Points of Passion (PoP3)

Chairs

I have a hard time walking away from one that I like. Even though I have plenty. I could easily fill a Doors of poster, only mine would be called Chairs of Holly.

Green, blue, formal, antique—there is no real criteria except that when I see one that makes me want to sit and ponder…it comes home with me.

When I started my work at The Connecticut Forum, I brought simple matching grey chairs with wood trim into my new space. I could see the unspoken head scratching on the faces of co-workers, that the new girl thought it necessary to bring her own chairs. 

"I have a lot of chairs,” I finally started saying when a colleague would politely admire my decor. If they only knew…

It’s like Shel Silverstein said in his poem Hector the Collector:

Three-legged chairs and cups with cracks.

Hector the Collector

Loved these things with all his soul--

Loved them more then shining diamonds,

Loved them more then glistenin' gold.

(Although truth be told, unlike Hector, I do prefer diamonds over chairs.)

Points of Passion (PoP2)

Poems by Shel Silverstein

I received Where The Sidewalk Ends as a Christmas gift in 1982. I know this from the inscription inside my well worn copy. The book has been with me, quite literally, ever since.

In elementary school, I performed the poems with solo gusto in my dresser mirror. In high school at my first summer camp job I always kept my copy nearby. A spontaneous reading of Sick (one of my favorites) was a surefire way to grab attention if the day’s activities went awry. In college, I hosted a local children’s television show. It was my responsibility to come up with content. There was no question where I would begin...

When I introduced my coveted volumes to my boys, I began by telling them how important these books were to Mommy, how they were special and should be treated carefully, and…then I stopped.

I knew that Shel wouldn’t have appreciated the lofty introduction.

His work isn’t meant to be revered or explained. It was created for consumption. Disappointment, loss, adventure and happiness are more easily digested in bite sized black and white.

I bought them their own copies. Everyone needs a Shel Silverstein. 

Just the other day I opened Where the Sidewalk Ends in search of inspiration and nostalgia tumbled out. A letter from my father that I received in college. A thank you note from a camp parent. A commemorative card from my grandfather’s funeral. A to-do list from my high school days.

Silverstein’s books have always transported whiffs of life that matter to me.

Points of Passion (PoP)

I’ve been feeling a little blue lately about the state of things. Maybe you can relate? 

I’m a devourer of politics and news, have been since a very young age—but—after the last couple of weeks, I’ve reached my limit. I am craving a break.

So…for the next little while I am going to spend the time I would normally be gobbling up the day’s catastrophes—here—creating a vision blog of inspiration. I’m hoping that less time wading in the muck and more time reveling in personal Points of Passion (PoPs) will lead to good things. 

Here goes…hope you’ll join me!

PoP1

Flowers

My earliest flower memories are of the peony bushes that lined my childhood driveway. Outside, they’d spring from the ground, a colorful magic trick, not long after piles of heavy snow would dissipate. Inside, their pink pillowy puffs would spill out of antique pitchers—summer’s warning cry that it was indeed on its way.

I had a childhood of flowers, come to think of it, the impromptu wildflower kind. I can still picture a patch of farmland in the hour long drive between my grandparents' house and mine. A secret resting place covered in Black-eyed Susans and Queen Ann’s Lace. We’d get out of the car, venture in waste deep, and pick a custom bouquet. Nature’s floral delivery.

I now understand that there is no such thing as free flowers. Someone owns the land. Someone scatters the seeds. And those flowers that line the driveway come with a lot of weeds. 

Which makes me appreciate the flowers more. 

Cut from the earth, plopped in a vase, a masterpiece of not-so-accidental grace that always inspires me.