Balance

Despite the fact that I started out July thinking I would “be bold” and post more frequently, I have gotten caught up in the crazy of summer life. I have gotten caught up in my work, reading the books necessary to complete that work, preparing for college, cleaning up and throwing out. All this amid the daily routine of household chores necessary to maintain a functioning home. Sometimes, I begin to feel I am losing my grasp on what is real and necessary and beautiful.

It seems out of necessity, I have been cramming too much into the summers. Actually… into life. I spend my days cramming too much into life. Too many jobs, too many chores, too many errands, too many appointments. These things take a toll, but as I prepare to pay tuition bills, I am hit broadside with the reasons why I constantly push, always taking on more. But cramming in so much is not always a good thing. Quality, simplicity, and reflection would be good things. These things would give me the ability to shift my perspective, breathe, and re-evaluate the crazy that dominates my days. Maybe find a better balance.

Each time I think I am almost to the end of my crazy, a new string of commitments and appointments makes non-crazy an un-truth. Once again, the crazy continues, off-kilter and out of balance, but next week looks promising….

Kinda funny about next week. There’s always next week, isn’t there? And next week always brings new hope for just a bit more balance.

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Metaphors

Recently, I had the opportunity to try my hand at making pottery—wheel-throwing, to be exact. In truth, I think I did this once or twice as a kid, but it was long ago. I remembered only the feeling of wet clay slipping between my fingers, the gentle prodding of the clay to create the desired shape, and the uneven feeling of lopsidedness on the wheel.

This time, I had the benefit of a patient and experienced instructor, who led me—step by step—through the process. I threw the clay onto the wheel, missing the center by more than I’d like to admit. The instructor adjusted the clay, pushing it closer to the center, and started the wheel. He demonstrated how I should hold my hands to gently push or pull the lump of clay into the center, shaping it and rounding it out. The clay resisted. I pushed harder, using some muscle to move it beyond its resistance. I was a bit surprised at the muscle necessary to move this inanimate, shapeless lump.

I smoothed the edges into a disk, and I pulled up toward the center, raising the height of the nameless object on the wheel. I used the side of my hand to flatten the clay and push it into the center. I repeated this process of centering until I had a flat disk resembling a hockey puck.

I began to work the center, slowly and gently pressing my thumb into the clay to create a hole from which I would begin to sculpt the vessel. From here, the process became one of gentle pressure—make an indent and watch it slowly become deeper and wider. The next steps would take an increasingly gentler touch as I steadied one hand against the other to work the sides upward and outward. The farther out and up I went, the more I could feel a slight off-centeredness of the piece. While I wanted to pull it back in, I didn’t want to exert too much force.

In the moments before I declared my piece “done,” and the wheel was turned off, the metaphor of potter and clay was not lost on me. The fact is, it’s not easy to mold a shapeless lump of clay into something both beautiful and useful. The clay resists. It won’t stay centered, and if it’s off center, it will become increasingly lopsided until it ultimately spins out of control and falls apart. Sometimes, it takes greater force from the potter to coax a piece back to the center. Perhaps sometimes, when we get too caught up in our lives, we are particularly unyielding and need to allow ourselves to be pulled back to center.

Ultimately, I added a spout to my piece. I not only wanted a vessel that could be filled up, but I also wanted one that could be poured out. One that would easily contain and distribute ingredients. It will take some time for my bowl to be dried and fired, glazed and re-fired. At the end of this month, it will arrive, beautiful and useful. I can’t wait to see the finished product and recognize the steps—and the patience—necessary as the potter molds the clay.

Be Bold!

Each year, as I head toward January, I buy myself an inspirational calendar because… well, because it will be inspirational! And believe me when I tell you that I don’t flip through the calendar when I first get it to see what is waiting to inspire me each month. No. I wait. I am a delayed gratification kind of girl.

When I turned my calendar to July, I was met with a quote from Goethe: “Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it.” What a great thought to start the month!

And so for this month, I will be bold. For this month, I will write more blog posts. I will take more steps, set more goals, and implement more action plans. For this month, I will take more risks.

Because boldness has genius. And power. And magic. And for me, it’s all about the magic! Come on and join me. Just for this month, be bold!

Firefly Season

It’s firefly season in New Hampshire, a magical time that awakens the memories of long summer days and playful nights from my childhood. Each year, I discover firefly season quite by accident, and it always takes me by surprise—as if I had forgotten that fireflies exist.

This year, I was walking along a path through the woods with my children. I saw a tiny yellow-green flash against the darkness of the woods. And then another. “Fireflies!” I exclaimed, though my children had already seen them. Each evening since, I have taken a walk just before dusk darkens to night, so I might once again experience their fleeting magic before they slip away until next year.

Fireflies bring me back to childhood summers. Bedtimes were extended to accommodate early July activities—picnics and fireworks and ice cream. We would venture out into the darkness with jars to catch as many of these magical insects as we could. Bugs that light up! We would follow them with our eyes, attempting to predict their path in the darkness, hoping their bright tails would reappear where we were expecting them. As we opened our jars to catch the next firefly, one or two might escape, and the chase would begin anew. At the end of our hunt, when it was way past time to go to bed, we would open our jars and set them all free.

Firefly season always brings me back to those magical nights of childhood. I can feel the warm summer air and soft breezes. I can smell the scent of grass and dew. I can hear the muffled voices of my parents by the open window and the squeals and giggles of childhood.

When I spot the first firefly,  I am right there, surrounded by all the richness of life.

{Photo by Steve Halama on Unsplash}