The Hardware Store

This is quick and dirty, for multiple reasons. My work schedule is temporarily erratic due to the acceptance of a new position. It’s exciting, but not fully predictable at the moment. It’s the end of the school year and it seems as though they banked a year’s worth of events for a grand finale. The weather has finally taken a turn for the better and I am basking in the sun or enjoying the warm rain without regret. A humpback whale, yes, a freaking humpback fucking whale, has been obscenely close to my home and I have been feeding my awe and wonder with this gift as often as possible. And dang, it’s so nice to mingle in the public again. The reprise of live music performances and social events have been fundamental for reconnecting with the community. It’s all beautiful; this enjoyment and purpose that meet up for a dance and exchange their energy.  I firmly believe that we should all pay attention to the things that excite us and that they are connected to our purpose. They don’t necessarily have to be synonymous. Someone that loves gardening isn’t necessarily destined to be a gardener, or someone that draws inspiration from rap music doesn’t necessarily want to become a rapper themselves. The garden and the music are more like sources of nourishment and inspiration that contribute vital materials for us to synthesize our grandest works. What are you naturally drawn to? My hardware store; the forest.

Although they entertain my desire for adventure, I don’t consider all of my wanderings as some sort of mindless self-indulgence, but rather a practice of both physical and mental maintenance. It’s like nap time for the racing, anxious thoughts, allowing space for the rational thoughts to put in their two cents, all while conditioning the vessel. When the rational presentation is over, the woods become an amusement park for my imagination. The trees…oh my God, the trees tell so many stories without ever uttering a syllable. I admire the way they shamelessly stand erect in their scarred, imperfect, messy glory. They are humanlike characters that summon the desire to create from my guts, the catalysts that shout at me to run back home to the paper and pencil, the watercolors, the works that are stored in my bones, they are the water well.

I’m going to gush over these trees for a minute, so if you’re not into that syrup, go ahead and jump to the next paragraph. The willows have my affection, with their tendrils swinging pendulously on a breeze they are like complimentary hypnotists of the outdoors. I grew up with a willow in a nearby field. It served as the fantasy factory of the neighborhood, a retreat, a breeding ground for wild ideas and fond memories. The hemlocks and their loose curls—they often appear to me like stacked dancers with arms extended in various ballet positions, all dressed in green mohair sweaters. The madronas—oh man, do I love these trees. They do their own thing, twisting unnaturally at odd angles. They remind me of the curious souls, the dreamers, straying from the typical course to explore alternative possibilities. Although their contortion is an evident bypass for survival, there are stories written on that bark, other than the initials of passing lovers. It’s almost instinctual to cross one and run my fingers along the smooth mustard trunk exposed by frayed, maroon bark.

I implore you to venture out to a park or your local woods. Gaze at the trees for a bit. Let your imagination run like a toddler on the loose. It’s a little like finding shapes in the clouds. Maybe you’ll simply see a tree—trunk, branches, leaves, some exposed roots. Maybe it will be a waste of your time. Whatever it is that lights a little fire inside, wherever you can go to find the tools, use it to your advantage. Sit by the fire and allow thoughts to escape like the smoke rising from the flames. Maybe it’s the actual hardware store. Whatever it is—it is most certainly connected to your purpose, not a waste of time, not a stupid indulgence.

Thank you so much for being here! I’ll write more, and (hopefully) better when the dust settles a bit. With love,

Jenny