I spent two weeks there. I felt like a page turned. Someone flipped forward in the book of adulthood before I'd finished what I'd started.

I call Minnesota "home" for lack of a better explanation. I've lived many places but since Minnesota is where my sister is, that's my home of sorts. Though we are only in our early 40's, I'm starting to think about where we retire - I don't want to be far from her.

Next, I flew to Miami for work. Miami is another home. I have many friends in the city and I have begun to realize how much I miss life there. I was very, very tired and cut the trip short and was sorry to do it. The sunshine was just right. Everything was in bloom. I was happy to see my friends, who I have been working with for many years now.

The trip back to DC took forever. Nearly twelve hours after a series of delays after three long weeks on the road. 

At 1:30 a.m., the pilot had a clear approach for the descent into the city. We floated over all my old favorite places. My college, the Mall, Arlington National Cemetary - the quiet, dark, place in the sea of lights. I spent most of my adult life here, it looks like this time it will be for good.

The question is - how to keep all the other "homes" - Edinburgh. New York. Minnesota. Montana. Oregon. Miami - as well?

Mom has changed a lot the last couple of months and she's [al]ready for the next level of care. It's good to spend time with her in one way, in another, it's completely exhausting. She's like a grandkid that will never grow up. That growing-up promise that kids make makes all the difference to the way you feel about caring for them; cleaning up after them. Same with pets. The unconditional love of a furry thing will make you clean up unbelievable messes - with no regrets.

The Alzheimer's parent, though, is a little more complex. When she's sweet and grateful, it's a big deposit in the emotional bank account. A re-store for the wells of compassion you have for the aging parent.

When she's crabby, manipulative, and controlling - like a giant toddler who desperately needs a bath - it's much harder. I took away some of her freedoms this week. I'm making her take a shower, with the assistance of an LPN. I'm having someone come in and do her meds every day. I'm having someone come and knock on the door when it is time to eat lunch and dinner. I'm taking on the familiar role of "black sheep" because I am so comfortable disappointing her I realize it may be the best thing I can ever do for my "good girl" sister - to accept responsibility for these unpopular decisions.

She doesn't eat anymore because she doesn't remember to. She will eat if you hand her the food. So this day, I brought her lunch. Some wild rice soup, quinoa salad, potato chips, frosted valentine's cookies and Vernor's ginger ale. All old favorites. Putting everything on plates (that had to be washed first since they get put straight back in her cupboards after they've been used), I turned to find she had dragged the old typewriter table into the hallway for our lunch.

We took a picture of the table just like my grandma used to do at every holiday meal. All the doors are shut on that side of the apartment because she thinks people are coming in at night and "bullying" her. Small green post-its with her name written on them are all over the house. You can see a couple on the bookcase.

I'm hoping the extra service buys her some time in her own apartment. I'm hoping it buys my sister a little peace of mind knowing that someone is checking on my Mom five times a day. My Mom hates the idea, especially the expense.  But that's because she doesn't seem to take on that her only other option is the memory unit, which is twice the price and basically zero freedom.

I went to visit the memory care unit, because we hadn't actually done that yet. It's down the hall and through another locked door. I expected to be miserable in there - I was when I saw units at other facilities - but it wasn't like that at all. It reminded me of the Apple Tree Inn in Indianola, Iowa where we stayed when we visited my Mom's parents. I hope that's a good sign. In their shared kitchen - they can eat whenever they like.

One penny for 1991; and one penny for 2011. We came back together after 20 years of not being together. I wrote a little bit about how we met (the first time and the second time) here. Both meetings were incredibly random. The first time, he picked my letter out of a massive pile in Kuwait. The second time, he just randomly e-mailed at the right time. I had recently uprooted and was asking myself some hard questions about how I wanted to live.

One year later, we are still very happy. I think my favorite reasons why are because we are best friends and we belly laugh every day.   This is still one of my all-time favorite dates that he's taken me on.

I've been looking for quotes or poems about the sea - thinking I would like to finish off these silly boards with some gilt text. It has been much harder than I thought to find something I like. Then, I thought of Kate Chopin's book, The Awakening. 

"The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clearing, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in the abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation. The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace." 

 The famous story. She is married to someone who drains her spirit; she has an affair; she swims out to sea at the end of the book (sorry to ruin it...) and never returns. A suicide in the deep. But I want to say I remember her sense of freedom in that - so...could I use the quotes and look at them as positive? Or would it be depressing?

“Even as a child she had lived her own small life within herself. At a very early period she had apprehended instinctively the dual life - that outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions.” 

There is simple passion there, too. 

“The lovers were just entering the grounds of the pension. They were leaning toward each other as the water oaks bent from the sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been turned upside down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether.” 

I read it ten years ago. I'm thinking of reading it again. Not quite related - I met someone once who had a mother with a history of depression. One day, her mother filled her pockets with rocks and walked out into the sea. She did live. 

