On Racism: on stage, on the court and in your homes

Before we get underway, I want to make sure readers understand that comments that assert or imply that racism, ethnic stereotyping and/or sexism don’t exist will be deleted, as will comments that seek to minimize the impact of oppression or deride or dismiss those who call attention to how privilege and oppression are manifested.  Repeated comments to this effect will result in bans.  This space is intended to be explicitly anti-oppression; if you would like to debate the existence of oppression in its various forms, I can’t stop you, but I also won’t provide you a venue.  There are, unfortunately, countless other places that will not only allow but gleefully welcome your defense of privilege.  Find one. [Borrowed with permission from DiSnazzio]

Once upon a time, I knew someone (while this someone is specific, it could be anyone, really) who would often get visibly uncomfortable and sometimes angry when Black people fell to their knees and sobbed dramatically after seeing their new home on Extreme Home Makeover.  This person said that while they understood the magnitude of the moment, that the hysterics were a little over the top.  Comparisons were made between these moments and the stereotypes white people have generated over time of Black churches, gospel and the general enthusiasm that white culture does not understand nor incorporate into their enjoyment, or displeasure, of life.  I quarrelled with this person over the clean and simple racism in their judgments, but they vehemently opposed my perspective.  “Just because they’re black doesn’t mean I’m saying this because they’re Black and I’m not racist, ok?” was the common refrain.  It set up a really comprehensive and far-reaching paradigm for the experiences I have regularly with whiteness about the emotion of persons of color and how they elect to display it.

We all have common stereotypes that we force POC to fit into.  We assumed that Kate Gosselin, witch that she is, married Jon Gosselin because the percentage of Korean he had within him most certainly certified the fact that he would be silent and complacent – because all Asian men are the strong, silent type…right?  Black women, while lauded and loathed for the ampleness of their bosoms and behinds, are often regarded as the least feminine women on the planet (see: Caster Semenya).  Asian women are silent, submissive, and quite skilled at precise handiwork.  Black men are violent, less than intelligent, and abusive.  Latin women are sensual, seductive and hot-tempered.  I could go on and on with this.  The point I’m attempting to make is not that these stereotypes are valuable or valid, because they are not, but that they inform our opinions of people at a level so buried in our subconscious that sometimes we fail to consider our prejudices before we speak.

Last night Kanye West stormed unceremoniously on stage at the Video Music Awards on MTV and grabbed the microphone from Taylor Swift, who was accepting her award for Best Female Music Video.  This young, thin, pale, blonde white girl was able to squeak a few words out before the angry Black man interrupted her acceptance speech and announced his displeasure with the results.  West, rightfully in my opinion, was admonishing the public that voted for Swift’s video saying that Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” video was, essentially, epic.  And to be honest, her video and the dance moves contained within, will probably rank up there with Thriller and Rhythm Nation insofar as they are permanently tattooed into the collective consciousness as powerful and original choreographic cultural vignettes.  Comparatively speaking, Beyonce’s video was beyond Swift’s in both quality and craftsmanship.  But the VMAs are about the people’s vote, and just as we were displeased when Bush II was reelected (though this wasn’t so much the public’s fault but one of the biggest mistakes made by the Supreme Court ever), the people who supported the rightful candidate were disappointed.  And West took it upon himself to say so, in an aggressive and seemingly disrespectful manner.

The internet shot ablaze when this happened.  There wasn’t an internet service I could access where people weren’t expressing their shock and disgust at West’s lack of decorum.  People called him an asshole, douche bag, jerk, and a whole slew of tasteless insults levied at a man who has moved in and out of the collective annoyance over the past 12-18 months.  West is critiqued for his sexism, chauvinism, for his sexuality and his outspoken, inarticulate and often brash nature.  Most people forget, though, to look within and consult their own prejudices when calling out the unsavory behavior of a person…especially a person of color.   What West did was call a spade a spade – on a stage fueled by the opinions and wallets of a predominantly white populace.  And he did it in a way that they found crass and inappropriate.  Is this a legitimate critique of his character or an easy out because we don’t have our racism in check?

