Urban Comfort

After a Moment of Silence

Yesterday was a day of blog silence for many, a way to pay tribute to the victims of the Newtown shooting. It was an act I took part in, though I decided to forego the special badge that announced my participation. But today, my moment of silence has ended. 

I've heard the perspective that bloggers can provide uplifting content for others, give them something to focus on other than the news. But personally, I don't think we can afford to ignore what's in front of us, to be uplifted in a time of senseless tragedy. I think we need to speak often and vigorously. Now, while this moment is fresh and still so raw. We, all of us, need to be the catalyst for change.

I remember Columbine so clearly. I was on my honeymoon, full of hope for the future, shattered by what I saw on television. That was almost fourteen years ago and at the time felt like a crazy, isolated tragedy. Since that time, crazy has turned into commonplace.  It breaks my heart over and over again.

We need to talk. We need to examine ourselves. We need to determine whether we need so many guns - and if so, whether we need assault weapons in the hands of our citizens. We need to look hard at the issues of mental illness and emotional problems, be prepared to recognize them in people we love dearly.  We need a solid system in place to support those individuals and their families. 

I wish I lived in a world where love conquers all, where I don't have to worry that a similar fate could befall my six year-old. I don't. But I hope I live in a world where reason and compassion can overtake political divide. I hope I have a future where these types of mass killings begin to abate.

There's a lot of work to do. I hope we'll do it - all of us, together. That's the best way I can think of to support the community of Newtown.

A Week in Review

I've been in a bit of a funk all week, thinking about the East Coast. I'm tired and pushing against deadlines, so I don't have the emotional fortitude I might normally have, but it's been a weird week. On Wednesday, I was telling my 6 year-old that his grandparents were okay after the hurricane. I started to say that their power would be out for awhile when my son suddenly yelled from the backseat, "No fair! Their hurricane was way shorter than mine!" 

I was startled by his response, but he experienced his first hurricane, Isaac, over the summer. It was brutally hot, with temperatures in the 90s and unbearable humidity. There was nowhere to go, as all of our friends and family were without power as well. It took more than a week before it was restored and on the fifth day my son woke at 7 am, asked if we had power yet, then broke down in tears when I told him we didn't. It was a difficult experience for him, despite our efforts to keep it light and fun, and I realize that the memory will likely be with him forever.

On Thursday I had much the same experience, in a conversation with a man, one of the only people here who'd even mentioned the storm to me. With the direction that the conversation was going, I thought he was going to say that New Orleanians could really empathize with how the victims were feeling, could lend emotional support. But what he said was, "Now, they finally know how we feel." Present tense, not past. Some wounds are slow to heal.

The same day, my closest friend in New York sent me photos of the beach house that's been in her husband's family for over fifty years. She didn't say anything in her email, just the photos, and it was enough. I immediately had tears in my eyes the second I saw the house, appearing to have shifted off its foundation, the retaining wall gone, the sand piled up almost to the basement ceiling.

I'm not much of a beach person, my skin is too sensitive to enjoy it during the day. But it's the first place where my son experienced the ocean, the site of my best night's sleep ever, with the waves slapping against the shoreline and a balmy breeze breaking the sweltering heat of the day. 

It's where my friend spends her entire summer with her family. When we speak on the phone, I can see her in all of its rooms. I know what it smells and looks like, what it sounds like. It feels as familiar to me as her Manhattan apartment. It is a second home, but for the summer it is always her primary home, and I cannot imagine what the loss will feel like if there's nothing salvageable there. Not the loss of a structure, but the loss of a lifestyle, the memories of your children's experiences left there in the sand.

It's that overwhelming sense of loss, the fear of returning to that loss, I think, that has made many of my fellow New Orleanians mute. It's all too tangible still, lives that are forever divided into "before" and "after." The word "Katrina" still peppers everyday conversation in a way that would suggest it happened last year instead of more than seven years ago. That's how long it takes to recover from an experience like Katrina or Sandy. Some people never really recover at all, they just endure. And events like this week just remind us that it could easily happen again. 

