Hanging In

This blogging stuff is an interesting business. What started as a cathartic process to help ease the long days of my boy’s chemotherapy treatment, then evolved into a creative palate and idea platform, and has occasionally merged into community-level public relations spots for clients of my studio.

Turns out my blog page, An Untamed Life On Purpose, has a small following. With the number of daily visitors ranging between 20 and 40 folks, I am grateful for your time and especially appreciate your thoughtful comments. Mainly though, who you all are is a mystery to me, and I enjoy the surprise when someone unexpected reveals that they are a reader!

The other curious wonder about this blog is which posts elicit more attention and responses than others. I was convinced back in mid April, that what people most enjoy are short thought-provoking quotes accompanied by photographs, like “A Simple Quote.”  Nonetheless, the last three entries in April (the three part letter, A Lifetime Love Affair, to my daughter) and May pieces such as, “Standing Fast” showed me that audiences are equally enthusiastic about reflective writing. Other May favorites have included “Supporting Folks We Believe In” (thanks to all Stella’s friends in Palmer, AK for dropping by), the whimsical and mildly interactive “Summertime Checklist” and the purely visual “And Later That Day.”

When I started actively blogging, on Monday, January 11th, I committed to post on weekdays for ninety entries. Today marks the 93rd blog post for Martha Phelps Studio since that day.

Thoreau said, “Things do not change; we change.” I know this wisdom to be true.  It’s no coincidence that as I approached my benchmark of ninety, I was offered a part time job that will, among many things, encourage me to tap into my skills as a writer and creative thinker. It’s part time, which is just right for this juncture. It’s for a local company I respect and admire, which makes it easy to be passionate about. My new “boss” wants me to learn and grow, which makes me feel very happy. And my schedule still gives me freedom for m.l.p. studio clients and the art-making that occurs here during the summer months.

Outside of taking time off to travel every now and then, I’m going to hang in with this blog for as long as it makes me happy. I hope that my readers will hang in too, as well as share it with friends. If there’s something you’d like more of, please let me know. I like a good healthy challenge on occasion! 

All will be well, mlp

For any and all you who may be interested, I have a public Facebook Page whose purpose is positive, unusual and thought provoking quotes and the subsequently interesting exchanges inspired by said quotes. Please visit and become a "Friend" to the page!

Feeling First

The only time I have ever heard someone say “I don’t make you feel that, you choose to feel that way” has been when the speaker was defending themselves, or trying to let him or herself off the hook for words or behaviors that created an outcome that was uncomfortable for them. In other words, they used it as an excuse and a foil rather than accepting responsibility for their part in a situation that evoked emotion.

Human beings, especially those who are in touch with their feelings in a mature and healthy way, tend to respond to outside forces and situations with their emotions first, and their minds and intellectual reasoning step in soon thereafter. Those who, for a myriad of reasons, are very private or guarded in their reactions, can often adeptly go from step A (feelings) to step B (thoughts) in seconds. Note the distinction: “mature and healthy.” I don’t consider someone who flies into a rage or into hysterics at the drop of a pin to fit this description.

When my son was initially diagnosed with cancer, I supposed I could’ve “chosen to feel” something other than shock and grief, but in my human condition, I went directly to the place that any mother who loves her child would go. It was through time, necessity and giving myself opportunity to process some fairly raw emotions in safe and supported ways - that I stepped into the second phase of both the emotional and cognitive journey.  His process has been different, of course - influenced by age, life experience and his uncanny ability to stay in the now. I think that life threatening illness or loss are extreme examples here, because when we grieve it takes longer to go from initial reactions to consciously “choosing how to feel.”

On a day to day level; however, there are many instances. When your playful cat does something silly and you laugh at his antics, you don’t stop - make a carefully thought out choice - and then “feel joy.” You simply feel joy. Now. It’s a beautiful and spontaneous synergy. When you are listening to exquisite music and the sound and vibration of inspiration, tone, rhythm and harmonies evoke deep sadness and tears, you don’t pause - considered your emotional options - and then select “weep.” You just surrender. Now.

I could offer example upon example of situations and experiences where perfectly intelligent and sensible people DO NOT stop to hold a consult in their mind, rather they allow themselves to fully FEEL FIRST. And thank god that we can do such a thing. Thank god that we can trust the deep knowing of our hearts on occasion as it is with our hearts that we can often see and understand most clearly.

So here’s the deal: What we have DO HAVE A CHOICE IN -- is determining how - after we’ve felt the laughter, cried the tears, burned through the fury or known the heart ache  - how and who we will BE NEXT.

