Last summer we were in temporary housing, but it didn’t stop the Bohemian from planting in the garden. At the time, he was particularly enthusiastic about eggplant. Months later, and the crop has become legendary in the neighborhood, as it continues to provide a seemingly endless yield. We’re all running out of recipes.
Yesterday we went to visit the old garden site, lush and abundant, and back in the hands of its original caretaker. We are gifted with one of our garden friend’s huge heads of cauliflower. A specimen of fractals in food-form, cream-colored, with purple highlights.
After presenting the cauliflower masterpiece, she stands waist-high in the eggplant patch, their heavy fruit dangling like tree ornaments. Keeping the running joke alive, she smiles holding clippers poised, mid-air.
“Eggplant?”
We laugh and say yes to the precious harvest, all in violet hues.
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it doesn’t change. People wonder about what you are pursuing. You have to explain about the thread. But it is hard for others to see. While you hold it you can’t get lost. Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die; and you suffer and get old. Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding. You don’t ever let go of the thread.
I’m still following the thread as For the Archives continues to evolve.
In 2010, when I first created this blog, it began as an experiment of posting a blog a day for 40 days. The process was so rewarding, I simply continued on after the 40 days were through. What has transpired over the past three years has been the creation of over 800 posts, thousands of images, an e-book, and an immeasurable amount of learning about the creative process.
For the Archives has been a labor of love and a gift in my life. I am deeply appreciative to each of visitor that has taken time to read, comment, share, and participate in this chronicling of the everyday.
One unexpected gift that has come from this Archives project has been the creation of note cards. Yes, in this technological world of cyber communication, I have held ever-dear to a tangible means of communication: the simple letter. Something you can hold in your fingers. Words written by hand.
Over the past year, I’ve been taking some of my favorite images shared here on the Archives, and creating handmade note cards on recycled paper. One thing I love about these cards is knowing that an ordinary moment captured on film, is highlighted in a way that makes it extraordinary. Couple that with a handwritten note sent by someone who cares, and there is art, love, and beauty being passed through many hands. This is a wonderful thing! Sharing these cards has given me a lot of happiness and pleasure.
note card set from Love Letters Press
So, in a desire to open the sharing circle wider, I have delved into the realms of opening a shop on Etsy. Love Letters Press is now officially open, offering individual note cards and note card sets for those interested in gifting some love and communication the old-fashioned way.
This is all new for me. But so was blogging here on the Archives over three years ago. You’ve got to start somewhere. In those early blogging days, I said I was following a thread.
Little did I know it would unravel to this point, but what a fascinating unfurling it’s been!
In honor of the shop opening, I’m offering a little gift of 10% off all purchases. But for all of my friends here at the Archives, I want to extend an additional 5% discount to each of you, as a thank you for all that you offer in this forum. Simply use the code “archives5” at check out to redeem.
Your feedback is welcome! I hope you enjoy the cards.
Here’s to evolution, and that infinite thread we follow.
There’s only one way, and that’s through. And you are not through until you’ve climbed that steep incline, one step at a time.
Such is the case with my morning walk. Part of this daily ritual entails climbing the steep driveway that leads away from our house. I’ve probably traversed this grade hundreds of times, but no matter how often I’ve trekked that hill, there inevitably comes the same feeling. Somewhere about half-way up, when the stretch really begins to pitch at its most severe angle, there’s that familiar sense of dread.
I’m accustomed enough with this hill, as is my body, not to feel completely overwhelmed (usually) in those whispers of weariness. Though it’s typically just a hint, it’s there nearly every time. That little spot of discomfort that seems to start the subtle dialogue of doubt.
“Uh, this hill is a hard climb.”
That thought is the password at the speakeasy, enough to get the whole mental conversation going if I let it. Because as soon as it’s let in the mental side door, the rest of the sabotage suggestions come slithering in like snakes.
“You know you don’t have to do this today.”
“Your legs are sore? See? You’ve heard ‘old’ people talk about body aches. I think you’re joining the ranks of the aged.”
“Man, it’s hot! That sun is just beating down this morning, isn’t it?”
“This hill is never-ending!”
With every negating notion, I feel my body grow heavier. These dissenting thoughts never making the climb easier.
So what do I do when they start to seep in and I’m only two-thirds of the way to the top? I look for respite in the real. Narrow it down to the most simple things I can find, which in that moment of ascent are the following:
breath
heart beat
foot steps
When I’m focused there, only one truth remains:
Keep climbing the hill, one breath, one heart beat, one foot step at a time.
Clichés sometimes work in a pinch:
“Slow and steady wins the race.”
“Just keep moving forward.”
This hill is a metaphor, paralleling the human challenges that present themselves in the day-to-day. Specifically, I see similarities with art and writing.
The artist practices their craft with dedication. There may be vertical terrain, a lot of sweat and aching hamstrings. One may encounter a swarm of slithering snakes at the side door, tongues flicking fear and doubt in all directions. But I think there’s power in the process. A conditioning that’s created when the artist chooses to continue on, despite the reservations. In fact, it seems to me, some of the most ‘alive’ work comes when it’s been forged in the fire of fear. The Phoenix from the ash, if you will. Some arcing beauty that rises from the journey through the lowlands.
I’m not suggesting that anything monumental will be birthed from the morning treks up my steep driveway. And these daily posts to the Archives are merely my simple odes to the ordinary. But I sense that there is something significant in the practice of patiently forging on, one keyboard letter at a time. Here is my exercise in snake charming, perhaps with profound effects (however subtle or personal).
We’ve all got our gradient hauls. And I suppose, there is always the choice to turn around, mid-way. But isn’t the world so magnificent with all these vibrant birds? The ones that were willing to burn through, now fluttering high from smoldered flames, beckoning all of us to join them in the Flight.
I say to all the artists and the dreamers and the trekkers, keep going! I hope you’re so inclined.
For the Archives 