the hardest thing(s) about running 26.2 miles

there is a term, widely used in therapy circles, called "parallel process". the one more commonly used in everyone else's lives is "oh my god, seriously? me too!" i have already waxed lactic about the metaphor between the marathon and a more generic struggle for everyday self-actualization (whether it's learning to become a better listener to your partner, or learning to become better at operating the thermostat), but apparently my character had been atrophying over the recent winter training months.



excluding racers birthed at southern equatorial altitudes, the traffic in LA simulated virtual conditions for the first 4 miles of road rage (at least for the other 34,991 participants) on this particular course. clearly, days filled with sitting 65 miles below the speed limit in the requisite bmw/lexus/mercedes creates significant levels of unsuppressed agitation when commuting for one's venti soy decaf botox. this became more apparent, when the start was delayed by 27 minutes because shuttle buses were still stuck on the freeway to dodger stadium. subsequently chris o'donnell, shia lebouef, that one navy doctor from the bachelor a few seasons ago, and several thousand other less attractive people in shorts began walking, shoving, and snarling at each other for a PR.

in more of an effort than "not being last" or "just finishing before someone wearing cotton shorts and tube socks" i decided it was time to focus on attaining a loftier goal by beating a more serious competitor; oprah winfrey. * and assembled myself (with approximately 27 other 10 minute queen bees and wannabes) behind the 4:30 balloon toting pied piper of the clif bar pace team. it was all going so well- and fast- through west hollywood, beverly hills and rodeo drive.

my half marathon time was great. unfortunately, the course expectation was to run and repeat until i crossed the beeping mat in santa monica to become swaddled in a space blanket. i'm not sure what happened during the next 5 miles, other than noticing the balloons moving further away, coupled with an awareness that all of the people who were tracking my bib number at every bleeping mat saw this actuality too. finally, passing under mile marker 19, i did something that is exceptionally irritating in others; i pulled out my cell phone.

- i'm-so-sorry-i'm-not-going-to-make-my-time-i-feel-so-awful-and-everyone-is-watching-me-and-i-came-all-this-way-and-i-did-all-those-runs-in-the-freezing-cold-and-i've-been-up-since-3:30-this-morning-and-now-i'm-letting-everyone-down-and-i-don't-want-people-to-be-disappointed-in-me.....

- are you crying?

- yes.

- you are doing this because you want to. i hate to tell you, but unless nike is going to be after you for sponsorship in the next year, i really don't think you have anything to be too worried about.

- but-i-want-you-to-be-proud-of-me.

- i'm proud of you every day.

the remaining four miles were a series of excruciating bullet points; 22 i saw a friend, briefly whimpered in her direction, and we parted ways; 23 there was a "we heard you fart" sign, proving that no matter how shite you feel, farts are always funny; 24 and 25 had plenty of spectators calling out "looking good, disa!", "you're almost there, disa, stay strong!" ** reinforcing why, unless i do my next marathon in scandinavia, registering under "hjordys" is simply not as easy to pronounce, and therefore gratifying- to them, or me.

the final stage of grief comes with acceptance, where i now realize that short of michael flately lining up at the start, and performing an abbreviated version of riverdance on my feet, i am obviously not meant to develop black toenails. the same cannot be said for some pretty raunchy looking heart rate monitor/waist band/overstuffed back pocket chafe.





* who reportedly ran a 4:30 at the marine corps marathon way back in one of her skinny stages.
** a sales 'technique' that is utterly annoying when i call an 800 number to check on account information.

a winter word association

parking bans that go on for 3 days and snow plows that don't appear for 4, legs that go unshaved for weeks at a time, overpriced raspberries at the supermarket (it's not like they're pine nuts for pete's sake), flipflops relegated to the back of the wardrobe, a salt crust bonded to every orifice of the car, muddy footprints in the car, short runs (that feel like long ones) on the treadmill, the gym (dressing to both go to it, and to work out in it) masses of footprints/boots/coats/hats/gloves/running shoes (sadly, no flip flops)/errant leaves loitering inside the entryway, pale skin-the kind that showcases your circulatory system, no more freckles- or oreo frosties, hat hair, pyjamas at 5:08pm, paying attention to the weather forecast, wipers frozen to the windscreen, fingers frozen to the ice scraper, "visibility" clothing for afternoon runs, slippy roads and sloppy motorists, unpainted toenails, de-icing the plane, cancellations, airport delays, unsafe conditions, travel advisories, vitamin d deficiency, a frozen margarita deficiency, "layering" to take the rubbish out, black ice and broken hips.