If you’ve been one of those folks who likes to say “Oh, you’re choosing to feel that way.” I would strongly urge you to stop saying this. Stop sidestepping the reality of the human spirit, for to feel is to know that you are alive! Stop placating your own fears by shutting out emotions, and stop disrespecting the heartfelt (not “mind” felt) spontaneous joys and sorrows experienced by others.

No matter how messy or weird or too real it may appear to the nay sayers, those who know the emotional landscape of their inner selves also know that if they allow their feelings to surface, they can then begin choosing what comes next in a nourishing way. For me these are the choices that matter so very much and may actually make me a better person. This writer’s now-open heart, despite my mind’s desperate attempts to make it choose occasionally less messy responses, has the first and last say.

A Lifetime Love Affair (Part II)

(This is the second installment of a lengthy post. Part I was published on April 28.)

If your eyes were not the color of the moon,
of a day full of clay, and work, and fire,
if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air,
if you were not an amber week,

not the yellow moment
when autumn climbs up through the vines;
if you were not that bread the fragrant moon
kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky,

oh, my dearest, I would not love you so!
But when I hold you I hold everything that is--
sand, time, the tree of the rain,

everything is alive so that I can be alive:
without moving I can see it all:
in your life I see everything that lives.         ~Pablo Neruda


My first book of Pablo Neruda's poems were given to me on my eighteenth birthday. I had little life experience to filter his exquisite writing through. Roger Housden says in the opening of his book, Ten Poems to Change Your Life, that good poetry has the power to start a fire in your life, and I think that’s what happened for me with Neruda. I mean, I had already been exposed to good poetry. But it had all come to me at someone else’s behest. With the arrival of Neruda’s love sonnets and odes, I now began seeking new poems and their writers on my own accord. A fire had been lit within me that felt so marvelously untamed and warm, I wanted to stoke the flame with more fuel.

Fortunately, an English major in college is in the perfect spot for foraging. Barbara Clark-Mossberg gave me an education in the fireside poets and the likes of Emerson, Whitman, Dickinson, Melville and Thoreau that had my mind and senses overflowing. Ed Coleman, my beloved adviser, baptized me in the African American poets: Gwendolyn Brooks, Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Claude McKay, Langston Hughes, Nikki Giovanni and others found their way into my marrow. Gloria Johnson stood, with her open Riverside collection of Shakespeare's plays and sonnets, and read aloud in class in lilting iambic pentameter that made perfect sense - nearly all the time! I read, listened to and wrote prose and poetry in an environment that inspired more exploration and discovery than I had previously known. This is, of course, one of the beautiful aspects of going to college and studying what you are passionate about. There is plenty of encouraging support around you.

When I graduated, with a bachelor’s degree in English and minors in creative writing and folklore and ethnic studies, I began to make my way toward being a teacher. I hadn’t forgotten that my ten-year old self had a different career goal, but I figured that instilling a love for literature, poetry and writing in children would be a worthy way to make a difference in the world. And it did. Poetry study in my LA classes were NOTHING like what I had encountered in high school. We learned the language, read contemporary works, listened to rock, pop and rap music, threw out the rule books, wrote constantly, shared daily - and had fun. Imagine that?

At home, in my carefree life before motherhood, poetry was present daily. Your dad wooed me in fairly romantic fashion with a piece called “A Late Aubade” by Richard Wilbur, not long after I met him - 

You could be sitting now in a carrel

Turning some liver-spotted page,

Or rising in an elevator-cage

Toward Ladies' Apparel.

You could be planting a raucous bed

Of salvia, in rubber gloves,

Or lunching through a screed of someone's loves

With pitying head.

Or making some unhappy setter

Heel, or listening to a bleak

Lecture on Schoenberg's serial technique.

Isn't this better?

Think of all the time you are not

Wasting, and would not care to waste,

Such things, thank God, not being to your taste.

Think what a lot

Of time, by woman's reckoning,

You've saved, and so may spend on this,

You who had rather lie in bed and kiss

Than anything.

It's almost noon, you say? 
If so,
Time flies, and I need not rehearse

The rosebuds-theme of centuries of verse.

If you mustgo,

Wait for a while, then slip downstairs

And bring us up some chilled white wine,

And some blue cheese, and crackers, and some fine

Ruddy-skinned pears.


...and perhaps this poem even had something to do with why I fell in love with him? I certainly remember the sound of his voice as he read to me, as well as the light in the room and the texture of the ripe pear he had placed gently in my hand.

You see, Sarah, the right poem can change not only the way you see yourself, but it can change the way you see the world. At the least, it entertains us with images and rhythm, at the most though -- it gives us permission, welcomes forgiveness, dares us to push pass the edges of the safety net that we live so much of life within and sustains us when the of life territory feels new, scary, raw and wild.

