If you’ve been accompanying me on this journey, and actually paying attention, you might be thinking that these pieces don’t look like anything I would do. They’re prettier, more polished, possibly more sellable, definitely more accessible. I took a silver clay class this weekend. Really fun. Easy, quick. Knocked off a couple of pretty baubles in no time. Win-win. So why am I torn between easy, pretty, accessible and the distressed, scarred, not-for-the-faint-of-heart pieces that I love to do? I love the dimples and humps and battle scars that fire and pressure and smelly patinas coax out of a piece of metal. No piece is the same. Sometimes the same piece isn’t the same as it was 10 minutes ago. It’s unpredictable and frustrating, and rewarding and worth the trouble. But dimples and humps and smelly gray stuff don’t always evoke the same reaction when we look in the mirror. We flip through magazines and watch TV and still long to be easy, pretty, accessible, sellable. Some not altogether crazy looking guy in the train station told me yesterday that I looked fantastic. I grinned and got all giggly and strutted my dimpled humps back to work.

Late Bloomer  carynjune

I’ve always been somewhat of a late bloomer. I hit puberty late, I didn’t have my first boyfriend until I was in college, and menopause? Not a sign of it. No hot flashes. No irregular periods, nothing. Now I want to stay young just as much as the next guy, but seriously? I’m 56. Granted my mom was 57, so there is a certain inevitability to the course my body is going to take. I suppose I could be all zen and express gratitude for all my body has done and apparently continues to do, the amazing journey we take and the changes that creep up on us even though we still feel 30. But I think I’ll just be all PMS-y and pissy about it instead. Last night, I started to get the cranky tremors that foretell disaster while shopping with my husband. The escalator up to Old Navy isn’t working? “Mutter, mutter, #%^*#… lazy …stupid…”. I can’t get Wi-Fi in Costco? “@#%^! Stomp, Stomp. So, what made me think hooking up a new TV was a good idea? Well, maybe it was the “Texas”- sized margarita at Dallas BBQ. Maybe it was my thirst for adventure. Regardless, it was not a wise decision. I couldn’t understand the instructions, it appeared I needed a cable I had to buy separately, there was no signal, so what did I do? I had a “Texas”-sized melt down. My husband tried to talk me down, but I was too far gone, screaming and sobbing and carrying on until finally, I sat down at the computer and had a nice chat with Skyler at Samsung who helped me get it working. Why didn’t I do that first? It’s not my fault, it’s PMS! I can’t control myself! Enough, already. I’m 56…I’m not gonna be able to use that excuse forever. People are just not going to believe it.

Man overboard  carynjune

One of the greatest life lessons I have learned is that &*^%* happens. There are just so many things you can do to prevent it, and then you just have to have faith that whatever happens, you will be strong enough to deal with it, or at least get out of the way. While I know this to be true in my head, in my heart I firmly believe that if I worry, I can prevent disaster. How super power-y of me, no? So, I’m stewing, and fretting and throwing temper tantrums because I can’t find my keys and if I can’t find my keys, I’m going to lose my job because I can’t leave the apartment and if I lose my job, I’ll have to move because I won’t be able to pay my mortgage. See where I’m going with this? At one point in my life, I was afraid to fly, so my husband and I took a 17 hour train ride from New York to Savannah. It was extremely relaxing. But then I got worried about not having anything to worry about. And that makes me crabby. So now, I’m worried and crabby, and I’m sure that every person I’ve ever met and those I have yet to meet, are probably thinking , “Gee, she’s a crabby worrier. “And meanwhile, life goes on and &*^%* still happens, whether I worry about it or not. I guess I’ll have to have faith that I’ll be strong enough to deal with it, or at the very least, get out of the way.

Duck  carynjune

If we are to believe all of the commercials that promise relief for menopausal symptoms, erectile dysfunction, and aching joints, there is a sweet spot between the juicy naivete of youth and the spare wisdom of old age. Handsome men with salt and pepper hair walk hand in hand on the beach with beautiful older women with trim figures and one or two strategic laugh lines on their otherwise still smooth faces. They travel, climb mountains, form garage bands and can still jumprope, children grown, retirement savings in place. I don’t know about the rest of you, but my life looks nothing like that. My knees ache when I walk up and down steps, I’m shaped more like a barrel then an hourglass, and It’s altogether possible that I’ll be living in a cardboard box when I retire. But the other night, my husband, demonstrating with lime wedges left over from several shots of tequila, said to me, “this half of the orange is me, this half of the orange is you, together we make a whole orange.” So, even though walking on the beach makes my ankle hurt, I’ll do it hand in hand with the other half of my orange. And that’s the sweet spot.