snowshoes.

on not being qualified

whoever said that getting a dog before you have children is "good practice" was obviously a little more out of touch than my babcia when she asked if i was a lesbian because i was 24 and unwed.

after seven exceptionally long months that have traversed labrador toddlerhood through adolescence, i am starting to think parenting something that both talks and will eventually demand an ipod, over simpler requests for idle back scratches and peanut butter may result in a poorer return after the many years of co-payments to a behavioral family therapist.



in the midst of a rather animated "teaching moment" with young axel, i occasionally step outside of myself and hear the- my -interaction. and then i wonder what on earth the neighbours must think when they (surely) hear me during one of these multi-daily exchanges.

the ripple effect

some people body slam into your life, and rapidly pile drive on out, leaving you with bold new habits, little mcnuggets of wisdom, and a deep impression of their left elbow in your ribcage; the evidence, testimony, and future PTSD of your shared encounter. then there are some, more diminutive folks, who's impact is noticeable only by their absence (like a successfully treated UTI). in the absence, a ripple is felt.

the revolving door of mental health, the military, or fathers-who-are-dentists-that-keep-choosing-to-work-in-countries-with-unstable-political-climates, can expedite the resolution (or exacerbation) of any residual attachment issues-- with a side order of grief to go (always: "to go"). ultimately, it is the fundamental need to be remembered, to know that you were "noticed" that accompanies each departure. my office mate left our sanctuary of bodily function humour (for the air force) over a month ago. prior to his exit we talked about his "ripple" (the non-flatulent, non-underpant staining sort). however, asking someone to identify their own ripple is rather like trying to be objective about your "silhouette" in a string bikini.

occasionally i catch a glimpse of what i (like to) imagine my ripples might be. during my tenure, i have become associated with bodily functions, how this supercedes "the accent", i do not know. and while, i don't aspire to the legacy of a nobel peace prize, or memorialized, itallicized and evangelized park bench atop a brick engraved with my name, it is egotistically gratifying to see the tangible remnants across the zip codes; a second hand couch twice removed from "pottery barn girl" in grad school, placed in a permanent adoptive home with "liberal-but-conservative-co-worker-from-seattle", forged friendships based on shared addictions to high cocoa content dessert and higher drama content relationships, a renewed interest in bodily functions (especially the smelly/leaky/dribbly ones), the ability to use british swear words in the appropriate context and accent (an american attempting a british accent sounds like an australian with a mouth full of marbles), or contact dermatitis of the lower phalanges. as a child, i had the chronic habit (diagnosable childhood onset trichotillomania) of picking at my blanket until there was a big ball of fluff to roll around in my fingers. when this was no longer soft and fluffy, it was discarded around the immediate house/car/aeroplane. a friend of my mother commented that she always knew when i had visted because of the little fluff turds she found in the sofa cushions and shag carpeting.

rather than directing the question to self- "what's my ripple"- actualization becomes expeditious when identifying "other"; those who have the propelled the journey, irrespective of whether it's the "pebble people" or the "belly flop people".

ultimately, it's about the memento of relationship, connection and community.

if it's broken, and can't be fixed; throw it out

more so than skydiving, shoplifting, or trying to cross shelbyville road on my bike, the sight of carboard boxes, plastic rubbermaid ware (gallon not sandwich size), and bubble wrap can stimulate my endorphins, pretty bloody quickly.

packing and moving are action verbs, and i can wrap like a chippie wench in the north, on a sunday morning, right after the pubs close. it mattereth not whether it's an apartment across the city, a condo across the country, or a new home on the opposite side of the planet, the ritual of throwing out and packaging up, to then unwrap the same tinkerbell coffee mug on a different latitude always has that xmas-day-morning-first-day-of-the-rest-of-your-life moment. and when i am not personally in the throes of upheaval, i will be the first to volunteer to help others move their garfield "i hate mondays" coffee mug.

of course every time you move, there are always casualties.

all signs point to "yes"

sometimes it would be nice to have a very obvious "stop", "one way", or "dead end" at the seemingly never-bloody-ending estuaries of (my) life. perhaps more urgent because the map reading and navigation areas of my brain appear to be in a perpetual state of atrophy. however, even when asking for signs to launch into explosive fireworks along my well manicured yellow brick road, i tend to get a little greedy. when exactly are there enough signs (to stop procrastinating)?