This weekend we also grappled with uncharacteristic and foul-mouthed outbursts from Serena Williams on the tennis court.  Tennis, which is to me (still) a stereotypical affluent white sport, allows the Williams sisters on its courts because they are wonderful athletes.  What they don’t enjoy is when they dress inappropriately, have less-than-feminine bodies, and especially when they open their mouths.  Based on everything I’ve read, Serena had a legitimate bone to pick with the line judge.  Offering to shove a tennis ball down someone’s throat is not often regarded as a gesture of civility, but one must admit that if any official in your place of work passed a judgment or even generated a formal grievance against you for an action that was not actually fact or fair, you too would be overcome with anger and outrage.  After years and years of being forced into a cookie cutter in which she does not fit, Serena seemed to have enough.   I cannot fault her for that.   And I do believe that doing so, without regard for one’s own racism, would be a questionable statement of privilege.

I’m not asking anyone to rescind their judgments and statement about West or Williams or any POC they’ve incidentally or intentionally critiqued in a public forum.  HOWEVER, I do think that if you are committed to eradicating oppression, disinterested in fueling racism, and a person who understands (or at least endeavors to) the complex human experience, that instinctively passing judgment against a person whose life experiences have been and will be dramatically different than yours is just plain wrong.  Privilege is not a matter of what you have in your wallet, or what you have on your dining room table – it’s a complex system of oppression levied, in this case, against a group of people for hundreds if not thousands of years.  If the resentment of that oppression takes the form of an angry threat, an unkind microphone grab at an indulgent industry event, or as frustrated condescension in the home of a Harvard professor, it’s really ok.  White people have NO CONCEPT of what the general or personal experiences of POC have actually been like, and it is not within our right to pass judgment.  And by doing so, we make ourselves no better than the conservative and religious right who is currently calling our Black president Hitler and degrading him in unimaginable ways every single day.  Enough.

Well, don’t be sad, I don’t write in my planner either.

It’s amazing how, when you de-prioritize blogging within parameters, that you really have very little to say that fits well in a box like this.  I have more bookmarks than I could possibly ever need, yet I keep piling on because everything’s interesting and it’s all a fantastic idea that I hadn’t thought of yet.  In lieu of pressuring myself yet again to write something when I genuinely have nothing to say, I’m going to chronicle the past few weeks in list-form.  If anything, this will help me remember.

• Seamus is no longer a boy, and will never be a man.  He’s coping well, I think.  We’re really awesome parents, too.

• On Friday, I went to dinner with two friends (twins, in fact) whom I’ve known for close to 25 years.  We were the best of friends for many, many of those years and drifted apart once our four years of college should’ve ended.  I say this not because we didn’t graduate…they did, I didn’t…but because that’s when people are sprung forth from their respective thinking villages and thrust into the big bad world.  I reunited with one of the twins when I needed help about five years ago, and have spent the past five years feeling awful about myself.  The miracle of Facebook (I should italicize that so you can feel the sarcasm) brought us together and after another YEAR of piddle-farting around and trying to make plans, we finally went for sushi.  It was probably one of the best meals of my life, and with two people who helped create and support the me that’s not as deeply inside as she was a few years ago.  They validated me in ways that I never knew I needed to be validated, and laughed so sincerely at every single joke I made.  It’s heartwarming in some of the most authentic yet cheesy ways to know that I have two people, and their family, who have loved me almost as long as I’ve been alive.  Four or five years ago, that would’ve scared me righteously; today, it’s a comfort.  We’re going to have monthly dates now and I am so, so pleased.
• Ruby, Angela and I created some more Presidential Pretties over the weekend.  This is such a fun project and I love that it’s educational for all of us, too!