At the same time, people are generally resilient and it is within individual communities that hurricane victims will find solace. Shoulder to shoulder, day by day. It's a long journey, one that millions of people will still be on long after it's been replaced in the news cycle. And while I will eventually move on as well, today my heart is more than a thousand miles away, in the city that's my second home. 

Creativity on the Fly

If you walked into my house right now you'd think it was the home of a deranged person, hearts mingling with jack-o-lanterns and corn husks. I'm working on next year's magazine stories, Valentine's, Halloween, and Thanksgiving - all at the same time. When my schedule overlaps like this I'm in creative mode 24/7, fueled by deadlines, adrenaline, and a whole lot of coffee. But I also find that it's times like these when I tap into other creative outlets for myself, personally. Those outlets can't take up much time - they have to be nearly instantaneous. Which is one of the reasons I turn to my camera. It's quick and effortless, perfect for an overly stimulated brain.

I took these photos on the fly, all with my iPhone, quickly edited in iPhoto. The jellyfish were taken while chaperoning a first grade field trip to the Aquarium, the water cabbage were taken in our courtyard as part of a decoupage project for my son's class, and the nighttime view of City Park came while leaving a concert with my husband. I tell you this because it's a simple reminder (which I need all the time) that creativity doesn't require huge investments of time, just a willingness to see, and capture in some way, what's around you. It's an easy way to recharge, regardless of your occupation.

 

 

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Thinking of my many friends, family, colleagues, and readers on the East Coast today. May Mother Nature be kinder than anticipated. 

 

Checking In

My son is six today. It's amazing how quickly we've arrived at this place and unbelievable that six years later, the night before my son's birthday was a repeat of the night before I gave birth. I was at my table, working late into the night on a Christmas assignment (thankfully this go round I won't be returning from the hospital as a first time mother with my assignment still laid out waiting to be completed). 

At any rate, I thought I should check in and assure you that I've not given up blogging. There's just something about summer and blogging that doesn't quite work for me. I'm lazy through the first half of summer, recovering from the school year, figuring out the new routine, eager for more social activity, and then slammed through the second half of the summer with fall and winter holiday assignments.

But Christmas is almost over in my house and school starts this week and I've got a million ideas and projects running around in my head that I want to share here. So please bear with me - I'll get back to some type of rhythm soon. And I really can't wait to share all of the holiday projects I've been working on. I'm tired, but I've been having a lot of fun and I'm really happy with the results of my labor, which feels good. 

So on a Monday morning, I don't have much, but I thought I'd share a quote with you from E.B. White, which feels appropriate since my son and I are currently reading Charlotte's Web. I've been collecting quotes for years, but so many of them are scribbled in notebooks and I realized recently that I'd never enjoy them unless I got them out of the notebooks. So I've started typing them up on the vintage typewriter I received for Christmas and I leave them on display. That way, when I pass it throughout the day I end up reading it over and over (and remembering it). The following week brings another. So here it is - the quote for this week.

Have a happy Monday!

In Pursuit of Beauty (Part II)

It's my birthday this weekend, and with the gain of another year I thought I'd take my annual dip into the topic of beauty. Yes, inner beauty is of utmost importance, but there's no reason you can't look pretty on the road to enlightment.

Beyond the tips I had last year for turning back time and an economical approach to makeup experimentation, I thought I'd share the makeup tips and products I've been using that have been working for me.

I'm like every busy mother, and because I work from home, there are plenty of days that I roam around without makeup. But that makes the days when I am wearing it a lot more fun. And while I still enjoy experimenting, I also need to get out of the house in a timely fashion, so here's my tried and true.

