INVESTING IN YOURSELF

So many things to write about.  I've got lists upon lists.  All these blog post themes I keep thinking about, such as: 

Soothe Your Soul

Turn on Your Creative Brain

Find Your Flow

Making Space

Investing in Yourself

The Best Time for New Beginnings

Finding Fresh Headspace

Time to Grow 

All fertile subjects, what I'd like to ponder, look for, find or do and I bet you would too. Who in this world wouldn't?  Hoping to share, to inspire just a little in return for all the inspiration I've received.  To pass on what, over the years, has been given to me.  Such a common goal.  

Lately lists have taken on new meaning in many of our lives.  This is new for me.  Outside of work I haven't been that much of a list maker.  My teenage Diary is more narrative, marked by overstatement and hyperbole. My Prayer Journal has no lists. 

My husband, on the other hand, has kept a red-covered paper date book for each year of his adult life. Everything he's ever done or meant to do--edit a chapter, call the plumber, walk with (name)--is listed, crossed-off or moved forward, a timeline of his existence.  He has a standing order for the same red book every December. The mundane and the private, who he has spent time with or is thinking about, hour after hour, all there revealed.   

But what about lists where nothing has to be scratched off.  I've seen some as writing prompts, some as self-care advice, some in mindfulness workbooks.  These kinds of lists are there for us to retrieve and do with as we will.  Like "Places I want to See" or "Where My Best Memories Were Made" (Ok, on a porch swing--marriage proposal; in Paris--honeymoon; in London--young marrieds; in Blowing Rock, NC--another honeymoon.)  Or "My Favorite Places and Why."  All individualized ways to appreciate our past or plan our future. 

Then there are the more difficult lists, but still helpful.  Lists like "What I Fear" or "Traumas in My Life."  "My Survival Tactics" or "This Helps Me."   I like this last one best.  I'd like to make this list carefully so what helps me will be on mental speed-dial when I need it.  

All these Not-To-Do-Lists not only solidify our memories, but also help us understand ourselves better.  What about this one, "How I Do NOT Want to Be" followed by "How I Want to Be?"  My responses are almost instantaneous for the first list.  I Do Not Want to Be:
Depressed
Anxious
Thoughtless
Unkind

The happier list by far is "How I Want to Be."  This list too comes readily. Because we know how we want our lives to unfold.  For me, I Want to Be: 
Aware
Creative
Peaceful
Grateful
Mindful
Loving
Healthy
Valued
Kind

Helpful
Hopeful

This list is far longer for most of us because it is probably the way we actually are, more often than we always notice.  So, let's pick what we want to list.  If it's not the time to list fears, don't.  If it is the time to list achievements, do.  If it's not the time to face the bad times, don't.  If it is, remember that you are brave, loved, healthy and strong.   

Well, this has turned out to be my Investing in Yourself post.  I didn't know that when I began.  So, I've added the title.  That's what lists can do; help us arrive somewhere. How nice.                                                                                                           Nina Naomi

 

 







    

MINIMALISM FOR ALL

Illustration by Geraldine Sy

Minimalism.   It may mean, as much as possible, removing from your life whatever no longer serves you or brings joy.  We've all read or watched Marie Kondo and know how she unclutters.  But minimalism can be more than less  stuff. Minimalists may want to create physical and emotional space to make room for the people, material goods and thoughts that matter the most. Minimalism certainly includes living with intention. It may include limiting unnecessary spending.  It's a way to be that I'd like to be better at. I like bare wood and furniture clustered for conversation, but sparse--no sidling around tables and chairs--floor space and open windows.  An environment like this creates mental space as well, room for the heart and mind to expand some experts say. 

I'd like to see something fresh and beautiful and admire it without wanting it, whether it's the shiny newness of someone else's house or the lushness of their garden.  I'd like to clear my house (and my schedule) of things that, truth be told, are antithetical to joy. I still have ratty towels, frayed-but-not-loved clothing, too many this or that. Things I don't need, whether neatly stacked behind cupboard doors or not.  Maybe you do too. 

I saw this illustration of a minimalist room by Geraldine Sy and decided to admire it without being envious. Without wanting to take a room of mine and make it more like this one. Or wish that I could draw like a professional illustrator.  Or match colors this well. 


So I'm enjoying the beautiful repetition of shapes, the curve of the vase, the round side table and the yellow lampshade that echoes the flower pot. Looking closer I see more curves.  Her shoulders, her bottom, her head and the little round topknot.  Contrasted with all the rectangular shapes, the ladder rungs, the chest of drawers, the pictures on the wall, the computer screen, the rug and everything on it.  I've been holding on to this picture because I knew I wanted to write about it, so perfectly proportioned, all in fall colors with a touch of black. A mindfully curated drawn room.

It may be a contradiction to want more minimalism, to want more of less.   But maybe not.  That's one way to have a simple life.  Less but just right.  Not as easy to banish thoughts that don't serve as to donate clothes and Aunt Ethel's heavy sideboard.  But that's for another post.  Staying minimal in writing, too. 

THE SUNDIAL

In my side-yard sits a cast-iron sundial.  Our son Adam gave it to my mom, a gift for her garden.  Adam and his wife picked it out, their first gift to her as newlyweds.  She had created what she lovingly called "Adam's Park" by the creek that ran behind her house.  Nina Naomi's first-born grandson was special to her.  He showed his love in an open, talkative, physical way--arm around the shoulders, a hug, a glancing touch of the waist.  I was the recipient of these affectionate moments too, given often and unselfconsciously.  At 6'3", he was strong and graceful; he could lift the heavy sundial with one hand and move it wherever his grandma wished.  She was young when he was born and he called her simply Nina.  

My mom and dad lived near the North Carolina beach.  When Adam would visit he and his grandma would bring plastic chairs out to Adam's Park. It was always in the shade and she had planted hosta and lined the path into the glade with some of her sea shell collection, conchs of various sizes and brokenness.  Sometimes a turtle would crawl up the creek bank or seagulls would fly over.  Conversations were mostly about Adam's future.  It always seemed unlimited.

At age 82 my mom died of cancer.  Adam couldn't visit her because he was immunocompromised from his own cancer treatments. After her death, and then his, shortly thereafter, my father decided to move inland near me.  I went to close up the house and sell it.  There sat the sundial, sturdily marking each hour that passed, as it had been doing for 6 years since Adam and his wife placed it there, in it's spot as sentry to "Adam's Park."  Marking the hours of everyone's lives, my parents happy retirement near the beach, Adam's marriage, his and Nina's illnesses, their deaths and the birth of his daughter. . . . 

I asked my dad, now 84, "Can I keep it?  We can't give away the sundial."  I'd broken vintage plates, worn out family quilts, misplaced jewelry, lost photos--but here surely was the one thing indestructible:  the cast-iron marker of the days of our lives.  So now it sits outside my door.  The grandchildren dodge it when they chase runaway balls.  I haven't moved it in almost 14 years. We are impermanent.  The sundial is as permanent as anything I've seen in my life.  It was chosen by young newlyweds to mark the ending years of beloved grandparents.  But one July it marked another death as well and then a birth and now, in my yard, more griefs and more celebrations.  Moss covers its heavy base. It is indestructible, like love.