Mary Chadsey

Making

2011-09-23T07:59:00.000-07:00

So, I make things. I love to make things. I visualize it and then I figure out how to make it. The question then is what to do with all the things that I make? My house and studio are filling up with handmade things that have come from my brain, through my hands and out onto the floor, desk, tabletops, closets, garage etc.

My next quest should be to figure out how to make these things disappear. Can I visualize a disappearing thing that I make? Make it, press delete and "poof" it's gone?

Conversation or Contemplation?

2011-08-20T20:07:00.000-07:00

Combining functional with narrative pottery reflects a nostalgia for a time when communal meals were the core of the family storytelling. The story is not just a conversation, but a contemplation in progress. There is no beginning, end or answers in my work.

I am not just a storyteller in a visual sense, but my pieces are layers upon layers of imaginative, emotional drama between what is real and what is a projection of ourselves. Masks or projections, are what we show the outside world, and can be removed and replaced depending upon the occasion, mood or need.

As we age, the masks either become fully engaged, or cast aside as we look for authenticity in our actions. Our historical sense of ourselves can either be hidden or accepted.

As a parent I realize that I can only offer my experiences and advice to my children, but they make the ultimate decision as to how they choose to live their lives. Ceramic pottery is similar in that I can sculpt, mold, press, glaze, and paint as much as I like, but once the piece goes into the kiln, it takes on a life of it's own.

Being Authentic

2010-04-02T17:49:00.000-07:00

Wear the clothes that make me feel comfortable with myself.
Voice my own opinion.
Eat the food I like.
Decorate my house the way I want it.
Draw what I like.
Spend time with the people I want to be with.
Read the books that interest me.
Play the music that I like to hear.
Drive the car that I like.
Take the classes that interest me.

It is what it is

2010-03-21T14:39:00.000-07:00

Her life grew more unexpected everyday. She expected this, and got that, she was promised this and received that. She studied and read books about all this. Took classes and listened very carefully to the words of the wise. She imagined a magnificent palace, steadfast friends and very smart people to converse with.

The life that she embraced was well decorated with baubles, bangles, bubbles and a mistake or two. Maybe more than two and certainly more than a few. Water all around, lilting fountains, glistening reflections in the sea, jets spewing warm water spraying mists like dustlets, water nymphs frolicking in the bay catching their next meal, slumbering beasts hiding deep into the warm darkness waiting until the last possible moment to float up to take their next breath.

Walking out into the evening mist she could smell the dank moisture in the air. Ferns standing upright sponging up the dampness. Six steps to the smooth, stone landing. Exactly six, no more, no less, always the same. She could make it seven by adding a stone, and it would be exactly seven, always seven. Six was just right, a nice even number, no halvsies, no leftovers. Nothing left out. Expect six, get six. Perfect. Always the same, steadfast.

Imagine the stone disappearing into the mist of the morning. The stone she had counted on, counted even, evenly counted. The stone that had been there always, holding her weight. The stone made of mud, marsh, weeds and dirt, dissolved. It wasn't even a stone, it had only appeared to be stone. Her foot, expecting six, lowers itself gently to settle, finds itself unexpectedly losing the balance.

She gathered herself, pulled herself straight and noted that checking before counting would be a better policy.

Kissing Frogs

2010-03-20T15:39:00.000-07:00

In the Frog Prince tale, a spoiled princess reluctantly befriends a frog who magically transforms into a handsome prince. In the original (and my favorite) Grimm version of the story, the frog's spell was broken when the princess threw it against a wall in disgust. In either story, the frog does become a prince.

The phrase that we hear most often is, "You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your handsome prince." But really, how can you tell he's your handsome prince? What happens if he's just dressed up as a prince with a mask and fake crown? Is he still a prince? Wouldn't it just be better to take the frog the way he is without having to dress him up as something else altogether?

Why can't we just accept people the way they are, without having to dress them up to be something they aren't, don't really want or need be?