Lay the Foundation:

I was always a liquid foundation lover, but you can't beat the ease of mineral makeup. I tried a number of brands before settling on my favorite, Raw Natural Minerals Active Mineral Foundation. I've been using it for the last couple of years and it's hands down my favorite of all the mineral makeups I've tried. It stays in place for a good twelve hours, holds up to heat and humidity, supplies coverage from sheer to full, and doesn't look shiny or shimmery. I do have to mix two shades to get the exact color I need, but it's easy to combine the powders in the lid. I love it!

 

Highlight the Eyes:

When you're tired it shows up in your eyes. And as you get older, it shows up more and more. If you use a product like Eye Beam from Smashbox, you can highlight the inner corners of your eye and the brow bone. It's an instant brightener that makes you look younger and more alert.

 

Lale Beauty

Tightlining:

This is a little trick I picked up from Pinterest. If you lift your lid and apply liner at the lash line, from the inside of your eye, it gives you subtle definition that still looks natural. It's great for everyday wear, when you don't want to go all out. I still use the technique at night and apply liner on the top of my lids as well.

Beautylish

 

Enhance the Lips:

I'm lucky in that I have naturally full lips. But I do notice a certain deflation that's taking place over time. It's subtle, but I endured a lot of teasing as a child over my lips. I've earned them and I'd like to flaunt them as long as possible, not to mention that fuller lips automatically make you look younger (unless you've gone the extreme surgical route, which we've seen the unfortunate results of on celebrities who should know better).

So here's the trick - highlight the upper ridge of the lip. This could be a highlighter pencil or even a lighter concealer  (I use an inexpensive highlighter from Maybelline - DreamLumi Touch Highlighting Concealer). The other product I use on top of my lipstick is Sally Hansen Full & Radiant Lip Definer. I like the texture and it adds just enough luminescence to enhance my lips without looking fake and overly shimmery.

The Beauty Department

 

Go Nude:

In my twenties I was all about red lipstick and much deeper shades. The older I get, the better I look with lip shades that are more natural (it also makes your lips look fuller than deeper shades do). This year I went even more natural with Kevyn Aucoin's Flesh Tone pencil in Medium (I use it on my entire lip). I can't tell you how many women stop me and ask what lip color I'm wearing. It's natural, but somehow dramatic. 

 

So there they are, my beauty tips for the year (along with self-confidence, a perennial favorite). And I may be a year older, but you know what - I'm getting better and better with age. I bet you are, too.

Spring at Afton Villa

 
Ask people who or what inspired their aesthetic and they'll cite any number of influences. But it's taken me a long time to recognize that most of my personal aesthetic is inspired by the unparalleled beauty of trees in the South. Perhaps it's the birthright of a Southerner to have a strong sense of place, but the trees...It's one of the primary reasons I needed to come back home.

At any rate, I was looking through these photos I took a few weeks ago at Afton Villa, where only the gardens remain, and I realized that nearly everything I surround myself with or live with somehow looks good under those trees. Whether it's the colors I choose, the contrast of clean lines played against graceful abundance, or the well loved aspect of my favorite possessions, when you get right down to it, they are intertwined with those trees. 

Now I know. And now that I've gotten that glimpse into my decorating psyche, I hope you'll enjoy these photos. I can never quite capture how spectacular these trees are in person, but that never stops me from trying!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gratitude

I keep a list of things I want to share on this blog. The list is always much longer than my life will allow. But occasionally, I run across something that reminds me of what I really want to share, what I've been thinking about all along.

For months now, I've been thinking about gratitude, about how absolutely grateful I am for my life, for all the ups and downs, triumphs and despair. I've thought a lot about being a kid, being someone who's been able to chase dreams, who's had the satisfaction of seeing some of those cherished wishes come true. Part and parcel of those dreams are the unexpected joys, the quiet moments that turned my life upside down, the experiences that shattered me into a million pieces and then put me back together again.

I'm grateful. I love that I'm here, that I get to take part in this life. I am grateful for all of the dreams that have come true, especially the ones I couldn't articulate or even hope to realize on my own. I'm grateful for the amazing people I've met on this journey, the kaleidoscope of perspectives that have transformed my life. I am so grateful for this unparalleled gift - all of it.

