The everyday matters

I wanted to share a really cool project which Cheryl over at Time to Craft is doing.

Inspired by a 1922 competition which invited farmer's wives to write letters to their imaginary daughters, each accompanied by a square for a patchwork quilt, Cheryl is composing a series of letters to her daughter as she builds a quilt patch by patch. I've really enjoyed her first two letters (here and here) and the thoughts they have prompted.

The discussions around wearing make up and doing homework seem to me to be about much bigger questions - being yourself, deciding who that is, laying the groundwork for your future. These are subjects as worthy of consideration at 21 or 101 as at 11. And what I particularly like about Cheryl's approach is how she uses these everyday examples.

We all choose to be who we are every day, and every day that changes slightly. On the one hand, that's fantastic. We grow and evolve and learn and change - how boring if we were all the exact same people at 50 that we were at 15 - and the decisions we make each day can inform the next day, and so on.

On the other hand, it means that it is very easy to find yourself someone you never meant to be because of little things that seem not to matter at the time. Whether that's reaching for the cookie jar (yes folks I broke my no-chocolate-cookies-streak) or allowing work to slowly erode your free time (ahem), or how you handle stress or conflict or frustration, the little decisions matter.

The little repetitive actions that we make the time to do - washing up or doing exercise or spending time with loved ones or blogging - not only reveal our priorities but reinforce them, and choosing to repeat something or avoid it changes the role it plays in our lives. I think many of us are evaluating this - if I say my family comes first, but they only get a few hours a week of my time, is that really accurate? Am I, in fact, kidding myself?

I've been thinking a lot recently at work around ethics - while we have to comply with various rules and guidelines about how we represent our clients or approach certain stakeholders (basically if we're paid by company x, we have to be open and transparent about it), I'm increasingly aware that actually my actions and my reputation are my own concern and responsibility, and while being compliant with the set requirements, even in my everyday phone calls I am considering how my own standards compare, and beginning to ensure that I satisfy my own as well as my clients' standards.

That should seem like an obvious thing to do, but it's very easy to follow the standard in place without thinking about whether it's the right one for me. And not with big gestures - I'm not speaking to the press or the President or anything - but I am realising that my every day emails and every day phone calls add up to a sum greater than the parts and I want to be damn sure I feel comfortable with what that sum looks like.

The same applies to other areas of my life. I think of myself as a simple/slow living advocate, but as my recent work habits show, that's not really accurate. I think of myself as someone healthy who takes care of herself, but I rarely excercise and eat more biscuits than I should. That doesn't mean I should beat myself up about it, but be honest with myself and try to make time for the small daily tasks that reflect and reinforce who I want to be.

So who do I want to be tomorrow? I'm not totally sure, but I think that asking the question is far more important than finding a conclusive answer.

What's on your bookshelf?

Reading angry chicken's post about building a family library got me thinking over the last week. How did the selection of books on my shelves get there, what do they say about me and how do they enrich my life?

As you will have seen, I've been a little alarmed recently by identifying my reluctance to throw out things that are broken, damaged or no longer needed as the tip of the iceberg of proper, full-on can't-see-the-floors-or-even-the-walls hoarding.

The two factors came together with the realisation that most of the books on my shelf do not enrich my life. I have been holding on to lots of books that I have read and will never read again, some of which I did not particularly enjoy, but all of which I feel I have to keep hold of. This is perhaps partly a learned response, as I have always been taught never to get rid of books as they are an investment in your intellectual future, but also I think I have been clinging to an image that my bookshelves portrayed. I like being someone who has Virgina Woolf and Samuel Beckett on her bookshelves, even if I know I am never again going to read Nohow On. It was depressing enough the first time.

This means that every time I walk into the spare room, where all the bookshelves are, I feel conflicted between the life I would like to have and the one I do. Much as I would love to be an erudite reader who enjoys dissecting the finer points of Beckett after too much booze, this is not (or no longer) really a part of my life. I want to embrace new intellectual challenges - and read Beckett's plays, which I do enjoy, rather than his prose. I also look at the cluttered selection of books stacked two deep on all shelves, and piling up towards the ceiling, and feel how far this is from a peaceful, restorative and stimulating library I would like to have.

