HARLEQUIN AFGHAN…or….relationship advice.

"Come on, here's the camera, take a few shots before you leave!"

Blocked & positioned on matching rattan furniture.

And it's off the hook, assembled, complete. The Harlequin Afghan, finished.  I blogged about this piece just days ago, and before that, a few other times.

What to say, now?  Perhaps an homage to the sort of playing with cameras that we enjoy…or at least I enjoy, with the indulgence of my family members.  Peter is responsible for this collection of KSN photos in the back yard, modeling the afghan as wrap/cape.

blocked, ready for use.

 Every once in a while I start to wonder if we ham it up for the camera a little too much. After all, some of us are not getting any younger.  Then again, it's terrific fun, especially for the self-absorbed.  I'd also dare any of you, LFs, to do the same.  Why not?  In this instance, I'm rustling up the attention of my long-suffering spouse.  One of the remedies to long term relationship blues is to simply ask for attention.  It's so easy for us to focus lots of energy on self, on kids, pets, work, house, and forget about each other.  So, on a Friday morning when I ask my spouse to take a few extra minutes to shoot these photos, I'm asking for attention, interaction, a laugh or too, and, thanks to the technology, a memory.

"This is going to look fabulous. I can wear it wherever I wish!"

 Somebody warned, in an earlier post, that this afghan is too gorgeous to not convert to a wearable item.  Now that it's finished, I sort of agree.  It's main purpose will be to adorn my mid-century rattan couch, but whenever the fancy hits, I think I'll break out the "Harlequin Cape". why not?  One hundred percent worsted wool, it's soft, not too scratchy, and warm.  I'm fond of the colors. Chartreuse, coral, black, grey, white. Great midcentury colors, still classic today.  I'm wild about the juxtaposition of classic vintage detail with modernity.  In this case, the whole set-up looks hopelessly modern.  The Harlequin Afghan time traveled to today and got stuck in a selfie-shoot and an outdoor affair.

"Go ahead. Just try to tell me what I can and can not wear!"

And so we have it.  I can't help but try to synch the piece up with a pop song, and for some reason Hall and Oates comes to mind, again and again.  If you see the cape around town, you'll know who it is.  You'll also know what it is.  And if you see me running/riding/sitting with this cape wrapped around my shoulders, you might even hum a few lines from a Hall & Oates song:

"It's up to me, what will be…"

"She's gone." 

"What went wrong?"

"Face ain't looking any younger, now I can see, love taking her toll on me…"

And to quote the photographer: "I like seeing you argue with the camera!" There is usually a fair amount of arguing, but not without it's fun. Next installment of yarn madness, nobody knows.  But there is a small chance that it will be painstaking, unique, and possess bit of whimsy. 

In which an eternal project nears completion…or… I'm gonna make an afghan, "Just Because" I can.

 

Can you say 1950's?

 I'm obsessed with a lot of things, and vintage afghans are right  up there with jigsaw, crossword puzzles, and needlepoint. It takes a yarn goddess special personality to move up from the smaller items that might adorn oneself in the outside world to making giant pieces that take forever to complete.  A few of the afghans I've finished have the added status of mind-numbing details.  My current afghan project entails the crochet construction of one hundred-eleven small-ish diamonds,  sewn together, painstakingly, by hand (naturally).

This afghan is exciting, also, because it is one of the patterns in an old book that was part of my mom's collection, ca. 1956, called Modern and Traditional Afghans to Knit or Crochet.

Mom kept everything in mint condition.

So it's been a long time coming. In fact, I think I've blogged about this very project (in another lifetime?) at least twice.  Now that it's almost the moment of truth, I don't know if I love or hate it.  I certainly love the inspiration from which I embarked on the project.  Nothing like planning and purchasing and starting out on an endeavor, with nothing but possibility ahead, and about twelve skeins of wool washable yarn.

Early days, meticulous blocking.

