Getting My Opes On

Here are a couple of things I am aware of:

1. This post is way past timely and you are probably sick of the tributes and tearful farewells at this point. 
2. There are many other topics of more worth to write about than a talk show host.

But, as this is my blog, I get to write about what I want when I want.  So there.  

I'll love you forever if you keep reading :)

Oprah's gone.  She's dunzo. No longer will she grace our television screens in the afternoons, making celebrities visibly uncomfortable or cry by asking the tough questions, and turning well mannered, middle aged women into blubbering, screaming idiots over cars and trips to Australia.  Dammit I'm going to miss her.

In one of her farewell surprise shows, Dakota Fanning showed up with a group of young ladies known as the "Oprah Show Babies."  It was one of my favorite moments of the show.  That was me up there- the little girl that said Oprah taught her to love to read, the older girls that learned about taking care of themselves, forgiveness and coping with abuse.  All of that was me.  I am an Oprah Show baby.

"Your voice has been the soundtrack of our lives.  Every milestone, every first, you were there."  I often say Oprah is my t.v. mom.  I was sort of a latch key kid-- I'd get home before everyone else and it'd just be me, the dog, and an empty house.  For many years, mostly in Jr. High, I didn't like myself very much.  I didn't feel safe, and when left alone in a house with nothing to do but sit in the silence, it got a little scary.  So I'd turn on Oprah.  She'd talk to me, tell me to take control of my destiny, tell me to honor my worth, and tell me what I should be asking for Christmas.  Oprah would say everything I wished my own mother would've said to me.  I love my mom, but we're just not big communicators in my family.  But we're getting better.  Oprah taught me to be a communicator.

As the years went on, the 4 pm time slot grew a little more difficult to catch as my school activities grew and my homework load strengthened.  Even now, I wouldn't even say I watched her everyday, or even every week.  So as the world prepared to say it's goodbyes to her, I started to wonder why I was having such an emotional response- why it was so sad to say goodbye to a woman I'd never met but felt knew me so deeply.  Aside from suspicions that I might be insane, here's what I came up with:

I don't think any of us can deny that being a woman in this world and keeping a healthy view of ourselves is difficult.  We are constantly surrounded by women that abandon their intelligence and self worth to obtain some sort of notoriety.  Oprah, on the other hand, has shown us that intelligence, compassion and kindness are, in fact, qualities needed to achieve success.  And she was there, everyday at 4 o'clock, sharing that message over and over and over again.  It's difficult to say how much I appreciate and needed that.

I hadn't realized how much Oprah had impacted me and my outlook on life and the world until I sat down this week to think about her impending absence.  Technically, she's in the business of entertainment and t.v.  But I think it's deeper than that.  Oprah is in the business of people.  She learns people's stories and shares them with the world.  The more I look at my own the life, I've realized this is the exact path I've decided to take.  On paper, I want to be a psychologist that writes novels in her spare time.  But what this really means is I want to sit down with people, learn where they're at in life, help them find redemption in their dark places.  And I want to tell their stories.  Actually, I want to help them tell their own stories.  I believe in the power of narration, the empowering sense of sharing something personal with someone else.  It's about faith and trust and acknowledging that you are significant enough to share things and to be heard.  That's how we enter into community with each other.  And without community, we'd all just be sad 13 year olds coming back from a difficult day of school to an empty house with no one to talk to but a lady on t.v.

So here's to Oprah.  For keeping us company when we were lonely, teaching us to value ourselves, hold one another in compassion, and believe in the power of a story.  Cheers!

How has Oprah impacted you and how are you coping with the void she's left in day time television?  

Gang Violence and Estate Sales

photo credit- weheartit

Back in September I moved into a sweet little house, with nice little roommates, cute little doo-dads painted on the walls, and precious little neighbors.  As it turns out, this awwdoorable house also sits in the middle of what seems to be a heightening gang "situation."  Twice now I've found my self in a dark corner, clutching my knees to my chest, wondering if I should risk crawling to Emily's room across the hall to hide under the covers with her.  I always wondered if I would be able to tell gun shots from a car backfiring.  I am quite the expert these days.  But what's life without a gang shooting here and there, amiright?  At any rate, I'm too lazy to consider moving and if I wasn't, I'm stuck here until the lease is up in December.  I also have my own bathroom and washer/dryer.  This is unheard of in Portland and not something I'm willing to give up because of a little gang violence.

