diet to lose weight. The reason you aren't losing weight is because you are working out so much your hunger has increased. Your body is just doing its best to meet its need."

Great. So, working out like a Titan makes me fit but not skinny--and I'm s-t-a-r-v-i-n-g all the livelong day. When it occurs to me. Maybe it's just time to accept the size my body wants to be. I'm fit. I'm healthy. But a little smoodgie around the middle.

This line of thought was not registering any sort of happiness in me. Which I expressed to him.

To which he replied, "Well, how 'bout we put you on an appetite suppressant? That way you can keep working out because it makes you feel great, but you can cut way back on the calories because you won't feel hungry. You'll only be on it until you've lost the weight you want to lose, then you can use exercise to maintain."

Brilliant! Except. Isn't that cheating?

I weighed the pros and cons. I decided that it was OK to let this little pill help me.

I started on Sunday. Since appetite suppressants are stimulants, I was a lot etched out on Sunday, less so yesterday, with today being the least etchy of the 3 days. I've lost 4 pounds and have to remind myself to eat. The worst part? I've had to give up coffee (Lord help me!) and the withdrawal headaches from that are pretty severe. And I miss it. Oh how I miss it.

I'll let you know how it goes. And don't worry, I'm doing all the things I should: eating enough, eating healthy, drinking plenty of water, and working out.

Muffin top schmuffin top. It's time you left for good.

When You're Blocked, Try Fiction

A small child in a doorway watches his mother iron. Back and forth her arm moves, gripping the hot vessel that comes to a surprising point at the tip for all its angled roundness.  She makes an adjustment in the tension of the sleeve wrapped around the neck of the board. The steam that resides in the iron bursts out, escaping with a loud hiss, for the excess moisture cannot possibly be absorbed any further by the fibers of the blouse. There's just no place for it to go but out.

He watches her body move in rhythm to her motion with the iron, her hips swaying back and forth a little as her wrist pushes the iron one way up the sleeve to the cap, then pulls it back to prepare for the next stroke upwards. Her eyebrows knit in concentration, she is intent on de-creasing the messy crumples, a result of not having taken the blouse out of the dryer before the wrinkles had had a chance to set in but deep. As she works, she senses that she'll have to rely on more drastic measures and reaches for the spray bottle she had brought out just in case. She mutters under her breath as the droplets shower the blouse. She's late again and the lunches have not yet been prepared.

Nor has the table been cleared or the dishes done from last night's attempt at dinner. Dried-on refried beans cling to the surfaces of the plates, tiny bits of chips scattered over the pattern complicate the design so that it is difficult to discern where the pattern starts and where it ends. Just like the mess that is my life, she thinks to herself, wondering where she'll find the time--no, the energy--to tackle this wreckage before it's time for the next meal that will come from God knows where. Cereal is a fine meal for breakfast, why not for dinner as well? she says in her head glossing over the half-bowl of milk left behind from the morning's sugary food-coloring fix.

Moving from the sleeve to the back of the blouse, she is grateful for the relatively expansive piece of fabric she can now work upon and her strokes lengthen, her hips enjoy a wider swing, and she is noticeably relieved that there is just one more sleeve with which to contend. And although the lacey front will prove to be challenging, at least she won't have to deal with so many frustrating pleats on such a tiny circumference. 

The boy continues to gaze at his mother. He looks at the back of her head, sees the distinctive curl of  hair just above her ears, and watches her navigate the ironing board. A tilt of her head here, a turn of her elbow there, a shift of her weight to the other leg, and she adjusts the blouse again, ready to tackle the second sleeve.

"Hey, sweetie," she says in her calm voice. "Mommy's running late. Can you be a big boy and get your trucks to take to Miss Laura's?"

The boy runs off, wishing he didn't have to leave her, yearning to stay nearby as though he were tethered to the sound of the swish of her skirt and attached to the light on her soft skin gleaming in the slip she wears, waiting for the blouse to be put on. And even though he wants his trucks, loves his trucks, he doesn't want to leave this intimate familiar.

She glances at the clock in the kitchen, skimming over the dirty dishes in the sink, detecting a faint odor of mildew coming from the dishrag, remembering that there are piles of impatient laundry on the other side of the wall, forcing herself to brush aside the tempting plan to just walk into a store and buy new underwear rather than face the growing mound, when she realizes that this stupid stubborn blouse is costing her way more time than it's worth.

She merely touches up the second sleeve, whooshes the iron over the front, and decides to let the ruffles assume the appearance of doing their thing.

