Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Two Pictures.
Please Come Back.
The laptop is broken. She's getting a new hard drive, but it's taken almost a week to recover old files, and will take several more days until that process is complete. So that means that e-mailing, blogging, watching Grey's Anatomy, looking at my calendar appointments, doing actual work at work and listening to my music have all been a little difficult to do as of late. My freelance work and wedding invitation designs have been put on hold, as have all of my other side projects. I'm walking a strange line between freedom and anxiety in this time of limbo.
I'm not a technology girl. I don't necessarily have to have the latest and best of anything. The only advancement that I look for in a vehicle, for example, is cup holders. The lone television in my house is 12 inches and comes with antennae with foil on the ends of them. I don't even own a blender.
The laptop is my one weakness. She's there on the kitchen counter when I'm looking up recipes. She's there next to my pillow when I finish writing essays that will never get published at night. She hold all of my playlists, whether I'm in the mood for a Sufjan Stevens marathon or a nice steady melancholy mix. When I read the Bible, my laptop and google are all I need to find out such important things as, "Why does the phrase 'Absolom, Absolom!' come to mind when I read about David's fight with his son Absolom? Is there a connection between Faulker's essay and the murderer of the Old Testament?" The laptop stores my photographs, answers my questions, entertains me, allows for income and makes me feel important and untouchable in trendy coffee shops. (Clearly, the most important role of the laptop.)
So. It's been sad. So many blog entries never leave my head. So many designs don't get touched. So many appointments missed, because iCalendar is the only one who knows the intimate details of my life.
Laptop, I miss you. And I promise, that I will never take advantage of you again. Cross my fingers hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. (Future google query: "What is the origin of "cross my fingers hope to die, stick a needle in my eye?") Right.
The laptop is broken. She's getting a new hard drive, but it's taken almost a week to recover old files, and will take several more days until that process is complete. So that means that e-mailing, blogging, watching Grey's Anatomy, looking at my calendar appointments, doing actual work at work and listening to my music have all been a little difficult to do as of late. My freelance work and wedding invitation designs have been put on hold, as have all of my other side projects. I'm walking a strange line between freedom and anxiety in this time of limbo.
I'm not a technology girl. I don't necessarily have to have the latest and best of anything. The only advancement that I look for in a vehicle, for example, is cup holders. The lone television in my house is 12 inches and comes with antennae with foil on the ends of them. I don't even own a blender.
The laptop is my one weakness. She's there on the kitchen counter when I'm looking up recipes. She's there next to my pillow when I finish writing essays that will never get published at night. She hold all of my playlists, whether I'm in the mood for a Sufjan Stevens marathon or a nice steady melancholy mix. When I read the Bible, my laptop and google are all I need to find out such important things as, "Why does the phrase 'Absolom, Absolom!' come to mind when I read about David's fight with his son Absolom? Is there a connection between Faulker's essay and the murderer of the Old Testament?" The laptop stores my photographs, answers my questions, entertains me, allows for income and makes me feel important and untouchable in trendy coffee shops. (Clearly, the most important role of the laptop.)
So. It's been sad. So many blog entries never leave my head. So many designs don't get touched. So many appointments missed, because iCalendar is the only one who knows the intimate details of my life.
Laptop, I miss you. And I promise, that I will never take advantage of you again. Cross my fingers hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. (Future google query: "What is the origin of "cross my fingers hope to die, stick a needle in my eye?") Right.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Back In Gear.
It took me a little while to recover from my pre-birthday coastal trips, but it seems as if I'm back into my normal, steady life. I've come to realize in the past few weeks that I adore structure. I'm a girl who likes a plan. This probably isn't news to those of you who know me, but to me, it's like a mind-shattering epiphany.
I shook up my schedule this morning as I ventured out to a forklift company hours before my typical awakening hour. I've been doing some freelance work for a company that specializes in forklifts, batteries and unmarked white vans. I can't say that I really understand what the company does, but I'm sure I'll leave the experience with a little more knowledge about the important things in life. For example, did you know that there are, like, at least eight different shapes to a forklift? Some of them run off of propane, while others run off of rechargeable batteries. And did you ever wonder why forklifts are so yellow and clean looking while just about everything else on a construction site is grey and dirty? I didn't. But now I know the answer and I'm sharing it with you, dear reader. They paint them. Bright yellow.
