Objects that Make Up a Life

I have a fondness for small ceramic vessels, and have been collecting them for years, from all over the globe. Most times I pick them up during my travels, but every once in a while I stumble upon something online that I can’t resist. I just received a sake server and cup set from a line called Hechimon, which was fired in an ancient kiln near Kyoto, Japan. I am not a frequent sake drinker, but the shapes of these objects, along with their piercing turquoise blue glaze and the story of this particular maker had me at hello:

“The name, Hechimon, is derived from the Japanese word used by the Shigaraki-yaki craftsmen for ‘one of a kind’ or unique things. Just as no two people are the same, no two Shigaraki-yaki pieces will be identical. Embracing various shapes and patterns that both nature and craftsmen bring about, the name, Hechimon, represents the craftsmen's playfulness and truthfulness to their products.”

It is mildly ridiculous how much joy these little objects give me. 

Ditto for the small white-glazed milk pitcher I purchased in Amherst, Massachusetts, the indigo-patterned condiment bowls I found in Portland, the textured coffee mug I acquired in Door County, Wisconsin, and the bright blue nesting bowls I picked up in San Francisco. I also have a small collection of pieces created by a dear friend—a tray, a vase, a cup—objects I utilize all the time as I do everyday things like add olive oil to a saucepan or reach out for a pen.

Is it that they are handmade? Is it the colors? Is it that I feel like I’m able to get a sense of all the hands that contributed to their making, that the nature of their creation means every item is imbued with some trace of the human being behind it? 

I met a ceramicist in Door County a few years ago in his waterfront shop in Ephraim. He had a few pieces that were set apart from all the tables and shelves filled with bowls, mugs, and plates. They were taller pieces—vases, lamps, or water pitchers—that started round at the bottom but then swooped up into a narrow opening, making it seem like he’d pulled the top rim up above the main body as if it were taffy. When I commented on how difficult it must be to make those particular pieces he paused and said, “Yes….I have to forgive everyone I know before I work on those.” 

I had already started my informal ceramics collection by the time he shared that with me, but after his comment I was all in. He helped me better understand my own attraction to these beautifully-made utilitarian objects, and enabled me to hone my intuition when it came to choosing what to bring into my home. For it is not about quantity, but carefully-curated quality; not even quality, actually, but essence and feeling and calm.

My family’s estate sale at my grandparents’ house this past spring was a big event, with an array of items available—books, vinyl records, tools, old stereo equipment, kitchen items, linens, and other everyday objects. I picked out quite a few things to bring home, but was content to let most of it go. There were a few people who commented that it was sad to see all the flotsam and jetsam of the life my grandparents created go hither and yon, but I found it uplifting. These objects had been sitting stagnant for many years, and now they were being released into the world, to be held and used once again. Whatever trace of my grandparents (and, perhaps, their friends and relatives, maybe even me) remained deep within the cellular makeup of every glass, tray, and candle holder would now be diffused into new living rooms, breakfast nooks, and kitchens. 

However slowly and carefully I have brought together all the objects that make our life hum and flow—from tables and chairs to pepper grinders and washcloths—they will someday be scattered to who knows where. While my husband and I might be tasked with their use and care now, they will never belong to us in any permanent sense. And no matter how long they might last while in our possession, that won’t prevent any future mishaps. I brought home a midcentury modern condiment tray that belonged to my grandparents, a set that included two glass dishes. While washing them, one slipped out of my hands and shattered in the sink. Poor Tilda had never heard such a string of f-bombs.

After all those years of use, after all the care I’d put into packing up each item, it only took a second before I ended up with the shattered remnants glittering in the sink—tiny shards of glass that can never be reassembled. 

It was so tempting to feel devastated, but what could I do? I was rushing and distracted when washing those little dishes. Perhaps I hadn’t forgiven everyone I needed to forgive. Either way, it’s another story on top of all the stories that the condiment tray has already absorbed. It’s another reminder of the impermanence of it all, and the beauty of the here and now. All the objects of our lives help write the narrative of the life I’m creating—with my husband and family, our friends and our dog. They speak to his passion for cooking, my devotion to beauty; they express the invitation we extend to whoever walks through our front door: “Come on in. Have a seat at the table. We are very happy you are here.”