An old blog post,  Spring 2103

Unfortunately, somewhere along the way I came to believe that I didn't have that *special stuff* required of the fifties housewife or whomever was expected to make these monster blankets. Much to my disgust, I realized that many of my diamonds were inconsistent in shape and size. 

early assemblage and blog-bliss

 Blocking (deep steam pressing) takes care of this problem to a certain extent, but, truth be told,  I can be a little devil-may-care in my approach to projects, so…Not. Perfect.….Which means, not a terrible thing in many projects (pie, for example) but for a piece that requires over a hundred perfectly symmetrical parallelograms sewn together with all seams equal, there erupts a problem.

But I persevere, and insist that this afghan will be worthy of the party that is our house-full-of-lap-throws.  The four of us often sit around, and whomever grabs afghan first is cozy and ready for whatever it is our family is up to (conversing, reading, drinking wine,  coffee, tea, dessert or sleep).  What I really love is having a project to work on (okay, many projects) so I'm never thinking or feeling that the things I do I do because I'm being *forced* to do them.

 Projects are so compelling to me simply because I don't really have a reason.  I just do.  There's no income, there's no *should* , there's no status.  All I have is the human desire to make something, and do something.  Call me entitled.  Sure.  But also, call myself Unencumbered.  This is the idea.  Amidst all of the shoulds, the worries, the what-ifs and the what I forgot to take care of,  insert the devil-may-care, "Just Because."  I'm gonna make an afghan, "Just Because" I can.  "Just Because I want to."  Or, finally, "Just Because I really really really wish that we all had to or wanted to make things for ourselves, because, of course, making things takes time, and this is what we've been doing since the beginning, and it's only in the very recent past that we've forgotten all this, and not needed to make things that take time for ourselves and for our survival and for our family."

I feel light, already!

Well, Iron-fans.  It's pretty much official.  I'm done.  Ironman Wisconsin came and went last weekend and not only was I not racing, I sort of did not care.  Sure, I checked the weather and results after a friend reminded me that it was Iron Sunday.  I even woke up at about three AM, relieved that I didn't have to wake up at four.  I also called a friend who somehow has managed to complete every single Ironman Wisconsin since the race began over ten years ago.  Overall, it feels pretty good. I'm interested and engaged in other things (make something every day) so there doesn't seem to be a lack of activity in my life.  I'm managing to stay in decent shape, sometimes more, sometimes less exercise, and almost always taking in healthy food.

Dropping a habit or hobby that consumes so much energy, effort and focus, allows me to try things that I always wanted to work on, but may not have had the chance.  Over the years, I've most likely invested a small fortune in Sport drinks, bars, gels, supplements, powders and the like.  You know the brands.  Probably one of the best is Hammer, but really, when you're relying on so many of your seasonal calories to come from a giant plastic vat of powder (mix with water),  it's a far cry from the sort of basic food that I gravitate towards when not pounding out hundred mile rides and three hour runs.  

So I'm not eating any of that packaged stuff, although my family and I still enjoy the occasional Kind Bar.

Kind Bars, YUM.

But at our newly opened Sugar Beet Food Co-op, we're carrying these little energy bars that bring back a lot of memories.  I think I started buying these little pouches of carob/nut/etc. bars at the infamous Berkeley Bowl in the late eighties.  Back when I first moved to California and I was living in a little apartment as an eighteen year old, I had already established a pretty hardy/cheap/mostly vegetarian eating style, but this was my first foray into living/feeding myself completely independently.  I remember how amazing the Bowl was, what with so many varieties of grown food, such  a vast selection of breads, bulk items, butcher, fish, cheese and more.  The Bowl was amazing, but it was also incredibly overwhelming.  I really had no idea what I needed/wanted and as I gazed at the intense veteran foodie/hippie folks who would pore over the produce carefully, knowledgeably, I'd sort of freak out.  I'd sometimes grab a few pippin apples, bulk pasta, nuts, peanut butter and get the heck out.  Yet I do remember that in the bulk section I found these awesome nibs, and not only was the price right, it was the sort of thing that I'd munch on for a light meal, between meal snack, on the go.  A life long relationship with food, launched.

Presentation is everything.