• My parents arrive in a few weeks for a quick drive-through visit and I’m incredibly nervous and excited about their arrival.   I should be saying to myself, “Meaghan, they get to see you in your grown-up space, doing your grown-up things and you should feel proud of yourself.  Instead, I’m saying, “Meaghan, dust the baseboards because Mom is totally going to white glove that shit.”  Transferring this neurosis to Em is really super awesome too; I made it even better by forcing her to watch two hours of A&E’s Hoarders to really seal the deal.  I can only hope that my parents arrive and Em and I are hunched over, eyes wild with cleaning fume inhalation, and a spastic puppy whose peed all over the house while we were focusing on hidden corners and shower grout that they’ll never see.  Fortunately, we’re going apple picking one of the days they’re here.  There are small blessings everywhere, I suppose.
• The farmer’s market season is, and has been, in full gear and Em and I have tried to get as much as we can from them.  There’s a market every Wednesday at work and last week I picked up some Ginger Gold apples from these hot and hunky West Virginia farmer men.  They kind of looked like a slightly-yellow Golden Delicious but the sample I tried was firm, crisp and taaaaaasty, so I bought five.  I cut one up while I was working that day and took about two hours to eat it.  Not only was it delicious, slightly tart and mildly effervescent, but IT NEVER TURNED BROWN.  A few days later Em and I cut one up for dessert and left the core on the counter overnight (shush!) and IT NEVER TURNED BROWN.  I have no idea how this is possible.  Today I bought 6.5lbs of Ginger Golds at the market and it’s taking more self-control than you could possibly imagine not to eat them all right this moment.
• After a lot of waiting and patience, and discussing fee-fees and such with a crafty friend, I’m hosting a CRAFTERNOON on Sunday at the apartment.  It never occurred to me how much of a get-it-done kind of person I really am, but I hate resting on my laurels when it’s easy to get something going.  I admitted to my crafty friend that I am a control freak by nature and that the groups I’ve joined and actively participated in are both a test of and testament to my desire to relinquish control so as not to make everything go my way.  The Queer Crafter Collective has been both a blessing and a curse in that regard; I really wanted to work hard at being a great team-player and getting things done.  What doesn’t always occur to me is the fact that other people have their own agendas and schedules and perhaps things just can’t or won’t move according to my suburban sensibilities.  Nevertheless, I’m continuing to craft (cross stitch at the moment) and will craft with some friends on Sunday.  Relishing in the feel-good of all that will be just enough for now, I think!

All in all, things are good.  I like not having to report to anyone about this space, and that things just happen organically.  But I also enjoy writing things out, and I’ve been told that other folks enjoy it too.  So here’s to trying, right?

P.S. – I was just given a gift of salt and vinegar Virginia Peanuts from a colleague! I joked with her recently about sending me work while she was on vacation; I said that I’d rather have some Virginia peanuts from Williamsburg if she was going to give me anything at all.   These should be interesting!

“Everything in excess is opposed to nature.”

• 25 Xerox boxes full of yarn
• a 8′ tall by 10′ wide handmade two-door wood cabinet full of smaller craft supplies in organizer bins
• a huge three-drawer dresser full of ribbons, buttons and trim
• baskets and baskets full of cross stitch and embroidery patterns
• hundreds of unfinished craft projects, including intricate crocheted doilies and snowflakes, baby blankets, and other doodads

That’s what we inherited when my Nanny died…when we learned the true extent of her crafting addiction.  The woman was a hoarder, no doubt, and she was particularly fixated upon crafts.  If Ben Franklin had one of those big sale bins full of cross stitch kits, she would’ve purchased every last one of them.  There was always someone who needed a stuffed flour sack magnet for their fridge, or an angel ornament for their Christmas tree with the same hair/eye color as their children or grandchildren.  Eventually, because my mother and I were unable to go through every last bit of these crafty supplies, we wound up donating and selling a vast majority of the excess.  Sometimes, when I log onto craft selling sites or look at my own crafty stash, I wonder where we’re headed.

My understanding of craft is not what we see at American Craft Council shows and on high end blogs.  For all intents and purposes, craft to me is a method by which a person makes something they need.  Whether you’re making an apron, a flower bed or a personal or decorative adornment, crafting is stepping away from mainstream manufacturing and endeavoring to create on your own, for yourself and your closest loved ones.  There is a deep amount of pride woven into the fabric of craft, and often elements of tradition and reverence for the past.  Consequently, and despite my interest and involvement in the realm of craft for profit, I am often overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of crafted items available now that selling sites are growing in shockingly exponential numbers.

How much of the crafting for “profit” movement IS really green?  How is the movement environmentally conscious?  How much of this do we really need?  Do we eliminate the eco-consciousness by sending packages around the world, using excessive electricity to power our shops via the internet, paper to wrap the treasures up? Are we caving to our instinctive gluttonous nature as human beings by indulging ourselves with countless pairs of earrings and knick-knacks in every corner of our homes?

You have to wonder where this will all go when it can’t be sold…because no, it can’t all be sold.  I’ve given away a lot of stuff, not just in trade, because I cannot do anything else with it.  Is crafting the satisfaction?  Or is making money?  How many landfills could we max out with the stash currently available on Etsy?  How many trips to the moon could we make on a tightrope made of DMC floss?  Is this excess?  What the hell are we doing?

Quote courtesy of Hippocrates.