The Other Half of the Orange  carynjune

As I’m sure we all do, I often look back at the choices I’ve made with regret. If only I’d done that, or pursued this or not gone there. If I’d worked harder, ate less, exercised more, spent less, saved more, followed my dreams, figured out what my dreams were. Looking only backwards is a way if placing blame on younger me for not having my perfect life. It’s also a great way for older, creakier, flappier me to avoid working harder, eating less, exercising more, spending less, saving more…well, you get the point. Sometimes, though, looking back can be an opportunity to teach yourself about yourself. I was thinking about refinancing my mortgage to pay off some credit card debt. Now let me say first off, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it or even the second. My gut feeling is it wouldn’t be the last. So for me, this time, I will take the harder road and pay off the debt, bit by bit. Work harder, eat less, spend less, save more, follow my dreams. Whatever they are.

Looking Back. carynjune

Does there ever come a time when birthdays don’t warrant a minimum of a week long celebration? It’s my birthday week. It’s my birthday month. Certainly moms send cupcakes to school on their actual birthday, then the kids party at Chuck E Cheese’s or Dave and Buster’s, followed by their family get together where they get to eat their favorite meal, which may mean cereal for dinner. They get to wear silly hats and eat too much sugar and play games and watch magic. And they celebrate, just because they were born. As we get older, we start to shed the trappings of the birthday celebration. Maybe we don’t want to acknowledge how old we are or we can’t afford to give ourselves a big blow out or we don’t want to go out in bad weather to celebrate at a restaurant. We tell our significant others not to buy us a gift because we have to fix the shower door or pay the electrician. Well, I turned 56 yesterday. And my husband and I ordered take out and drank tequila and talked for hours, and it was a great evening. But it’s my birthday month, and next week I’m going to a party that some of my friends are throwing for me. And I am not ruling out dancing with a fruit basket on my head.

Carmen. carynjune

Inro Boxes…In Progress        carynjune

Let me just start off by saying, obviously, these are not done. Notice the dings, the fire scale, the butt-loads of solder, (Thanks, Marybeth), that I can’t seem to get off no matter what I do. And the one on the left, that one still doesn’t  have the top soldered on.These simple boxes are among the first things we learn about hollow construction. Technically, they are not that hard to do. I, however seem to have the hardest time finishing the &*^%in’ things. I made my mom one in class years ago, and she wears it all the time. She says she never wears it without at least one person oohing and aahing over it, and I should make more cause they’d sell really well. That’s just great. At this rate even if the materials only cost me a buck fifty, I’d have to charge a thousand bucks just to cover my time. Why make them, you ask? There are certainly other things I can, and do make that I love to do, and I hope will also someday have people oohing and aahing. So why do I torture myself? To prove I can, maybe. But I think the real reason is to see if I can learn to embrace the process and not just the finished product. To see if the next time I try something, it’s a little easier than this time, a concept  I am not overly familiar with ’cause if it isn’t easy the first time, I am moving on to something easier, like eating a bag of Peanut M & M’s. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you’re just not very good at something. Nobody is good at everything. So, I’m going to finish these &^%$in’ boxes, and they are going to be beautiful and people will ooh and aah, and when they ask me if I’ll make them one, I will answer, “I’d be happy to…for a thousand bucks.”

I had a long talk with my Dad this morning. Now for those of you who don’t know me, my dad died a year ago today. He’s on my mind even more than usual today, of course, as is the fact that losing a parent moves you up in line for the mortality ride at the amusement park that is life. My dad could be as someone who loved and respected him said, “quirky and difficult”, but he loved his family, blood and otherwise and made excellent use if his time on Earth. He worked until he was 84, which I see now kept him young. The lesson here is although we may feel like the world does not exist when we are gone, it does. And although we may feel like we will live forever, we won’t. Live your life now. Don’t wait until you’re richer, prettier, thinner, more accomplished. Just leap.

Tick Tock, brass and copper. carynjune