A Little Bit On Courage

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If you are not in the arena getting your ass kicked, I’m not interested in your feedback.

* Brene Brown, Rising Strong




I am not one for museums generally.  They are pretty places, but not someplace where I can say I’ve ever felt inspired.  But walking through SFMOMA the other day, just based on lighting alone, I found myself surprisingly taken in.  There were some displays where you could sit, lounge (see below), and find yourself faintly stirred.  There is a musical piece up on one of the upper floors that simply evades photography.  That one is best experienced live, ephemerally, and then captured in memory.  But better than a memory, you can also simply come back.


An Ode to the Sloppy Messy Life


I used to have deep, intoxicating fantasies about my minimalist life, my capsule wardrobe, pin(terest)ing Scandinavian decor onto my virtual moodboard, salivating gray and white color schemes, juxtaposed against splotches of color.  Just like my wardrobe choices!  Rejoice!  I wanted few and perfect objects, I obsessed about the way a plate looked set against the curving lines of my knock-off coffee table (it is, regardless, still a hot piece of furniture, by the way).  In the interim, in my real life, my living situation slid from being merely dusty, to a “hot mess,” to the abject holy horror in which I currently reside.  What happened?  A dog happened, a kid happened, prior to that a relationship-household merger happened (I probably should have mentioned this prior to the dog and kid happening, but, as I will address later – these things no longer matter).  In short, a series of life events happened, and where before that antique glass plate sat eloquent and lightly dusted on my coffee table, the plate has been abandoned to parts unknown.  The table is in the basement (at least I know that much).  The baby mess reigns supreme.  My kitchen is fifty shades of brown.  And yes, I mean that exactly how it sounds.

But I am as content as I was before.  I still like a well put together outfit, even if I generally see it on someone else.  My life is a barely put together, I clean what I can.  Every new addition (three so far, dog included) made life harder, more difficult.  Now everything I own is covered in dog hair, and that includes all my black pants.  My workout clothes are furry.  I can no longer guarantee getting anywhere on time.  Life is a hussy mess.  I like it.  There was some adjusting, where I couldn’t figure out if I was actually happy because I was too busy reacting, but the dust isn’t settled, and I’m living in a constant state of almost-improvement.  There are little bits and pieces of beauty that I can still see, even though our living room is now a jungle gym.  I used to think of wabi sabi as imperfection, but now it’s a more attainable idea: the everyday inevitable sloppiness that accompanies a life being lived.