I am tired to the bone. Twenty hour days of frantic work, mothering, managing and juggling. Everything is going at such a rapid pace, I feel like I am not even touching the earth as I check things off of my list, run from one task to another, answer another phone, meet another deadline, don’t forget to cook dinner, feed the animals. I know what I need: some grounding.
A friend who is very wise, once said to me, “ When you feel like life is whirling out of control, go sit your bottom down on the ground, put your toes in the dirt, sift its fineness through your hands- and ground yourself again.” She was very wise and very right.
So in the midst of the madness, I’ve come back to the Earth. Stood quietly in the field with the mountains surrounding me, water running near the yellow boots on my feet, water in new corrugations needing to be walked to the end of the field. Slowly I feel peace descending and my world slowing to a pace where thoughts can be attended to and deep breaths of clean, pure air enjoyed.
The dry dirt of the field soaks in the much needed water to nourish the seedlings of alfalfa into a viable crop and I am reminded that my soul too, needs nurturing. The smell of water running over newly worked soil and the essence of alfalfa growing under the spring sun is recognizable not only from my childhood, but a subtle reminder of this life as one that gives me peace. A strange paradoxically world I live in: high tech, fast paced, deadline after deadline versus one filled and governed by mother nature herself. I need them both to fulfill my soul. Every little while the fields of my soul need to be irrigated with the grounding of the earth itself: quiet, animals, crops, trees, the mountains and the soil sifting through my fingers. With the firmness of the earth beneath my feet I am, once again, grounded.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com website May 2007
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
from the Archives, "Measured in Heartbeats"
In January 1997, I was a marketing specialist for a corporate management company and feeling very unfulfilled. To try to fill the void, I had started working with the Japanese government to find unique Wyoming products and export them to Japan. Having been an exchange student to Japan when I was 16, I felt a special connection to the land of the rising sun.
In my search, I stumbled across the Western Design Conference. The event was a mere three years old and had already experienced several incarnations. I was fascinated. Being a fifth generation Wyoming native and having grown up in the Cowboy state, I thought I was pretty savvy about what happened within its borders, but I had never heard of the Western Design Conference.
After a successful buyers meeting with Mike Patrick, one of the event’s founders, I was asked if I would consider the executive director’s position at the Conference. What a delightful, unexpected turn of events. After phone calls, interviews and meetings, I knew I wanted the job more than anything else I had ever wanted.
A nerve wracking few days passed before I got the call. I was the new executive director! What I didn’t know was that this was the beginning of an incredible journey that would define my future.
Restructuring a fabulous event that had already outgrown its clothes was my first challenge and I welcomed that challenge. In truth, I didn’t know what I was doing, but I had ideas and charged ahead to implement them.
Over six years, I poured my blood, sweat and tears into the Conference. Never had I experienced anything so rewarding and frustrating at the same time. Looking back, I have no regrets. I learned so much, made friends that continue to inspire me everyday and most of all, I found that niche that I had been looking for: western design. For the first time in a long time I felt fulfilled. The experience is the reason I am writing to you today, the reason that I feel so strongly about western craft, fashion and art, the reason I found purpose in my life.
I have never forgotten the words of Suzanne Warner at an awards breakfast a number of years ago at Cassie’s. She said, “The time we put into our pieces is not measured in days, hours or minutes, but heartbeats.” To me that said it all. The pieces created by this phenomenal group of artists are not works that are made just to sustain them every day, but creations that are infused with a part of their soul. I wear a bracelet made by Suzanne and every time I put it on, I wonder just how many heartbeats it took to create. The light and love it holds is evidence of the power of creating by hand and with the guidance of one’s soul.
May every life that is touched by an artist retain a piece of the inspiration to pass on to another.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com website September 2007
In my search, I stumbled across the Western Design Conference. The event was a mere three years old and had already experienced several incarnations. I was fascinated. Being a fifth generation Wyoming native and having grown up in the Cowboy state, I thought I was pretty savvy about what happened within its borders, but I had never heard of the Western Design Conference.
After a successful buyers meeting with Mike Patrick, one of the event’s founders, I was asked if I would consider the executive director’s position at the Conference. What a delightful, unexpected turn of events. After phone calls, interviews and meetings, I knew I wanted the job more than anything else I had ever wanted.