Have a happy weekend!

(This quote is from The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold. The typography comes via Pretty Zoo.) 

 

My Favorite Valentine

My son and I have started making Valentines for his classmates and it's been a lot of fun watching his creative mind at work. (None of the girls are getting red sparkly hearts - these go to the boys because they are "too much" for the girls. Can't wait until he gets his first glimpse of a girl wearing red lipstick.) 

But it reminded me of my favorite Valentine card, possibly the best card I will ever receive. It was during a strange and unsettled time, a time when my husband and I were redefining ourselves as individuals and midway into our journey to start a family. I think the only thing that kept us tethered to the day-to-day during that time was having each other.

At any rate, my husband, who's most gifted with the pen or a shaker, raided my craft closet and made a card for me. It may not sound like much, but I knew just how much he'd stepped outside of his comfort zone, picking up a pair of scissors, creating the color combinations, gluing on teeny, tiny rickrack, breaking out the glitter (!!)...

I love this card, still, just as much as I did the day I received it. Sometimes it's the small stuff that ends up feeling the most profound. But this year, it's my turn. He's getting a 3-dimensional card and let me tell you, it's pretty big - and right up his alley.  I can't wait!  (I'll post it after Valentine's Day.)

 

Flowers in February

I'm back. It feels like I've been away from this blog forever, but last week I bumped into my own limitations and something had to give. I spent most of the week immersed in a labor-intensive, two-day photo shoot that came with its share of challenges, mostly weather related.  You know the crazy winter weather most of the country has been experiencing? Well, we had it down here as well, and days that might normally have been mild were cold and filled with rain and sleet. That would have been nothing more than an inconvenience, but it just so happened that we were shooting outdoors, without the option of an extra day for shooting, and it was a story for spring. 

Once again I was reminded of the magic of photography as I looked at photographs that belied the dreariness of the day around us. And in those moments as I watched images take shape, I felt the familiar thrill that reminds me why I love my job, why I'll endure endless planning and shopping and schlepping and prepping...just to get to that moment when something beautiful emerges from all that raw material.

Granted, I don't necessarily want to have that particular experience again. (Shipping delays and summer clothing in the midst of winter are not for the faint of heart).  But there's a certain satisfaction that comes from pulling off an assignment when the odds are against you. And the best part of shooting a spring story in the middle of winter - all of the beautiful flowers to enjoy.

Happy Birthday!

Things have been hectic around here with work (I have some fun new projects that I'll be able to share with you in the spring), but I didn't want to let the unofficial birthday of this blog slip by without notice.  I even chose a little birthday cake (above) from forty-sixth at grace.

A year ago today, after privately blogging for a time, I changed the settings on my blog to "Public." Just like that, I was out there.  It was a little disconcerting at first. Blogging is like standing on your front lawn in your underwear (albeit nice underwear), not sure if you want your neighbors to stop and ogle or just keep driving. But a year later, I can say that I'm so happy to be here.  I've found a creative outlet I didn't realize I needed, connected with some wonderful people, and learned a lot about myself. It's been better than I could have imagined.

Thank you for reading, for commenting, for taking a few minutes to wander in my backyard. It still amazes me to realize that people stop by, that my little corner of the universe is expanding. I appreciate it. It's been a true gift, and I hope this is just the first year of many.

 

Bananas & Coconuts

Bill Bryson's book At Home is one man's attempt to "write a history of the world without leaving home." Narrowing his focus to the objects in his home, he writes, "Houses are amazingly complex repositories. What I found, to my great surprise, is that whatever happens in the world - whatever is discovered or created or bitterly fought over - eventually ends up, one way or another, in your house". 

