Changing the Landscape

January 1st always seems like an arbitrary new year.  Flowers coming up in Spring feels like the start of a new year, as does September with each new school year beginning.  Maybe that's why Rosh Hashana (the Jewish New Year) has always felt right to me.  Regardless, January 1st is how our calendar places the new year.  Not even timed with Winter Solstice, this "beginning" is in a dark time of year.  Here in the Midwest, it means short days, long nights; frozen ground, if not a lot of snow; cold weather.  Not exactly inspiring material for creating, for starting fresh.  And yet, if all my yoga can guide me here, I am not the same person today that I was yesterday.  I am not the same person that I was an hour ago.  Every action, every breath changes me ever so subtly.  I am new in each moment.  I can tap into this newness at any time and find a way to start fresh.

I've been reading articles, journaling, having conversations about how to grow Woolynns.  What direction to take.  Some of it is simply getting to know Minnesota better and figuring out where my work fits in.  But some of it is in the art itself.  Am I really making what I want to make?  Or am I recreating past successes hoping for another sale?  Can I sell what I want to make?  Can I make what sells?  These questions right here are my New Year's Eve, my Spring, my first day of school.  They are the seeds for whatever is about to grow.  And some of them won't grow right away, or even at all.   I intend to water them all, but I am sure I will forget some of them, unintentionally losing a possibility. It is important that I plant them even still.  Time to create a new landscape.

I had an acting teacher (eons ago) who told me to throw lots of balls in the air;  that way there is a better of chance of catching at least one.  Watch me throw about 12.  

Right now.

A year in the life ...

This time last year, I was gearing up for our move to Minnesota after 12 plus years in Michigan.  Mark would be househunting and starting his new MN job in January, and the kids and I would be packing up our house for a late February move.  Since then I have:

• said good-bye to very dear friends and to an idea of myself based on external factors
• repainted our new place's interior when our belongings were delayed
• assisted my oldest during a very rough transition to his new school (never before has summer break come with such relief for him)
• watched as my youngest settled in more easily than expected, and been in awe as she denied living here ("I like gray" in response to the blue skies of a Minnesota winter)
• experienced travel baseball (never again)
• seen a chance to perform with high schoolers ease my middle schooler's pain
• found one studio willing to give me a shot teaching
• created a studio space and made lots of beautiful scarves
• camped in the Black Hills of South Dakota
• attended four art shows, at which my sales were dismal
• figured out what a gift it is to live near extended family
• watched Mark return to a happier frame of mind
• learned how to pull shots and pour latte art
• hosted Michigan friends on assorted trips through the Twin Cities
• adopted a dog (a beautiful Italian Greagle)
• seen my daughter branch out in ways we had only hoped might happen with a move
• cheered on my son as he discovered a new passion for swimming
• realized how deep friendships can run and how tentative it is starting new ones

One of my scattered-throughout-the-globe friends wrote a piece that is so very beautiful about resolutions and taking leaps and falling and starting over.  This is what it has felt like.  Grand and abysmal; barely functioning and laying so much groundwork; knowing I am in the right place but not quite feeling at home.  Staying in touch with old friends helps and hinders.  I need to move forward; I get stuck looking back.  Love from my old friends inspires and sustains and saddens.  Finding new friends is harder each time I move.  But here I am, looking at 2012, ready to start tackling that list of Ways To Feel Like I Live Here.  One item at a time.

• Follow up on people's offers: coffee, introductions, job ideas
• Set aside a few days to finally nail down all our health care providers
• Keep walking the dog in the big park, looking for the elusive albino squirrel
• Practice yoga
• Try felting a tallit
• Create a more structured approach to Woolynns
• Research local art fairs based upon recommendations received this fall
• Explore our new home state in new ways each month (arboretum, Fringe festival, etc)
• Be willing to drop a few balls

Here's to a new year filled with taking leaps, falling, and starting over.
Happy 2012!