A nerve wracking few days passed before I got the call. I was the new executive director! What I didn’t know was that this was the beginning of an incredible journey that would define my future.
Restructuring a fabulous event that had already outgrown its clothes was my first challenge and I welcomed that challenge. In truth, I didn’t know what I was doing, but I had ideas and charged ahead to implement them.
Over six years, I poured my blood, sweat and tears into the Conference. Never had I experienced anything so rewarding and frustrating at the same time. Looking back, I have no regrets. I learned so much, made friends that continue to inspire me everyday and most of all, I found that niche that I had been looking for: western design. For the first time in a long time I felt fulfilled. The experience is the reason I am writing to you today, the reason that I feel so strongly about western craft, fashion and art, the reason I found purpose in my life.
I have never forgotten the words of Suzanne Warner at an awards breakfast a number of years ago at Cassie’s. She said, “The time we put into our pieces is not measured in days, hours or minutes, but heartbeats.” To me that said it all. The pieces created by this phenomenal group of artists are not works that are made just to sustain them every day, but creations that are infused with a part of their soul. I wear a bracelet made by Suzanne and every time I put it on, I wonder just how many heartbeats it took to create. The light and love it holds is evidence of the power of creating by hand and with the guidance of one’s soul.
May every life that is touched by an artist retain a piece of the inspiration to pass on to another.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com website September 2007
from the Archives, "The Lake"
When I was a kid there was a favorite place to cool off in the summer. About 10 miles west of the ranch was a lake that boasted great sand beaches and refreshingly cold water. Stealing away from the hay fields in July as the sun was making its way to the other side of the world, I would languish in the cool water as it washed away the dust and worries of the day. Just a few days ago, I was driving by that lake, the sky was hazy from a dramatic summer fire a mountain range away. The glorious and tragic thing about fires in the west is that they make the sunsets beyond beautiful while they wreak havoc on the landscape. I couldn’t help but stop and snap a shot of the scene before while Aspen was wondering what in the heck her mother was doing shooting into the smoky sky.
Back at my desk, I was digging around in an old file, I came across an essay that I wrote 15 years ago for a Composition Class while a student at Chadron State College in Chadron, Nebraska. It seemed very fitting that I share it with you. It is as fitting today as it was then about the lake that was my retreat
The Lake
A cool breeze reminded me that it was getting late and I must go. Darkness was covering the summer sky just as a blanket covers a child, gently, and with promises of a new tomorrow. The sun had gone, leaving traces of its glow on the horizon in hues I had never been able to find in my crayon box. Dark silhouettes jutted into my colors, striking granite poses that almost came to life in the endlessly rippling lake, which so graciously reflected their majestic power. The water carried with it a rhythm that lolled my senses into worlds where I could dream, walk backwards in life or ponder the day. And it never let me go away feeling empty, as its tender, frothy edges tickled the sand with whispers of advice; leaving me to create my own resolution. As I sat beyond the outstretched fingers of its edge, I watched the sand being carried to and fro; all the while marveling at the beauty God had created.
I hope you, too, have a place like The Lake.
Back at my desk, I was digging around in an old file, I came across an essay that I wrote 15 years ago for a Composition Class while a student at Chadron State College in Chadron, Nebraska. It seemed very fitting that I share it with you. It is as fitting today as it was then about the lake that was my retreat
The Lake
A cool breeze reminded me that it was getting late and I must go. Darkness was covering the summer sky just as a blanket covers a child, gently, and with promises of a new tomorrow. The sun had gone, leaving traces of its glow on the horizon in hues I had never been able to find in my crayon box. Dark silhouettes jutted into my colors, striking granite poses that almost came to life in the endlessly rippling lake, which so graciously reflected their majestic power. The water carried with it a rhythm that lolled my senses into worlds where I could dream, walk backwards in life or ponder the day. And it never let me go away feeling empty, as its tender, frothy edges tickled the sand with whispers of advice; leaving me to create my own resolution. As I sat beyond the outstretched fingers of its edge, I watched the sand being carried to and fro; all the while marveling at the beauty God had created.
I hope you, too, have a place like The Lake.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site July 2007
from the Archives, "Tribute to Grandma Nona"
We’ve been grouchy at each other, cursed each other silently, appreciated the companionship and loved each other immensely.