So, to feel better about my possible life threatening living situation, I decided to spruce up the old bed chamber a bit.  Roommate Jackie and I perused some estate sales over the weekend.  It's a dance, estate sale shopping.  You have to know when to go, when to hold 'em and fold 'em, and when to jump on something before someone else snatches it out of your thrifty little fingers.  As garage sale season starts to blessedly approach again, there's really only three things you need to know to have an effective shopping trip.

     Estate Sale Pro Tip #1- Most sales run Friday through Sunday.  If you can, try to go the first day, right when it opens.  You'll get to see all the goods before everyone else snatch it all up.  But here's where you've got to start trusting your thrifty intuition- decide if whatever you've found is really worth the full price listed.  Usually prices will drop 50% on the last day of the sale.  So if it's not dripping in wet your pants, frenzy-inducing, vintage awesomeness, just let it sit there for a couple days.  If it's still there when you go back on Sunday, you'll feel like it was meant to be and end up paying a lot less.

     Estate Sale Pro Tip #2- So you've found that macrame trivet, bedazzled parrot hanging wall art, and half empty bottle of vanilla extract (I have seen all of these personally at sales).  And you waited until Sunday to purchase them, so they're ridiculously cheap-- but you're not done yet.  You are estate sale shopping, you are in this to buy unnecessary trinkets for literally next to nothing.  You. Mean. Business.  But you're also kind of passive aggressive and non confrontational.  If you've waited until the wee hours of a Sunday sale, all you have to do is mention a minor imperfection and the tired person working the cash register will give you a cheaper price.  This is how I usually do it-- as I pass him or her my items to ring up I describe them as I go.  "Here's a wripped parasol, a chipped tea cup, and a scarf with a hole in it."  Of course you could also barter with them, but like I said, this is for the non confrontational, passive aggressive set.  And now you've got a brand new (to you) half empty bottle of vanilla extract for not two dollars, not 1 dollar, but fifty cents.  Go you!

     Estate Sale Pro Tip #3- Try, if you can, to find a balance between honoring the life that you are rummaging through and keeping an emotional distance.  I struggle with this the most.  I walk through the emptied rooms with life remnants scattered here and there after being fondled by any and all shmucks in off the street, myself included.  All I can think about is this person- this person who doesn't live here any more, or just doesn't live at all.  And I get sad.  I get sad for the family that's having to grieve and get rid of everything that looks and smells and feels like this person that's not around anymore.  I start to think about how a life all of the sudden is reduced to some bins of clothing and silly art they bought in the 80s-- how exposed they would feel if they knew strangers were parading through their house, judging and making assumptions based on the way they chose to decorate their life.  I usually think myself into an existential crisis which promptly fades when I admire my finds in their new home-- my home.  To avoid any and all existential crises, don't take the sale personally.  Try to think, instead, of how their memories, stored in the nicks and the nacks, can allow them to live on alongside your new memories.  And unless you're super into music boxes, don't open any up.  They are alway creepy.  Always.

And that's it!  You're ready for summer, my dears.  Go out, buy irrationally cheap furniture and picture frames, and kitchen utensils, and think about how you may or may not have brought home a haunted music box.  But before you do, post your own garage/estate sale pro tips in the comments section.  I'd love to hear them!

Since I'm shamelessly gratuitous, soon I'll post pictures of my room pre and post Operation Anti-Gang Violence Redecoration.

A Sheepish Hello Again

A quite accurate (albeit skinnier) depiction of myself in Portland.

The last post I wrote went a little something like this: "Oh hey!  I'm not dead.  Just a bad blogger.  But I'm back and ready to spew my thoughts over all you fine fine readers out there."  That was eleven months ago.  I'll just leave it at that.

I've been thinking a lot about this blog.  Should I pick it back up?  Delete it and start a new blog?  Just delete it?  And based on my blogging track record, I should really just do the latter.  But, I live in an essentially foreign place now, and that's important.  I moved to Portland nine months ago, not knowing anyone or what I wanted to do with my life.  I know people now, but I'm still working on that last bit.  And when I start to get homesick, I think about two things: Cheeseman Park and Hindsight.