This concept resonated with me immediately. I thought of a shipping crate that I purchased this past summer from a local antiques store. It's a worn shipping crate from a fruit company, the words "Bananas & Coconuts" still visible on its sides and its ports "New Orleans" and "New York" clearly marked. In the thirty seconds it took for me to decide to purchase it, I smelled the bananas in the sticky, tropical heat, heard the clamor of the loading dock, saw the rough hands transporting the crate, heard the bells ringing at St. Louis Cathedral and the lapping of the Mississippi against the hull of a cargo ship. It all happened, in just an instant, and that crate came home with me. 

We also have a wooden gumbo spoon and a crawfish paddle. I commissioned my brother to carve these pieces as an anniversary present for my husband and he carved them out of the last bit of wood that had belonged to my grandfather, wood he had brought back with him from long ago travels. When I hold these pieces, they are more than just the utensils they are. They are part of the history of a man I loved, a man who is no longer alive, but partly responsible for my existence. When I hold these pieces in my hand, a part of him is still here with me.

I feel that way about so many things in my house, though for me it often comes down to the hands. I don't think so much about the prior owners of items I've come to love. Instead, I'm taken with the idea of how many hands have crafted and created the things I hold dear. I know, that for the most part, there is very little romanticism in this. Some things were made lovingly, some made with resentment, anger or sorrow. I will never know all the details, but I like to imagine all those hands twined together, supporting me in the present, while I craft and create my own part in history. 

 

What's in a Name?

I'm taking a blogging break today as I complete some work projects. But I wanted to put the Better Homes and Gardens contest in front of you again. If you feel so inclined, please vote again!  (You can vote here.)

This also seems like a good day to address a more personal issue - how to pronounce my name. I periodically get emails asking this question (and then I cringe to think what everyone else might be calling me - the ones who haven't asked).  So here it is:  My first name is pronounced Suzahn (rhymes with Yvonne) and my last name is just like Sterling, only spelled with an i to confuse you. Back to my first name - please don't make it a dramatic Suzaaaahhhhhnnnn as some are prone to do. It's more laid back than that. And for those who want to put a name and face together, my photo is hiding in the "About" link at the top of my blog.

Hopefully, I will see you tomorrow! 

The Halloween Costume

I knew it would happen eventually and this year it did - my son decided he wanted to buy a Halloween costume instead of having one made. He's going to be Batman. The purchase has been made, he's ecstatic, and while it's one less thing on my to-do list, I'm already feeling a little nostalgic for the costumes of past years.  And so, to mark the end of an era, I offer you a trip down (my) memory lane:

The Pilot:

Ten weeks into the haze of new parenthood, I remember that this costume was the only thing my husband and I accomplished that day beyond the feeding and diapering. We were exhausted, but didn't want to let the first Halloween slip by unnoticed. I'm glad we did it because I still laugh when I see this photo. And the costume was so easy - I simply created an iron-on decal for his onesie, used a pilot's cap that someone had given us, and made goggles from felt (which I had attached on the inside of the pilot's cap with a little Velcro).

 

The Scarecrow:

I saw this costume in Parents, years before I actually had a child, when I first started working with the magazine. I loved it so much that I clipped it and saved it for the future - and finally made it. I loved this costume on him, but our evening was almost derailed when he declared he was going trick or treating in his pajamas. At the last minute he changed his mind (much to his mother's secret delight).

 

The Pirate:

Last year was the year I begged him to just let me buy a costume as I was neck deep in work and deadlines. He declined and casually suggested that I could just make something. This was the result of some last-minute maneuvering and he couldn't have been happier.  I put him in a pair of sweatpants that were a size too small (therefore, too short), bought some striped women's socks and pulled them up right over the sweatpants, made a coffee filter jabot that I attached to the front of a plain white T-shirt, added a fabric sash and bandanna, and purchased pirate accessories. He loved it - especially after he'd ditched the Pirate's hat and gotten rid of his face paint.

 

Now, if only he'd let me make that owl costume I've had my eye on...