She’s 55 years older than I am. She’s seen both world wars, the Depression, the telephone, radio, tv and lots of other new-fangled gadgets. And she’s not afraid of any of them. You can spot her any day of the week, writing her memoirs on the computer and chasing about the state with her cell phone.
She’s helped her mother bake bread for the outlaws of the Hole in the Wall country who served as the Robin Hoods of the time. She’s herded cows, sheep, horses and drunk cowboys… Oh! The stories she can tell!
I am the lucky one who gets to share the life of this beautiful lady every day. She is my grandmother: my Rock of Gibralter. Her steady, gentle kindness is a nice balance to my run-a-muck energy that goes zooming off in a thousand directions each morning as the sun comes up.
Grandma slept on my college couch when I stayed out all night and hugged me when I had a broken heart. She made me the only new clothes I had when I was a little girl and taught me how to sew when I was old enough. She believed in me when the rest of the world thought I was off my rocker and she’s never doubted I would come out of a funk.
Grandma Nona is the one who sneaks treats to the cats, dogs, pig and my little one. She is the one who giggled with onery delight at her 90th birthday when everyone had to draw eating utensils from a paper bag for dinner. (Yes, we ate with beaters and potato mashers, giant spatulas and tenderizing mallets). She is the one who can fix anything, give the most sound advice on the planet and make me pray that my genes are graced with just some of her joi de vivre.
For this Mother’s Day, I want my grandma to know that she is the most special lady in the universe. I want her to know that she is loved beyond love in my heart and that I thank her every moment for her undying love and patience that she so freely gives to me and the rest of the world.
Originally published on the first ContemporaryWesternDesign.com site May 2007
She’s 55 years older than I am. She’s seen both world wars, the Depression, the telephone, radio, tv and lots of other new-fangled gadgets. And she’s not afraid of any of them. You can spot her any day of the week, writing her memoirs on the computer and chasing about the state with her cell phone.
She’s helped her mother bake bread for the outlaws of the Hole in the Wall country who served as the Robin Hoods of the time. She’s herded cows, sheep, horses and drunk cowboys… Oh! The stories she can tell!
I am the lucky one who gets to share the life of this beautiful lady every day. She is my grandmother: my Rock of Gibralter. Her steady, gentle kindness is a nice balance to my run-a-muck energy that goes zooming off in a thousand directions each morning as the sun comes up.
Grandma slept on my college couch when I stayed out all night and hugged me when I had a broken heart. She made me the only new clothes I had when I was a little girl and taught me how to sew when I was old enough. She believed in me when the rest of the world thought I was off my rocker and she’s never doubted I would come out of a funk.
Grandma Nona is the one who sneaks treats to the cats, dogs, pig and my little one. She is the one who giggled with onery delight at her 90th birthday when everyone had to draw eating utensils from a paper bag for dinner. (Yes, we ate with beaters and potato mashers, giant spatulas and tenderizing mallets). She is the one who can fix anything, give the most sound advice on the planet and make me pray that my genes are graced with just some of her joi de vivre.
For this Mother’s Day, I want my grandma to know that she is the most special lady in the universe. I want her to know that she is loved beyond love in my heart and that I thank her every moment for her undying love and patience that she so freely gives to me and the rest of the world.
Originally published on the first ContemporaryWesternDesign.com site May 2007
from the Archives, "Dancing in the Street"
There is something about whipped cream on the end of the nose that makes one giggle, even if you are ninety one.
We all dressed up and went out to dinner at a local favorite called the Proud Cut Saloon. The copper topped bar, lodge pole pine tables and rodeo pictures everywhere create a fun ambiance. Of course, we had to sit in the back across from the kitchen because we had a minor with us. No worries here, the giggling began before we even sat down. We were dressed to the nines, surely everyone in the front thought that we had just come from some fancy event. It’s not often that you get a chance to get out of jeans and boots but it sure is fun to dress up, smell good and put on pretty things.