By the time your older brother had arrived, a decade after Neruda was born into my heart, I had come to realize that one of the biggest reasons I loved poetry so very very much, was because the truly gifted poets - somehow, some -inexplicable- how, seemed to be able to put into words my exact feelings about certain things and experiences - when even I could not. How was this possible? I couldn’t explain it, but felt it deeply and truly. 



(End of Part II)

A Lifetime Love Affair (Part I)

Okay. Fair warning dear blog readers. This is a long post. It's so long, in fact, that I'm splitting into three parts. It's essentially about expression of self, but it's also a story that I realized I wanted to give my kids. Partly so they can understand their mom, and partly to encourage them to pay attention to the things in life that feed their souls. So....read on, or tune in next week for a change in topic! ~ mlp

Dear Sarah,

We had a pretty good row this morning about...well,many things I suppose. It was about socially acceptable behavior and who defines what’s right and wrong, it was about judgment of others and ourselves, it was about boundaries and it was about taking a stand for what you believe in. That’s a lot of big stuff to cover in just a few minutes at a fairly heated level of exchange, and I hope we can revisit all of it in a more leisurely peaceful fashion in the near future.

But for now, my darling, I want to talk to you about what started the argument: poetry. I offered you an e e cummings poem to take into English class, where you are currently studying poetry and cummings, and you blanched about taking the poem to your teacher. I then, got more than a little upset with you and the rest is - as they say - history. In fact though, the rest is the story about a lifetime love affair with poetry and how pursuing what you love, will change you forever.

I first declared that I wanted to be a poet “someday” in the fourth grade. A local poet by the name of David Zaslow, came to Lincoln Elementary School to teach us how to "be a poet." His opening reading was the William Carlos Williams’ piece, “This Is Just To Say” 

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

I was mesmerized. David went on to teach us about metaphor and simile, about onomatopoeia and alliteration. He coaxed haiku and small rhyming bits from us, and read aloud from a collection entitled “Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle” that held 114 treasures about topics ranging from hunting to loneliness, old dogs sunning themselves to biscuits, arithmetic to baseball games. In short, wonderful snippets and stories bound into a few graceful lines - about anything and everything in life. I learned that no topic was off limits, a few key words could speak volumes, and a truly good poem would reach into your gut and momentarily take your breath away.

Mr. Cummings (or shall I say "mister cummings") showed up in my life a couple years later, when I was given a wonderful introduction at about aged twelve by Joe Dubay, a dear family friend. Joe pulled a volume off a shelf in my parent’s house, and asked me if I ever read poetry? I said yes, but confessed that “that guy’s stuff was hard for me to figure out.” Four readings later - together and out loud - and I was hooked. The poem was  “in Just”

in Just-
spring    when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles    far    and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marble and
piracies and it’s
spring

when the world is puddle-wondeful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far    and    wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hopscotch and jump-rope and

it’s
spring
and
    the

        goat-footed

balloonman    whistles
far
and
wee

We also had a long discussion about the license that cummings took with his punctuation and suddenly, everything I knew about conventionality and creativity changed. I began to surmise that to be completely daring - one must be comfortable with putting down the manuals and rule books, step off the edge of the writer's cliff and never look back.

At fourteen, with the help of my very hip ninth grade English teacher, Terry Wells,  I fell in love with the lyrics of Paul Simon:

“Time it was and what a time it was,
A time of innocence,
A time of confidences,
Long ago it must be,
I have a photograph,
Preserve your memories,
There all that's left you...”  (from Old Friends)

and declared that despite that fact that Simon was disguised as a musician, he was actually one of the greatest poets I’d ever encountered. And as I merged into the fast lane of adolescence, I began regularly writing my own poems which were, by the way, very very bad. They were full of teen aged angst and sorrow and filled with yearnings for true love and devotion; in a nutshell, they were schlock.

It was in high school that things turned a little sour. For the first time, I encountered teachers teaching poetry who didn’t understand it, didn’t like it and definitely didn’t want to teach it. You see,  Americans, in general, are uncomfortable with poetry. Because of the poetry education that adults once had, or lack thereof, they've been left with the sense that poetry is a subject rather than an art, an experience, or a source of pleasure. However, since I hadn’t drunk the Kool Aid, I was unlike my teachers and classmates who abhorred the required annual poetry unit. My writing continued, and I learned to quietly curb my enthusiasm until my senior year. 

That year, named one of the Oregon’s top young poets through a state contest, I was awarded the honor of spending a full week studying with three very distinguished Northwest writers. More importantly though, I was offered the perspective-changing experience of sharing time with a dozen other kids from around the state who loved writing as much as me. And trust me when I assure you, we weren't a bunch of horn-rimmed, pocket protector geeks. Writers are crazy, imaginative, spontaneous people - at any age, they are passionate about life,  know how to have fun and are fairly fearless when it comes to expressing themselves!

