Last week was a slice. From the appalling events in Baton
Rouge, suburban Minneapolis and Dallas; and in Dhaka and Baghdad and I don’t
know where-all; to crushing crowds on Metro, five days of 90-degree temperature
plus 90%-humidity and a directive to cough up out of nothing an event sometime
in the next four months that will give the prospective customers not what they need, but what we have (and, BTW, the
research we have done indicates that
we can’t make our costs back on such an event, much less build a substantial,
sustainable revenue stream)—because the CEO has a flea in his ear…
Well, basically from the macro to the micro, I’ve been
looking around this weekend wondering what, exactly, the point of pretty much
everything is. I feel like the widening gyre has me in a permanent state of vertigo—never
exactly sure whether I’m putting my foot onto solid ground, if such a thing as
solid ground exists any more.
Yeah, that’s it—it’s like that moment in an earthquake
where you sense the concrete pavement beneath you has turned liquid, and you
hold your breath waiting for it to stop and re-solidify.
Only these days, I’m not sure there’s an end in sight to
the shock waves.
And that can make it hard to latch onto a focus for
gratitude. But when you’re completely worn out, that’s when you really need
that focus the most.
So, as I was vacuuming the living room yesterday (it doesn’t
get as dusty as my place in the Valley They Call Silicon, but it needs a good
sweep at least once a week—and that’s with all the windows and doors closed), I
seized upon one of the Christmas packages my friend gave me the weekend before.
(Long story, but I’m inclined to let Christmas and birthdays be somewhat fluid in
my celebrations.)
I knew I was in for something good when I pulled off the wrapping
and saw the Appalachian Spring box, and then I opened it and found this
beautiful Fire and Light bowl.
(Fire and Light products
are made entirely from recycled glass; crushed, molten and hand-pressed into
beautiful dishes, vases, glasses and other things.)
My friend has a
tradition of giving me a F&L wine glass from Appalachian Spring for
Christmas. Whenever I move, I hold one of them out for my last drink in my old
place, then I hand-carry it with me to have my first drink at my new place.
Bellevue (twice), Seattle, San José, Sunnyvale, DC and NoVa. (So far.)
Doesn’t matter what the contents are, just that I’m using one of the glasses.
I also get finger monsters. (One of them hid out in my
handbag when I interviewed for my present job.)
So, okay—today I’m grateful that, no matter how utterly
ghastly a particular day is on any level, I can come into my flat, close away
the outside world, and have something beautiful in front of me to focus on—once
discarded, crushed, molten and reforged as something beautiful.
I’m also grateful for a friend who opened this world of
beauty to me.
Both of these will help me as I start work this week on
carrying out the directive to put on an event that no one but the CEO thinks is
a good idea.
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