She pulls the blouse over her shoulders as she rushes in to the kitchen. Moldy bread in the cupboard. Last night's leftovers remain on the table on which a few flies appear to be saying grace. In the fruit basket: two dark brown bananas, shriveled beyond even desperate attempts at appeal.

She glances again at the clock. 20 minutes late and they hadn't even left home yet. By the time she stops at the sitters and gets to work...she couldn't bear to allow her mind to complete the thought. She is utterly discouraged.

Her body feels heavy, her shoulders like lead as dread rushes in and swims around in her head like silt in a puddle. 9:20 in the morning and all she wants to do is sleep. To strip off the ridiculously complicated blouse, chuck it in a corner where it could return to its original crinkled state, ignore the boy, crawl into the covers with her bad breath and best intentions, and drift away into nothingness.

And yet, the boy knows nothing of such things. His trucks are cumbersome, lying awkwardly in his arms as he struggles to move towards his mother. Her face in her hands, she is sobbing when he enters the room. As a small gasp of exasperation laced with a titch of frustration escapes from his lips as he lumbers forward, she looks up at her son, walks towards him to relieve him of his burden, and smiles.

So I Took This Class on Voluntary Simplicity...

It all started sometime around the time when Nicole graduated from college a year ago right about now.

Actually, it started way before that, when Nicole decided to be an environmental studies major, and actually it really started way way way before that when my mom would garden and make my clothes and find ways to stretch a pound of hamburger for a hungry family of five with 3 teenagers--but for the purposes of this blog post, we'll start at last May.

In our proud moment of knowing that we had helped to launch a college graduate into the world, there was a tremendous sense of relief.

For it seems as though we had been planning and saving and sacrificing and supporting Nicole and her dreams--and our dreams for her--since the very beginning.

We worked very hard. We saved. We stayed out of debt. We didn't fill our lives with a buncha stuff that we didn't really need. And all (OK maybe not all, but a lot) for that oh-so-important piece of paper and the opportunities it would provide her.

While Nicole was toiling through her senior year, Beccah was just beginning her journey towards her goals as a college freshman. It was the one year we had been dreading financially, well, pretty much since the day I did the math early on and realized that we would have two kids in college for one year, if all went according to plan. So, once we had cleared away the debt with which I came to our marriage, Mark and I started saving for our daughters' educations.

It was a lofty, far-in-the-future period of time that became part of the present and then a memory in the past much too quickly.

But once the dreaded year of two girls in college had passed, we were in a position to re-evaluate our prirorities.

This is where the class on voluntary simplicity comes in. Nicole works at the Utah Society for Environmental Education and they are an amazing non-profit organization that works to bring the environment into the dialogue of the community and environmental programs into the state's classrooms. As part of their mission, they offer classes that bring environmental issues to the fore, one of which is this class we took on voluntary simplicity.

The literal definition of voluntary simplicity is to "choose to live a simpler life." It's all about minimizing the things that take us out of enjoying our lives and maximizing the things that do. Of course, things like making a living, taking care of ourselves and our loved ones, and maintaining our living spaces can take up a great deal of time and energy.

For more on what voluntary simplicity is all about, click here.

The quote by Hans Hoffman on the cover of the booklet we read and discussed in the class says, "The ability to simplify means to eliminate the unnecessary so that the necessary may speak."

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Ironically, the trick is learning which parts of your life are the necessary ones, and which are the unnecessary ones getting in the way.

Throughout the course of the class we were asking ourselves questions like:

• How much money do we need to make in order to be happy?

• What does work mean to us and what is its purpose in our lives?

• Do we have the time, and maybe more importantly, do we have the energy, to do the things we truly enjoy?

• Could we live more with less?

My answers? As follows:

• How much money do I need to make in order to be happy? We are very, very fortunate in that we could be happy making less money. We would have to cut back, sacrifices would need to be made, but we could be happy.

• What does work mean to me and what is its purpose in my life? For me, work is all about contributing to something greater than myself, being creative and engaging my brain in ways that are meaningful to me, interacting with people I care about and who also care about me, and to feel that I am helping to make the world spin a little more smoothly by bringing joy in the form of the product I help create and finding joy in the people I get to know through that product. If I were in it for the money, I'd be doing something else.