The poet and essayist among those writers, was Kim Stafford (son of poet laureate, the late William Stafford) who further nurtured in me the idea that poems could be found everywhere and in any topic. Whole themes could arise from a single phrase or word overheard on a city bus, read on a billboard or awakening one in the middle of the night. Kim advocated for carrying a notebook to jot ideas, and whether he learned it from his father I don’t know, but like Stafford senior, he was adamant that writing daily was as essential as breathing for a poet. Then, and now, his convictions about writers are strong, “Writers have a place in this essential work -- to question, listen, and tell the connecting stories of human experience, the quiet voices of local life everywhere.”

Soon after, I started university and turned eighteen. If it hadn't happened significantly enough by then, that was the year my dear Sarah, that the work and words of one poet in particular changed my life.

(End of Part I)

"A case for tone deaf-two left footed-blocked writers."

When we’re children we all see ourselves as artists.

We see ourselves very clearly as artists until well intentioned and generally loving and chronologically older people socialize us in other directions.

So, when we were kids we actually knew without much question that yes, we were painters, dancers, music makers, storytellers, sculptors, actors and poets. The world was our canvas, and our imaginations and usually very few outside objects were our palates, tools, musical scores and scripts.

We didn’t differentiate being an artist from being ourselves. (By the way, we were also scientists, architects, doctors, athletes, teachers, explorers and any other number of types of “people” we could conceive of in our minds and hearts.)

Somewhere between the state of wonder  and the region of adulthood, our perceptions of ourselves underwent some fairly radical redefinitions. Along with those redefinitions there were heaping doses of judgment mixed in: “This drawing is good.”   “That dance was so-so.” “The song sounds like it needs a little more practice.”  “You’ve got ‘real’ talent.” “Hey look, you got an A” and so forth. It became difficult to continue seeing oneself as much of a creative being when there was always a yardstick being held up by others and eventually, by oneself.

The end result is a rather backward evolution from being thriving artists to being: tone deaf- two left footed- stick figure drawing-blocked writers. Picasso nailed it when he observed, “Every child is an artist, the problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.”

A giant part of how we grow and learn is tied very tightly with the fundamental need to creatively realize ourselves in the world. It’s vital to give kids opportunities to express themselves in a wide variety of ways and chances to deepen existing relationships with different artistic modes. By giving a child the opportunity for a “WOW” experience in the arts, she might be emboldened to see herself as an artist straight through childhood and into adulthood. He's more likely too, to use that part of his personality to strengthen whatever he has decided to do in the world. 

For those of us who've already crossed into grown up land and have realized that we may have left a crucial part of ourselves behind, we need to remember that not only is it not too late to reclaim our artist-selves - but it may very well be the key to keeping our hearts intact for the long journey of life. It’s as much about choice and attitude as it is actual activity, and it has nothing to do with other people’s assessments. Remember the first line of this post? It’s how you see yourself.

I can look everyone of my close friends in the eye and tell them the ways that I believe they are artists. (Some of them might be a bit shocked!) But who cares what I think, what can you see in yourself?

"Everything we do is art and can be an act of artful living - if we so choose. Writing, drawing, baking, dancing, relationships, work, parenting, even just siting still - especially just sitting still, are all forms of artistry."   m.l.p.

April Photo Share

I've had some wonderful opportunities this spring to take portrait shots of Ashland folk whom I both admire within and without. It's always such an honor to spend time with someone in front of the lens.

As the season begins to change and with it, the light, hue and tone of the air, the photographer in me is being awakened each morning wondering "What can I see today? What can I learn to do with this amazing tool known as "camera?" It's a pretty cool feeling.

Throughout the day, I "see" shots everywhere. They whisper to me from unique places...the purple blossoms caught in the cracks of a sidewalk, the tightly closed tulip just before dawn, the silhouettes of children running across an open field in twilight. Each image tells a story, carries a hint of memory mixed with potential, and each reminds me to slow down - breathe - be grateful. Sure, I might try to remember each one with my mind's eye alone, but the photograph tenderly embraces the moment and offers a gift of return.

If you're interested in seeing these photos in their fuller format, please visit my website. Have a fantastic weekend! May it be filled with a array of interesting and provoking feasts for your eyes and heart. ~ mlp



Tardy Due to Detour

I’m running a tad bit behind this morning, but what the heck. It’s Friday, after all, and the sun is shining in truly glorious ‘queen of the heavens’ fashion, and I’m my own boss-lady; so hey, what’s a few extra minutes? See, this is one of the perks of having a home studio.