 

Family Portrait

Not long ago, my son expressed his desire for a family photo. I know this is usually the domain of the mother but I've always been happiest behind the camera, not in front of it. Still, who turns down a request like that? Then I stumbled onto this photo of the Holden family, taken by the (amazing!) Cathe Holden of Just Something I Made. I thought it was such a lovely and poignant photograph and it reminded me that a family portrait can be whatever you want it to be. 

The good news is that children generally respond well to this type of photography, similar to the way in which they're creative and spontaneous in their artwork - until they learn the "rules" and become more literal in their interpretations. 

This type of photography works for me as well. For years, I've been shooting photos of people from behind. Somehow, they've become some of my favorite photos. I just find that there's much to discover about a person when you take away the distraction of the face. (It's possible you're shaking your head at this point and thinking I'm rather bizarre. You wouldn't be the only one - I made a C in my commercial art class in high school, precisely because I refused to draw faces.) I guess I'm just better at divining the essence of a person from their body language rather than their expression. 

So we're going to take that family photo. It probably won't end up in our holiday card (confession number two - I rarely ever get our holiday cards out at all), but hopefully it will capture the essence of who we are as a family and how we relate to each other. And hopefully, years from now, I won't look at it and think how dated it feels, but rather how timeless it's become.

 

My New Orleans

(A sign on a house in the lower 9th Ward - almost 3 years after Katrina)

 

New Orleans is on my mind this week as the 5th anniversary of Katrina approaches. On the day the levees broke and my beloved city began to flood, I was on vacation in Maryland, just feet from a lazy Chesapeake Bay. It became a mockery, those calm waters, over the surreal days that followed, as my heartbreak became complete.  It had been years since I'd been a full-time resident of New Orleans, years since the sorrow of my initial departure, but the tears and heartache were all too real, as was the helplessness that so many of us felt, displaced or not.

New Orleans was a city that left its imprint on me early in life. I had an odd childhood here, the observation of sorrow and brutal reality mixed in with the more normal childhood passions of neighborhood friends, games that lasted until daylight faded, bike riding and roller skating and playing dress up. And then there were the unique New Orleans experiences - the fever of Carnival season, crawfish boils and Saturday night seafood dinners with my grandparents, riding the ferry to and from Old Algiers, class field trips to the French Quarter, and weekend beignets at Cafe du Monde.

I lived in a large house, in a terrible neighborhood, where my parents ran a drug rehab center. There were mornings I awoke to junkies on the doorstep, another place setting at the table, cops who might pick up one person and drop off another, a swirl of multihued humanity becoming part of my everyday experience. My neighborhood was so bad that I wasn't allowed outside, except for my comings and goings to private school. Even today, I couldn't tell you much about my neighborhood, because I never really saw much of it. I can tell you what it sounded like, sirens throughout the night. Oddly enough, I can still be lulled to sleep by the sound of sirens, which served me well during my years in New York.  There were adults who said it was no place for a child, no life for a child, but I am no worse for wear - perhaps just a bit more observant than the average adult, able to discern sorrow in the most benign of expressions.

My other, more normal, life took place over the weekends. I spent that time with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I had my weekend friends, my weekend toys, and all the experiences that most children in New Orleans encounter in their life here. I loved it. In fact, I loved it all - good and bad.

My immediate family left New Orleans just before I turned eleven. The sorrow of leaving this city is still so vivid to me. It ruined me for any other heartbreak, and I have always been able to say goodbye to other cities with little more than a backward glance. In the eight years that followed, I lived in three more towns and cities, none more than an hour-and-a-half from New Orleans, but it was never the same. There are cities that simply take hold of you and never let go. New York was like that for me, but it was the right city for the person I would become; New Orleans has always been the city for the person I was born to be.

It is no accident that I've returned here. It felt there was no other real choice after Katrina. It is my duty and my pleasure to be here, to help rebuild and strengthen a city. I do this with great love, for this city gave so much to me. And for those who question whether it's really worth it to rebuild, whether we should employ extraordinary measures and spend vast amounts of money to ensure its survival, I say to you with certainty - there's no other city like this city.