Perform in challenging situations

2010-03-18T04:20:00.000-07:00

Perform in challenging situations. The winds are not always calm and the current is sometimes against you.

Just recently I had a pacemaker installed into my left shoulder, wires placed into my heart. The winds are up, the current is totally going in a strange direction, and I have to change my worldview. Do I rail against the worldview as I know it, or do I figure out a new worldview and adapt?

Or, do I just bob along and find the balance? Do I just see where the current takes me and observe?

The Bridge Encounter

2010-03-17T04:03:00.000-07:00

All eight rowers working together, listening carefully to the coxswain, move across the water. No one speaks, we all try to stay focused. Catch, drive, release, glide, breathe... don't forget to breathe. Stay with the person in front of you. Catch with the stroke, slide together, calm down, don't rush, and most of all focus. Don't lose the focus.

Suddenly the coxswain's voice takes on a little edge. The rowers can feel it. The power drops a little with expectations. A shadow starts to loom and the water is starting to show some swirling. We are headed for a bridge. The coxswain tries to line us up straight through the bridge, but an eddy starts to take us.

We are headed straight for the bridge. The bowman knows it's coming. The possibilities for the outcome of this collision are:

1) Head straight into the bridge, crash and become the victim.

2) Quit rowing, let the others do the work, and blame everyone and everything else when the boat starts to crumble.

3) Hit the bridge head on and wait for someone else to rescue you.

4) Do your seat's job, listen to the coxswain, pull together and work to avoid disaster.

Going Fast, Backwards

2010-03-16T13:23:00.000-07:00

"Like life, the water may be perfect, and your stroke clean, when suddenly a bridge, marker or wildlife will change your course. You only know where you are going, based on where you have been."

The sky is still a bit dark, the sun not yet peeking up. The water looks gorgeous, flat, shiny, and the silence surrounds you like comforting arms. Carefully, you pick up your shell, carry it down to the water's edge, and silently set it onto the water. The shell floats, waiting patiently. Oars in place, you take that first stroke, two hard ones with your left hand to get the bow moving out. Balancing gently with your feet, transferring the power from your seat to the feet, you start to glide. Craning your head around to catch a glimpse of where you are going, you are off!

One, two, three strokes, feeling the balance as you glide with blades feathered. A little dip to each side, until the blades are both off the water, flying. Each catch, release, breath, power, becomes part of you as the force of the water against the blade is felt in your hands. The water glides past you, as you try to time the seat with the water, stopping time, stopping the water. It's all perfect; timing, breath, water, power, temperature, balance, the promise of a new day. Judging where you are going, based on what you see now behind you, you are headed blissfully out with power, strength and assurance.

Suddenly, the water changes course, a manatee raises it's head under your boat, your balance is offset, your oars become balance beams, and you struggle to stay upright. Each blade slapping against the water. You push down with one hand, up with the other against the water that is no longer flat and serene but churning and threatening to enter the boat. You are no longer one with the boat, you are thinking about the possibility of becoming one with the water. All your experience, all those hours on the water, all your coaches words comes to you in a flood.. balance, find the balance, stay with the boat, move like jello, hands together, feel it.

Finally you find the balance, the boat starts to gently bob, the manatee dives back down under the water, confused. Drifting, the water returns to its smooth sway. Relief, your hair is still dry, you are still upright, the balance is returning.

An ordinary woman, an ordinary day, with life's experiences under her belt, the blade, when nestled firmly into the sea can give her power and strength to achieve extraordinary results.

Of Power and Time

2009-11-06T04:17:00.000-08:00

Over the past three weeks we have touched, lightly, on the concept of time. Next week our group meets at my house, and I'd like to share with you a few essays on time that might serve to inspire you and further our discussions. The first essay is called "Of Power and Time" by the American poet Mary Oliver. It is taken from the book "Blue Pastures", 1995, Harvest Books.

OF POWER AND TIME by Mary Oliver

It is a silver morning like any other. I am at my desk. Then the phone rings, or someone raps at the door. I am deep in the machinery of my wits. Reluctantly I rise, I answer the phone or I open the door. And the thought which I had in hand, or almost in hand, is gone.