Having been a public schools teacher for sixteen years and then an “in the office - in the field” park manager for another decade, I think I have a thorough understanding of the schedule many working parents keep. I know about early (and late) staff meetings, punching in by a certain clock time, being unreachable all day long, sprinting to do my banking between work’s end and the bank’s close, squeezing the household and garden chores into evenings and weekends, that panicky feeling one gets in their gut when the alarm clock doesn’t go off, showing up even when ill, giving my kids every spare moment and giving my friends the meager leftovers. Of course, I also remember the regular paycheck, the decent benefits, the community of co-workers, the measured successes that could be seen and appreciated, the uninterrupted flow of the days, the clear boundaries between work and home, the clear boundaries between “on” time and “off” time, and the rhythm of the calendar that gave me a sense of balance and calm.

I remember both sides of that particular and very special coin.

Now, I have a different coin in my pocket. It’s a little foreign to me, so I’m still learning it’s value. On the one hand, I can work any time of the day or night. If it’s a beautiful morning like this, I can opt to take a walk right now - and work on my client’s website after sundown. But of course, if I choose to work in the evenings, then my children get a little less of me when they need my time and attention. So when interesting weather beckons, I choose carefully.

Scheduling my days requires a precise, mildly uncomfortable-at-times discipline known as “keeping on track,” wherein there are constant neon sign-like distractions winking and flashing at me. Friends and family know exactly where to find me and in loving, uninhibited fashion sometimes drop by to say “howdy.” Those who do it too often or stay too long have suffered my impatience, as I truly don’t like being interrupted when I’m “in the zone.” Neither do I always answer the home phone, even though it’s ringing only a few feet away from my desk. After all - if I were “at work,” I couldn’t answer it there, so why should I do so here - “at work?”

But the wonderful flip side is that there are many occasions when someone will call first (what a concept!), and I’ll be able to take a coffee break with them down the street at the Roasting Company, or we’ll go for a quick power walk, or I’ll sit on the stoop with them for fifteen minutes and hear the latest news. It can be lovely and rejuvenating, and often helps stimulate fresh ideas for my next wave of industriousness.

The importance of keeping the place tidy is greater now, for client visits, so I’ve learned to juggle some of my chores at the same time I’m operating in my office. Starting the washer or dryer is a walk down the hall, taking out the recycle is three minutes of fresh air, and sweeping the kitchen gets tacked onto lunchtime (which I also get to share with my fourteen year old most days, when she walks home from school for a quick bite).
The home-based cubicle offers multitasking at it’s best, which says a lot - since I personally think multitasking with anything other than domestic chores is a bad idea, but that’s a topic for another day!

I absolutely miss my professional community and the sense of being a part of a greater good that one can sometimes attain in a cooperative environment. I definitely miss the regular salary and benefits, but have learned a lot about faith, hard work and creating abundance. I sometimes miss the respect and understanding that others have for more easily defined careers, but I have huge gratitude for those who take the time to acknowledge and encourage me to continue pursuing work that I love.

So this morning after dropping off my youngest at school, as I drove through town, I saw an elderly man in a bright tropical shirt standing in the very very brisk 30 degree morning sunlight with his thumb out for a ride. I pulled over. My hitchhiker climbed into the warm car, smiled broadly at me and introduced himself. “Walter” had just missed the bus and was on his was to an AA meeting on the opposite end of town. I asked him if there weren’t closer meetings to his home, and he replied that there are, but he just loved the community of friends he has at the further location. I drove him all the way to the meeting while we talked about Ashland, her people, about how times change and how grateful we both felt to be where we are on such a fine day. He was kind and hopeful and reflective. The drive was simple to make. As I dropped him off and shook his hand, I said a little prayer of thanks for many many things.

This too, is one of the perks being the CEO of Martha Phelps Studio: on my way to work, I can choose to make a slight detour, and it can make a little difference.

May you all have a wonderful weekend, and may your schedules afford you an opportunity for a detour or two. ~ mlp

P.S. Thanks for the tardy pass, AJ! See, I wasn't just putting on my lipstick!

Supporting Folks We Believe In

One of the most enjoyable aspects of design arts projects in the studio is getting to help spread information about people whose work I believe in.

Take Karen O’Dougherty, for example. Karen taught for a decade at Lincoln Elementary School in Ashland, Oregon where - among many things - she created a powerful “body changes awareness” program as a part of her 5th grade curriculum. After leaving the public school classroom to raise her three daughters, Karen was encouraged by parents of former students who had younger kids, to begin teaching and sharing the program again to interested youth and families. Body Basics I was then developed in the form of private group lessons and has been empowering girls throughout Southern Oregon since 1998.

My two elder kids (one male and one female) attended Body Basics classes during their eleventh years and learned to safely and openly discuss issues of puberty and sexuality as well as gained clearer insights into who they were then as developing  individuals and amongst peers. I look forward to my youngest daughter being among Karen’s students sometime this next year, as Body Basics has become one of our families’ educational rites of passage.

