If you grew up in the 1970s in Forsyth County, North Carolina, you know that this was one of the line items on your onion skin thin quarterly report card. You were scored 1 to 3, one being the best (that you avoided unnecessary talking), 3 being the worst (that you fully engaged in unnecessary talking).
I consistently received 3s for this category.
A dear friend (who also received 3s) and I were talking over brunch recently about how this was the most unnecessary, and potentially harmful, data point ever. Who is it to judge whether talking and communicating is necessary or unnecessary? The teachers thought it was their place. But what were they really teaching us?
Some of my fondest memories have come from what could have been deemed unnecessary talking. Striking up a conversation with a seatmate on a plane or train, leading to unexpected invitations for things I would have otherwise never experienced. Talking to walkers as they pass my house, learning about volunteer opportunities that have enriched my life. Talking to strangers at rallies and protests, creating some of my deepest local friendships. Asking questions of classmates and teachers that could have be considered off-topic, to discover a new passion.
I haven’t seen a report card in almost 30 years, ever since I left the field of education. But I really, really hope that this isn’t something students continue to be graded on. Because unnecessary talking is one of the greatest gifts one can have.
My first visit, but surely not my last. Isle of Man is a delightful, enchanted place, made even more so because of time spent with dear friends who live there. Our time there felt like being transported back in history, in a good way, without the racism or misogyny. Just stress-free life, friendly people who talk with you at the shops or on the trains. Small roads where no more than two cars can travel. Drivers following the speed limit and not riding your bumper (and who use turn signals consistently). Pubs filled with neighbors chatting over a pint before heading to dinner. Castles, both restored and not, rich with history. A flag with a triskelion.
And the Fairy Bridge. A tiny bridge that the fairies live under. With a sign that reminds you to “Say Hi to the Fairies” as you pass over. Which we did. Any place that invites whimsy, and magic, and fantasy is one that I will revisit over and over. ❤
The view from our living room window. Spectacular!The beach in Port ErinBreakfast of a sausage and bacon bap and a latte. So incredibly delicious.View from a two hour hikeLook closely and you’ll see seals!Me and my shadowIsle of Calf in the distanceWho doesn’t love a place where they serve chips/french fries for breakfast??? YUM!Riding the electric train to the highest point on the island, SnaefellThe Laxey Water Wheel, the largest operating water wheel in the worldView from the steam train compartmentLeftover tweed bitsOne loom at Laxey Woollen MillsThe castle at CastletownWho doesn’t apprecitate a good pun?The triskelion on a hot chocolate!The beach at Peel
He said he was going blackberry picking the next day to gather berries to make wine. I couldn’t think of anything I’d like to do more. Not the traditional holiday activity, but one that spoke to my soul, and the perfect last day activity to cap off four amazing days on the island. We agreed on a time and the next day the four of us set out, to abandoned train tracks lined with blackberry brambles (and stinging nettles – eek! and thistles – eek!).
Our goal was 2.1 kg of berries between the four of us. As we walked further from the road, the air breathed cleaner, the sun seemed to shine brighter, the birds’ songs filled the air. We worked in silence, each absorbed in the task of finding the perfect berry, the one that practically fell from the vine as you touched it, the berry still intact, plump with juices.
My fingers shone with black, and blue, and red stains. My fingers ached from accidentally encountering thorns and thistles and nettles. I shed my jacket, welcoming the warm sun on my bare arms.
I added my bag of berries to the collective bucket, the last one to do so. 1.2 kg. We still had work to do. We continued walking down the path, each claiming a section of brambles to work. Each time we added berries to the bucket, the weight varied tremendously. 1.5 kg. 4.0 kg. 3.2 kg. 2.6 kg. We collectively decided the bucket looked reasonably full, and walked back to our cars.
Final weigh in – 3+ kg of berries. Enough for wine, and then some. And a delightful morning with dear friends, fresh air, and sunshine.
Walking along the abandoned railway pathCareful not to disturb the spider’s beautiful webAn aphid, perhaps?Adding berries to the bucket!Sticky, stained fingers
Picture this. Lisbon. A mall in a tourist neighborhood. On the bottom floor of a bookstore chain, FNAC, enveloped by a slightly musty smell. A Portuguese class colleague and I were standing in the children’s book section. We saw a copy of “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” by Eric Carle, or, as it’s known in Portuguese, “A Lagartinha Muito Comilona.” She opened to the first page. We took turns reading in Portuguese, then translating to English. We were reading! We understood the words! We understood the story! There was a joy difficult to describe. That of understanding. That of discovery. That of knowledge.