Two Years Ago

Today’s entry was written in June 2019 and posted on a short-lived private blog I started soon after my dad’s diagnosis. I thought it would be a good way to process what was happening and capture what I was experiencing, but it ended up working better for me to record tiny snippets in a journal, by hand. This piece was written in response to the immediate, crystal-clear determination that I had to abandon many of my routines and habits in order to manage my time, energy, and strength for the year ahead. 

~

“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” Thornton Wilder

I have been curled up inside a snail shell—quiet and tightly coiled, allowing myself only the tiniest of engagements with anyone beyond a small circle of family and friends. I have been determined in my isolation; the choice to pull so completely inward has been willful and calculated. If I am in front of you—face to face, eye to eye—I’m likely to let everything spill out in a single run-on sentence, an attempt to offer a condensed version of What Is Happening Right Now. Beyond that, much of what is going on right now feels impossible to articulate in any kind of public realm. How to explain what feels ineffable and also as intimate as my own bone marrow?

Here’s another piece of this, my self-imposed exile: It is important to me not to drain, escape from, or otherwise dilute the potency of the life that is taking place in my life—in my waking up, my daily routines, my emotions (unpredictable these days), my chores, my longings, my sorrows, my revelations. I’ve reasoned that anytime I stop the momentum of whatever is happening in order to share, post, or update others on my experiences, I am stepping out of my own life in order to craft a narrative about it in real time. I haven’t felt capable of doing this; even if I did, I haven’t felt the desire.

I have needed to hold everything close, to wrap all of my experiences around me like a well-worn blanket. I have needed to release myself from one of the most purposeful, joyful, life-affirming responsibilities I placed on my shoulders decades ago, which is to inspire others to create a meaningful life. I’ve done this over the years by sharing my artwork and my stories. I’ve done this by encouraging others and by keeping in touch with a wide circle of friends and creative kindreds. I’ve done this online, while at home and in other parts of the world. I’ve done this because it is who I am and what I love to do. 

But right now, I’ve needed to step away from that entirely. I’ve had to tend to a much smaller garden, albeit one with much deeper roots, a process that has been simultaneously frustrated and enhanced by a mishap that happened a month ago and resulted in a broken foot. Plans have had to be rearranged and movements, especially at the beginning, have had to slow down to a crawl. I am getting around much better these days, but the healing process is still ongoing. My movements must still be carefully calculated, whether it is getting in and out of the car, doing laundry, or sitting at my desk. But there are gifts in that stillness—in the letting go and the receiving of support, in the quiet hours spent reading Walden by Thoreau.

When I try looking ahead, I don’t know how—or if—I’ll be able to channel the miracle of all this into something meaningful, hopeful, and uplifting. I’ve always wanted my work and efforts in the world to mean something—to provide inspiration, comfort, insight, and encouragement. I’ve wanted to be a conduit, whereby I’d take the raw material of my life and let it simmer and rumble within me until it was transformed into something akin to light or water or stardust, able to flow into the world for others to receive, use, and experience themselves. I have wanted to be open, awake, and alive enough—through everything—so that my soul has every opportunity to grow and become whole and provide a message that others might need. 

Where I am now is entirely uncharted territory. It is as if I have been looking in a mirror, with a fairly solid understanding of who I was, what I believed and why, only to see it shattered into a million glittering pieces and revealing an entirely different world that I didn’t know existed, let alone know it was actually right in front of me the entire time. 

Is that a message? Is that something you might need to know? That there are worlds—worlds that might seem impossible to you—that are, in fact, much closer than you realize? That no matter what circumstances you find yourself in, there are possibilities for joy and awe? Even though these might exist within the warp and weft of profound sorrow (maybe even anger)?

Do you know the power of forgiveness? Of pure, unconditional, let-the-past-stay-forever-in-the-past forgiveness? Let me tell you, it is the most miraculous thing. It is the thing that makes so many other things possible. It is one swift motion that sends life down an entirely different track and into a realm with bluer skies, more fragrant lilacs, and blueberries as big as marbles. It is the ultimate freedom, the greatest weight lifted. It is the sound of a key falling to the ground with a clang—the key to the cage I was trapped in until the moment I chose to forgive. It can be decided and executed in one moment—one moment! And then, in that instant, you’re in a whole new world.