• Do you have the time, and maybe more importantly, do you have the energy, to do the things you truly enjoy? As much as I love my job, it completely drains me. Like many of you, I arrive home utterly exhausted with not much left to give. It's the age-old argument, can any of us really have it all? For me, I would like to be able to spend more time with my family and friends, hike more, write more, garden more, cook more, entertain more, and to stay on top of household tasks and errands better. Like most of us, I'm sure, I'd like to be able to breathe a little slower and enjoy a little faster.

• Could you live more with less? Yes. I could. Emphasis on live more.

Mark and I agonized over these issues. We talked as honestly with one another as we ever have. We looked at all the scenarios.

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Bottom line: Mark is the main bread-winner in our family. If we were going to make any changes, it would not be with him. But if we made changes with my job, he would benefit greatly from the time and energy I could commit to tasks that would take pressure off of him at home.

The other bottom line: I love what I do as creative editor at Paper Crafts magazine. I didn't want to quit. If I learned anything from looking hard at the answers to the aforementioned questions, it was that the work that I'm currently doing is extremely important to me.

 

Underscoring the point: The economy. What if Mark got laid off? What if the economy continued to tank beyond what it has already done? How could we even be considering such a thing in such a volatile time? And as we continued to explore our values, we began to realize that we are considering this because it is such a volatile time. The rise in gas prices last summer, the plummet of the stock market in the past few months, and the lay-offs that we all have been mourning have, in fact, caused us to take this very hard look at our priorities.

I decided to approach my editor-in-chief, Jennifer Schaerer, to see  if I had any options.

She listened. She nodded her head in understanding. She was more receptive than I could have imagined, although I shouldn't have been surprised because bottom line: she is an excellent manager who is very tuned in to her people and will do what she can to make them happy in their lives because she knows she will get better work from them in the long run.

Did I have any options? It turns out that I absolutely do.

Effective May 1, I began a 24-hour work week. I continue to perform the tasks essential to being the creative editor at Paper Crafts which entails, among other things, overseeing the content in the magazines we produce, writing and sending out the calls for submission, trend-watching to keep our publications fresh, overseeing the content for the PC101 column, writing the Moxie Fabs column, and hosting the Moxie Fab World blog.

My esteemed colleague, Susan R. Opel, has received a promotion in the bargain, as she will be performing the tasks that I will no longer have time to do, mainly overseeing submissions judgings, sending out acceptances, and following through with designers in the project-acquiring phase of magazine building. She is a rock star.

I am very happy that my need to cut back turned into a good thing for my dear friend, Susan.

I am very grateful to have a flexible, open-minded boss and a supportive team.

I am grateful to have an opportunity to be a more attentive wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, and in many respects, creative editor.

I am very grateful to have taken this journey with my husband and life-partner, for together we are stronger in our purpose.

I am very grateful to have the chance to live a simpler life.

Delight in Being Aware

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I have lived on the same spot of land for 13 ½ years now. Mark and I moved into the little yellow house with a wrap-around porch a week after we got married. I had spent 4 ½ years in an apartment as a single mom of two little girls, Mark in a condo. We wanted a place with a yard, where the girls, then 9 and 6, could run and play and dig--and where we could establish ourselves as a family.

We reclaimed gardens, we put in a fence. We moved shrubs, we planted an aspen grove, we built a firepit. We raked the leaves, mowed the lawn, built arbors and garden structures, and installed bird feeders. We tore down inadequate decks and rebuilt them to suit our insatiable need for the outdoors.

When we are lucky, we still see an occasional pheasant in the front shrubs, or a fox steal across the road, or a deer in a nearby pasture. And we delight in the flocks of geese that fly overhead at dawn and dusk from August to November—and know that it will be a sad day indeed when they no longer come.

In the summertime, we live on the porch, moving from space to space as the sunlight shifts with the passing hours. In the winter, we live in the hot tub—the only place to comfortably watch the sunset turn from gold to pink to periwinkle in the shrinking twilight, the silhouettes of the giant cottonwood and the silo behind, sentinels to the coming of night.

Today I noticed that the mourning doves are back, wondering if they are yet preparing for another brood. The magpies squawk throughout winter and I will admit I hope they choose not to nest in our trees again this spring—the six babies we hosted two springs ago were raucous enough, though we will take our turn if the front pines prove suitable once again.

Soon, we will rejoice in the return of the robins, their hesitant babies nestled in a snug nest, tight in the crook of the blue spruce; and later we’ll see Fred and Betty the hummingbirds, flitting from the honeysuckle to the Rose of Sharon to the trumpet vine—our yard and garden being home to much more than a family, but to an entire system, knowing that the delight is in the awareness; being conscious that it is ever there.