simple {please!}

In the middle of getting the shop update together (it should be online this afternoon around 5 my time, which is 6 Eastern, 4, Mountain, and 3 Pacific) and the whole business of running the auction (Lisa, I never realized how much work it really is. You and Stephanie must have been wiped out!) and frantically sketching ideas and writing notes until 2 in the morning and planning for England and scrambling to take clear photos (well, they aren't all, and that's just how it's going to be) it's no wonder I'm getting out of breath. Too much worry!

Woah. Breathe a little.

My norm is a happy, workable clutter. That's how my mind works and how my physical space works. But right now it's too much.
Time to make some clothes for me, and to put some things away. Listen to some good old and new music (I'm rediscovering the Beatles and they're fun and complex and interesting and intelligent, just the sort of guys I like).

Time for some simple, beautiful things, like this linen tape from Aiko's in Chicago.
Time for walking around the block with my mom, the smell of tomato leaves, hot noons, watching The Office (I've hooked my mom and dad!) at night.

(Now I'm thinking of Prufrock--"Time for you, and time for me/ And time yet for a hundred visions and revisions/ Before the taking of a toast and tea.")
The slap-slappa-slap of handclaps in the background of a song. Full moon rising large and red. Sometimes the world conspires to convince me things will work out okay.

saying yes

In social situations, I am almost always uncomfortable; I'm overcritical of myself in the first place, and on top of that my humor is very dry and doesn't always play well. And my residual 6th-grade angst leaves me at the uncool lunch table in my mind. Not a great combination. But in my second year of graduate school, I finally got to know somebody whose friendship and grace and wisdom helped me learn another way of seeing: Stephanie.

She called me 'sister' in the first note she wrote to me, which took me aback, because it was so intimate. I'm from the Midwest. We like to keep things under wraps, you know, like the Minnesotan farmer who loved his wife so much he almost told her, once? But this was an embrace from someone I thought was a stranger.

In her manuscript, which I got to read that year, Stephanie had a poem called "People Who Say Yes," about her time spent in Poland. I was struck by the idea of saying yes to things, purposefully. I knew right away what this meant: not a Pollyannaish cheer in the face of disaster, but a larger view of the world, one that believes in an all-encompassing rightness. A giant yes in the face of a whole lot of small nos.
And the idea stuck with me--that is, the possible. The limitless. Expecting things to be all right.

My friend Aarón, who is doing his Ph.D. in psychology, studies neural pathways. He told me that we change our brains just by thinking things, and we change them even more by saying things out loud. Even saying "yes" to myself changes the way I see the world--physically changes the routes neurons take through my brain. Things will be all right becomes self-fulfilling.
I think most of the poems I was trying to write wanted to say this. But it was really only after I read Steph's poem that I knew that was what I meant. In the fall of the next year, I had a class of students who so thoroughly surprised me by their willingness to learn (and to be taught), that I had to write a poem about them and their yes. And the way it changed me to witness that yes--the poem is "And Will Be," from, well, you know.
All this to say that the idea of yes--a living yes--has been part of my consciousness for the last three years. And when two of my best friends and I were hanging out, talking about a collaboration, and found ourselves nameless, it was only natural that the word yes would come up sometime.

So yes it is. (Go take a look!)

a collection of beauties

Thinking of England (hmm, but not in that way, wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more, etc.). I got my visa by FedEx today (what a relief), and it's lovely and yellow with holographs and embossing and official-looking seals. And a hideous picture of me, but at least I'm wearing a yellow jacket, to match the visa itself.

And thinking of things I'll bring with me, like new clothes and old favorite books, and a few things just for beauty's sake.

I'll bring my sketchbooks, of course, and a new laptop (mine finally, and completely, died in late May), and my journal full of notes and ideas for my research. Maybe my sewing machine will come along, maybe I'll buy one there (anyone know anyone in Nottingham with a sewing machine to lend or sell? a serger, even?).

These days are passing far too quickly--lots in my mind. Lists begetting lists begetting calendars begetting still more lists. It's practically Biblical in proportion.

I'm supposed to turn in a manuscript at Milkweed on August 10. Oh dear.

And I'm working on a project with two of my favorite people; more about this very soon.

And Oceanside in the shop July 31st!

But there's so much beauty. My brain feels happy and full.

Thank you again for all your support with this (my mom doesn't know yet--it will be a good surprise once your photos are posted).

感謝する {kansha suru}

Japanese was the first language I studied consciously; I mean studied, chose to study, pored over. I was twelve. I got books out of the library, bought as many dictionaries as I could save up money for. The mark of a good Japanese dictionary, to me, was its definition of the verb 'to be,' which was a hard concept for me to understand (it's a copula in Japanese). I spent hours lying on my bed, making careful translations of old books from the library's used-books store.

When I went to college, the thought of not majoring in Japanese never crossed my mind. It was automatic, and in the same way I never thought of the five credits every semester as part of my 'real' courseload. My brain just assumed I'd be doing 5-7 hours of Japanese class per week. That was a given. I loved studying the language--I had amazing teachers and a great set of peers, many of whom I was lucky to get to work with all four years, as the program was very small.

When I was in high school, my favorite Japanese word was enryo (遠慮), which means something like to deny yourself something or to restrain from something out of deference to others. The concept appealed to me (and my teenage becoming-a-nun fantasies, maybe? An Audrey-Hepburn-styled nun, of course).

But when I was at the university, I learned the verb 感謝する (kansha suru). It means to give thanks, but the helping verb (する), is the verb 'to do' in Japanese. I loved that--the action-ness of thanking. To do thanks.