The Boy of My Dreams

It's hard to believe that my son is four years-old today. Sometimes it feels like I had him yesterday, sometimes like a million years ago. He was a gift after five unexplained miscarriages and a circumspect acceptance of a life without children.

I was never sure that I wanted to be a mother. Some women know for sure, but I didn't. I'm the oldest of five children. I understood early on that children were all consuming and often difficult and greatly hampered any notion of independence, and so I waffled and waited and waited and finally took a chance. And after I took that first chance, I had plenty of time to think about that decision before I finally became pregnant with him.

Motherhood has not all been rosy and there have been plenty of struggles, though it has gotten easier as we've learned to speak the same language. When he was younger, I never found him in any of the manuals, never felt like the experiences I read about had anything to do with me. I put the books away, as I finally understood that they would be of no help.

I was blessed with a very intense, willful, observant, bright, energetic, stubborn child with a heart of gold and affection to spare. If I hadn't been so exhausted in the days when he was a newborn, I might have understood what the pediatrician and the child development specialist on the street, and even strangers, were trying to tell me when they said, "he's so alert."  What they really meant was that I was in trouble and he was going to give me a run for my money. Truth be told, I wouldn't have it any other way. He is so beautiful and smart, and full of spirit and life and laughter. How could I want any less?

He's growing up so quickly and for all his independence, we are joined at the heart. I was surprised by him and blessed, but I had no idea that his birth was truly just the beginning. My grandmother taught me to recognize love, my husband gave me the acceptance and freedom I needed to learn to love, and my son carved out a whole new corridor in my heart.

Happy birthday, my sweet boy.

Making a Little Art

 
My work life has been crazily, wonderfully busy lately - exactly the kind of busy a freelance creative type hopes for. From day to day, my home has begun to resemble a one woman factory as project after project gets completed and shipped out to the East and West. There are plenty of amazing tools, products, papers, and fabrics to work with - exactly the type of abundance that a creative type dreams of. I'm blessed. I'm grateful. Last year was tough. 

But recently my son told me he was going to his room to "make a little art." I was busy, distracted, and happy that he was willing to play by himself. He disappeared for a long while and when he emerged, he wore his masterpiece on his face. I thought he was so lovely and he had clearly had a wonderful time with nothing more than a jar of paint and a finger.

He stopped me in my tracks. It's been a long time since I've had only a few materials to play with and less urgent creative tasks. I wouldn't trade this time for the world, but it was a reminder that sometimes you just need to step back and "make a little art."  

Moving On

 
This past weekend family members converged on my grandmother's home in the country to pick blueberries for the last time and to help my grandmother begin to fully clear out her house. I admit, it was a bit of a shock to see the realtor's sign planted by the front gate. My 87 year-old grandmother had already moved out over the winter into an assisted living facility, and I'm happy because she's back in New Orleans instead of living alone, out in the country an hour-and-a-half away. But still, the realtor's sign seems so final.

My earliest memories of my grandparents are in their New Orleans home - in a city life. But I can still remember when they purchased the property in the country and they'd spend the weekends there in an RV while my grandfather slowly began to clear the land. Then there was a barn, a barn that my grandfather built by himself with a work shed down below. Then there was a functioning apartment above the barn, again, everything completed by my grandfather. And finally, years later, there was the house, which became the last home that my grandparents ever lived in together. The house in New Orleans stood empty, a relic from the first decades of their shared life.

In this house in the country my grandmother now looked weary, and my aunt equally so as they sorted through all of the details that my grandmother had left behind when she'd first moved out. Perhaps she'd left so many things because it was less frightening that way, less final, a way of holding out hope that she'd return. I looked at all of the boxes and baskets and items scattered around and I felt emotionally tired before we'd even begun.  How do you go about dismantling a life?