Creative work needs solitude. It needs concentration, without interruptions. It needs the whole sky to fly in, and no eye watching until it comes to that certainty which it aspires to, but does not necessarily have at once. Privacy, then. A place apart-a pace, to chew pencils, to scribble and erase and scribble again.

But just as often, if not more often, the interruption comes not from another but from the self itself, or some other self within the self, that whistles and pounds upon the door panels and tosses itself, splashing, into the pond of meditation. And What does it have to say? That you must phone the dentist,that you are out of mustard, that your uncle Stanley’s birthday is two weeks hence. You react, of course. Then you return to your work, only to find that the imps of idea have fled back into the mist.

It is this internal force-this intimate interrupter-whose tracks I would follow. The world sheds, in the energetic way of an open and communal place, its many greetings, as a world should. What quarrel can there be with that? But that the self can interrupt the self-and does-is a darker and more curious matter.

I am, myself, three selves at least. To begin with, there is the child I was. Certainly I am not that child anymore! Yet, distantly, or sometimes not so distantly, I can hear that child’s voice-I can feel its hope, or its distress. It has not vanished. Powerful, egotistical, insinuating-its presence rises, in memory, or from the steamy rivers of dreams.It is not gone, not by a long shot. It is with me in the present hour. It will be with me in the grave.

And there is the attentive, social self. This is the smiler and the doorkeeper. This is the portion that winds the clock, that steers through the dailiness of life. That keeps in mind appointments that must be made, and then met. It is fettered to a thousand notion of obligation. It moves across the hours of the day as though the movement itself were the whole task. Whether it gathers as it goes some branch of wisdom or delight, or nothing at all, is a matter with which it is hardly concerned. What this self hears night and day, what it loves beyond all other songs, is the endless springing forward of the clock, those measures strict and vivacious, and full of certainty.

The clock! That twelve-figured moon skull, that white spider belly! How serenely the hands move with their filigree pointers, and how steadily! Twelve hours, and twelve hours, and begin again! Eat, speak, sleep, cross a street, wash a dish! The clock is still ticking. All its vistas are just so broad-are regular. (Notice that word.) Every day, twelve little bins in which to order disorderly life, and even more disorderly thought. The town’s clock cries out, and the face in every wrist hums or shines; the world keeps pace with itself. Another day is passing, a regular and ordinary day. (Notice that word also.)

Say you have bought a ticket on an airplane and you intend to fly from New York to San Francisco. What do you ask the pilot when you climb aboard and take your seat next to the little window, which you cannot open but through which you see the dizzying heights to which you are lifted from the secure and friendly earth?

Most assuredly you want the pilot to be his regular and ordinary self. You want him to approach and undertake his work with no more than a calm pleasure. You want nothing fancy, nothing new. You ask him to do, routinely, what he knows how to do-fly and airplane. You hope he will not daydream. You hope he will not drift into some interesting meander of thought. You want this flight to be ordinary, not extraordinary. So, too, with the surgeon, and the ambulance driver, and the captain of the ship. Let all of them work, as ordinarily they do, in confident familiarity with whatever the work requires, and no more. Their ordinariness is the surety of the world. Their ordinariness makes the world go around.

I, too, live in this ordinary world. I was born in it. Indeed, most of my education was intended to make me feel comfortable within it. Why that enterprise failed is another story. Such failures happen, and then, like all things, are turned to the world’s benefit, for the world has a need of dreamers as well as shoe-makers. (Not that it is so simple, in fact-for what shoemaker does not occasionally thump his thumb when his thoughts have, as we would say, “wandered”? And when the old animal body clamors for attention, what daydreamer does not now and again have to step down from the daydream and hurry to market before it closes, or else go hungry?)