Dinner was full of the hearty entertainment that you get from a four year old and 91 year old at a table. I just couldn’t help myself when desert came with whip cream on the top. Thinking ahead, I managed to get it into my possession doling out spoonfuls of peanut butter pie around the table. There is a thing with whip cream in my house. Many times it ends up on someone, usually with a little girl chanting, “Food Fight”. What started out at a birthday picnic has turned into a Marx household tradition. Whipped cream is not meant just for eating.
So it goes that as the desert bowl emptied out, there was a mound of whip cream left and, ,I with the lucky spoon nabbed the end of the nose of that little girl across from me and the unsuspecting grandmother beside me. (Surely, I would never do that to her). Her giggles and those of the folks next to us made me think that you are never too young to be silly, even if for a moment. But the fun of the night didn’t end there.
As we walked to our car, reliving the good dinner and laughter, we heard strains of music wafting toward us from the porch of the Irma Hotel. All of us looked longingly at the empty sidewalk, but decided we should just go home. But in the car we couldn’t stand it and piled out, down the street in our dresses and heels to where the band played an old Johnny Cash song.
Much to the amusement of the crowd of local cowboys, we danced on the sidewalk. A little girl swaying from side to side, her eyes closed in her mother’s arms and a grandmother digging in her memory for the right rhythm for the two step. We didn’t care who was watching, we danced every song until the band ended their set.
Remember you are never too young or old for whipped cream or dancing in the street.
orignally published June 4, 2007 on the first Contemporary Western Design.com
We all dressed up and went out to dinner at a local favorite called the Proud Cut Saloon. The copper topped bar, lodge pole pine tables and rodeo pictures everywhere create a fun ambiance. Of course, we had to sit in the back across from the kitchen because we had a minor with us. No worries here, the giggling began before we even sat down. We were dressed to the nines, surely everyone in the front thought that we had just come from some fancy event. It’s not often that you get a chance to get out of jeans and boots but it sure is fun to dress up, smell good and put on pretty things.
Dinner was full of the hearty entertainment that you get from a four year old and 91 year old at a table. I just couldn’t help myself when desert came with whip cream on the top. Thinking ahead, I managed to get it into my possession doling out spoonfuls of peanut butter pie around the table. There is a thing with whip cream in my house. Many times it ends up on someone, usually with a little girl chanting, “Food Fight”. What started out at a birthday picnic has turned into a Marx household tradition. Whipped cream is not meant just for eating.
So it goes that as the desert bowl emptied out, there was a mound of whip cream left and, ,I with the lucky spoon nabbed the end of the nose of that little girl across from me and the unsuspecting grandmother beside me. (Surely, I would never do that to her). Her giggles and those of the folks next to us made me think that you are never too young to be silly, even if for a moment. But the fun of the night didn’t end there.
As we walked to our car, reliving the good dinner and laughter, we heard strains of music wafting toward us from the porch of the Irma Hotel. All of us looked longingly at the empty sidewalk, but decided we should just go home. But in the car we couldn’t stand it and piled out, down the street in our dresses and heels to where the band played an old Johnny Cash song.
Much to the amusement of the crowd of local cowboys, we danced on the sidewalk. A little girl swaying from side to side, her eyes closed in her mother’s arms and a grandmother digging in her memory for the right rhythm for the two step. We didn’t care who was watching, we danced every song until the band ended their set.
Remember you are never too young or old for whipped cream or dancing in the street.
orignally published June 4, 2007 on the first Contemporary Western Design.com
from the Archives, "First Ride"
Spring is the beginning: a rebirth, a fresh new start. It seems only fitting that I am launching this website as the earth turns from a gray and brown landscape to one rich in color and new life. Since entering western design 11 years ago, I’ve never been able to duplicate the joy in my professional life as I did when I was working directly with the talented artists whose hearts, hands and souls created pieces for our everyday lives. Not only did I learn a tremendous amount about life from being in their presence, but I was constantly inspired. So here I am again, on my own terms, doing what I absolutely love, building, writing, marketing: immersing myself into the world of western design. It has felt a lot like the first mountain bike ride of the season for me: being scared silly, while practically tasting the adrenaline that would shoot through my system as I powered up the first hill and made it upright through an unsuspecting mud puddle. The ride putting ContemporaryWestern Design.com into motion is comparable to putting tread to the new earth of the season, daring my body to push itself to euphoric exhaustion full well knowing the results are well worth any pain the universe dishes forth. I hope you will become a regular on the site perusing the newest items and chalking up your favorite hot picks of the week.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Twenty Years to Sink In
He looked familiar. The voice triggered something in my memory. I had that nagging feeling that I knew him. It would haunt me until I figured it out.
