I read somewhere that most people tend to stick to their goals better if they can visualize them. My mind is apparently wired the same as the majority, because if I see it, it’s generally easier for me to achieve it. In lieu of the standard resolutions for this coming decade, here’s my vision. My creative board of what I’d like to happen and what inspires me to make it a reality. Universe, are you listening? Bueller?… Bueller?… So, what’s on your vision board?
All photos courtesy "Mudbug"
I didn’t write this week’s post. An old friend tracked down through the power of social networking did. He has graciously written an extraordinary piece for danapop in what I think captures the true essence of the holiday season.
Happy holidays all.
dp
When I was a kid, I used to watch the holiday messages made by troops stationed overseas. I aspired to be like those soldiers on television. I envied those who were off in some far away country, doing interesting things. I wanted to give a big smile, a wave and tell everyone best wishes from somewhere nobody had ever heard of. Of course, when I was growing up, we were not at war.
I recently had the opportunity to make just such a video. You could record a holiday message in an area set aside in the morale tent. I sat down on the stool, looked at the camera, started to say something, but nothing came out. I looked at film tech and said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.” I then grabbed my helmet and walked off to a meeting to talk about the latest insurgent tactics.
I am not sure why I couldn’t say anything. Maybe because it was September and it was 110 degrees. Maybe because Christmas was the last thing I was thinking about. Maybe because I didn’t want to make a video wishing everyone back home a Merry Christmas, when there was the possibility that I might be dead before the video even aired back home. And when I tried to say Merry Christmas in September, it just sort of…died on my lips.
Time back home is marked by holidays and the passage of seasons. The hands on the clock and the days on the calendar have meaning. Around September, when the air first starts to get a chill, we pull our sweaters out of the closet and can’t help, but think that soon it will be Christmas.
Leavenworth, Kansas circa 1800’s-Courtesy of the Command General Staff College of Ft. Leavenworth
When we visited Vancouver earlier this summer there was a chatty store owner talking to my mom, sister and I while we were shopping. She couldn’t fully comprehend how my sister could live in Maryland (she’s since moved to California), my mom in Kansas, and me in Georgia. None of it made sense to her. She kept asking why we didn’t live near each other–we all sort of struggled with an answer, but the easiest one was because of work. Which is true, but only partly.
There is something to be said about small towns. A quaint Main Street with boutiques, a past rich in history, where everyone knows your story. Leavenworth, Kansas, for me, is that place. Although we moved around quite a bit growing up, Leavenworth is (and likely will always be) home. It’s where my parents chose to set roots–where I attended school off of a military post for the first time, where I graduated high school, where friends I have known the longest live, and where my mother still is (with my brother and his family not too far either).
One of the oldest themes in everything from movies to music is the idea of leaving home. You know, putting the past town behind and starting fresh, in a new city. I did that. I left home almost a decade ago at 23 and haven’t returned much besides holiday visits and the occasional baby shower, hometown wedding, or milestone birthday celebration. I left my small town in Kansas in my rear view mirror for a job, which I’ve since also put in the rear view.
And while I look at my Leavenworth with fondness, I do feel a teeter-totter emotion of extreme complacency when I visit. When I go home I see the small town sadness and a desperation that is just not present in my life in Atlanta. Once I arrived here, I quickly came to the realization that I was a very small fish in a very large pond, especially compared to where I came from. I was nervous, scared shitless, excited and totally unprepared for the whirlwind of a life I would have here, those first few years.
Almost spring – a time for cleaning out the cobwebs – both the real ones and the metaphorical ones. Clearing out a welcome in hopes of warmer, sunnier days to follow. A time for thinking about all things new and paradoxically, all things old, like home. When you’re an Army brat like me (man, I really dislike that term) growing up wherever the military sent you and with parents well past the typical age of first home buyers, where do you call home?
For me, it was the Boss’ house, a remarkable loft conversion warehouse in Leavenworth, Kansas. Remarkable not only because it was structurally unique but because my parents and us kids transformed it into our home with our own blood, sweat and tears. And it represented the culmination of everything my parents ever imagined they’d have in their dream home while chained to military housing in Panama, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Illinois, Kentucky and Hawaii.
When I write, I tend to be more focused and inspired when I light a candle. So, it’s not uncommon for me to have one burning most of the day. The balance of scent is tricky…I never want something too strong in its note (too floral or fruity or one that makes me want to devour a plate of sugar cookies or an entire apple pie). So, finding that perfect line of candles is complex with a ton of fragrance induced headaches and mysterious food cravings. I found my solution years ago though, when a friend gifted me a Paddywax candle.
From first match strike, I knew, this was the candle company for me. Hand poured, eco friendly, family owned and operated…I had to get an interview with its founders. So I did. David Duncan and I sat down for a chat about the company he founded with his wife Gretchen, Paddywax.
Also, a timely sidenote – Paddywax candles are on my wish list for stocking stuffers…and should be on yours too.