My job this morning was to take photographs. To capture the real life inside a forklift company, to put into image what a thousand - or at least a hundred - words could say. When it comes down to it, I think that the brochure that I'm designing really has one point: We Have Forklifts. It's difficult not to try to expand on that singular motive. Everything in me wants the brochure to say, "We Have Forklifts, and We're Artistically Sophisticated." Or "We Have Forklifts and Really Enjoy the Textures of the Materials Around Us." Or "We Have Forklifts and Write In Complete Sentences."
So my plan for this evening - and the rest of my free time for the next few weeks - is already laid out for me. I get to spend time with my friend, Photoshop, trying to make boring pictures interesting, trying to make men in grey jackets working in a grey workroom next to grey shelves and equipment stand out in an image. Neat.
Not only will this be a learning experience, but it will also expand my catalog of freelance topics, which looks something like this:
Church.
Family Groups.
Food.
Forklifts.
Humanities, Chicago.
Library.
Lou Gehrig's Disease.
Pest Removal Devices.
Wedding Invitations.
It took me a little while to recover from my pre-birthday coastal trips, but it seems as if I'm back into my normal, steady life. I've come to realize in the past few weeks that I adore structure. I'm a girl who likes a plan. This probably isn't news to those of you who know me, but to me, it's like a mind-shattering epiphany.
I shook up my schedule this morning as I ventured out to a forklift company hours before my typical awakening hour. I've been doing some freelance work for a company that specializes in forklifts, batteries and unmarked white vans. I can't say that I really understand what the company does, but I'm sure I'll leave the experience with a little more knowledge about the important things in life. For example, did you know that there are, like, at least eight different shapes to a forklift? Some of them run off of propane, while others run off of rechargeable batteries. And did you ever wonder why forklifts are so yellow and clean looking while just about everything else on a construction site is grey and dirty? I didn't. But now I know the answer and I'm sharing it with you, dear reader. They paint them. Bright yellow.
My job this morning was to take photographs. To capture the real life inside a forklift company, to put into image what a thousand - or at least a hundred - words could say. When it comes down to it, I think that the brochure that I'm designing really has one point: We Have Forklifts. It's difficult not to try to expand on that singular motive. Everything in me wants the brochure to say, "We Have Forklifts, and We're Artistically Sophisticated." Or "We Have Forklifts and Really Enjoy the Textures of the Materials Around Us." Or "We Have Forklifts and Write In Complete Sentences."
So my plan for this evening - and the rest of my free time for the next few weeks - is already laid out for me. I get to spend time with my friend, Photoshop, trying to make boring pictures interesting, trying to make men in grey jackets working in a grey workroom next to grey shelves and equipment stand out in an image. Neat.
Not only will this be a learning experience, but it will also expand my catalog of freelance topics, which looks something like this:
Church.
Family Groups.
Food.
Forklifts.
Humanities, Chicago.
Library.
Lou Gehrig's Disease.
Pest Removal Devices.
Wedding Invitations.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
The Bell Curve.
“Um. Romance?”
Of course romance was my choice, but choosing to learn my romantic future… was that what every woman would pick? I didn’t want to be like every girl who wandered into the shop, with its crystals and massage books and yoga mats, looking to the tarot card reader with cares of a superficial kind. But my job was secure, and nothing else seemed to be changing at that time, a few years ago. Romance was, more than anything, what I wanted to learn about my life.
“You’ll come across a tall dark man,” my reader informed me. “He will love you, but you need to make a choice. You are indecisive. He will go or stay, but he wants you to make a choice.”
Of course she knew I was indecisive. It took me five minutes to spit out “romance” over “career,” “health” and any other category that is most likely best left in the future. But she was right. I was indecisive.