Fast forward to my years doing Ironman in Madison Wisconsin, and, frankly, one of my favorite things about training for this race and doing the event was the opportunity it afforded me to visit Madison, which feels in many ways so much like my hometown of Eugene, Oregon.  Madison's farm to table scene is alive and well, and there's no shortage of food co-op energy in town.  I'm a proud member of the Willie Street Co-op, and visit the store anytime I'm in town.  Used to be, that I'd stock up on a huge supply of dried goods when in town for raceday, along with items that I'd like to have along the way for my race and pre-race nutrition.  Always available, in a similar packaging at Willie Street was the little energy bar.  I'd munch on these a few days prior to race, also race morning, and stick a few in my food bags for the race. Easier to get into than the hermetically sealed cases that are cliff/power/gel whatevers.  A lot tastier, with a bit more texture, and naturally sweetened.  One of the great benefits of the little squares is that they are small.  I can eat, one, two, or more.  When I open a pre-packaged bar, I sort of have to commit to the size of the serving.  I don't know how often, in my life as an endurance athlete, I've found some sort of half eaten bar at the bottom of a sport bag or side pocket of a car or running shorts.  Then the question: do I leave this on the shelf and wait til next time to eat?  I'm frugal enough to hold onto that sandy crumpled bar, but let's face it, not appealing after a while.

So, I'm so thrilled that we've founded, built and opened a state of the art food co-op right here in Oak Park.  Seriously, I'm still pinching myself.  It's a long hard battle, and many folks aren't sure what to make of it, but every time I'm there I see people who either look as if they've been in a decent food store before, or as if they're curious about making something about the Beet work for them.  Not everyone is going to go as whole hog as me--after all, I know I'm pretty unique.  I know that not everyone wants to eat little cacao energy balls with flax seeds and pistachios crunched up inside.  But I also know that this is an amazing opportunity for those of us passionate about food climate to move forward, on so many levels.

Seize the day!

And here I am, after this morning's run!  Even I, after all these years, have had a rough patch or two in my fitness regime.  I've added a few pounds, slowed quite a bit, and often roll back over in bed rather than lace up the shoes and get out the door.  So, another of the benefits of our new grocery option is that I feel as if I've got my own shot at renewal.  Hard to not sound braggy, but I feel lighter, more energetic, more sexy, more alive.  I was already eating well, but the bump and passion of the Beet has brought my game to another level, as if the years and the surrender are peeling away.

The first time I did Vineman Ironman, in 1994, I went to a farm stand in Sonoma and bought some munchies to carry me through a few days.  I recall, fresh lime, pistachios in the shell, raw garlic and jalapeño pepper.  Okay, it may not be what you're going to feed your family tonight, but you get the idea.  Food that sparks the imagination, food as start point.  Food in small enough portions to not be stuck with leftovers and packages and the angst that is modern everything.  I feel light, already.  C'mon, join me.  You'll look, feel, and be amazing.

Lighten the Load

One of the great things about helping other people organize their stuff and get rid things is that when I come back home, I have a renewed sense of commitment to making sure that my own home isn't clogged with objects that will block flow.  Not everybody knows that I've taken on a few clients to help them organize their space.  As things go with all things unencumbered, I really want to give this a gentle nudge, instead of gunning my engine and saying "GO!" But,  for years I knew that it might be something that I couple with my *life coaching* expertise and bring increased flow and sanity to peoples' living spaces.

And this, exhibit A, is my own quiet work/typing space.  Not always spic and span, but at the end of a purging cycle and vacay, we're ready for the (too soon to imagine) September freak out!  In regard to ones' own work space, or desk, I can only say….don't let anybody else near it.  For those of you with younger kids and cats, good luck.  If it's clean, I want it to stay that way, and if it's a mess, I don't want someone else to see that errant bill/ticket/note that is not meant for their eyes.  I've strategically placed my random pile of papers on the antique sewing machine right outside of the viewfinder.  Have faith, it's a pretty tiny stack, because I sift through the whole thing almost regularly (two days ago).