And this is also true. In creative work-creative work of all kinds-those who are the world’s working artists are not trying to help the world go around, but forward. Which is something altogether different from the ordinary. Such work does not refute the ordinary. It is, simply, something else. Its labor requires a different outlook-a different set of priorities. Certainly there is within each of us a self that is neither a child, nor a servant of the hours. It is a third self, occasional in some of us, tyrant in others. This self is out of love with the ordinary; it is out of love with time. It has a hunger for eternity.

Intellectual work sometimes, spiritual work certainly, artistic work always-these are forces that fall within its grasp, forces that must travel beyond the realm of the hour and the restraint of the habit. Nor can the actual work be well separated from the entire life. Like the knights of the middle ages, there is little the creatively inclined person can to but to prepare himself, body and spirit, for the labor to come-for his adventures are all unknown. In truth, the work itself is an adventure. And no artist could go about this work, or would want to, with less than extraordinary energy and concentration. The extraordinary is what art is all about.

Neither is it possible to control, or regulate, the machinery of creativity. One must work with the creative powers-for not to work with is to work against; in art as in spiritual life there is no neutral place. Especially at the beginning, there is a need of discipline as well as solitude and concentration. A writing schedule is a good suggestion to make to young writers, for example. Also, it is enough to tell them. Would one tell them so soon the whole truth, that one must be ready at all hours, and always, that the ideas in their shimmering forms, in spite of all our conscious discipline, will come when they will, and on the swift upheaval of their wings-disorderly; reckless; as unmanageable, sometimes, as passion.

No one yet has made a list of places where the extraordinary may happen and where it may not. Still, there are indications. Among crowds, in drawing rooms, among easements and comforts and pleasures, it is seldom seen. It likes the out-of-doors. It likes the concentrating mind. It likes solitude. It is more likely to stick to the risk-taker than the ticket-taker. It isn’t that it would disparage comforts, or the set routines of the world, but that its concern is directed to another place. Its concern is the edge, and the making of a form out of the formlessness that is beyond the edge.

Of this can there can be no question-creative work requires a loyalty as complete as the loyalty of water to the force of gravity. A person trudging through the wilderness of creation who does no know tis-who does not swallow this-is lost. He who does not crave that roofless place eternity should stay at home. Such a person is perfectly worthy, and useful, and even beautiful, but is not an artist. Such a person had better live with timely ambitions and finished work formed for the sparkle of the moment only. Such a person had better go off and fly an airplane.

There is a notion that creative people are absent-minded, reckless, heedless of social customs and obligations. It is, hopefully, true. For they are in another world altogether. It is a world where the third self is governor. Neither is the purity of art the innocence of childhood, if there is such a thing. One’s life as a child, with all its emotional rages and ranges, is but grass for the winged horse-it must be chewed well in those savage teeth. There are irreconcilable differences between acknowledging and examining the fabulations of one’s past and dressing them up as though they were adult figures, fit for art, which they never will be. The working, concentrating artist is an adult who refuses interruption from himself, who remains absorbed and energized in and by the work-who is thus responsible to the work.

On any morning or afternoon, serious interruptions to work, therefore, are never the inopportune, cheerful, even loving interruptions which come to us from another. Serious interruptions come from the watchful eye we cast upon ourselves. There is the blow that knocks the arrow from its mark! There is the drag we throw over our own intentions. There is the interruption to be feared!

It is six a.m., and I am working. I am absent-minded, reckless, heedless of social obligations, etc. It is as it must be. The tire goes flat, the tooth falls out, there will be a hundred meals without mustard. The poem gets written. I have wrestled with the angel and I am stained with light and I have no shame. Neither do I have guilt. My responsibility is not to the ordinary, or the timely. It does not include mustard, or teeth. It does not extend to the lost button, or the beans in the pot. My loyalty is to the inner vision, wherever and howsoever it may arrive. If I have a meeting with you at three o’clock, rejoice if I am late. Rejoice even more if I do not arrive at all.

There is no other way work of artistic worth can be done. And the occasional success, to the striver, is worth everything. The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave it neither power nor time.

Dancing in the Rain

2009-11-01T16:59:00.000-08:00

"Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass...