Got out of bed, got a hammer and a nail

After a whole bunch of deliberation and soul searching, I’ve decided to open Oh Ginger in a new space. Please visit and let me know what you think! As a special thank you to those who have yet to visit and those who have supported me through it all, I’m offering a Housewarming Sale where you can get 20% off your purchase in my new shop.

Just use the coupon code “housewarming” to get the discount. My shop handles the math for you! The sale ends next Friday 8/28 at midnight EST. Have a great weekend, all.

On sadness and road apples.

I am not particularly used to the world right now.  To be honest, I don’t know how to behave.  We spent the past eight years under an administration that really only permitted seething contempt; we had nothing invested in the man who fucked over this country, and the only expectation we attached to his existence was that he would fail and then leave (thank god for term limits, right?).  We knew a whole bunch of stuff about a whole bunch of things that weren’t happening and we were optimistic that things could, should and would change.

Now, times are so different.  We invested our optimism and hope in a man, who is one in a long line of men letting us down.  Health care is never about compromise, and I’m disappointed that I cheered for a man that doesn’t find it in his head or heart to settle for the right compromise, if there is such a thing given the duality that exists in this nation.  The people who are asking this country to meet in the middle on their health care have actually never had to compromise where their health is concerned.  Growing up in an environment that featured this very privileged reality makes it very easy for me to understand where they are coming from.  There is no concept of community; they were never raised with it, they never relied on it, they cannot understand its value.  They’re all bootstraps and meritocratic.  How do you talk to them in a way that validates your own anger and resentment and simultaneously coaxes them into reality?  I don’t know.  I wish that my fellow countrymen weren’t such bigoted assholes.  If there was any doubt in your mind that racism was and is still alive, I ask you to shut your mouth at this very moment and turn on any news station.  Not just Fox News, but any station.  Listen to what people are saying; they’re about to throw pipe bombs into shop windows because they are afraid of helping their fellow man BE WELL.  This is horrible stuff.  Nightly, I hang my head in exasperation, in desperation and in complete and utter misery.  I feel helpless!

On top of all of the horrendous decision making that swarms around this administration like flies above a road apple, I’ve been feeling sad on a personal level.  Summer makes me feel horrible; the humidity and the heat provide no respite from a general heavy feeling around my head, my chest and my heart.  I always hated my birthday as a kid when it came down to it, mostly because my friends were always on vacation when I tried to have a birthday party.  Swimming is my only salvation, and I haven’t done that in weeks.  Life doesn’t really ever change, it just looks different.  The suburbs do not suit me, and often I feel profoundly alone out here.  My job helps me pay my bills but it also makes me feel so angry and stupid sometimes, and I wonder how it will ever be possible to leave.  I get angry at the lack of depth in many of my relationships, I feel forgotten, misunderstood, avoided.  I’ve seen my dentist more than I’ve seen anyone with whom I have community, friendship or love.  I miss my family, my dog is an asshole more often than not, and I cannot deal with the mornings that are so thick with humidity that I have to remember how to breathe.

I’m waiting for a change more than words can express.  I’m waiting for the leaves to morphOn into colors that I love; colors that look like fire ignited on the branches and on the ground.  I’m waiting for cool, clear nights where I can breathe so deeply that my lungs touch the tip of my toes.  It is in fall that I feel most comfortable…in my skin, in my body, in my mind.  I’m waiting for autumn.

Get out of my dreams, get into my family room?

Em and I are discussing ideas for a sofa/couch as I’ve been whining about wanting something other than a damn futon for a while now.  The fact that my dearest Bucko will soon be getting a new couch has stoked the, uh, fire even more.  While there’s nothing we can afford at the moment, we can dream, right?  Here’s what we’re dreaming about at the moment…buying two Ektorp chaises (one left, one right) and smooshing them together.  Is it too weird?  Indulgent?  Should we just suck it up and get a Craftmatic Adjustable Bed?  You be the judge.

To commune with nature

At Girl Scout camp, circa age 7.

This morning is one of those mornings where the air, though thick with humidity, is just cool enough to reignite the memory of waking up at summer camp in a old, rusty cabin or a tent in the forest.  As a kid, whether it was through Girl Scouts or my own volition, I was away at camp at least once a year.  When I wasn’t at camp, I was tucked away reading books or playing games in a an ugly brown tent my parents bought me on a whim.  I’d put it in our backyard or take it with me to Pop Pop and Nanny’s, where I’d park it under a big tree and stow away for hours.  I love camping and being outside in the wee hours of the morning more than most folks would expect from me.  There’s a quality to it, a freshness and an undeniable exuberance I collect from the experience.