Of all places, I was in a tackle shop stocking up on flies, flies I seem prone to lose too often in the creek. I should know the man that obviously knew his way around the store and was a regular customer.
As I wandered the store, a shovel was pilfering through my memory banks. I couldn’t shake that nagging feeling. I tried to ignore it. It was no use. Then out of the blue the lady behind the counter addressed him by his first name and suddenly I had it. He was my senior English teacher at Wind River High School.
Just a few months before, I was lamenting how I wished I knew where he was. I wanted to tell him thank you. He made me work hard in class. He challenged me. And sometimes, he downright confused me.
English in his class was not like any English class I had experienced before. The material he was teaching presented a dramatic departure from what I thought English was about: phonetic pronunciations and philosophy? Simple, complicated and sometimes elaborate sentence structures? What was love? Hate? Anger? Peace? When I was 18, none of it seemed terribly important to my future. Though I enjoyed the writing, I grew to enjoy the process of editing even more. Editing until the piece was skinny and as perfect as it could be. He taught me to write, then tear it down and write it again. He taught me so much that I still have the class notes in my desk drawer and when I am really stuck, I find my way to them.
As I started my college career, I tried out the sentence structures and methods of writing that I had practiced for a year, some professors liked it and others did not. I was confused. Later, I realized some of them were just sophisticated enough to appreciate the lessons I had been taught.
So on this day in the tackle shop, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve learned life is way too short. You must tell those who have made a difference in your life when you get a chance. The moment may never arise again. Looking back, I must have practically leapt at him, throwing my arms around his neck and saying, “Thank you, Mr. Norton.” I can’t help but think that I overwhelmed this very humble and quiet man with my profuse thanks. In reality, I have no way of truly expressing how instrumental he was in my life as I began to follow my passion for writing.
This is my second chance. I will approach it with more grace this time. Thank you, Mr. Norton, for demanding only the best from me. Thank you for pushing me and opening my mind for many things yet to come. Nearly twenty years later it is truly hitting home.
Of all places, I was in a tackle shop stocking up on flies, flies I seem prone to lose too often in the creek. I should know the man that obviously knew his way around the store and was a regular customer.
As I wandered the store, a shovel was pilfering through my memory banks. I couldn’t shake that nagging feeling. I tried to ignore it. It was no use. Then out of the blue the lady behind the counter addressed him by his first name and suddenly I had it. He was my senior English teacher at Wind River High School.
Just a few months before, I was lamenting how I wished I knew where he was. I wanted to tell him thank you. He made me work hard in class. He challenged me. And sometimes, he downright confused me.
English in his class was not like any English class I had experienced before. The material he was teaching presented a dramatic departure from what I thought English was about: phonetic pronunciations and philosophy? Simple, complicated and sometimes elaborate sentence structures? What was love? Hate? Anger? Peace? When I was 18, none of it seemed terribly important to my future. Though I enjoyed the writing, I grew to enjoy the process of editing even more. Editing until the piece was skinny and as perfect as it could be. He taught me to write, then tear it down and write it again. He taught me so much that I still have the class notes in my desk drawer and when I am really stuck, I find my way to them.
As I started my college career, I tried out the sentence structures and methods of writing that I had practiced for a year, some professors liked it and others did not. I was confused. Later, I realized some of them were just sophisticated enough to appreciate the lessons I had been taught.
So on this day in the tackle shop, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve learned life is way too short. You must tell those who have made a difference in your life when you get a chance. The moment may never arise again. Looking back, I must have practically leapt at him, throwing my arms around his neck and saying, “Thank you, Mr. Norton.” I can’t help but think that I overwhelmed this very humble and quiet man with my profuse thanks. In reality, I have no way of truly expressing how instrumental he was in my life as I began to follow my passion for writing.
This is my second chance. I will approach it with more grace this time. Thank you, Mr. Norton, for demanding only the best from me. Thank you for pushing me and opening my mind for many things yet to come. Nearly twenty years later it is truly hitting home.
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