It's about learning how to dance in the rain." - unknown

This morning at breakfast this quote was written on the blackboard of the restaurant.

The irony is that our waitress was new, our order was lost, our food took 45 minutes to arrive, the man at the table next to us was giving a hard sell about Monavie to someone, the restaurant was crowded, and we were starving. We were waiting for the storm to pass so that we could eat.

Rather than sitting and enjoying the moments with each other over our coffee and muffin, we chose to be discontent. If I were to do this over, I'd enjoy the time with Frank, ignore the silly man next to us, and sip our coffee while we waited for the delicious meal to arrive.

Glazing on Porcelain

2009-10-29T17:38:00.000-07:00

What a wonderful idea this could have been if I could only make it work. Glazing on toilet tank lids. If you can reglaze a sink, why can't I reglaze a toilet tank lid?

So, I washed the lid carefully, painted it with Amaco white opaque LG glaze. Let it dry, then went about painting these cute little pear bottoms.

I set my kiln at a slow rate to cone 06, carefully put the lid into the middle of the kiln, pressed start, crossed my fingers and let it go. About two hours later it the lid exploded!

I've searched all over and can't seem to find any information on this. Has anyone tried reglazing toilet tank lids? How did you do it?

I'm going to keep trying, if I find out anything, I'll post it here.

The Path?

2009-10-16T13:13:00.000-07:00

The "path", as we call it, has taken me in several, sometimes awkward, directions. Paths that have names tend to make me suspicious of boundaries and rules. My personal achievements have been around breaking from the pack, and basically being an entrepreneur.

The Waldorf school subscribes to the notion that children shouldn't learn to read until their eye teeth come in. I wonder what physical sign our bodies take before we are able to grasp the notion of being open to not knowing. Do we start the path of "not knowing", come to various absolute conclusions, then discover that "not knowing" is a path in itself? Is the path like an invisible coat which we try on, then discard when we discover that it doesn't fit?

My current path is "looking". When I use the word "looking", I don't mean seeking, I mean actually being aware and open to the complex universe that we reside in.

But, at this juncture it's important for me to point out that I sincerely believe that we, all of us, are embedded in a swirling dervish of thoughts and visions which sway this way and that. And, as you know, as human beings we are wired toward connection, community, and staying with the pack. Being accepted into a community means being accepted into a community of thought. Mother Theresa said: "The biggest disease today is not leprosy or tuberculosis but rather the feeling of not belonging." We grow up trying to fit in, and rejecting those that are different. My biggest fear is the franchising of America (and now the world), and the pandering and exploitation to the eyes that are glued to the nightly television set.

Grasping all this, putting it together to form my life's "path" as you say, I've finally concluded that it's all a story and we just have to pick the one that we prefer.

Everything Always Works Out for the Best

2009-09-22T20:09:00.000-07:00

"Everything Always Works Out for the Best" - my mother

No matter how much anger or frustration I felt about something, my mother would always tell me not to worry, that things always work out for the best. I never believed her however. So, I'd fuss, whine, cajole, control, manipulate, etc to try to make things work the way I wanted them to work. Of course, no matter how much I tried it would never change.

Now that I'm sixty (really, sixty, how did that happen?) I realize that ... okay this is going to be hard ... my mother was right. Things always do work out for the best, no matter how hard I try to change them.

If things always work out, then I should just learn to float along like a cork in the sea. My image of this is me clinging desperately to the cork trying not to let it sink to the bottom. Trust the cork.

Freedom

2009-09-20T13:21:00.001-07:00

Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose. - Kris Kristofferson

Thich Nhat Hanh says that we cannot be truly free until we stop clinging to the things we have. Pondering alcoholics who give up alcohol, or drug addicts, or gamblers, do they truly give up the wanting substance of their addiction? Are we truly free if we are haunted by the wanting of our addictions. Using willpower to not use the substance is not being free of the addiction.

Letting go is no longer wanting or needing. Mary Oliver writes:

To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to
let it go,
let it go.