Cheeseman was a park about three blocks from my apartment.  It was perfect.  Green and rough around the edges.  There was really nothing like it in the spring.  And as beautiful and lush as Portland is, I've yet to find anything quite like it here.  I can't tell you how many time I rode my bike to Cheeseman, leaned back against my favorite tree, and let the inspiration of the place swirl up around me.  And since I've yet to find a place like that in my new city, I've also been without that truly inspired feeling.  And that brings me to the abandonment of Hindsight.

It's hard to keep up a pseudo-inspiration blog when you have nothing to pseudo-inspire with.  But just the same, every time I'd start to reminisce about Cheeseman, I'd also start to think about Hindsight and the time I'd spent on my overstuffed arm chair in my attic bedroom, next to the window that over looked the ancient trees and neighbors.  I would read about my blogging friends, type away about things that on the surface probably didn't matter a whole lot, but helped to create a sense of community and catharsis in my life.  I miss all of that.

So I'm working on it.  The sun has finally come out in this God forsaken town and the vitamin D has begun to work its magic.  There are bike pub crawls, afternoons napping at the bluffs, and brunch outside on patios!  If you have never lived in a primarily rainy climate, you have no idea just how influential sunlight and warm weather can be on... everything.

I feel like I have a real shot at this now.  I won't be making any grand promises- like a once a week posting or really awesome give aways.  And I certainly can't promise to continue blogging once the sun goes into hiding once again come August.  But I want to restructure this, make into something worth reading.  I love that bloggers are essentially "doing life" together.  We're watching each other stumble and triumph, all the while encouraging one other and reveling in the book reccomendations and pretty pictures.  I love all of this and I want to be a part of it again.

So here I am, coming back to you with my tail between my legs, hoping you'd be willing to give me one last shot.  I can't say if it'll be award winning content, but I can say with some certainty that it'll be messy, honest and probably even a little entertaining.  And I'd love to have you along.

Sarah's Not Dead... Yet

{Photo by my wonderful friend Chris.  If you need a photographer in the Denver area, you certainly need to give him a shout}

Oh hey!  I'm not dead!  Just a bad blogger.  But I'm back and ready to spew my thoughts all over you fine fine readers out there.

I'm moving to Portland!!  I'm ditching this popsicle stand known as Denver and making my way out west.  So far, I'm a clustermuck of excitement, stress, anxiety, and pure ecstasy.  The decision to move was pretty rash and hasn't be received well by some (most) of my family and friends; but there a fair few that have been extremely supportive, and for that I am very thankful. 

My launch date is July 16th.  I should be in the Pacific Northwest by July 18th and settled in with my 80 year old great-uncle Tony and his spunky wife of 4 years, Auntie Kathy.  When they offered to let me stay with them, Auntie Kathy's exact words were, "You can stay as long as you like... not permanently.  But as long as you like."  Other than my silvered haired roommates, I have no friends in the area and that is oddly liberating and exciting to me.  I can start over, get out of these bad habits I've set for myself and figure out how to do this "life" thing everyone's always talking about.

Oh!  Did I mention Powell's??  The largest independent bookstore in America?  Yeah.  You'll have a book-gasm within minutes of stepping through the front doors, especially when the cashier tells you there's no sales tax in Portland. 

My list of things to do over the next four weeks has been growing; it seems that things are being added faster than they are being checked off.  But over the past few days I've gotten rid of nearly all of my clothes, traded them in at consignment stores for higher end items that will last longer and keep me dry during the rainy months, which I'm told are January through December.

I also cleaned out every hiding spot I've created in my apartment.  There's the nook between the bookcase and the window where important papers go to die; the drawers in my desk that have become a graveyard for old (and ugly) stationary and over-sized thumb tacks I apparently thought would be a wise purchase at the time; under my bed where the over-sized bags I think I needed to make me a better and trendier student and writer have found their permanent resiting place; and, most frighteningly, "The Linoleum Room."  The Linoleum room is a spare room that came with our apartment.  It has a drain in the middle of the linoleum floor (hence the name), a sink, awkward and unusable shelves, and windows that lead to the fire escape, that have been painted shut.  When we moved in, we slid all our odds and ends that didn't have an immediate home into The Linoleum Room with wonderful intentions to sort through them later.  Then we made the mistake of hanging up a curtain in the doorway so you wouldn't be able to see the mess.  A year and half later, the odds and ends are still there, with many more additions that have settled in quite nicely. 