Can I tell you about humility? About showing up to be in service in whatever way is needed? And putting aside most (maybe all) of the things that are more outwardly acknowledged or widely seen? Can I tell you about the freedom and power that comes in the act of turning down the volume on all you’ve been in the world and to others in order to let the shape and texture of your heart go through a metamorphosis that may or may not let you go back to any part of who you were before? Can I tell you how scary that is? And how thrilling?

I have always been my father’s daughter, but I haven’t ever had a clear idea of what that meant. I’ve learned how to step into my roles as an artist, a wife, a writer, and even a stepmom, and they have supported and influenced each other all along. All the while, my daughterhood has sat mostly unattended and lonely, dust bunnies gently nestled in its corners. Every once a while I’d shine a light on her to give context to some other area of my life, but never have I lavished it with the attention it has so desperately needed. I am my father’s daughter and, in that, I have work to do. This is the garden I’m tending right now, slowly, methodically, out of view of most everyone.

Lost. And Found.

I worked in my studio today—hands covered in paint, new splotches on the drop cloths. With a stack of blank sketch paper and a limited selection of colors, I proceeded to create more than thirty rapid-fire compositions, each one an experiment with brushstrokes, motions, and smooth sweeps of a palette knife. I spread thick globs of paint like butter on toast. I dabbed layers with a tissue as if mopping up a spill. I never stopped moving.

When I first moved to California more than twenty years ago, one of my first purchases was a nine-foot surfboard. There was a tiny surf spot within walking distance of where I lived, and I spent many mornings in a wetsuit, paddling out to the waves, by 6:00am. One of the experiences I loved most about surfing was the way I felt afterward, when I had the sensation that my entire body was sparkling. I felt simultaneously exhausted and energized, enlivened by the saltwater froth.

In this moment, after my time in the studio, I am experiencing something not quite the same, but close. I feel tired. I am full of energy. Something deep within is awake.

It has been tempting to look at the past few years and say, “I lost myself.” Between moving across country, reconciling with my dad after our estrangement, and then dealing with his almost-immediate small cell carcinoma diagnosis, my attempts at creativity were piecemeal at best. For three years the majority of my time, attention, and energy was spent showing up in other areas of my life and in ways I’d never experienced. I was letting go, calling in, and growing up in a whole new way. On some days I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. On other days I believed something else was happening—that I was becoming more of who I was meant to be all along.

I will say this: I am not who I was three years ago. That much is certain. But does that mean I was lost? That I abandoned some core part of myself when I left California, reached out to my dad, and then pushed aside so much of what was precious to me in order to spend as much time as I could with him before he died? In all of that, did I go astray from my artistic soul?

Even though it is mid-April, fat flakes of snow are falling outside my window. They are gathering in clumps along the branches of the thirty-foot pines. They will most likely be gone within 24 hours. Watching them flutter downward, they almost look mirthful—twirling and floating and letting small gusts of wind come along and swoop them in their currents. They are oblivious, these snowflakes, showing no cause for concern that they will soon be on the ground and, from there, gone.

Are these like the moments of my life, when unexpected blasts of wind sometimes come along and carry me in an entirely new direction? Is it inevitable that I lose some part of myself along the way? Or is it part of the process of moving closer toward my soul’s deepest longings? If this is true, what are the parts of me that are steadfast and immobile, so solidly anchored in my bones that it isn’t possible to leave them behind no matter what happens?

I am making art again. It started today, in a way that feels more resolute than it has in a long while. I am trying things that feel familiar and venturing into new territory. I am a scientist in my laboratory, a chef in her kitchen. I am following crumbs and peeling back layers. I am weaving together experiences from the past three years with the mysterious artistic yearnings that are starting to bubble up. Whatever this work becomes, it will tell a story. Of then. Of now. Of the mystery on the horizon.

Anniversaries

{Grounded planes lined up at Tulsa airport March 30, 2020.}

This March, like last March, has been a strange, beautiful, bittersweet confluence of events. Milestones on top of breakthroughs, anniversaries on top of transitions. I keep envisioning sparkling waves of energy swirling all around me and my family, even though some of these landmark events are difficult. With every overlap, I am reminded that there are forces at play that I can trust and lean into. 