Even as an adult, I’ve been camping now and then.  I spent one summer as a camp counselor at a local regional park.  More of my time was dedicated to outdoor pursuits that summer than any summer since.  I still marvel at the ability of people to take weeks or months off from life to hike, camp and commune with nature.  Growing up in suburbia, close enough to the wilderness but far enough away from it to feel like I didn’t have time to mingle with it, taught me few survival instincts.  But I can manage quite well at a well-planned camp; I can even make my own fire.  The closest I’ve come to camping in recent years was a weekend at the HighAcre house in Harper’s Ferry, WV.  Though not camping, it is managed by the Potomac Appalachian Trail Club and the proceeds go the upkeep of the house and trail management.

I miss the smells of camping.  I miss waking up in a sleeping bag that smells like the campfire you sat in front of for hours the night before.  I miss tethering a hammock between two trees and hearing nothing but the unaffected sounds of nature all around you as you swing gently back and forth.  I miss the smell of an almost dewy morning, where most of the forest sleeps except the squawking birds.  I miss not being afraid of bugs and plants, knowing where to step and where to avoid.  I miss sitting on rocks next to creeks and absorbing the intoxicating sound of water trickling.  And I miss knowing how to interact with the world around me without the help of electricity, without the entertainment of magazines and television, without the insistence that talking fill up empty spaces of necessary silence.

Even more now, I am reminded that the people who cling to nature are not hippies or environmentalists exclusively.  They are wise and careful explorers, escapists of the most enviable variety.  They have found that which is the most magical, the most real, the most soul-settling and they’ve committed themselves to enjoying and preserving it.  I feel like an old man when I say this, but I wish that kids these days knew what that felt like.

The culture of optimism in the craft community

This space was created for me to write like I did in the olden days of LiveJournal and to absolve myself of the stress that blogging for purpose creates.  To be honest, I don’t have the time or the content to justify a homemaking blog, no matter how I fool myself.  So heirloom tomato is just a space where I can spread my thoughts haphazardly all over the place without regard to my readership or any kind of authority.  But, this post might be crossposted simply because I feel that strongly about it.

I feel stifled by, and simultaneously shunned by, the culture of positivity that exists presently in the crafty world.  For all of the foibles one must encounter in any avenue of their life, senseless optimism is perhaps the most infuriating.  To say that the concept of positivity versus negativity has become polarized in this environment is an understatement.  There are evangelicals and dissenters and nary the two shall meet, be friends or even care what the other has to say.  Of late, I’ve been lumped in with the dissenters and subsequently I feel that I’ve also been labeled negative, pessimistic, cranky, angry, and generally unpleasant by the general aura of the crafty community.  Now, before you get all pedantic about what I’m saying here, I do acknowledge that my feelings are not fact AND that I have reached these conclusions because of the vast fields of chirping crickets I have faced of late when I’ve lamented these very real problems and complications.  I should also take the time here to spell something out: the use of I in all of these sentences does not mean I’m making this about ME.  In fact, I’m the least of my worries in the grand scheme.

People have reached out to pat me on the head, they’ve told me that pessimism won’t get me anywhere, and have even gone so far as to suggest that resting on my laurels is no way to change the world.  Writing in a blog and sharing with the greater internet community is not “resting on my laurels”, I assure you, and I also assure you that these are not the only avenues I have taken.  I have been ignored both by Etsy AND by websites like Etsy Bitch, both of whom I have contacted directly.  Not to say that they are the end-all of the crafty community, but Etsy and the general influence it has on the craft community is a concern I have prioritized.  I had also been asked to write for a blog but to keep the content “positive” in light of what I had recently written on QD.  Subsequently, I have not written for that blog.  Therein lies my frustration with this entire situation:

It is a matter of privilege to think that I am being “pessimistic/negative” with my words and issues when it comes to addressing oppression.  It suits the greater good to think I am a rebel-rouser, and it only secures the status quo by assuming that I am a representative of the dark underbelly.  I am, in fact, far more optimistic than most people in craft today.

To have privilege and to deny its existence in this world and in the realm of craft, to contend that it has nothing to do with craft, and to not acknowledge it is irresponsible at best, destructive at worst…is pessimism defined.  It is the acknowledgment that things have not and will never change, and that the people who feel unrepresented or underrepresented should just capitulate to what the “majority” dictate, which is more appropriately described as those in power.

