Sorry, Dallas...

...but the view on approach to your airport doesn't quite match that of Portland.

Fighting the good fight

Before you confuse this post with "Chicken Soup for The Soul"-type ponderings...I wanted to set it up.
I had a great talk with a friend the other day about just how hard it can be sometimes to be one's self at work. It happens all over the world every single day to billions of people. I am not alone. We spend energy trying to wedge ourselves into a mold, however ill-fitting it may be, in order to accomplish what we want. Some days that mold is a smidge too small. Like my favorite turquoise velvet Cole Haan slingbacks I wore all day yesterday despite my complaining toes. Or sometimes it's waaaaaay off, like the T-shirts I've gotten at the last 4 charity events I've attended. Which I can assure you went into the bike rag bag.
Little adjustments or small, they take energy. Sometimes that is a good thing and helps us on our true and noble path. Sometimes it detracts from our whole universe. That energy is allocated away from the purpose and drive of our lives. Those are the days when we pack up our "awesome" and leave it in a box by the front door; completely forgetting to take it to work with us.
There were moments at Darden when I felt like the squarest peg in the roundest of round holes. Under a swinging hammer that wouldn't let up for a moment in order to let me scream "I'm a square peg, damnit!" There were also times when I felt completely connected to the dharma flowing through my life; sailing unimpeded toward my destiny. My smile and confidence couldn't have gotten any brighter.
Happens at Frito, too.
My friend sent me this note today and I printed it out and pasted it inside my desk drawer (don't want to be too obvious about my occasional struggles).
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"To be nobody-but-yourself--in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else--means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting."

EE Cummings

I've been thinking about this quote since our conversation...it is absolutely true...be yourself always <...edited...>

Take care and keep in touch!

Continuing to freak Jonny out

By referencing the cuteness of babies.

To be clear: there are really only two that I reference. And I am not interested in acquiring one.

But, since you asked which two I'm talking about, here is one: Blake Hawk, my nephew!

Starring in a new (possibly short-lived) feature of my blog: shit Blake would say if he could talk.

Here is one"11 IS NOT the square root of 144. Now, leave me to my pondering. Amateurs..."
"Are you done? Because I have some drooling to do."
I admit: Auntie Mandy is smitten by his cute-i-tude.

As I attempt to kick ass...

...I am perpetually inspired by this ad. And I remember how special it is to be an athlete.

Those magicians at whatever advertising agency NAILED IT.
Nothing like The Killers at 4 a.m. on a Friday to getchya goin.

things remembered

though i'm not sentimental about holidays in the slightest...
mom sent photos of easter sunday. green grass in the morning, snow in the evening.
my oregon is awesome!

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Some people don't like to talk about "love" when they mention work.

Frito is different. I hear people say, over and over, how much they "love" something. Be it a brand, a packaging graphic, a process (okay, that's not too often), a team, a taskforce, a secluded little spot to sit at headquarters; love is all around.

I don't hear too often (in any working environment) about treating one's co-workers with love. I think that is because of the common usage of the word and how it feels slightly icky to use on the guy you see every week in team meetings or something.

So we use "respect". Which I think is just fine. Call it what you will; love, honor, respect, kindness, grace, cherished. All slightly different but all coming from a place that is good.

I think that we all possess it, and I strive every day to treat my co-workers with it. I have a few reminders at my desk to do so, and every time I look at them I smile.

Here is my latest. I admit that I adore the movie Love Actually. It's just delightful and I know a few guys who feel the same way.

So, this note on the wall of my cube is for you, Lucas. I always appreciated how you weren't ashamed to love this movie!

"Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion love actually is all around."

-The Prime Minister, played by Hugh Grant

I slept through some Art History lectures

I was not an Art History major.
I feel the need to say that. I tell people I have an Art Degree and they assume I know a lot about the history of art. Which I do; don’t get me wrong. Growing up in a house surrounded by nothing but books and art and incredibly brilliant art teacher parents will show a girl a thing or two about what came before her.
But I was not an Art History major. I was a Studio Art major. I made stuff. I drew stuff. I painted stuff. I printed stuff. I welded stuff. I shaped clay with my hands. For some reason it seems very far away from a lot of peple who know me as a driven MBA-type. But I used to do that. I used to stay up until 4 a.m. with creativity coming out of my fingertips. I told myself that I had tapped into what felt like to be alive. I also decided that to be a great artist I needed to be in an altered state a lot of the time. It’s a natural pairing: getting fucked up and creating art. Everybody I ever read about had an addiction to something or other or a serious division in their brain that drove them to get the crazy out through a paintbrush.
So I tried that for a few years. I never did any psychedelic mushroom paintings or anything; mom and dad had taught me too well to do that. I did refined stuff. Things you could find in small galleries. Expressions of me but also the world around. It was good.
Then I left a lot of that behind and went on to be pedestrian. My creativity was quarantined to the occasional bout of creating something lovely out of discarded objects. I benefitted but always felt that I was crammed into a little corner. I blamed a lot of it on not having enough space to let the crazy fly. Too small of a house in which to really set up shop.
Excuses.
I finally have 2100 square feet in which to create. I have a huge room full of sunlight and warm carpet and three desks. I don’t have to be monogamous in my choice of surfaces on which to create. I can sew on one table, cut out a million pieces of paper on another, or sit down at the last with a fine point pen and tell the world (okay, just myself) how I feel through writing.
It is good.
I pledge to make use of it.
This past month or two of exercising again has awoken a current inside me as only endorphins can. I forgot how much power I had when I used the gift I was given. I have amazing athletic prowess, just like most people; to honor and respect it is much harder than it sounds. It’s time to carve out a little bit of time each day to celebrate. I fooled myself into thinking that I was exercising again to run the Hospital Hill Half marathon with Megan in June. Okay. I was. That was partly true. But the rest of it is that my body missed its companions of pain and suffering and lithe movement. That’s the real reason.
Through these past two months I’ve gotten perspective on what it means to work in corporate America, and I’m not sure this blog is the right place to share my day-to-day. Instead, I’ll take you along on a journey as I rediscover the powerful athlete within, find the art that was lost, and ruminate here and there about what it means to be a part of a machine.
Don’t get me wrong; ‘machine’ is not pejorative. It just is. And I’m in it. Running.