The purpose of a book is to be read. By holding books in perpetual storage on my shelves, all I do is make it harder to see the books I might pick up and read, and block new and exciting books from coming in to join the party. So I am selling four bags of books to the second-hand bookshop I frequent, and I hope they will entertain, inspire and challenge many more people. I can now actually see the books I have not yet read, and can think about which books I might like to add to a smaller but more meaningful and purposeful collection.

Confessions

The blogs I most enjoy are not the ones that depict a picture-perfect life - much as I enjoy the fantasy of that, I know that this is just not possible for most (all) of us. So it follows that, much as I would love to turn this blog into a catalogue of the best moments, a collection of pictures of tidy rooms and fresh ironing, of homemade bread and pots of tea, I feel compelled to honesty. Today is a day for confessions.

Confession the First: The Pile

It has to be capitalised. It's not a pile. Oh no. It's The Pile. This is a picture of the area beside my bed:

It consists of scraps of fabric from old projects, balls of wool, the swatch for a new pair of socks I'm planning, letters that need replying to, documents which need filing, books, handcreams, jewellery, a bag of essential oils, my spindle and wool for spinning, a spare towel, my slippers, my flip-flops, and lengths of fabric ready to be used, as well as old clothes that need mending or that are past mending and are ready for the rag bag.

To be brutally honest, the Pile was a helluva lot more impressive two weeks ago. I've removed a significant number of items in the rediscovered craftiness of the last two weeks. Please also note that the pile extends under the bed as well.

My challenge is pretty much the same one as always - being constantly torn between on the one hand a desire to get rid of surplus possessions, to simplify everything from my wardrobe to my craft cupboard down to practical, beautiful essentials which contribute towards my goal of living a purposeful, efficient yet meaningful and uplifting life - and on the other hand, a reluctance to throw things away which still could have function, a desire to repurpose, reuse, adapt, personalise. Which means I get as far as taking old clothes out of the wardrobe, or keeping fabric scraps out of the bin, but not as far as actually DOING anything productive with them!

I have spent most of my evenings for the last week unpicking the seams of four items of clothing which were so stained, worn, torn and moth-eaten (repsectively) that I had resolved to finally convert them into panels for my next next next project, a patchwork quilt. (Never do things by halves. My first patchwork quilt will be super-king sized). I am finally making progress with some of the pile - but I am stumped by the 'superfluous' but still functional clothes. Can I bring myself to cut up perfectly serviceable clothes? My moral dilemma of the week.

Confession the Second: Bloody beeswax

One of the crafty projects that has been on my list for sometime was making homemade candles. I've watched Kirsty Allsop do it, and it seemed really basic - melt wax, add essential oils for scent, pour wax into containers with wick inserted. Allow to cool. It seemed so easy.

At first, it was rather hypnotic - I was moved to take a photo of the melting beeswax, which also smelled lovely. But then I came rather unstuck with pouring the wax - the wicks I had bought from the craft shop sort of floated around. My boyfriend came to the rescue, improvising with a teaspoon and a couple of toothpicks, and the wicks were in place. I thought the worst was over - BUT NO!

Oh woe, woe and thrice woe. For I have STILL not got the bloody beeswax off the plastic measuring jug I used for pouring the wax. I have tried freezing it, which is supposed to make the wax harden and crack off. I have tried soaking and scrubbing it in boiling water, alcohol, baking soda and washing up liquid, individually and in combination. The jug sits on the side in the kitchen, looking sorrowfully at me, and reminding me to give it a hopeful bath every time I do the washing up. Each day, it becomes infinitessimally cleaner but it's definitely not wax-free yet.

Gentle readers, take heed - do not put melted beeswax in an implement you intend to use for cooking. Have a beeswax jug in the corner of some cupboard which can live with a crust of wax.

I think that's enough honesty for today! I'm off to ignore the pile of projects and do some knitting.