I’ve spent most of my life declining to make decisions, for fear that I’d miss out on something else. Of course, I’ve made big ones, like buying the house, and moving to Columbus. Five years ago, I wept on the way from Chicago to Columbus. Rob and Erin drove my Malibu to Chicago on Easter weekend of 2002, to pick me up and help me start my new life in Columbus, Ohio. I left behind a future in Chicago, a boy, a world of public transportation, loneliness, bitter winter winds, a life of never quite fitting in. I made a decision to move to Columbus. To choose stability – health insurance, a 401k, old friends – over adventure.
But the smaller ones, I still avoid. I want to learn everything that’s happened everywhere in the world in the last 200 years. I want to be able to ride a bike across the farmlands of Ohio – or, in the very least, across High Street – without fearing a heart attack. I want to read books. Secular, spiritual, fiction, non-fiction. I want to finish a quilt. I want to learn to make fresh pasta. I want to learn to make dresses. I want to visit the art museum, like, all the time. I want to visit a sheep farm. I want to remember how to take photos.
These are the things that I struggle with, the choices that make me indecisive. If I go head-first into fiber arts, am I missing my calling as a semi-suburban chicken farmer? If I decide to invest in riding, will my Saturday mornings be spent on the road instead of in a book?
When I choose, what do I miss out on?
I think that if there is a bell curve of fear, I’m slowly making my way down the other side. At a point in my life, as Maya and I drove the seductive hills of the Pacific Coast Highway, I would have had high blood pressure at the thought of having a mortgage in Columbus, Ohio. That would mean missing out on an opportunity to be a hippie in the hills of Point Reyes, or writing a book in the highlands of Scotland. Or whatever.
But now, as I sit in the Minnesota Airport – a place that brought me instant comfort and familiarity as I once again entered the dominion of the Midwest – I know that my home is, for now, in Ohio. I know that the decisions I’ve made, financially, socially, spiritually, have brought me exactly where I want to be.
I’m content with my life. Which is a good foundation for making decisions.
A few days ago, the three of us – Liz and Bones and I – hiked up a cliff at Muir Beach. It’s a place that I’ve always wanted to go, as my surname was changed, along the line, from “Muirhead” to “Moorhead.” In a way, I’ve felt an attachment to John Muir, and to the area. A superficial yet undeniable attachment.
We hiked up the cliff to see the sunset over the Pacific, an idea that was not at all original, as evidenced by the number of tourists and locals picnicking along the beach. In the days before the bell curve dropped me off on the older, curvier side of things, looking at a sunset would have me wondering about my future love, my Tall Dark Man. I would think, “How pretty,” and then search my mind in a google-like fashion for anyone I knew that would fit the puzzle.
This time, all I could think was how small I am, how big God is, how it is that 1500 miles and eight months did not affect my friendship with this couple. I cried a little bit, sitting on top of the cliff, praying out loud with my friends. The romance that I had with God right there was bigger and better than any hand-holding sunset scenario I could ever conjure up in my imagination. I turned off the search engine in my mind, and focused on the here and now.
It was as we walked down the mountain – keeping an eye out for mountain lions – that I realized the value of the contentment that I felt. I don’t need a breathtaking sunset to be happy, to be inspired. Not anymore. A friendship with God, a friendship with those he creates, is just as powerful in my mind and heart.
So I spent the rest of the evening thinking about people that I love, texting them, calling them, praying for them, feeling blessed to have them in my life, in one way or another.
Readers, I’m excited to have you in my life, whether we’ve met personally or not, whether we agree or not. I’m grateful for the time you take to read this, for the time you take to leave comments, to think about things on this here blog. And if I ever learn how to make pasta from scratch, I want to have you all over for dinner, so you can meet my chickens and look at my quilts. And then, maybe, we can go on a bike ride.
“Um. Romance?”
Of course romance was my choice, but choosing to learn my romantic future… was that what every woman would pick? I didn’t want to be like every girl who wandered into the shop, with its crystals and massage books and yoga mats, looking to the tarot card reader with cares of a superficial kind. But my job was secure, and nothing else seemed to be changing at that time, a few years ago. Romance was, more than anything, what I wanted to learn about my life.