She then had to leave.
For almost an hour I picked books off of the shelves of books appropriate for 3 – 6 year olds. I slowly turned pages and interpreted words on the page. I was reading! In Portuguese! There’s something magnificently satisfying about understanding. About being able to communicate. In another language, no less! It’s unlike any other achievement. It’s unlocking another world. I giggled as I read each book, delighted that I understood what I was reading.
I chose two books to purchase, so that I could continue to build my vocabulary. Junior level books of questions and answers, so basic; however, unlocking many levels of understanding. I was beyond happy.
I rarely have a window seat, and I relished not only seeing Lisbon as we approached, but recognizing landmarks, my favorite neighborhoods, and the park outside my hotel.
A friend recently said, “Your life is like a graduate school degree in electives – all the things you wanted to take but never had time.” And it’s true. I’m exploring so many things I never made the time to do while I was working or caring for Mom.
This afternoon I took a “Make Your Own Book Art” workshop at one of my new favorite galleries, Village Artist Market. I’ve admired Eileen Bos’ work from afar, and was so excited to take a class with her.
I was somewhat horrified to desecrate a book. Books are living things to me. The words, that share stories, that create memories, that create connections. And, I know that so many books are tossed, are trashed each day. What better way to upcycle them than to turn them into art?
Eileen is an excellent teacher. She explained every step of the process and encouraged each of us, especially when we struggled. She told us that the first piece is the hardest, and that it gets easier with each subsequent work. She encouraged us to make the process our own, stressing that there were many “right” ways to create art. And emphasized that what is right for one person may not be right for another.
She was absolutely right. The first flower I made was a struggle. I fought with the hot glue gun. There were strands of hot glue on my dress, in my hair, on my fingers. The flower was larger than it needed to be. I took a deep breath and started on my second.
It came easily. I found myself in a state of meditation. The petals attached easily and blossomed naturally. I finished my second bloom in a third of the time it took to make the first. I was able to chat casually with my classmates as I made it. It was beautiful.
I still have feelings about repurposing books. It’s so hard to cut pages. Eeeeek! And, I’d rather create something magical than have books die in the dumpster.
Last year, my dear friend Kayla sent me a postcard from the LA Independent Stationery Store crawl on Stationery Store Day (yes, there is such a thing). I immediately committed to flying to Los Angeles for this year’s event. Which was yesterday.
I arrived to LAX on Friday afternoon. Over dinner, we mapped out our route for the next day (well, Kayla mapped it out and I watched; I have no concept of Southern California geography). There were 16 stores participating, in multiple neighborhoods in Los Angeles, Culver City, Hermosa Beach, Pasadena, and Santa Monica. Kayla estimated the time to travel between locations, and the ideal amount of time to spend in each store. We debated whether our goal should be to attempt to visit every store (there was a passport, and raffle prizes to be won depending on how many store stamps were collected) or to enjoy the journey (and still try to visit as many stores as possible). We opted for the latter.
We left shortly after 10 am on Saturday morning – bottles of water, snacks, sunscreen, and enthusiasm in tow. Giddiness enveloped us. We were on a stationery adventure! Kayla and I write to each other regularly (really write, not email) and we were excited to see what we might add to our stashes. All of the stores were independently owned, and most were tiny, and with bespoke collections of all manner of stationery: cards, paper, pens, ink, journals, stickers, and so much more! In many of the locations the owners were there, and the people working there were delightful. We had conversations about letterpress and printing methods, cardstock weight, pen silkiness, graphics, postage. We ran into many of the same shoppers throughout the day. We geeked out on how much we love stationery – the tactile pleasure of choosing just the right card for someone, of slowing down and taking the time to write a message, knowing that you won’t receive an immediate response (or maybe no response, and that’s okay), of picking just the right stamp, of physically dropping it in a post box.
Many of the stores had free treats or giveaways. Grab bags of individual cards or card sets or paper. Pens in various colors. Stickers. A Plinko token for a game to see what prize you might win.