an anxious "before the alarm goes off" dream of my desired outcome; a voicemail from a friend i hadn't spoken to in a while assuming i was engaging in the very thing i was waiting for signs/procrastinating from; the theme of the commemorative stamp collection stapled to the display board at the local post office; a co-worker i rarely talk to (and know very little about), throwing out the very noun i'd just seen at the post office/in my dream/cited in the voicemail.

once i stopped procrastinating, validation quickly followed.

outlook is good.

picking out wedges

furniture; silence; geography; time zones; photographs; pillows. these all serve as emotional clutter, the detritus that perpetuates distance, forming wedges; separating.

i am a chronic hoarder of the past, where the belief is that it will provide evidence of my history and existence. however, this also serves to avoid participating in the present and stunts the future.

women typically collect and hold onto tangible objects for "sentimental" purposes-- dig around under the bed and you will find a strawberry shortcake collection, moth eaten valentine bears, dried up roses and bits of washed up driftwood- the flotsam of times gone by. last night a group gathered around a shredder, with various items of clothing, photos, cards, letters; random objects imbued with personal meaning. each was methodically placed into the shredder.

while i cannot put a couch through a shredder, i disposed of a significant grand canyon of a wedge last night, it took seconds to disappear.

it was time.

happiness; only real when shared

so i poached this phrase from "into the wild", well perhaps not poached, so much as it resonated with exactly where i was sitting and what i was "do"ing in that moment.

serendipity: good fortune in unexpected circumstances.

bravery: to meet or face courageously.

i am not a brave person (usually). however, i think bravery is less about overcoming fear and more about solidifying what you want, followed by a "do".

no fear

fight or flight does not appear to exist as an option for me, more like "deer in headlights". avoiding based on fear doesn't seem to get much more accomplished than freezing life and frustrating self and others. i had originally decided that 2008 would be my year of "comittments" (resolutions are futile) and this will be my year of the marathon. however, perhaps more appropo is letting go of fear. the trite bumper sticker for "life is..." phrases regarding risk taking and chances are billboard size at the moment.

sometimes, for some people, there are the 'einstein in a bathtub lightswitch eureka moments', for others, at other times, it is a more subtle 'dimmer switch oh wow i just noticed i got pubic hair' moment. as a fanatic planner, who has historically (note the past tense) used planning to avoid, the present and future, not having a defined set of criteria to cross off in the process of letting go can be somewhat anxiety provoking. if all else fails...there must be a book somewhere that can tell this idiot "how to".

this past christmas i did not get to go "home" to "family" (of origin), i had always wondered how this would affect any future marriage partnership/family, but perhaps it was less about the spouse sucking it up and more about re-prioritizing for the appropriate (worthy) spouse. i spent christmas without my parents- we all survived. granted i do not intend to repeat 07 as my new annual tradition. but it is time for new traditions.

i no longer have a valid passport. i am trapped. rather i was unable to leave, but had a chance for a new beginning.

knickers that homeless people and tramps would be ashamed to wear have now been banished from my wardrobe. whether others get to see them in the dryer/machine/on the floor is irrelevant. nice undies are like the shampoo advert; "i'm worth it".

i spent over $100 on make up (not at walgreens). i have not replaced my make-up since my roomate from grad school moved back to florida aeons ago. make up is "supposed" to be replaced every 6 months; mine was no doubt a breeding ground for all kinds of fungus. with that, the holly-hobbie-dress-up-purse-posing-as-a-make-up-bag-with perfume-stains-and-disintegrating-sponge-because-i've-had-it-since-i-was-small(er)-and-lived-in-south-africa was thrown out.

i no longer have the need to hold onto objects, whether symbolic or actual. i have been hanging onto a couch, a kitchen table, an annual holiday, a place, a name. however, holding onto too many things means there are no hands available to hold onto anything new; or another hand.

the dimmer switch is fully set to light. and it is such a relief to be able to see clearly.