When Karen recently asked me to develop some flyers for local distribution, I was eager for the project. The flyers, one aimed at preteens and the other for teenagers, came together intuitively with images that worked well. This is a bit of the magic that happens when working on something I believe in, like the Body Basics Program.

If you'd like to see fuller format versions, check the Design Portfolio on the studio's website.

It Ain't No Million Dollar Mansion

Do you ever look at something you own, something you’ve seen hundreds, even thousands of times, and find yourself surprised that - not only are you still happy to see it, but you are still - after all these viewings - a bit shocked and genuinely thrilled  to realize that what you are seeing belongs to you?

Last night as I walked around turning off lights and locking doors, I realized that even after two decades, I am extremely thankful for our old funky house. I regularly have the experience of feeling startled - not just by my continued fondness for this place - but by the fact that I’ve been here enough years now to outrank those in my childhood home. I look around at its overly familiar turf thinking, “Wow, we are so lucky,”  and there is a sensation of incredible good fortune that washes over me.

The story of our little house is worthy of several blog entries. In fact, this may well be the first of many. There would be an entry about it’s age (103) and historical merits. There would be another about the number of times it’s been “remodeled” (3, maybe 4) and what that has entailed. Yet another entry, or maybe two, would offer accounts of the Crowson family (who I bought the place from in 1989) along with some sweet anecdotes of how they gave this home some of its special moxie. And those tales naturally, would chronologically navigate straight into stories of living, personal history: the last twenty years and now.

Yes. I have lived at this mailing address for twenty years. Good grief!

Twenty years tallies up to a whole bunch of “lotsa time” in one spot. For a nomad, military person, or perpetual adventure-seeker, I’m guessing this situation would be inconceivable and even uncomfortable. Yet I’m realizing that for me, twenty-mostly-happy-years in this particular dwelling equals deep tap roots, investment beyond dollar bills, memories tenfold and a solid foundation of joy.

Let’s get perfectly clear here. The events, people and experiences that have evolved at this locale may inspire some heartwarming yarns, but it ain’t no million dollar mansion on the hill with a view. This is not some movie version of the place you invite old friends from a college reunion to have cocktails by the pool. We have neighbors within arm’s length (that’s no exaggeration), so issues of privacy and sound are continual; we have bermuda grass in the front and puppy-induced potholes in the back; there are occasional vermin in the shed and piss ants near most of the faucets; ancient wavy window glass rattles in the living room when heavy trucks drive by; the doorways are drafty in the winter; the yard - like so many in the historic district - is roughly the size of a postage stamp; the plumbing in the kitchen (which is not 103, but a mere 70 years old) sends me S.O.S. signals regularly, and the upstairs toilet handle needs to be jiggled to make it stop running. This is NOT the perfect “retirement house,” “trophy house,” “artist’s retreat” or craftsman showcase. This dwelling has...character.

What it is, beneath the surface flaws, is a safe and gentle place to sit down and take a deep breath. There is life here - art on the walls, live music played every day, color everywhere (because it’s just paint, right?), a dining room table seasoned by amazing meals-company-laughter-wine-flowers in vases, honesty spoken in every room, passion that passes back and forth - like a summer’s breeze (and sometimes like a gale force!) from the front door to the back, a garden tended with care and courage, and plenty of clear creativity - spicy opinions - and simmering dreams. Most who come around here can feel the pull of joy in the walls, and those who abide within know the goodness of fit and gratitude of belonging.

It’s a good thing to say “thank you,” to whatever roof you find overhead. Even when it feels as though God may be conspiring to blow the top off of everything around us, it’s nice to realize the blessings of both literal and metaphorical shelter, invite those we love to join us within and share our hearts.

Contracts and (Re)negotiations

renegotiate |ˌrēnəˈgō sh ēˌāt|
verb [ trans. ]
negotiate (something) again in order to change the original agreed terms : the parties will renegotiate the price | [ intrans. ] she asked to renegotiate after signing the contract.

If memory serves, the attached note was composed by a seven year old Reid. One day at summer soccer camp pick up, the young YMCA director - with a firm hand gripping my son’s shoulder - approached me with a “concern.” My boy had not only been side-talking while coaches were instructing, but Reid had declared during a match that the officiating "sucked." Clearly this kid was a trouble-maker, and if he intended on returning to camp the next day, a letter of apology would be necessary. The terms were non-negotiable.

Sitting in the car together, Reid explained all of the reasons he was not at fault. He declared that, despite his obvious innocence, he would “write the stupid letter,” but only because he really wanted to keep playing soccer and not because he was admitting guilt.