And the inventory in each store! Oh my! Artistic cards. Funny cards. Beautiful cards. For birthdays. For bar/bat mitzvahs. For sympathy. For engagements. For weddings. For anniversaries. For new arrivals to the family. For new homes. For friendship. For giving thanks. For holidays. And then all the blank ones that you could send for whatever occasion you wanted. Gift tags. Stationery sets. Envelopes. Journals. Loose paper. Bound paper. Pens in the entire rainbow of colors and more. Ink wells. Pen holders. Pen stands. Pen pouches. Stickers, and stickers, and more stickers. Washi tape. Special Stationery Day merchandise (bags, journals, pencils, notepads, postcards). And the aesthetic was different in each store. I was surprised that we didn’t see much overlap.
We arrived home around 7:30 pm; a full day of all things stationery, lots of giggles, and priceless friend time. We were tired, but the good kind of tired, the kind where you’ve spent hours doing something you love with someone you love.
A recent fortune in a fortune cookie I received said, “Collect experiences, not things.” While there were some things collected on this trip from the 11 stationery stores that we visited, it’s the experience of making a somewhat crazy plan (flying to LA for 36 hours for a stationery crawl), seeing virtually all of Los Angeles in a day, and spending the day with a dear friend that will be forever etched into my memory.
Now, time to write some letters!
Stop 1 – Shorthand in Larchmont Village. Where a man asked us if we were at a bachelorette party….Stop 2 – LandisStop 3 – Flax Pen to PaperStop 4 – Sugar PaperStop 5 – Lundeen’sStop 6 – HighTide Store DTLAStop 7 – Shout and AboutShohei Ohtani mural – I think I’m in loveStop 8 – The Social TypeStop 9 – Parchment PaperAs soon as we left, they hung the “closed” sign on the door …Stop 10 – Shorthand, the original storeStop 11 – Be Nice Have FunOur completed passports!
There’s something that surprises me about whimsically decorated bathrooms. These are usually very small spaces that have very big personalities. Sometimes they are at friend’s houses, sometimes hotels, and the most recent was at a local restaurant, Tall John’s.
From afar, it appeared like a floral pattern. But then I stood closer and noticed all the nudists tending the garden, with strategically placed flowers. And was delighted with all the details that weren’t at first glance noticeable. The unexpected whimsy delights me!
In all my travels, I’ve never felt so much awe when I entered a church. Not in Spain, not in Italy. From the outside, it appears to be a modest Catholic church. Stone foundation, adobe walls. Smooth river stones arranged mosaic style to create a pleasing patio in the front. Symmetrical blocks, circles, and ribbons in muted neutrals.
I stepped inside and was overwhelmed by the icons surrounding me in the large, long rectangular sanctuary. There were life sized Marys in elaborate dress, lace and gold and flowers. There were saints, draped in robes, eyes cast towards the heavens, some appearing pained, others appearing touched by the divine, exuding reverence. I was staring at their realistic faces when my eyes wandered upwards.
The entire ceiling was painted in a way that was simply breathtaking. The most gorgeous slate blue dominated the palette, with sunlike ovals creating a repeated pattern that was mesmerizing. Our guide explained that the church was built in 1590 by the Spaniards; however, they hired Andean artists to paint the interior. The pattern of the ceiling was based on Incan iconography. The solid wood beams were covered with a plaster mixture then painted fresco style, taking 15 years to complete. I wanted to just stand and stare at the ceiling. I felt such a sense of calm and peacefulness. My breathing slowed. Pictures were not allowed inside the church, so I stared at the ceiling, searing it into my memory.
The guide led us to the retablo at the front of the church. It covered the entire back wall, floor to ceiling. At first glance, it was difficult to look at. The entire structure was covered in 22k gold leaf. So bright! So shiny! As my eyes adjusted, I marveled at the intricate details of each section. Niches for saints. A stunning sun at the top, reminiscent of the icons in the Incan temples. Stars. Flowers. Baby animals. Angels. I could have sat for hours taking in the magnificence. I think what moved me most was the care that had permeated the construction. So much attention to detail. In every icon. In every mural. In every fresco. The result was not gaudy, but welcoming. A place you wanted to stay.
I’m thankful pictures were not allowed. There’s no way photos could have captured the essence of the sanctuary. I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to stand and soak it in, to remember it in my mind’s eye.