Yesterday, in 90 degree heat (and with painted shut windows), I forced my way through the boxes and boxes of unused decorations, birthday card, board games, cleaning products, and miscellaneous mementos.  My mantra: "Do I really want to pack this?" And if there was still some hesitancy: "Will this fit in my Honda Accord?"  The answer was usually always a resounding NO and the Good Will on Broadway is now fully stocked with all the junk I've collected since I moved out of my parent's house 5 years ago. 

I looked around The Linoleum Room, with linoleum floors now actually visible and my brain somehow felt so much lighter.  Then I turned to my closets, opened the door and examined the few articles that survived the purge.  My shoulders didn't feel quite as heavy as they did a few days earlier.  Even though I'll be going to Portland with nothing but some picture frames and my books, and will most likely be that girl that wears the same outfits every week, I feel so liberated.  All that "stuff" was anchoring me, holding me back.  And it really was just "stuff."  None of it meant anything important, none of it was hand made or given to me out of love or importance.  It was plastic and cheap and making me feel toxic without even knowing it. 

As a creative individual, de-cluttering the mind is so important; you have to push away the clutter to let the inspiration trickle in.  Creating a clutter-free environment is a huge part of that.  I'm a big believer that the space you make around you is a reflection of what's going on in your mind.  I've proven that fact in my own life time and time again- when I'm distracted or depressed or stressed, the environment around me starts to mirror that with piles and messes and acclimation in general. 

Handing bag after bag to the employees at Good Will and looking back at my empty car and thinking about that empty Linoleum Room, I could feel my mind open  up a bit.  I didn't feel so weighted down and the task of packing up a Honda Accord didn't feel so daunting.  Getting to check that off my list was HUGE and now I'm wondering what to do for the next four weeks before I leave.

Up next: Plan a going away party (for myself because no one else will do it.  Harrumph!) and hoping that my drunken hipster friends will mesh nicely with my conservative and very anti-hipster family members.  I shall report back with hopefully only mildly disastrous details.

PS- Hope you all are well and enjoying your summers!  I'm tyring to catch up with all your blogs will be commenting soon.  I've missed you!

Alison Armstrong

A friend of mine turned me on to this artist a few days ago.  I absolutely love her.  When he said it was "kind of 50's pop art," I was skeptical.  I feel like the genre is really hit or miss with me; but  I was blown away when I visited her website.  Definitely a hit.  When you go to her site, make sure you check out her process.  At first glance she looks like to be a graphic designer but there's so much more to it than that.

These pictures don't do her justice; the colors on the website are stunning.  "City" is my favorite.  Which ones do you like?  One lucky commenter gets one for free.
Just kidding.  I can't even afford the prints, but I would  like to know which ones strike your fancy.

If it wasn't $800, it'd be perfect for a laundry room.

This needs to be in my house immediately.

The colors!  The wings!  I might cry.

Looking in to the Past

Stumbled upon this little gem a few days ago.

"25 photos that compare past snapshots of buildings, locations, structures, and people with the present day scene. Below are some of our favorites picked out from the hundreds of photos in the Looking Into the Past Flickr group by Jason Powell."


Here are some of my favorites:

All for the Love of Harry

{i imagine this is what my mind looks like.  found here}

For the past three days I've been noticing a remarkable amount of tweed jackets, dark rimmed glasses and laptop bags being toted around near our convention center downtown.  I didn't think much of it other than to steal some second glances at the dashing young men in their corduroy pants.

Turns out they're all hear for the AWP Conference- The Association of Writers and Writing Programs.  I found out today- the last day of the conference.  Why didn't I know about this?  Why wasn't there some heads up from one of my creative writing professors.  I'd like to think that's what they're here for but perhaps I'm mistaken- perhaps my tuition dollars should instead go to them ignoring my emails and not giving me back my portfolios; because that's been my experience thus far.