As a still-novice mother at that point in time, I’m sure I was bugged by Reid’s seeming lack of willingness to accept responsibility for his actions. Now, I look back on the incident with amusement and appreciation for the way he “sucked up” (pardon my language, Coach) and re-negotiated within his own heart and mind so that he could stay in the game that he loved (and  continues to love) so much.

Sometimes, in order to get what we want - or serve the greater good - or make amends - or simply make a shift, we have to accept different terms and conditions. Every day - from business to personal, from political to spiritual, from children to adults - agreements change and new contracts are drafted. It’s maddening in many many ways (just ask any attorney), but it’s part of the human condition. Sometimes the easiest way to accept something that is non-negotiable, is to work a little inner renegotiating and healthy surrender.

This morning, my desire to stay in the game is so great, I am about to back down from the covenant I made with myself to blog continually for ninety weekdays in a row. Since I am the creator of my blogging contract, my own boss - so to speak, this renegotiation has not been a simple or necessarily peaceful process. I’m a tough boss to myself. In the end, I had to call out my inner mediator to successfully seal a new bargain between Martha, the writer and Martha, the hard-assed boss lady. True story.

The result of these new terms: I am taking the next two weeks off from public journaling to make a couple of geographic trips and hopefully, a multitude of creative intangible journeys. There’s essential business and play to attend with my kids and myself during this break, and I want to give each moment my undivided attention. I will return to this written account of my wild untamed life on purpose on Monday, March 29. Meanwhile, I’ll be out there living in it, and I invite you all to do the same!

All will be well ~ m.l.p.

The Thrilling Anxiety Of It All

Okay, I admit it. I’m thrilled and anxious at at once.

First, I’m thrilled by the realization and discovery that - given just an hour or two of solitude a day (along with the willing suspension of perfectionism) - I have a well of creativity to pull small buckets from on a regular basis and make this blog a reality. On the other hand, I’m anxious over the fact that this discovery is now asking me to rearrange the already precious-few hours in the day. (As in: I write, no matter what. I write, even if it means tacking more time onto the day’s end.) Yikes! My muse is a demanding character. Thank goodness!

Second, I’m thrilled that my blogsite welcomed 487 unique visits in the shortest month of the year, and that the studio has fans that I’ve known for years as well as some whom I know not at all. What an amazing combination of compliments! Meanwhile, I’m anxious because everything I read about successful blogging suggests that I’m really going about this in as bassackwards kind of a way possible. (And I’m humored by the fact that this is not at all uncommon for me.)

Third, I’m thrilled that, without a nudge from me but perhaps a giant one from the universe - the studio is picking up business. (Insert photo of me smiling here.) Out of the blue, I’ve been given the opportunity to take some portrait photos and design some promotional materials for folks who I have not only been happy to say “yes” to, but I am honored to support. Nevertheless, I’m anxious that I still have a secret longing for a big sugar daddy or some generous and devoted “sponsor” to swoop in and fund my wild untamed artistic life, as well as send me to Greece for an all-expenses paid writer’s retreat where (I promise), I will continue to post daily poems, beautiful photos and essays that are deeply thought-provoking and inspiring.

Fourth, I’m thrilled that February’s most popular posts yielded: The Boot Collage, Boot Size: Men’s 12, The Soul of My Boots (I guess y’all really liked Boot Week), The Sanctuary of God, and Visual Inspiration. And, the truth is, I’m actually not too anxious that posts: To Do or Not To Do, Tales That Defy Words and Putting It To the Page were the least popular. It’s true, they  touched on more “serious” topics and have fewer illustrations, but I felt great about them so, it’s not that big of a deal.

Fifth and last, I’m thrilled that spring has sprung here in Southern Oregon. I like the light, I like the daphne that is threatening to explode in a aromatic plume at the end of the front porch, I like seeing my youngest’s bare feet with dirt on them, and I like that my high schooler knows exactly how many days until spring vacation. But it's also a fact, I’m feeling anxious as our household heads into a month of new information about my son’s health and the next series of steps in his journey.

So dear friends - whom I know in real time, and who know me in cyber time - here's wishing you all a thrilled, low anxiety, fantastic, madly wildly blossoming, sweet smelling, hopeful, creative, abundant, time-on-pause, kiss the ones you love March. Thanks for visiting this Untamed Life On Purpose. Please make comments. Please share a link or two with your friends. Please breathe deeply. ~ m.l.p.

Boot Collage

In honor of Boot Week here in the studio, which is already a departure from the norm (whatever that really is), I thought I'd put together an interesting collage on boots and stomp it on down into one blog. Hope you enjoy stepping out in a new direction today.


1) You can read a nice little definition on the boot through wikipedia - as well as see a photo of one damn fine pair that were custom made for and worn by my very favorite President of the United States of America, Harry S. Truman. I'm guessing that Harry didn't call his boots "shit kickers," but perhaps they were called his manure footwear? And I wonder if Bess liked them?