"a christmas bollocking"

so read the subject title of an email from my brother. not a forward of a cartoon santa getting his nuts caught in the chimney, rather a multi paragraphed instructional on how to conduct my holiday travel plans to the middle east this year. re-check your luggage when you get to chicago; get in the club class queue so you don't have to wait with all the riff raff; when you get to heathrow meet us (he and my infinitely patient sister-in-law) at the first class lounge by 9am so we can sign you in as a guest- unless you want to sit in a plastic chair with the riff raff, waiting 5 hours for the flight to bahrain; make sure your presents are wrapped before you leave so we don't spend christmas eve waiting for you to wrap yours; make sure you put some of them in your hand luggage in case your suitcase doesn't arrive (it hasn't the past 5 years, why change the habit of a lifetime?); don't put any liquids in your hand luggage. perhaps this should be called a christmas bum wiping?

the night before departure i got out my suitcase, and the unwrapped presents (that's what gift bags are for anyway), and my passport, which apparently expired last month. shit. i was not going anywhere. my worst nightmare was real; landlocked and unable to leave. not only that, christmas has always been "my" holiday, or the expanded version "my day to bicker with my parents/brother with an illuminated red and green backdrop". for 31 years. this was bad. and then my mother called.

"christmas is just a day". no, it is no longer about tearing downstairs in pyjamas to eat all of the cadbury's ornaments off the tree for breakfast and rip through presents by 6am, to pass out in a sugar coma amongst the wrapping paper. now it has evolved into sleeping in, getting a buzz on by 11am (champagne and OJ), peeling potatoes while my brother and i harass my mother (and she returns in kind), to pass out in a mimosa/red wine/vodka tonic/port coma amongst the wrapping paper. it has changed. i have been trying not to. because christmas is also "just the day" where no matter where we were in the world, my mum made sure we were as griswald festive as we could be. when we lived in saudi arabia you couldn't buy trees, ornaments, paper, or mulled wine, so she made ornaments on her sewing machine. the grown ups made wine out of grape juice, sugar and yeast, and we pulled christmas crackers my mum had bought on shopping trips to london earlier that year (and smuggled back in her suitcase). during my (miserable) years at boarding school/undergrad in england, christmas was always the one constant that i would be reunited for the purpose of getting into adolescent power struggles with my mum, my brother would find a way to fart on me (repeatedly), and dad would lecture me about how i should just get on a plane to go teach in hong kong.

my first goal for the new year is to renew my passport.

an·ni·ver·sa·ry (noun)

the date on which an event occurred in some previous year (or the celebration of it). i have heard people talk about their 6 month "anniversary" of moving into a new house, acquiring a car (these folks are typically the ones who anthropomorphize their vehicles with a name, usually something very olde worlde like "beatrice" or "harriet"), or even the 48 hour anniversary of a couple's first sneeze. as upright and walking homo sapiens, with the opposable thumb thing going on, we seem to take much note of anniversaries (note: men are often noted, not taking note, by their female counterparts).

anniversaries are typically defined in relation to a presence or absence; "last time i was with (not with)" or "doing (not doing)" that can either induce kitten and puppy like "awwwww" moments, or the sense that your internal organs have just been removed via a dull melon baller making you want to kill a kitten or puppy. sometimes it's all you can do to get past that repeat of the first time "first", to create space and distance from the not so great anniversaries.

anyway, back to examples.

obviously, there are some associations that will always be embedded. my own are imprinted with a 'ding-a-ling and salivate' unmitigated simplicity; greyhounds (bus, not dog), fluff (baby blanket, not belly button) are synonymous with moi. however, memorial day weekend 2007 is almost upon us and for me it triggers a long out of town weekend, along with 93% of the population of america's trailer parks.

some things we forget with time, age or just not having the environmental cue from the calendar or whevever else. dementia really is something of a double edged sword; while you can remember all the remote "anniversaries", you are unable to recall where you put your teeth to wear to the special occasion.

it's my (leaving) party, i'll cry, but i don't want to

joyce is a nun, art therapist, and one of my former practicum supervisors who will be leaving the house she has lived in for 30 years. the church has consistently provided her with a place to live, but now they are downsizing from a beautiful 3 storey hard wood floor, high ceiling home in the highlands, to a newly built shoe box of a building in suburbia. she will be moving in the autumn. she told me that she has been saying small goodbyes every day, in (and to) different parts of the building, which has housed guests from all over the world and holds memories of these visitors in every room.