Exhibit A: Heywood Wakefield desk, clean and beautiful.

 Exhibit B?  It's the room with a door that my roommate inhabits, when working/computing.   What I'm pointing out is the collection of albums, memorabilia, files etc..that are stacked, carefully in the corner of this room.   I sat on the floor just a day ago and sifted through two or three large collections of cards, letters, and photos from Mom and Dad that I was holding on to.  I looked at a few things for the last time and made the decision to let go and re-stored the photos and cards that I will keep, for now.  One of the important parts of purging is that we don't always know what we want, why, and for how long.  If we keep everything, then, eventually, we throw it all out, without enjoying any of it.  If we keep nothing,  we risk unnecessary loss.  As time passes, we have to look at objects and ask ourselves if and when other people are going to want to see these items. Some are private enough that we'd rather get rid of them (you know, that embarrassing note scrawled out on a bar napkin at one am?).

Exhibit B: even photos, letters, cards need to be curated periodically.

 And yes, I'm in the same boat as all of those parents who are constantly wondering how and why so much stuff barges into the house.  Why do we EVER buy gifts for a child?  Please, I rant and rant and rant, but it still gets in here.  But alas, as I've long contended, after (sometimes) great use, it gets passed on to a neighbor, a friend, or thrift agency that will make it useful.  There is a point, however, where the sheer mass of stuff in our offsprings' rooms is so overwhelming that we quietly enter with a giant trash bag and do the inevitable.    One remedy to the angst-producing trash bags of stuff is to purge more often, which, of course, requires time and energy. Pictured below are two of the real keepers that we're hoping find a lovely home among friends.  Both dolls are Gotz, although they're most likely draped in AG apparel.

Exhibit C: Gotz dolls in their finery on a daybed. 

So back to my endeavor, to not only clean my own home but to support people who are ready for change.  The great thing about having some experience holding a space for is that I know that not every one can handle equal amount of chaos/stuff/purging/papers/etc…part of helping somebody else purge their space is knowing that it's a process.  I'm always in process here at home.  When things get bumpy, or when things get quiet, I start to go at a section of the house.  It helps me find my own center.  Then again, there are times when I'm perfectly content with a large mass of items taking up space.  I'm a collector, after all.  I savor the objects as much, if not more than others.  So I get it.  I get the desire to collect and derive meaning from objects, I also get the desire to create space for new paths and energy.  I was chatting with a friend who I hadn't seen in quite some time, and the only thing she remembered about my new endeavor was the charming name I stumbled upon, she laughed, "Lighten the Load!"  I love it!

Remembering. Honoring.

After the terrorist massacre in Charleston, SC last week, I took pause in my social media life (okay, Facebook) to post, every day, a photo and memorial bit on each of the nine victims that were murdered in the Emanuel AME Church.  I kept the name of the youngest victim for the very last mention.  This young man, a hero in every sense of the word, was twenty six year old TyWanza Sanders.  When confronted with the most awful situation, moved to shield his eighty-seven year old Auntie from violent attack.

Freshwanza on Instagram

Happy New Years #AOA #GOM #allgasnobrakes #success #succeed #successful #giveGodcredit #live #dream #achieve #believe #2015 what up

A photo posted by TyWanza Sanders (@freshwanza) on Dec 31, 2014 at 9:29pm PST

A google of Tywanza's name brought up his social media presence via his well maintained Instagram page.  In this snapshot, there's so much to observe and interpret.  I think it's hard for me to say the following without the finger-waving that goes along with it: "People spend so much time talking about heroes in this land (firefighter, police officer, veteran, active duty service personnel, white principal/teacher/mother taking care of her (white) students/children/etc.), but who is taking time to holler from the rooftops about this hero?"   I would expect to be worn down by the over-coverage of how wonderful all of the victims of this senseless slaughter were, but sadly, I can't seem to get enough.

So, let me share some of the moving images and ideas I found while digging around this Instagram feed.  I hope that you, LF, and a few others will take the time to estimate the enormous power, love, wisdom, and perspective that this young man endeavored to contribute.