I am beyond frustrated right now.  The conference is in a different region of the US every year; it will never be this accessible again.  I was looking at the event list and had to click away before I really started to get upset.  Instead of listening how to make the most of a creative writing degree, market myself efficiently, and workshop pieces relating to the "fantastic" I'm sitting in a cafe about a block away from the lucky bastards that do.  Currently, I'm taking notes on how to read a topographical map.  The very thought is so infuriating.  I am stressed out, not writing, and completely bogged down by assignments and papers that will never ever get me to where I want to be in life.

It's enough to make me drop out of school again.  But my parents said if I graduate they'll take me to Harry Potter World.  So... obviously I'm staying.



PS- Literally the moment I put the last period on this post this the power went.  Meaning I had no access to the internet and no way to continue to do my bloody homework.  The only thing left for me to do- write write write.  Thanks universe!

The Prodigal Creative

I've been thinking a lot about fear lately.  Why am I so afraid to go after the things I want?  I want to write- I want to be a writer.  I want to do journal therapy too, I really do, but it almost become a purposeful distraction for me- it's okay if I never write anything of consequence, I'll just teach people to do it instead.  In all honesty, about 90% of my day is spent fighting off something strong and hungry in my belly screaming for me to write.

A person has come into my life recently that is forcing my brain to reconnect with its former creative self- where symbols and metaphors are okay to use in the course of a conversation.  It's uncomfortable, I won't lie.  I feel silly and cheesy and not myself most of the time.  We're pen pals essentially and I'm not used to turning a chat about my day into something poetic- be he does and it's authentic and beautiful.  I've started to mimic his lead- using my own words and style.  I've missed these words and the order in which I place them.  My rhetoric, my panache.  This person is pulling it out of me again and I'm just now realizing that perhaps his entrance into my life isn't a random coincidence- I'm thinking it is very much intentional.  My brain is being forced to engage in ways that it hasn't in a very long time.  It's not about "hey how are you, where did you grow up."  It's about "what did you see, where did you go, who and what did you connect with that made you feel , if only for a moment, alive.  Not in a breathe in breathe out sort of way- in a way that makes you truly aware of your existence in that moment."

This is what he told me "So my new friend Sarah (which by the way is a lovely name) I want to stress on the importance of writing. Submit your writing to all the places you can, knock on all the doors until your knuckles are bloody, and write until your notebooks are so colorful that when people read them their jaws drop wide with amazement. " I think I need more colored pens.


Last night, as I wrote to him, I remembered what I love so much about writing- the challenge of finding a way to say something that's been said a million times and understood by everyone- in a way no one has ever said it before.  That made me feel something- in that completely aware of my fingers and heartbeat sort of way.


I've been in a slump lately and I couldn't figure out why- the weather, school, money woes, etc etc.  I tried getting more vitamin D and completely ignored my school work.  Nothing was working.  Until last night when I finally tapped that right side of brain that was gathering dust.  Today I'm feeling more inspired   That familiar catch in my chest when Hoppipola comes on my iPod and I feel like I could grasp the whole world with the tip of my pen and still have room and love enough to lie in the grass and let the little bugs explore my skin.  


I'm afraid I'm not making much sense now.  And the only way I can explain it is that I feel alive again- connected and in tune with my mind.  At least a little bit.  And at least more than yesterday.  And certainly more than the day before.  I feel the electric buzz of creation in my brain.  And all it took was returning to the thing I love.

Finally

Finally this project I've been hinting at has come to fruition!

Shake the Dust is a blog my two dear friends and I have started to make this year mean more than they have in the past.  I got the idea when I realized how many people would raise their glasses to the new year in hopes of something better.  So instead of hoping for the best this year, I decided to do something about it and make a list.  To really take the time to do the things I've wanted to delve into the parts of my life that have been gathering dust for quite some time.  That's where the name comes from.  I'm shaking the dust off my life and seeking out new adventures.

Our lists may not be extravagant but they're intentional.  The goal of the blog is to experience, grow, and learn lessons to be shared with the rest of the world.  I hope you'll join us!

Shake the Dust.

Spring On the Brain

These go well with the bit I posted last week about the book planters.  *Sigh* I miss green things.  Everything is white and gray and cold.  The Spring equinox is in about a month!  My shoulders would like to greet the world again.

You can purchase these fantastic little bookmarks here.