That is what I want to do here: I want more than just to give you my thanks for your support, for your many, many emails and offers of help and publicity and donations and advice about insurance and everything. I have had tears in my eyes every time I've opened my mailbox to see all your words. I can't thank you enough, words don't seem sufficient--I want a stronger verb than 'give.'

Thank you so, so much. I am humbled and touched and in your debt, happily.

everything

This is the one about everything. Thematic unity down the tubes, unless 'everything' can be a theme? And then I'm safe.

The first piece of everything: my dear friend Shana wrote to me, soon after I called her in hysterics over the first hospital bill we received, to suggest a way to cover a little of the medical bills: an auction of handmade things. Shana, a poet, a maker of sweet knitted things for babies. So thoughtful. And practical. And I said yes, and asked for more help from Lisa, and talked (wow! so strange to call a bloggy friend) with her about how and what to do. And we're going to do it. The information is here. It will begin August 19. If you'd like to donate something or spread the word, please email me at ohbara {at} gmail {dot} com. I can't express the enormity of my gratitude and humility in the face of the luck we've had and the love we've been shown. But thank you.

The second piece of everything: with Martha, a trip to S. R. Harris. Those blue-striped boatnecks? Done, eight of them (one for me?). And three tan scoop-neck, rumpled, striped shirts. And what I'm calling Coney Island tanks, because they're striped in cream, red, and turquoise, two for grown-ups and two for children. And more children's clothes. I'm planning to update the shop around August first with this collection, and will remove garden party then (it's Design Collective-bound, at that point). And the beautiful Foundling shop will have custom birds for this collection, all blue and tan and gold and old-paper-y. It feels so good to work.

The third piece of everything: next year, I'm heading back across the ocean. When I visited a friend in Nottingham, England, in March, I took advantage of the time and met with professors at the university there about my research interests. One of them was very interested in my ideas, invited me to apply to study with him, and offered to support me in my bid for funding. Unlike the university where I did my Master's, funding here is not guaranteed and is very competitive.

But with the help of my friend and my professor, I polished up my research statement and sent in my applications. I was accepted by the University of Nottingham to study for a Ph.D. in Cultural Studies in March, and in May I found out that I had received full funding and a stipend.

I'm so! excited to return to school. I willstudy popular music movements. And, although I have trepidations about the sheer size of my project, I know I can do it. And it's bittersweet to think that just as my mom's rehabilitation turns a corner, I'll be leaving. But the first question she asked me when she came into sensibility was "you're still going to England, right?" so I'm eastbound once more.

I will write more about this soon--about my thoughts and ideas and fears, because they're there. But I wanted to tell you.

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Thanks for being out there.

birds, mom

Birds in the shop now.

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I wanted to give you an update on my mom, because I've been consumed with doing things here and have not had time to explain what we know. It turns out that the bleeding on the brain caused a stroke, which led to loss of some function on her left side, as well as hearing in her left ear. The doctors told us this week that the odds of someone surviving this experience are one in ten. Not only did my mom survive, she has been in the physical and occupational inpatient rehabilitation center (i.e. out of ICU, where she was since June 4) for the past week and is just astounding the doctors with her progress. If you know my mom, you know she is very independent and stong-willed, so this is not an easy place to be. But it's a great place to be, and they do expect a full and (relatively--within months) quick recovery. Thank you all so much for your comments. It's helpful beyond words to know people out there are thinking of us, and your thoughts and prayers must have done something, because here we are. Lucky us.

Now the scary part is the bills. But whatever it is, my mom's still around and that's (I feel like a credit card commercial) priceless.

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For the last eight years, I've purposefully worn reds, pinks, browns. I used to wear a lot of green, and my mom likes blue, and I wanted to move away from that once I got to college. But lately (for about half a year), I've been in a blue mood, and I think in part this is because of how elegantly French women wear navy blue.

I've finally had time to sew and I'm working on my next summer collection. It's called Oceanside, and I'm hoping to have it online August first. My process has been different this time. Usually I start with fabrics and then find shapes for them. This time, I began with an outfit I wore (one of my new favorites!). and the idea for the title of the collection, and then made drawings of garments and collected images of things to help me form the aesthetic.

This outfit (left side) is faded green pants and a blue shirt with white polka dots (it's seersucker!). I wear it with my dad's mom's pearls. I love the by-the-sea-ishness of it. It's cool and roomy; grown-up but playful.

So I began to think about phares (lighthouses!) and things by the ocean, and bottleglass that's been swept over and over against rock, and the cool feel of supple linen. And then Martha took me to S.R. Harris (hurrah!) and I found the fabrics for the things I had drawn.

And now I'm working on them. I've made three shirts, all boatneck with short or 3/4 length sleeves. If I'm not too tired, maybe another one tonight. Or maybe Sen to Chihiru no Kamikakuchi (Spirited Away) with my dad. He hasn't seen it yet, and it, like Amelie, is one of the movies I come back to perennially for inspiration--for a real in-breath of ideas, color, magic.

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I'm long-winded tonight.

If you're interested, speaking of my long-windedness, you can read some new reviews of my book. They're here and here. There was a very nice one in the Washingotn Times (?!), but it's off the site now. Oh! And they're reading it at Ship of Fools, so if you have read it and want to, you can comment.

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I know I said I would disclose some Big News, and I don't mean to be coy--but I want to give it its own post. Like Molly, I like for posts to have thematic unity, and this would kind of ruin that.

Not that thematic unity is a strong suit of mine; that's actually something I've written down to include in this next post.

It's not a wedding, so put your fancy hats away.

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See you soon.