Sixteen days into the New Year I can say that I've been *in* to the studio each and every day. There were days when all I did was walk in and set something on my table and walk right back out. There was a day when all I did was sort out child-related vintage patterns to send to a friend. And another when all I accomplished was color printing a set of hang tags for the sprays to see what they might look like.I did a lot of thinking, and pushing paper around.

And I worked on projects. I glued magnets on the back of these spice tins that I took out of my mother's cabinets. Never a cook, these tins were with us for our entire childhood and then some. They are probably forty years old and were still full.  They were never used and never going to be used, but still she wouldn't throw them away. It was as if doing so might commit her to another life, the one she was really living instead of the ideal that someone else had impressed upon her.

I decided to continue making Christmas ornaments for 2012.  I didn't put up a tree or make a special meal this year, in spite of my plans. It was a mistake. A learning experience. At first it seemed that I was relieved of a great burden - no cooking; no obligations. Now I know the difference between what I do for others and what I need for myself. Apparently, I enjoy making a nice meal and decorating a little.

So, New Year/New Studio I decided that I had quite enjoyed working on Christmas decorations I had started last month and wanted to continue. The year stretches out before me making the projects less daunting. I finished some simple felt hearts with wings, showing them to the mama cardinal who perched outside my window and watched me work - for an amazingly long time.

Somewhere I read that the best handmade trees are inspired by the things you just have around.  So I remembered these needle felted kitties that I made a couple of years ago. It made me quite sad to finish work on these, remembering the time they were made and thinking of how much has changed since then.

I almost stopped but then decided to use the time to really think through it. Needle felting is good for that. I've been tossing and turning  Brene Brown's statements on shame, and it all seems to relate. This time, this period year of suffering, I went remarkably inside myself (versus the usual too-much-information approach).

You see, last Spring, I had lunch with a friend of twenty-odd years and I told her something of what I'd been through and I thought I saw a flicker in her eyes. I recognized it, or thought I did, as a motion of the all-too-familiar. She'd heard it before. Specifically, she'd heard it from me. And how can I blame her for that*?

And, so, I just went inside, embarassed; ashamed of the part I played in my own unhappiness, hoping it would wear off and that someday I will return to "normal" and our friendship will resume on its old terms.  Strangely, as the months pass, I realize that I walked away from that experience a different person. I'm the same, but different. I'll have to needle felt some more before I can explain that.

On a bad day, I feel like one of those "black cloud" people that my old boss described to me so many years ago. Something major/something bad is always happening and you learn to avoid them. The crack in the yoga mat types, but more. When my favorite nun emailed an invitation to go on retreat in January, I didn't even consider it. What more do I have to say? And what more can I expect from them? That was my thought.

The needle felting was a good exercise, though. If it hurt me to work on finishing the kitties, I realized that one or two of the other projects I thought I should finish could, in fact, just be thrown in the trash. So I did just that and no one died.

Finally, I began working on a rosary. Cherry pits for prayer beads; the stations have pieces of old cyanotypes (layer one, above) and then bird bones set in resin. I agonized for several days over brass materials vs. silver or gold but decided to just bite the bullet and start. Worrying about what will/won't be archival can sometimes be the difference between getting going and letting things sit. As if it will wind up in the Louvre.

Sunday seems to be a good day to spend time in the studio. What a miracle to love someone who LOVES football. I mean, he can sit and watch football for ten hours straight and be as happy as he can possibly be. I don't know what all those other women are complaining about.

How was your weekend?

*Note: That's not what my friend told me; that's what I interpolated and then organized my interactions with all other old friends around. I'm not saying it's right or wrong. I'm just telling you what I imagined and then did.

I found another brick signature on my path today. This one says B O.  Vintage leopard coat and red "Kelly" bag I bought in Paris many years ago (that's in quotes because it's fake) to try and push away the blahs.

People collect marked bricks, but my neighborhood bricks seem to pre-date the molded signatures. I wonder if all I'm seeing is just a kid writing in the cement of the day with a stick? I wrote away to the International Brick Collectors Association to see what I might learn.

On the topic of authenticity, sharing your real self on blogs (or elsewhere), I wanted to share Brene Brown's TED Houston talk:

White Kitty, aka "Karl" or "Little Man" checks out the neighborhood.

Lately, I've been deep in e-conversation with blog friend kstreetjournal about...well, it's about a lot of things. But the overarching question is whether it is best to write about the difficult stuff or to keep the blogs all "shiny and successful and American Dreamy..."

You know, I think I've done both. The felted sweater people came in droves but would instantly abandon me whenever I wrote about some of the things that were on my mind. It was sometimes discouraging, almost like you could hear someone saying, "I don't care what you think, I just want you to shut your pie hole and sew," as a button clicked ''unsubscribe' in the background.