“You’ll come across a tall dark man,” my reader informed me. “He will love you, but you need to make a choice. You are indecisive. He will go or stay, but he wants you to make a choice.”
Of course she knew I was indecisive. It took me five minutes to spit out “romance” over “career,” “health” and any other category that is most likely best left in the future. But she was right. I was indecisive.
I’ve spent most of my life declining to make decisions, for fear that I’d miss out on something else. Of course, I’ve made big ones, like buying the house, and moving to Columbus. Five years ago, I wept on the way from Chicago to Columbus. Rob and Erin drove my Malibu to Chicago on Easter weekend of 2002, to pick me up and help me start my new life in Columbus, Ohio. I left behind a future in Chicago, a boy, a world of public transportation, loneliness, bitter winter winds, a life of never quite fitting in. I made a decision to move to Columbus. To choose stability – health insurance, a 401k, old friends – over adventure.
But the smaller ones, I still avoid. I want to learn everything that’s happened everywhere in the world in the last 200 years. I want to be able to ride a bike across the farmlands of Ohio – or, in the very least, across High Street – without fearing a heart attack. I want to read books. Secular, spiritual, fiction, non-fiction. I want to finish a quilt. I want to learn to make fresh pasta. I want to learn to make dresses. I want to visit the art museum, like, all the time. I want to visit a sheep farm. I want to remember how to take photos.
These are the things that I struggle with, the choices that make me indecisive. If I go head-first into fiber arts, am I missing my calling as a semi-suburban chicken farmer? If I decide to invest in riding, will my Saturday mornings be spent on the road instead of in a book?
When I choose, what do I miss out on?
I think that if there is a bell curve of fear, I’m slowly making my way down the other side. At a point in my life, as Maya and I drove the seductive hills of the Pacific Coast Highway, I would have had high blood pressure at the thought of having a mortgage in Columbus, Ohio. That would mean missing out on an opportunity to be a hippie in the hills of Point Reyes, or writing a book in the highlands of Scotland. Or whatever.
But now, as I sit in the Minnesota Airport – a place that brought me instant comfort and familiarity as I once again entered the dominion of the Midwest – I know that my home is, for now, in Ohio. I know that the decisions I’ve made, financially, socially, spiritually, have brought me exactly where I want to be.
I’m content with my life. Which is a good foundation for making decisions.
A few days ago, the three of us – Liz and Bones and I – hiked up a cliff at Muir Beach. It’s a place that I’ve always wanted to go, as my surname was changed, along the line, from “Muirhead” to “Moorhead.” In a way, I’ve felt an attachment to John Muir, and to the area. A superficial yet undeniable attachment.
We hiked up the cliff to see the sunset over the Pacific, an idea that was not at all original, as evidenced by the number of tourists and locals picnicking along the beach. In the days before the bell curve dropped me off on the older, curvier side of things, looking at a sunset would have me wondering about my future love, my Tall Dark Man. I would think, “How pretty,” and then search my mind in a google-like fashion for anyone I knew that would fit the puzzle.
This time, all I could think was how small I am, how big God is, how it is that 1500 miles and eight months did not affect my friendship with this couple. I cried a little bit, sitting on top of the cliff, praying out loud with my friends. The romance that I had with God right there was bigger and better than any hand-holding sunset scenario I could ever conjure up in my imagination. I turned off the search engine in my mind, and focused on the here and now.
It was as we walked down the mountain – keeping an eye out for mountain lions – that I realized the value of the contentment that I felt. I don’t need a breathtaking sunset to be happy, to be inspired. Not anymore. A friendship with God, a friendship with those he creates, is just as powerful in my mind and heart.
So I spent the rest of the evening thinking about people that I love, texting them, calling them, praying for them, feeling blessed to have them in my life, in one way or another.
Readers, I’m excited to have you in my life, whether we’ve met personally or not, whether we agree or not. I’m grateful for the time you take to read this, for the time you take to leave comments, to think about things on this here blog. And if I ever learn how to make pasta from scratch, I want to have you all over for dinner, so you can meet my chickens and look at my quilts. And then, maybe, we can go on a bike ride.