2) Function vs Fashion When Buying Cowboy Boots. A short video (1:20) from Dustin at Expert Village. He starts by outlining how to get your best and most functional boots, or as he puts it "fashion verses whatever else you need." Wait! We need something else? I'm confused. Did you know that a functional boot has something called a spur lift? It's true. And you need to avoid the waffle soles on your boots unless, according to Dustin, "you like being drug around for a couple of hours." (I'm pretty sure he's referring to something to do with horses here.)


3) Speaking of spurs. Apparently there are over 16 types of them and entire websites devoted to their exploration. Personally, I'm more intrigued by something referred to as a jinglebob, although I'm not sure what it's exact function is or what it's relation is to boots. For those of you more interested in spurs than boots, you can even buy the book Cowboy Spurs and Their Makers to flame your new passion. But I digress.....


4) These are a series of some of the more outrageous looking boots I could find on the internet. I'm sure you can find many, many examples - as shoes of all types can certainly be considered art forms - depending on the creator, the wearer and the admirer. Be sure to check these images out:
KISS rocker Gene Simmon's Boots
Very Scary Go Go Boots from Japan
Some skin tight thigh high platform heeled boots that are - well, impressive
And such exotics as Cut Python Cowboy Boots


5) You can take a quiz to discover what kind of boots you are in no less than five questions. Yes, I took the quiz. It said I am high heeled boots and a bunch of other stuff about flirting, flaunting and fascinating behavior. Funny thing is, I don't own any high heeled boots. I'm more a manure footwear kind of a gal.


6) Boots are not just found on feet...
See definitions: boot ^{: 1}  (bt)n.

1. Protective footgear, as of leather or rubber, covering the foot and part or all of the leg.

2. A protective covering, especially a sheath to enclose the base of a floor-mounted gear shift lever in a car or truck.

3. Chiefly British An automobile trunk.

4. a. A kick.

b. Slang An unceremonious dismissal, as from a job. Used with the.

c. Slang A swift, pleasurable feeling; a thrill.

6. Computer Science The process of starting or restarting a computer.


7) And finally, for those of you who doubt that great dancing can occur with one's boots on, here's a spicy little clip from The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas. (You may need to verify your age to view this clip, but it's well worth the extra clicks). After 1:55 (and a few naked butt shots) there's some fine boot-shod dancing!

Well, that's enough of this silliness for one day. It's looking like rubber, rain or maybe even snow boot weather out there. Whatever you choose, enjoy!

The Salt Shaker

Over the last twenty years I’ve managed to create a public persona that quite frankly, has earned me a salty reputation. My children, family and close friends have lived through varying degrees of amusement, embarrassment, and even distress over my fluctuating amounts of outspokenness, opinion, radical honesty, and just plain - talking too much. (And I thank them for their tolerance; I truly do.)

I use the adjective “salty, “ because - it’s not necessarily distasteful, this particular way that I am in the world. At times, people like the intensity and passion of my style. Some profess even to enjoy, admire and aspire to it because it can add flavor and spice to occasions that might otherwise be bland and thoroughly forgettable. On the other hand, too much (of anything) can create imbalance or make things rather unappetizing. And socially, let’s face it, everyone doesn’t always want salt. Sometimes we are only in the mood for sweet, calm, quiet, safe, non-confrontational, ever-positive milk and honey. 

With (slow) maturation, I’ve learned and practiced - just a tiny bit - reeling in my outspoken exuberance. There’s a time and a place, right? And, as idiom goes “You can attract more bees with honey than vinegar.” 

So, when Reid got sick, it became necessary to make some serious choices about how, what and why to communicate with the people in our lives. Cancer is, for better or worse, an opportunity to practice being one’s best person, and I quickly realized that singularly being salt may not be the best approach. 

Thus for the last four months, I’ve been trying to be as publicly strong and positive as possible. “Patience” is the watchword for day to day interactions and exchanges; “Honest” and “Educational” are close runner’s up. The brave face is the one worn out the front door, and if I can’t find it - I stay home and look into the face of my gentle and truly brave son. 

When / if (and it’s a big IF) people consider disease, like cancer, it is considered scary,  confusing and analogous with dying; dis-ease instills ill-ease. Few want to think about these things, most want to avoid them, no one wants to be ill at ease, and I find no fault in that.

So, while reaching for the salt is no less enticing (because I’m no less passionate that I ever was!), I now stop and consider my choices.  These days being a little less colorfully candid and a lot more gentle feels essential and even healing at times. When you look fear in the face and smile, maybe it can inspire courage and hope. Now that’s a reputation to strive for.