i cannot comprehend living in the same house for 30 years, however i can empathize with leaving somewhere i have enjoyed being that holds a lot of good times for me. when "grease monkey" left louisville and moved to north carolina, she explained that her process of saying goodbye was like ripping off a band aid (anglo translation: "plaster") very slowly. my "truth" is that i came back to louisville to do the same. i had left mine on, hoping that the elements would wash it off, or someone else would give it a tug for me. unfortunately the scab cant heal when it's half covered with a soggy, germy plaster. i never said my series of goodbyes (one quick one before leaving in a dust cloud on to the distraction of the next adventure does not qualify); i didn't want to let go.

i want to let go; it is time to let go, to say goodbye, to let a scar begin to develop. like joyce, i have until the autumn to "work my process", to relish my friends, my memories and things unique to louisville (derby, summer concerts on a sunday at willow park, the art fairs, dodging potholes driving down eastern parkway). i have people and places to look forward to being "present" with. in order to do this i have to feel what ive tried to avoid for thirty (one) years; i have to feel sad.

bootstraps (picking one's self up)

boot·strap (bōōt'strāp') Pronunciation Key
n.
1) A loop of leather, cloth, or synthetic material that is sewn at the side or the top rear of a boot to help in pulling the boot on.

a longtime family mantra, given that there was never much time to do more than pick up our respective luggage straps and board the plane for our next destination. "press on", "chin up", "don't look back", "moving forward".

however, continuing to proceed with life in this manner seems to sustain the momentum; i have caught myself many times ready to strap up, so to speak, and "move forward" when those rather unpleasant things commonly referred to as "feelings" have caught up with me.

eventually, however, a decision must be made to stop, take off your boots, empty out the accumulation of pebbles, stones, and paperclips (?), examine the blisters and callouses (see if there's anything good to pick at), slap on some cream and squeeze your swollen toes back in, in order to proceed forth with any sort of efficacy.

living my life in metaphors make so much more sense than living it in reality.

dipping a toe in

i have a confession: i went to church. i am sort of embaressed to admit this given the years of organized religion bashing i have engaged in. i have been the perpetual resistant and defiant adolescent. it's true what "they" say, it isn't until you are so down and desperate that you start fishing around for something. admitting helplessness and lack of control over anything is not generally my forte, but it is at this point when an open mind can be brought to the table (although i used to think this was a vulnerable state for potential brainwashing).

i heard a lot about forgiveness yesterday, giving and receiving, again not a comfortable or natural state to submerge and swim around in. i am a chronic toe dipper; the people who i trust that are already in the pool can entreat me with "come on in, the water's great" til the cows come home, and it's not that i don't trust them, i just know myself. i will stay in the pool until my toes are wrinkled and pruney if i can just ease my way in metartarsal by metatarsal.

that said, i do like going to the pool with someone who does big, splashy bombs into the water.

abstinence

addictions are a new and exciting way to add a little drama to both your, and your loved one's lives. irrespective of the form, booze, relationships, star wars action figure collectibles, they are as difficult to eradicate as a fresh outbreak of gonnorhea (so i've heard). there is a multi pronged approach for treating addictions, one of which is abstinence; the first darth vadar leads to a moving parts jabba on the toilet.

i am mildly uncomfortable with the concept of abstinence (isn't that just "avoiding", and shouldn't i be working on my avoiding issues?!). abstinence means not re-exposing yourself to the source or the triggers- where do i sign up for my lobotomy? abstaining feels like giving up a big chunk of the time you spent being a certain entity and identity, which is fine for the not so healthy stuff, but it feels a waste to throw the baby out too. it is easy to perseverate on the negative to self, doing so to your addiction feels like a betrayal of loyalty, its not the whole truth, not all was bad, i wouldnt have been as addicted for as long if there wasn't some positive re-enforcement, right?

karma; as manifested by a couch

a number of years ago i offered up my couch to a friend in pain. i am good at giving and offering, i suck at asking, i will wait until i am offered, anything more is rude and presumptuous. my friend's living room looks like a couch showroom, she has offered me all of them, but i don't want to be like fish, after a few days its time to go.

letting go

when you hold on tightly, you cannot trust yourself or others with the consequences of letting go. this means moving forward. it means saying goodbye. you can forgive, but how do you forgive yourself if you cant forget what your own actions have created? if you let go of everything, what do you have left? if you keep running, eventually you have to stop. if you keep thinking, you never have to do. if you keep doing, you never have to think. if you keep arguing, you never have to be alone. if you dont trust, you never have to hurt. if you break trust, you never have to move beyond their inflicted pain. if you ignore, you never have to change. if you stay angry, blame, harbour guilt and bitterness, lie, conceal, ridicule, pretend, deny, obsess, resent, punish, remind, and control; you will be alone. you will lose because you cannot let go.