As most everyone was reflecting on the one-year anniversary of Covid in mid-March, I was thinking about the fact that I’d just arrived in Oklahoma on a one-way ticket, knowing my dad’s journey with cancer was nearing the end. When the lockdowns started and there was no toilet paper on the shelves, my awareness of Covid was peripheral at best. I had to think about it when I went grocery shopping, but as soon as I left the store all attention returned to my dad. By the time I got back home at the end of March, a few days after he died, I had to catch up with what everyone else had been trying to process for more than two weeks. 

I am going back to Oklahoma tomorrow. I will be there for the one-year anniversary of my dad’s death, which happens to fall on the weekend our family is having an estate sale that my dad’s wife has been preparing for for months. This wasn’t intentional—we didn’t set out to have the sale on that particular day—it just happened to line up that way for a number of reasons. As my dad’s wife and I have reflected on the timing of it, we have found a certain kind of peace about it. And although it will be a hectic time, there will be many of us happily under the same roof. We will be sharing stories. There will be plenty of laughter. Meals will be enjoyed in a large circle. My dad’s wife will be surrounded by those who love her, and who loved my dad. 

There is nowhere else on earth I would want to be at this time. 

The estate sale is being held at my grandparents’ house, which is the only house I have known my entire life. I have been back there a few times on my visits, and even though they have been gone for many years, the house still smells exactly the same. Whenever I walk into the house I take a deep inhalation, which unleashes a wave of memories that spans from my childhood all the way until my early forties, when I was helping my grandma get situated in a nursing home.

A few days after she moved, I had to go to her house to pick up a few things. As I collected each item on her list, I heard a strange noise in her furnace closet. I quickly realized the noise was coming from something that was alive. Not having any idea what I’d discover, I stood on a stool before opening the closet door to investigate. It turns out it was a small bird that had gotten in through an air vent. I managed to scoop it up in a towel, take it outside, and set it free. When I told my grandma about this she thought it was hilarious, especially the part about me standing on a stool for fear some rodent would jump out and attack me. My grandma wasn’t one to scare easily, so I’m pretty sure she was laughing at me a little more than she was laughing with me. It is, and always will be, one of my favorite memories. 

After the estate sale is finished and everything is cleared out, it will be time to say goodbye to that house, as it has already been sold. And then, a few days later, I will be flying back home almost exactly the same day as when I flew back home last year after my dad died. 

There have been other momentous events in our family that have landed on the same space in our calendar this month, and I look at all of these auspicious alignments the same way I always do—as evidence that I am exactly where I belong. All such strange coincidences and curious connections are not random; they are experiences I’ve collected and organized for as long as I can remember. I have an entire cabinet full of these stories, and I cherish them.

It doesn’t seem possible that an entire year has passed. My mind can’t grasp it. Perhaps it never will no matter how many years go by. At the moment, I don’t feel any particular emotional reaction to this impending anniversary. I don’t feel the need to recoil or lean in, to avoid or confront. I don’t know if I will be weepy or stoic or clear-headed or angry. It isn’t something I can plan for; I’m not packing a suitcase full of assumptions about what it is supposed to look like. All I can do is show up—in love and gratitude and the mystery of it all. 

Starting the Conversation

{Original pages from Ordinary Sparkling Moments, self-published in 2008.}

I’d like to thank Lisa Occhipinti for nudging me to get this conversation started. If you don’t know who she is, I suggest you hop over to her website and become acquainted with her extraordinary talent. Lisa is a professional artist and author, and I use the term professional with its full weight and volume. She is always creating, always exploring, always responding to her creative impulses and instincts with a respect and seriousness I aspire to. Since meeting her more than ten years ago, I have amassed a small collection of her creations—her books, her artwork, and other treasures she has gifted me over the years. She just released her latest book—Bones Bared: An Artist’s Inner Life Revealed—and that is why I am writing about her today.

~ 

Here’s what was going on in 2008: Etsy was still the primary platform for creative entrepreneurs to market and sell their wares. The iPhone was barely a year old and Instagram didn’t exist. Neither did Kickstarter, WhatsApp, TikTok, or Snapchat. That was the year Lisa and I met at an art workshop event in New England. She was teaching a painting class and I was releasing Ordinary Sparkling Moments, a book I published on my own.

My choice to self-publish was primarily about wanting the story of the book to be as inspiring as the book itself. I believed producing the book, which was a full-color, art journal-style book about finding wisdom in everyday life, independently was going to make a great story, and I was right. Whenever anyone asked how I got it published and my reply was, “I did it,” it always elicited a gleeful reaction. 