Letting go of the object is an entirely different story than letting go of the wanting of the object. Even intellectually knowing that the object (alcohol, money, drugs, etc., etc) of your wanting is bad, the wanting is still there.

The goal of letting go is to give up the wanting. If we cling to the desire we cannot be free. The words should be changed to: Free is just another word for nothing left to want.

Change

2009-09-19T07:58:00.000-07:00

"Things are always changing, so nothing can be yours." - Shinryu Suzuki

My task today is to grasp the above quote. To understand that things are not mine. Everything changes. Things, like people, cannot be owned. To own something is to control it. There is actually nothing that can be controlled, not my health, my children, my finances, my mate, my friends, nothing. I may as well try to control the weather or the setting sun.

If nothing is permanent, that all things are impermanent, then forming attachments to things, people, places, ideas will always bring about disappointment. My goal then is to embrace and understand that all things will and must change. Including myself. We speak of change and impermanence like it's a bad thing. Being stuck in a bad place, and knowing that all things change should give you hope. On the flip side, thinking that you can change something or someone for the better, or to your own liking, can also cause disappointment.

A friend once told me that we are like bubbles in the sea, bobbing along with the flow. The sea is too big, too strong. It changes all the time. The only thing we can do is to float along to see where it takes us.

I argue, however, that we can be ever watchful of where the sea is taking us, and we do have the power to try to avoid objects that can sink us.

New Windows

2009-09-02T04:10:00.000-07:00

They told me that my beautiful home doesn't have the right hurricane windows to protect it from the storms so no one would insure it. The question plagued me, do I spend an arm and a leg and get new windows, or do I hope that no hurricane comes and if it does, I'd have to spend two arms and two legs. What happens if I didn't have the money to fix it if I wasn't insured? I couldn't sell it, I couldn't live in it. So, I broke down and spent an arm and a leg getting hurricane proof windows.

No windows will stop a Hurricane called Katrina if it comes our way. The water will just wash right over the island leaving nothing behind except the cockroaches and the mangroves.

On the bright side, I've gotten new windows, repaired any old damage that may have occurred over the years, and increased the economy of the construction world here in Sarasota. The dogs have learned that daycare isn't so bad, and have actually taken to riding in the car. The new windows also will supposedly cut down on the heat inside the house, cutting my air conditioning bill, and saving the ozone layer another bit.

Meta Oar

2009-08-14T06:17:00.000-07:00

I am a rower. Every morning I'm out on the water at daybreak, or pre daybreak in a rowing shell. We row backwards. We have no idea where we are going, but we go there fast. The only way we can judge where we are going is to see where we have been, and try not to make the same mistakes. Each stroke is new, powerful and hopefully perfect.

It's our goal to connect with the team, the water, and the boat. If any one of us misses a beat, we lose that connection, all of us.

Life is the same. We are all connected in one way or another. We can't change what we have done, but we can attempt to make the next step as perfectly as we can. We have no idea where we are going, but we have a point, and we steer off into that direction, trying to keep that point solid.

This morning we worked on the finish, to keep the power at the same intensity all the way through the stroke, and then accelerate away... gliding with the team, the water, the boat, letting the boat do the work for us.

Law of Attraction?

2009-07-27T15:54:00.001-07:00

While talking to a dear friend of mine, he reported on each of the events in his life. Everything seemed to be in a "waiting period". Waiting until he gets the results of this test, waiting until this treatment is complete, waiting to hear about a job, waiting for a time period to end, waiting and waiting and waiting. I told him, that if I was a metaphysical person, I'd say that the Universe was teaching him patience. Or maybe it's about time? The opposite of waiting, is of course, not waiting, and acting now. He laughed, and said, "but you are a metaphysical person!"

Metaphysical, spiritual, psychological, deeply religious, or just plain common sense, it occurred to me that when we are totally entrenched in a particular circumstance, we take notice of similar situations. The deeper that we are entrenched, the more noticing we do. We want to compare, contrast, second guess, evaluate and test our circumstance.