community

i joined st. christopher's senior school in bahrain, halfway through the school year, i usually prefer this approach because you have an advantage; its not "every new person for themselves", you are assigned a student to orient you to the building, your locker and the bullies. however, my designated guide appeared more insecure than me, perhaps why the teacher gave her the role. my second week began with loss of seat privelidges on the bus "this is saved for someone else", by the time we got to school i realized my prescription must have needed changing as i couldn't see the seat buddy. this gradually devolved into "don't be friends with disa, she has my little ponies and carebears, oh, and a crack in her bedroom wall". interesting criteria, even if it had been true. it was finally during ramadhan that my 11 year old self was reduced to tears, we had to eat our lunch inside the gym for the holy month and i went to join the girls i generally sat with outside, once again my guide told me i could not sit with them, i stressed that i could in fact sit where ever i pleased, grabbed the chair and planted my cheeks. she turned to the sheep and ushered them to another table. i was left staring in disbelief at the sandwich my dad had made me that morning.

i did not make many friends at boarding school, my parents told me to "try harder", however, if trying meant that i had to smoke, drink or develop an eating disorder to fit in, then i preferred my own company. "It could be argued that successive and sustained contact with other people might help to remove some of the tension of isolation, due to alienation, thus opening creative avenues that would have otherwise remained impassable." (wikepedia)

it takes time to build community, and once in place it is hard to let go of and re-build elsewhere.

please like me-anon

i attended my first CODA meeting with 2 friends, however i will not disclose their identities due to issues of confidentiality, let's just say they are both in mental health and both ride bikes. we arrived late, so any chances of sneaking in unnoticed and anonymously were crushed. the room was wall to wall people pleasers, wall to wall baby boomer people pleasers. and us.

the group were in the middle of reading out the 12 steps, i was really hoping for it not to turn into a touchy feely "nurture-your-inner-child-you-are-unique-and-beautiful-fest", this is what i do to other people after all, im damned if im going to have someone do that to me! my friend spotted her next door neighbour, i saw a familiar face, but couldn't place him, it could have been worse, thankfully there was no tea and coffee "sooooo, what brings you to co-dependents anonymous?" social time following the meeting (we flew out of there to the nearest liquor store).

as expected, there were some interesting characters; a trio of sisters working through their mother issues (their mother was in her late 80's), another woman who prefaced her comment with "this is only my second meeting and will probably be my last because what im going to say will really piss people off" (she was right, that statement did), the sister who wanted to share a positive story of hope because when she tried to manipulate and guilt her brother into ponying up $150 for a b-day gift for their mother (even though he wouldn't be in attendance), she didn't get mad at him on the phone, instead she bottled it up that he set a limit with her rather than responding to her guilt, good show! and finally the co-dependent who must be getting tetanus from those nail punctures in her palms who announced that she was "the most severely" co-dependent...and i'm severely pregnant.

however, despite the age gap, the varied family systems issues (lots of substance abuse), we three elbowed, giggled and raised eyebrows at each other because we heard ourselves in many pieces of the stories. the custom designed bumper sticker melind-err had given me before the meeting was eerily appropriate: "im low maintenance, just tell me you love me" (it will not be going on my bumper).

boxes

i like boxes, functional, versatile, and diverse (like my men, bwah-ha-haa-haaa!). i have identified the most relevant boxes in my life, in no particular order.

packing boxes: great for loading up and storing all your crap in when you move. and when you get to your destination (unless you are an obsessive with a label making gun and sharpie), opening each one is like xmas all over again, except you don't have to do the fake 'i LOVE it' face, because you picked out this ugly shit. *

tool box: fixes and repairs things. functional, but mechanical.

first aid box: contains everything you need to make you feel better (as long as its not too acute).

trunk: somewhere to stash letters, home made cards; a place where memories are kept and added to. **

sewing box: random items to make something beautiful, functional or mend a favourite piece.

crackerjack box: a big, sometimes scary, surprise. then it's over.

small velvet box: (oh shit!)

empty refrigerator boxes: a good place to hide.

*also useful for shipping all the ugly shit that you/others picked out, to a random stranger with no return address.
** doubles as living room furniture/coffee table/extra seating & storage.