My destiny my life my journey... Blessed, glad to be alive continue my drive #goodmorning #LIFE #grindovermatter #againstdagrainbarber #moneymotivatemoney #trusttheLord #achieve #believe #giveGodcredit #thankyou

A photo posted by TyWanza Sanders (@freshwanza) on May 21, 2015 at 4:48am PDT

Freshwanza's Insta feed is packed with photos of himself, family, friends, kids and babies.  Wisdom in ideas and mantras. Inspiration in drive and hope.

Grandmother Granddaddy thank you #grindovermatter #moneymotivatemoney #family #love #experience #God #create #dream #ambition #trustinGod

Family.

A photo posted by TyWanza Sanders (@freshwanza) on Jan 20, 2014 at 8:51am PST

 A gorgeous sunny day and disposition to match.

Old school outfit new school swag

A photo posted by TyWanza Sanders (@freshwanza) on Nov 5, 2012 at 12:12pm PST

Young. Aware. Shaped by experience and driven to success and caring.

Official like a referee with a whistle like a badge and a pistol like white on rice... Tywanza K.D. Sanders will be graduating from Allen University, May 10th @ 10'oclock thank you all #giveGodcredit #ambition #determined #success #nevergiveup #grindovermatter #moneymotivatemoney #business #theFreshMovement #kcc #FreshWanza @freshwanza

A photo posted by TyWanza Sanders (@freshwanza) on Apr 29, 2014 at 2:51pm PDT

So black I had to repost

A photo posted by TyWanza Sanders (@freshwanza) on Feb 17, 2013 at 6:31am PST

Karen,

"You are a bright spot in my year. I really enjoyed your humor--your writing. Best of Luck, Mr. G."

(Signature in my ninth grade yearbook from favorite English Teacher).  

"Think about it: How often do we police girls’ bodies? Recent talk of school dress codes reveals that it happens

an awful lot, and for some confused reasons."

-Marinda Valenti, for Ms. Magazine

As we prepare to join a new school community, and as my younger child enters her tween years, I have noticed a groundswell of both restrictive measures in school communities to shape what children wear and an articulate response to this form of clothing policing.   I'm an enthusiastic supporter of the girls and young women who are learning, creating dialogue, and fighting these codes that disproportionately affect girls and women.  Myself, and local friends, get into a pretty quick and excited debate and I can stir things up at just about any cocktail party or barbecue.  One of the delicious benefits of any major discussion is often that we get to mine our ideas and minds and creativity for all sorts of items.  

In my case, a trip down memory lane seems just about right. Let's face it, a lot of styles today will send most of us older folks into a bit of a tizzy.  Boys seem to be dressed in just about anything, as long as it's not fitted, usually a drab color and, well, boring.  Girls, on the other hand, seem to be wearing less and less of whatever it is that they have on (myself included).  One of the arguments about dress coding is that certain people, almost whatever they wear, will look (and probably feel) sexier, no matter what they wear.  When I think back to my own Junior High days I can remember who looked *hot*.  But really, what were we wearing, ca. 1981?  And so, I did that thing, I went and grabbed three Junior High yearbooks from my basement.  

1. I was lucky. Lucky to grow up in a progressive corner of a liberal college town.  Teachers were interesting and quirky.  We played on enormous fields and were allowed a  variety in the courses we took.  We were honored with the privilege of selecting our own classes, building our own community, suffering when we made fools of ourselves, enjoying the successes we found. Our teachers, as far as I could tell, could act like real, caring, flawed people.

2. Okay, clothes for girls are so different after thirty five years.  Painter pants?  Levi 501s?  Calvin Kleins?  Not only did we look different in the cut and style, but these bottom half clothes for girls were 100% cotton.  We could only wear our pants so tight.  There were no yoga pants, there were no leggings.  In the left shot, the only nylon is in the sweat jacket, and, as cute as those things were (and coveted) they weight about five pounds more than the average technical fabric jacket that you'd find on anybody's back today.