Admitting fault is one of the most complex and painful experiences that one must go through.  It is second only to releasing power.  Trust me, I have admitted fault and I will continue to as a cisgendered, white, child of the upper middle class and I still struggle with the complex and painful process of releasing power.  It is a responsibility that I take on because ultimately, despite the hard work one must process through, the rewards are that much sweeter.

Etsy and the greater craft community have an obligation to not ignore their privilege and an obligation to redefine their priorities.  Being in an insulated, sometimes faceless, community like the craft world does not mean you can ignore that which goes on around you or call it pessimism/negativity when someone brings it up in a manner with which you disagree.  And if Etsy/craft is working on this, they have neither made any claim that would indicate it a priority NOR has the material that they generate changed in any way.  People, aesthetics, styles and even materials are stil appropriated on a daily basis; racial, ethnic and cultural identities whitewashed by the overabundancy of the dominant class in its blogs and in its treasuries.  In this case, when the face of modern craft is white, cisgendered, educated, heterosexual and middle class, you are only speaking to that particular subset of people.  The entire world of craft could be a veritable pantheon of diverse and beautiful wonderment, but it’s not.  Not yet, anyway.

How do I say this without sounding contrived?

My mother would argue this point to the teeth, but I am confident in saying that I have been fat all my life.  Even when I wasn’t terribly fat, I was a big kid.  I’ve lived my life according to the fat code, if there even is one.  Suffice it to say that if there’s a pejorative word for a fat person, I’ve heard it.  If there’s a stumbling, unnerving rejection from a potential lover, I’ve heard it.  If there are kids around in their labeling and naming phase, I’ve been called fat “judgment free”.  If there’s any scorn or derision available to be doled out by a relative, I’ve managed it.  Or if I have appeared to have lost weight, people will forcefully and uncomfortably (like a really painful fart, honestly) share a compliment with me that is on it’s face insincere; they perceive it as some sort of motivational tool so that I continue my road to true beauty.  At this point, I have experienced just about every negative experience one can have as a fat person.  This does, in fact, sculpt who you are as a person.

The one thing I have not been the recipient of, as a result of my fatness for whatever reason, is a bevy of compliments about my beauty condition-free.  It is very rare indeed for someone to say to me, “you have a gorgeous ________” without saying “you’d” instead of “you” and adding the caveat “if you lost weight”.  I also am never plainly beautiful, from head to toe.  I’m always full of potential, but never quite fulfilling.  It is disheartening, to say the least.  Strangely, I have worked through this and am mostly a confident person.  What I lack in perceived classical beauty (in the eyes of others) I make up with a quick wit and biting intellect, right?  That’s what fat kids do; they get smart and sassy.

Last week I received an e-mail from my mother that rendered me speechless.  “Janet said she loved meeting you and what a beautiful young lady you are,” she wrote at the end of her message.  I met my mom’s friend Janet at the pool, in my bathing suit with my mother and my aunts, as vulnerable and exposed as a fat person can get.  My hair was a mess, my face bombarded by floating pool noodles, and my legs less than expertly shaved.  But still, this woman who doesn’t really even know my name managed to squeak out a compliment in my direction, whether sincere or not, without qualifying it with a comment about my weight.  I can not tell you how infrequently this happens.  Yes, people are that bold.

So it occurred to me, that strangers don’t really take it upon themselves to compliment me; in fact, with the exception of Em, Angela and Joel, I don’t hear it at all.  I’m confident that this is the same for most fat people; I’m even confident that this is the case for most women, regardless of our size.  And whether the compliment is sincere or not, actually hearing the word “beautiful” from someone who does not desire to have sex with us, is a very important thing.  These are the folks who deserve to hear it the most, and perhaps it’s worth our while to tell people in our lives that they are indeed beautiful.  We all are.

Damn, I’ve still got it.

When I cleaned and organized my crafty nook this weekend, I didn’t expect to go in there for quite a while.  But then a friend of mine opened her big bossy mouth (OMG, I’m totally kidding) and said that she needed more of my earrings.  If I let myself feel the adoration that people seem to have for my jewelies, I would never stop creating.  There is no greater benefit to my jewelry making than to hear that the people wearing it feel beautiful, proud, fancy or just plain fantastic.  But I still have a few things to work out within my head and soul before I can start selling again…anywhere, including that site.  In the meantime, I made these and I like them and I’ve still got it.  Yes.