I thought my writing had candor. I preferred my style to blogs that present endless accounts of bright, happy, well-scrubbed marriages and perfect children. Who can help but be disappointed by the reality of a marriage after so much buildup? We think we've come a long way, baby, but we're still dreaming up 'perfect' weddings and cooking photo-perfect dinners we feel too guilty to eat.  No one says a word about what happens when your partner loses a job, your mother-in-law turns against you, or you gain fifty pounds because you hate your life. Maybe someone should. Sometimes I think I may have helped someone; there is so much of that whitewashing going on in the world.

But I can see, now, that I was only telling partial truths myself. Because you don't want to ruin it - for yourself or for others. You seek out the beauty in my every day, wherever you can find it. You imbalance toward your strengths. I look back at the old blog and...I know I was there and what I said was true enough at the time...it is my real history. But I also feel very removed; I no longer identify that way of thinking; writing; looking at the world as my own. It's strange, but also strangely o.k.

I've stopped reading a few blogs here and there. One woman was always uploading photos of herself but saying how she "never uploads photos of herself" and rounding it out with a healthy dose of how cool she used to be in the 80's, just proof that her son started listening to her old cassette tapes. Her blog is hugely popular and I felt like that was the whole point. She was always trying to remind me that she was hugely popular and creative and super perfect and after awhile, I just didn't care. I checked in some months later and saw that she had changed her tack. Not getting a book deal from the first go 'round she tried something else; disorganized "real" mother type of thing. It still doesn't work because it still lacks authenticity. Another woman had more interesting things to say but rounded out every blog post with a small complaint. And I found that got on my nerves. Like, I'm really sorry your new $10 yoga mat has a crease in it, but...quite frankly, you just sound like a whiner. And if that's your authentic self, I don't want to be your blog friend.

But then, that's not really fair, either. People don't really know you from your blog. Not the all of you. I spent some time on FB today making suggestions to someone about a book cover and later it seems my suggestions turned out to be somewhat smart. And I wanted to say..."Well,  yes, I'm not just a cat-loving; exercising; book-reading, People-of-Walmart.com following Vegan. I kind-of/sort-of know a lot about developing and promoting creative work. But, of course, they probably don't know that. Sometimes I try to talk about work on FB but people seem to prefer my posts about my new vintage leopard faux fur coat.

What's your view? Should blogs write in the difficult bits? Or stay American Dreamy? Or is it more complicated than that?

My sister shared this link with me and I like it. First sentence, "Even if you didn't reach all the goals you set for yourself this year, you still had many successes." I decided to give it a whack, a follow-up on my annual review.

Make a list of all the things you learned this year:

Galloway's running method; how to bake with ground flax (versus eggs); a great deal about Actors' Equity union; how to tile a bathroom; how to hang sheet rock; that I'm severely allergic to poison ivy; that there are very good reasons quilters do things the way they do; it's not my job to make everyone in the room feel comfortable; Quickbooks. I might add to this list over the next few days.

People you met and connected with:

Zannestar, my long time blog friend; inspiring new theatre people at a big conference; reconnected with several folks from high school, but on a grown-up level. The Grand Poobah.

Blog and websites you were featured on:

Refinery29.com; thecollaredsheep.com, any of my own websites (of course).

What helpful books did you read:

SHED by Julie Morgenstern - not just organizing, but getting things sorted so that you are in position for the life you want to have. Engine 2 Diet. The Verbally Abusive Relationship by Patricia Evans. Elegies for the Brokenhearted by Christie Hodgen. The latter is a series of short stories - so wonderful. I had to take a month off reading after I finished it so I could digest what she had done.

What did you do that was totally out of your comfort zone:

I rented an office after ten years of working from home; I started a new business; moved to a new town; drove cross-country by myself.I put in ad in a national magazine for my old and new businesses.

New items you created:

I made a baby quilt.Developed a series of retail products and a new website.Started a work place advice column.

A new skill you learned:

Vegan baking.

The number of new followers on Facebook, Twitter, and your blog:

I think I have 300+ followers on Twitter this year; maybe 50 on LinkedIn; maybe 50 on Facebook; and I'm not sure about the blogs. This blog was only shared with a handful of old followers; new ones are welcome, as they find it organically.

How many blog posts did you write:

 Not as many on my personal site, but I tried to write more frequently on my work blog.

Places you showed your art:

Uh....

Shows you applied to and got into:

None.

I included those two questions because (perhaps) next year I will have different answers.

Your revamped studio space:

I like my new studio. It was a bedroom that J converted for me. We sprayed the whole thing white and I bought a drafting table at a garage sale. It has a really nice, sunny feel to it. Especially in the morning. My black cat loves to spend time in there. When she hears the door open she runs upstairs and jumps on my chair. In the summer, she positions herself in front of the air conditioner becuase she likes the air blowing on her. I like being close to water to clean brushes (I didn't have water in my Montana studio) and a bathroom. Looking at these old pictures, I'm also glad I have heat and the pesticide truck isn't screaming through every two days spraying carcinogens all over my projects.