Some people would call it "the law of attraction". I call it, just being more aware of what interests us at the moment.

Laughing it all off, I toddled off to the studio to work. Plugged my ipod into my little brown mini, better known as "Buster Brown", and decided just to hit "shuffle" to see what would come up. "Surprise me", I said. Guess what played? "The Agony of Waiting" by Porter Wagoner.

Engage Abs

2009-07-19T06:18:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine, Beverley, started her own blog on what was important to her: working out. So, I've been following her tips. The latest was the triceps move. But, what she didn't write about was what she calls the "Ab Engagement". On the way home from rowing, her parting words to me were; "engagement your abs, and think about something that will remind you to do it."

At the same time I just finished reading Wayne Dyer's book "Excuses Begone!: How to Change Lifelong, Self-Defeating Thinking Habits" Dyer asks that you think of excuses that you use on a daily basis for not doing something. We all have them, here is an example: "My parents were like that, I'm like that." My massage therapist is constantly reminding me not to lock my knees. Of course, my excuse is that my father stood like that, my grandfather stood like that, all my children stand like that, and I stand like that... so there, can't change, won't change!

The challenge then is for me to change the habit of standing with my knees locked to a more relaxed position, and to engage my abs. Big challenge. How was I going to remember when to unlock my knees?

Solution! I also have a bad habit of letting my thoughts spiral on and on, spewing out memories that I really should let go, criticizing and whining until I either get bored with the whole thing, or sink into despair. I've tried all the tricks, breathe; think about something else; read a book; turn on the TV; etc.,... But, this, this is it! Now, I engage my abs and unlock my knees. I figure with this new trick, I'll have great posture, a new happy personality, and a trim tummy!

Local

2009-07-11T16:51:00.000-07:00

You've heard it over and over: buy local, sell local, stay local. Support your community.

Today, Frank and I were walking around downtown Sarasota when we wandered into a store called "10,000 Villages". Art was imported from around the world and sold in this shop. These artists from around the world are working for pennies and mass producing "art", and competing with our local artists.

Maybe we should start a "10,000 local artists" here in our community. Wouldn't it be grand to know that you were supporting local struggling artists rather than exploiting people in other countries to line the pockets of rich importers here?

2009-07-06T12:16:00.000-07:00

Sex Sells the House

2009-07-06T11:10:00.000-07:00

Got you on the title didn't I? Well, believe it or not, sex will sell your house as well.

When someone is looking to buy a house, they are looking for a lifestyle change. Even though the buyer won't tell you, or maybe won't even admit it to themselves, they want to be able to have hot, steamy sex in their new house. Or, at least, they want to think they could possibly have hot, steamy sex. Place an orchid plant in the bathroom. Hang a negligee or silk bathrobe prominently on the closet door. Put fluffy, clean towels on the towel rack.

In the bedroom place two wine glasses next to the bed, and the morning newspaper.

The next thing a buyer is looking for is a place to relax. Look for a cozy nook to place a comfy chair, a good book, and a cup of tea.

Imagine living in a home that makes you feel sexy, successful, relaxed and happy. A home where you can have friends and family in. To sell your house, dress your house to appeal to the buyer's ego.

Imagine the Possibilities

2009-07-05T14:15:00.000-07:00

As humans we seek that one thing that makes us stand out from the crowd, our individuality, our specialness, our creativity.

Creativity is the ability to imagine the possibilities and the impossibilities. There was a little boy with great imagination. He told his father about this magic that made things disappear. His father, got angry and told him that there was no such thing as magic. Silence. His father was a scientist. The young man was an artist. If the father, as a scientist, had imagined a little more, maybe he would have been a more successful scientist. The young man, did use a little more science to add to his imagination, and experimented with possibilities.

It is fear that stops us from expressing the possibilities. Fear that we will be ridiculed. Fear that our creativity won't sell.

If we weren't so afraid of using our imagination, of caring what other people think about us, of succumbing to life's "shoulds", of living up to other people's expectations, maybe creativity wouldn't be such an issue.