Simplicity is the Ultimate Sophistication

My husband and I received a visit from my sister and a friend of hers this past weekend. As I mentioned before, they are traversing the country with a final destination of Arizona. One of the things they both did to make this move possible is sell all of their belongings, save a handful of things that they either needed or loved, which they squeezed into their cars. While it seems simple enough to say, “I’m selling all of my personal belongings,” it’s an enormously tedious, time-consuming and labor-intensive job … depending, of course, on how much stuff you’ve collected over the years.

While I have no intention of doing this myself, my friends and family have heard more than a few times over the past few years how eager I am to declutter, shed the excess, unload the junk. I have more than my share of odd, quirky, and unnecessary objects that I neither need nor love. I fantasize about a home that better reflects the essence of those who dwell in it, unclouded by the confusion of things that don’t quite fit. A home where you notice the people in a room more than the room itself or the stuff in it. And as Debbie Millman says, "we can either talk about making a difference, or we can make a difference." And, while my husband has more books than God, I intend to leave them alone. (Though on reflection, do we need two copies of Ulysses?)

This is my goal for the balance of the year, a gift to myself; to streamline my material world until I no longer feel distracted by the visual confusion. I want my home to have room for discussions and ideas, and whatever material things remain are there because they have honest meaning and value.

Oh, and the title is a quote from Leonardo da Vinci.

You're Not The One For Me

I know this song has been around for some time. Since I only listen to the radio when I'm driving, that's the only time I ever hear it. Yes, I'm the driver in the lane next to you singing about the big black horse and the cherry tree at the top of her lungs.

What's On Your List?

The List

We all have a list of things we turn to again and again, that we depend upon and that deliver. They turn around a bad day, or ensure a good one.*

Here’s my list in no particular order:
1. MAC’s Russian Red lipstick, a timeless favorite for years, with a slight vanilla flavor. And when you've used up six tubes, bring them back to your MAC counter and walk away with one free one.

2. Timberland black biker boots. I know who I am and what I’m about when I’m wearing these.

3. Dyson vacuum cleaner. I asked for it as an anniversary gift and my husband bought it because he understands me. This is the one I vacuum the cat with.

4. Dr. Bronner’s Magical soap, mint flavor. Or eucalyptus, either will do.

5. J. Crew jeans, boy fit, dark wash. Dress them up with pearls and cashmere; dress them down with Chuck Taylors. You know the drill.

6. Trader Joe’s French Roast coffee. Do you require an explanation?

7. PhotoShop. To misquote Ohio’s state motto, “With God and PhotoShop, everything is possible.”

8. Altoids Curiously Strong Peppermints. An article detailing the effects of peppermint on the human person revealed a happier disposition, aiding the digestive system and waking you up if you’re sluggish. They’re great if you’re about to walk into an accounting class.

9. Aveda’s Madagascar Aroma Oil. I have light bulb rings discreetly placed throughout my home, dispensing this sweet, spicy scent.

*I'm not on the bank roll of any of these companies, but wouldn't mind if I was.

Keep Them Hungry

Let me preface my story with a little habit of mine. Whenever I'm on the road, I look up for hawks. When I'm on a long trip with my husband, I count the number of hawks I spot. I love hawks. Knowing they have only a 75% survival rate in the wild makes me appreciate them even more.

Over a year ago, I had the privilege of going to the Greenbrier, the oldest spa/resort in the country. Nestled in the Alleghenies in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, what began before the Civil War as a few cabins surrounding some natural springs of sulfur water for the fashionable set to ‘take the cure’ has exploded into a palatial resort with golf courses, restaurants, an artists’ colony, miles of walking paths, a retired underground bunker for the federal government, a television set for a grilling show, culinary arts classes, and a spa with every treatment known to (wo)man.

During my visit, on my birthday, I took a lesson in falconry. Known as the ‘Sport of Kings,’ medieval nobles (before the invention of firearms) would train hawks to partner with them in hunting for rabbits and wild fowl. They would release the bird from a cage and allow them to perch on a tree with a good view of the field or forest. When the bird spotted an animal, it would lunge down onto the prey, perhaps even kill it. The hunter would intervene before the bird had a chance to devour the prey, and trick the bird into thinking he’d eaten a piece of the animal by giving it a small piece of meat from his pocket before the hawk fully realized what had happened.
As we made our way to the cages where various birds of prey were resting peacefully, there was excitement as the trainer opened the door to the cage. All of the birds started to scream, “Pick ME! Pick ME!’ in hopes of a shot at doing some pretend-hunting with the trainer. He chose a Harris’ Hawk, a rather large creature as far as birds go, but only weighing in at two pounds of pure muscle, bone and feather.

Harris’ Hawks can be found in the southwest of the United States, and often hunt in pairs or groups, which accounts for their popularity in falconry. They see the falconer as a partner in hunting.