3. I remember trying to take a lot of risks in the clothing i wore (often handmade). But here I am, pictured wearing a button down shirt and vest of some sort. The more I think about this shirt, I think it was one of those soft gauze numbers. Pretty cute, and pretty comfy.  There was a fair amount of strategizing, as to whether the breast-located buttons were *appropriate* or not.  (as in gap or no gap).

4. By today's standards, everyone looks entirely covered up, but they also look like they just walked out of an episode of Freaks and Geeks…that, and they look completely stoned.  Not true, obviously, but it must have something to do with feathered hair and velour shirts.

5. But so much of what came out of the eighties is  incredibly cool.  Also, in my basement, I possess two well-loved vintage "Butte to Butte" T-shirts.  Haven't worn either for years, but I brought them out of storage for this occasion, and may even place them back in the rotation. The Butte To Butte, to the uninitiated, is one of the classic footraces held every Fourth of July in Eugene.  It used to start not far from my home and finish near Autzen Stadium.  Beautiful course, always fun, always competitive.  These shirts not only remind me of bygone days as a teen wearing any sort of shirt, but they also remind me of the race T-s that are ancient history.  Read it and weep:

A. MADE IN USA
B. 50% cotton/50%poly
C. TWO sponsor ads, only (Williams Bakery & KUGN Radio).
(I'm completely over the modern *tech* race shirt that's so littered with giant company adverts and ugly design)

How fun!  I love these old shirts, and they're gone, gone, gone.  Forget any natural fibers, whatsoever, forget local flavor races, forget plain t-shirt that can be worn for twenty years.  And as I set out with my companion today, I must admit, wearing the blue shirt for an hour long walk in our sultry early summer weather, I yearned for my usual attire of a tight little stripy sporty thing so my skin could breathe.  I WAS HOT!  As in, I'm so hot I need shelf-lined summer dress from Athleta or Patagonia or whatever.

And here, in front of a favorite neighbor home, another blast from the past. As Oak Park creeps every day toward being more and more new and fancy (home and garden yuppy liberal destination) houses like this are on the decline.  I'm so in love with the yard, the wingdings, the color of the home, the chimes.  It's all there, and it's scaled perfectly in size to the other homes in the neighborhood.

I digress, I just love old stuff, I love whimsy, I love other people who put it out there.  Nothing but love.

Times have changed, for all of us.  I'm clinging to the hope that we're marching toward a time that women have more liberty and more freedom.  Less restriction and more autonomy.  I think this is what we were moving towards, in the eighties when we got funky with unisex pants and feathered hair.  I think it's also what we're moving towards today when the de-rigour wear of an active gal is a shelf-lined running or jog top (face it, when everything has so much stretch, we can pack all of our body parts in, not with fear of things sticking out)  The jog bra, to me, is outerwear more than it is underwear.  Yet I'm also aware of the sadness that accompanies any change.  I feel that, almost all  of the time.  I sort of wish we all wore hand-sewn dresses and skirts, but we don't, and we don't exactly have a lot of access to natural fiber products, and most certainly not US made textiles.  My walking companion, today, introduced me to the term, "fast fashion" which places like H&M utilize in order to sell multiple trends within one season (instant throwaway). So, sure, I'd like to see kids cover more of the tush up when they walk around town, and I want kids to feel good about wearing more conservative clothing, but I'd also like to direct attention, if necessary at the production empire rather than kids who's only real options are very limited, limited by time, price, availability, even limited by whether or not they have the adults around them who can help shape a "groovy" aesthetic that fits within "code."

Appropriate?  Sure.  Dated? Yes.  Times moving on?  We have no choice.