I feel compelled to take a moment and explain I am not sharing this story to fluff up my ego; I’m not trying to say, “Look how amazing I am.” My intention is to lay a specific foundation for the conversation I’m wanting to encourage. In order to do that, I need to explain that the decisions I made for Ordinary Sparkling Moments came just ahead of the curve in terms of self-publishing. Which means I have, I believe, a unique perspective on the profound transformation that has taken place in the publishing world over the last ten+ years.

To begin with, self-publishing platforms were not the ubiquitous features of the online landscape that they are now. My options were limited, and quite expensive. The primary self-publishing options at the time weren’t necessarily set up for the high-volume print runs needed for wholesale pricing. Because of this, I chose to work with my longtime printer in southern California—the ones who printed all my Swirly cards, posters, and catalogs. I did not outsource to China, I did not outsource distribution. I got 2500 books printed on my own dime, generating a good chunk of the investment needed to get the ball rolling by offering pre-orders for signed, limited edition hardcovers months ahead of my release date. I documented the whole process—where else?—on my blog, even posting a video of the first pages coming off the presses.

In the first weeks after the books landed on my doorstep, they were sold on my website and at events I organized. This meant I was packing and shipping all of the books myself, but it also meant I retained 100% of the profits. After the first wave of orders was fulfilled, I set my sights on Amazon and eventually Ordinary Sparkling Moments had its own Amazon page. 

A lot of people were rather impressed by this (again—self-publishing wasn’t really a thing, and Amazon’s self-publishing arm had yet to fully flex its muscle) but it actually wasn’t terribly difficult. It was filling out a couple of forms and having to wait a bit for the “review process.” What happened after that wasn’t so much a personal invitation to be listed on Amazon as it was the acknowledgement that I was now simply in their system. In order to be part of the Amazon universe, I had to follow very precise instructions for fulfilling orders and I had to be the squeaky wheel (within their flow chart of communication, of course) to make sure their inventory of my book was always well-stocked. These are not complaints. Amazon is a business and in order to function and thrive, a business needs its own systems and structures.

I still earned a profit on these sales in the beginning, but that was primarily because I was shipping 10-20 books to Amazon at a time. Eventually they were requesting fewer books, which meant shipping costs ate up a bigger chunk of what I’ll call “Amazon expenses”—their 55% cut of sales plus my UPS bill. 

I’d priced my book in order to be able to sell it wholesale. I was familiar with the retail/wholesale structure because of my greeting card business, so I didn’t necessarily look at my Amazon expenses as anything other than a normal line item on a profit and loss statement: cost of goods sold. Selling Ordinary Sparkling Moments was just like selling my greeting cards, except that selling a self-published book in a world that still considered self-publishing a slightly outside-the-norm endeavor meant I was learning (and making things up) as I went along. The basic foundation was familiar, but many of the specifics were new. I didn’t have much to compare them to. Not many people were doing what I was doing. 

These days self-publishing is a multi-billion dollar industry. The number of self-published books in 2008 was less than one hundred thousand, but in recent years that number has jumped to nearly two million. Since Ordinary Sparkling Moments, I’ve released four other books—two with a publisher and two on my own. One of them was a second edition of Ordinary Sparkling Moments, published by NorthLight Books. All of these books have been sold on Amazon. They have also been sold by my own efforts—either at events and book signings or on my website.

All this time, Lisa has also had numerous books published—two with Abrams Books and a few on her own. Over coffee and cocktails, in various parts of the country, we have had countless discussions about our experiences and perspectives as artists and authors whose careers have straddled the pre and post-internet ages. We, and many of our kindreds, didn’t merely cross that bridge, we helped build it, so it does not surprise me that we share a certain kind of skepticism about many of the systems and structures that are now taken completely for granted, Amazon being one of them. It is this apprehension (suspicion?) that I believe has led us both to make the decisions we’re both making these days with the books we write. 

This is the conversation I’d like to start. I hope you’ll join me as it evolves. More soon.

In the meantime, head over to Lisa Occhipinti’s latest venture—Logette Books—where you can purchase her latest book Bones Bared: An Artist’s Inner Life Revealed. It will not be available on Amazon.