I helped to cart away some possessions for the thrift store, and I found myself caught in the details. The things I wanted weren't valuable, they wouldn't be important to anyone else, but they triggered memories for me nonetheless. I took the old ice cream scoop, and a banged up ladle and the nut cracker that I can still so clearly see my grandfather using. I kept the mink stole that my grandmother seemed reluctant to part with, not because she would ever wear it again, but because it had been a gift from my grandfather. I will never wear it for ethical reasons, but I like that I will have it for her in case she needs to see it one more time. I took the embroidery hoops, the aluminum gelatin molds, the champagne coupes that were an anniversary gift, a bowl that so often contained my grandmother's memorable potato salad and the vegetable peeler I'd seen her use a thousand times. 

How do you dismantle a life? It turns out that you do it piece by piece, taking out the tiny stitches that hold it all together. You let some of it travel far beyond the boundaries of your life, without asking where it's going, and you hold some of it close, as if it were life itself.

The Evacuation List

 

Today is the first day of hurricane season and forecasters are predicting a grim season, comparable to the year Katrina struck. In my household, we're already discussing where we'll be taking our 'hurrication' should the need arise. This is a conversation that has become routine for us, despite the fact that I grew up without evacuating once. In fact, I can only remember one hurricane in my youth that did a moderate amount of damage, and that was at least 30 years ago.

But it's a new time, with new rules. During Katrina, members of my family evacuated for the first time in their long lives. They waited until the last moment, took very little with them, and fully anticipated that it would be like any other time - somewhat of a false alarm. Most of my family came back to minimal damage, but other extended family members lost their homes and everything in them. Their houses were insured, they started over, but they lost all the mementos that meant so much to them.

My first evacuation was for Hurricane Gustav a couple of years back, and I remembered the lessons from Katrina survivors - pack up the important stuff, don't forget your recipes and photos, and definitely clean out the refrigerator before you go. It was the first time that I had to really take stock of my possessions and decide what was meaningful on a soul level. (It wasn't the same as deciding what possessions to sell before a cross-country move.) The only rule - everything had to fit in the car. 

It took a very long day-and-a-half to secure the house and pack our belongings, and I sifted through everything with a careful eye, as if I would return to nothing. It was a life changing experience, taking stock of each and every thing we had accumulated over our lifetime together. In the end, we were able to distill the essence of our life into a load that fit in the car. Granted, it was packed to the rooftop, but we were able to leave without fretting over what had been left behind. I came back to grit and dirt and the loss of a garden, but it was insignificant. Still, I am ever so grateful for the process. On a self-awareness level, the experience was priceless.

I'm more organized this year. I already have two suitcases packed with important items and an inventory of what we'll take. It's basically the same as it was two years ago, and somehow this brings me comfort, knowing that it's still manageable.  There have been some things I've streamlined over the last two years - it motivated me to scan all of my favorite family photos (a smart move for anyone), go digital with my creative resources, and archive as much as possible, including my family recipes. 

Hurricane or not, I think that creating an evacuation list is something everyone can benefit from. What's on it - and what's not - just might surprise you. At the very least, you'll know where you stand in relation to what you own, and that can open up an entirely new dialogue with yourself and your family. Here's my evacuation list.  What's on yours? 

Download Hurricane Evacuation List

{Image via}

Louisiana on My Mind

   

Forgive me for not having anything inspirational or creative here today. I am heartbroken over the oil spill in the Gulf, devastated by what is taking place along the coastline of my beautiful state. Watching and waiting as this catastrophe unfolds, I understand the helplessness and anger and sadness that my fellow residents are feeling. So much at stake, so much to lose. My son summed it all up when he saw a picture of the Gulf on television and remarked, "Look, Mommy! It's like chocolate water."  

I don't often discuss current events here, as this is my creative happy place, the place where things go right and the best parts of life can be distilled into small bites. But how can I not address this tragedy, when so much of what I talk about here comes from the rich heritage of growing up in this wild, primitive place?

I hope the "top kill" works.