And finally, about that teacher signature.  I have to confess.  I've buried all that junior high stuff because my recollection of those years is that it was my "flirty" phase.  I worked my looks, I played on popularity, I wore tight clothes, makeup, hair.  It wasn't until I was on the precipice of a ninth grade GPA that I started to flip my exterior image to another style.  These were realizations and lessons that I had to work out for myself.  Who was I to become?  I'm so glad that I could work through this on my own, because in the end I still embrace the whimsical interplay of sexy, attractive, girly, and powerful, butch, and more.  I'm so proud that I grew up in a community that we could experiment with our appearance, so that by the time I moved on I didn't perceive that I had been stifled and then wanted to let go when it mattered differently.  When I peeked at this old book,  I was a bit surprised to see what kids and teachers had written in my yearbook (nice, good listener, supportive, funny, great friend, cute, good tennis player).  Most of it wasn't offensive, and here was one teacher who at the very perfect moment in my life acknowledged me for gifts in the classroom and I am forever grateful for his support.  He, along with many teachers in my community, was remarkable and bright and honest and real.

At the risk of sounding "Coachy"…

I'd like to take a brisk walk in the wild this month and revisit some of my old Life Coaching talents.  Not every one can remember when I called myself a Life Coach (basically, before everybody knew what a LC was), and most of my reasons for walking away from it either related to other interests, other obligations, or, inevitably, poor business practices.  But I digress.  I feel an urge, at the risk of treading on some soft-core Schmaltz along the way, to get a little preachy with this stuff.  After all, what good is a blog about being Unencumbered unless we take a risk and exercise a little "self-help."

Karen's Kombucha glass #1

  And so, I return to one of my favorite self-help measures.  Make something every day.  For me, this might involve writing, yarning, building, cooking.  Today we're unveiling our first ever batch of Kombucha!!!!! So excited to make this drink.  Soon after I returned from a trip to the extra-healthy friends' house in February, I took it upon myself to find a local Scoby, which is the mushroom looking bacterial mass that creates Kombucha.  No sooner did I wander around my little village than I ran into a friend of a friend who had a collection of Scoby at her humble abode (actually, I met her at a wedding, but I digress).  Scoby and recipe in hand, I brewed a junk of black tea, sweetened heavily, left in my cabinet for a few weeks, pulled it out today, and wa-laaa! Vinegar-y tea, sweet juice drink, no more pre-bottled store for me….Home made all the way!!!

 At least one person who lives in my home claims to not like Kombucha.  Fine by me, I'll be the only one reaping the healthy benefits of home brew goodness.

floating mass otherwise known as Scoby

After a few weeks hidden in the cabinet

But then, what's the big deal about Coachi-Ness and making something like Kombucha?  Here it is, and I guess for me it's about looking within and trying to create an inner calm while chaos revolves around us.  I like to be in my own favorite spaces, and I like to make things.  After I have my quiet time, I'm ready to be out, engaging and trying different things, being around people.  But I can't be out there in the world all the time.  I get incredibly frazzled, fragile, angry, despondent.  So I take time, pamper, pamper, create, create.  How might that look to another person for their own sense of calm? I honestly don't know, and, of course, we all experience periods of time where there is almost no solution, no place of calm.  Times when we live in the blizzard and can only expect that it will subside eventually, so that we can create some sense of our capabilities and priorities.

In my case, this Spring, I emerged from a relatively jumbled phase, to feel empowered enough to be more proactive in my own community and own some of my hates and resentments.  The creative side of me is what allows me to identify a shift in my own energy, and name it, so I can appreciate uplift when I experience it.  In fact, I was flipping through a journal the other day and found a short piece I wrote, just a month ago, on March 8, 2015:

And then it was March in the distant future. Everything had changed, and I led the most charmed life. I had been there when Mom needed me and saw her fade away. And now, Mom and Dad are everywhere around me, and my home.  My kids are amazing, Peter is my best friend, and life surges forward. March has awoken the sadness but also the incredibly aliveness. I want to live, I love myself. I am the master of my Domain. Life is full. The world is a mess. I have friends and love.

First sip, be still my beating heart.

And for the old coach-y adages:

• "What does calm look like for you?"
• "If you were to make something, everyday, what would that feel like?"
• "What if you make something, just for you, and nobody else?"
• "What's most important?"  "What will you take with you?"

Okay, now let me know how it goes! Happy April, Happy Spring. we're here, until we're not.