My question during this lesson, “Why don’t the hawks fly away?” I was told that they rather enjoy these exercises. When the trainer held his leather-gloved arm out, he would flick up a small piece of meat with his thumb and the hawk would fly in from whatever perch it was resting on. Apparently he liked the regular meals.

As the trainer worked with the bird, allowing him to fly out to a tall tree across the field and calling him back by raising his gloved arm and flicking a small piece of meat, it seemed these two had a rather special relationship. I was surprised to learn that raptors never become attached to humans the way a pet parakeet does. They are motivated by one thing and one thing only—food. The bird will respond in the way it has been trained only when it's hungry. Release a raptor with a full stomach and you may never see it again.

Each of us in the lesson was allowed a few turns at bringing the hawk in. The feeling of such a bird flying at you with the momentum of a bullet and then perching on your arm is indescribable.

Finally, still confused about why the bird keeps coming back, I persisted in my question. The trainer answered, “You keep them just a little hungry.”

Je Ne Veux Pas Travailler

The perfect song for Monday.

At Last

My friend Shannon has a quirky sense of humor, is a huge fan of Audrey Hepburn, and is the closest I’ve ever gotten to having a little sister. She herself has a sister and will be quick to tell you that she actually asked her parents for "scizzors," not a sister, so you can imagine her confusion when they brought home little baby Colleen. Shannon and I used to work together years ago at an advertising/PR firm and would sometimes escape during our lunch hour to a little enclosed garden at a nearby arts facility and decorate our 'someday' houses. I miss those escapes.

My husband and I went to a wedding shower this past weekend, in honor of Shannon and her fiancé Kenny. Shannon, as much at ease at the ballet as at a barbeque, has always had a special skill with people; she has a beautiful way of making everyone comfortable.

I had never met Kenny before and confess I had some difficulty getting past his charming southern drawl. Everyone with a drawl seems nice. You could eat kittens for breakfast, but if you have a drawl, I’m sure you didn’t really mean to eat them.

Like every single relationship in existence, their's thus far has had a few miscommunications. What I saw this weekend though was pure joy and mutual respect, and one other element, which I myself took a while to learn, and that was forgiveness. No matter how perfect two people are for each other, they’re going to need an ample supply of this. When you have it in your heart, you are not burdened with bitterness. When you give it to someone else, it is a sweet gift.

At the shower, a friend of Shannon’s sang a moving rendition of At Last. Etta James couldn’t have said it better. Shannon, your love has come along. At last.

Be the Driver of Your Life

I was sitting in class tonight. I am one of two adult, non-traditional students in a class of 24 students. We two older students are generally the only ones who participate in the question/answer model of your average modern classroom. The other students are either text-messaging their friends or staring straight ahead. The professor is clearly frustrated at this lack of responsiveness, but seems a little used to it.

I restrain myself from standing up and saying, "YOU ARE THE DRIVER OF this vehicle called YOUR LIFE."

This is perhaps one of the blessings of getting older, not being afraid to actually answer a professor's question, even if you answer wrong -- and not caring what those around you think if you do get the answer wrong.

That I believe myself the driver of my life goes further than the classroom. Everything in life, even the sweetest friendships, take effort and energy, and the rewards generally equal the effort.

There are many things that are beyond my control; the weather, the clock, traffic, the economy, the good or bad opinion of others (at least this last one I have a small influence over). I realize that bad things sometimes unaccountably happen to good people, but I am not a fatalist. I think it was Emily Dickenson (feel free to correct me if I'm wrong) who said, "If you seek beauty, you will find it." I might append her quote with, "And if you seek nothing, you will find it."

Pride and Prejudice, Stubborness and Impatience

There is a scene in Jane Austin’s Pride and Prejudice in which Elizabeth Bennet is playing the piano forté at the great house of Lady Catherine De Bourgh. Elizabeth’s playing is good, but not dazzling. Mr. Darcy is watching her play, and they tease each other for their various faults. Elizabeth accuses Darcy of not dancing enough at a recent ball, to which he replies that he is, “ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers.”

Elizabeth responds: “My fingers do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have only supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practicing.”

This exchange in the story is a pivotal moment, and is central to the entire theme of the book. It has always held me in rapture because Austin has not only created an instant where two characters, seemingly in jest, connect on a profound level, but it gets at something universally human.

For my own part, I try my hand at a great many things. I fail at nearly as many, but I persist in trying. It’s true that I view recipes as mere suggestions. Ask me to assemble something and I’ll start by throwing away the instructions. I dive in to things where others hesitate and measure and second guess themselves. Don’t confuse my behavior with confidence; it’s more a mixture of stubbornness and impatience.

I once heard a saying, where your energy goes, success will follow. I’ve learned that if someone struggles in learning something new, it isn't necessarily some lack of talent, but because he truly doesn’t wish to learn it.

And so it is with Accounting. After two hours of homework this morning, with historic and artistic thoughts of Luca Pacioli, I’m beginning to understand it. Look at me doing spreadsheets.