The Story of Storied Treasures

A website. A real, professional looking website. I have one! And you are here! 

How did you end up here? How did I end up here? Well, it played out not as imagined, but better than I could, and looking back, exactly like it should!

I follow an amazing blogger named Emily Ballard (seriously go read her stuff) and sometime last spring, either in her blog or Facebook page she referenced and linked a woman named Amber Lilyestrom.  I clicked and found myself on her webpage that talked about rebranding, and following your dreams and she used the words "Hot Mess." 

I felt an instant connection.  

I downloaded a free worksheet, and signed up for her mailings, but found myself thinking "It this for people with real businesses?" and I tried to forget about what I had read on her page.

As school came to an end, I was commissioned by a friend to do some retirement pieces of jewelry for a few teachers.

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18 years of teaching.  Handstamped on a silver spoon

These pieces garnered more commissioned pieces and I could not deny this little itch at my brain that kept saying "Amber!" 

I felt like I had evolved past my original Diani Designs which was pretty much exclusive to my glass beads and I wanted to rebrand/re-envision what I do. 

For a while, I had wanted to create a cohesive umbrella of a website to combine what I do, but even I had a difficult time explaining what I do.... write, sew, upcycle, design....

Am I an artist? Or do I just have ADD.....???

I've heard that nothing good happens after midnight, but after midnight is usually the only time my thoughts get to complete themselves.  Late one night I found myself clicking around Amber's website again, reading testimonials, and finally sent her a message wondering if she could help me. 

She was in New Hampshire and I'm here, a million miles away, in North Dakota. 

I woke up to this:

Hi Diane!

Of course I can help you, lovely. 

Physical limitations exist only in our minds.

xo

Amber

I loved her already.

Before chatting, I sent her my Instagram Account, my Facebook Page(s), and my blog to peruse through.  Upon meeting face to face (via technology, which is awesome) she already had a sense of me, probably better than I had of me. 

She "got" me. 

We talked about what my vision was (what vision? I just make stuff.) and my ideal client (you mean people like to buy my stuff?).

She asked me why I create the things I create (wow... no one has ever asked me that.)  And through the questions and conversations the word "Story. STORY. story." was continually whispered in my head.

We needed a name. A brand. A vision that would connect how I view the world with people who feel the same.  And yet I struggled with the whole validity of this.  After all, I didn't go to art school. I was formally trained in the non-creative field of Nursing. (oh, how I forgot I originally went to school with a desire to be a photojournalist.)  I didn't sit in angsty coffee shops with a beret and a sketch book. I don't even GET Clockwork Orange.

Am I really an artist with vision to share?

Then at one point Amber said:

Diane,

You are going to continue to do this,

whether or not you call yourself one or not,

so why not just admit

you are an artist?

BAM! There she nailed it. 

I realized I was going to continue to create... jewelry, photos, whatever...mostly as gifts I love to give.  But maybe others would appreciate and desire my work also. 

Maybe they would want their own Treasure that told a Story.

And it was amazing... It seemed the more I leaned into accepting myself as an artist, the more the pieces just fell into place. 

It was like it was always out there, just waiting for me to accept it. 

And so here we are. You are here, reading this. On a real website.

My story has lead to this place.  Your story has lead you here to read this. 

And I am so excited and grateful for all of it!  On to the next chapter!

 

Lessons from a waterpark and a big pretzel.

Our 2 oldest kids survived 2nd and 4th grades, and the 4 year old did not produce early retirement of his teacher, so we surprised them all with a trip to Wisconsin Dells and a stay at a water park resort to close out the school year.  I have heard of "The Dells" for years, but had never been there; my Hubby had not been there in about 30 years.  What he remembered of the area was a water ski show (which was still amazing), the Yogi Bear campground, and the famous "Duck Boats" which the kids loved as much as he had.  What was very different was the abundance of massive waterparks and crappy tee-shirt shops that now inundated the area.

We stayed at a resort that had 4 different waterparks within its' property.  About 24 hours before we left for the park, I had this terrifying realization of "Oh crap. We are going on vacation where I need to be in a swimsuit!!!" This had not yet really occurred to me, though we had booked the reservation a while ago.

On your given day, I am a pretty confident, not immensely self conscious, take-me-as-I-am woman.  Drop me in a water park with a gazillion sub-30 year olds, and it's a different story.  My normal "I am strong and powerful" voice gives way to "Look at her belly compared to yours." and "Wow if I had her body, I would rock a bikini, not cover it up in a 'Mom' suit."  I found myself measuring myself against moms with the same number of kids as I, around same age as I, with more kids than me, repeatedly feeling so inadequate and dejected.  The internal dialogue was incessant and after the second day, I began to wonder, "What. The. Hell??"

When does this start? When does this constant comparison and self-judgement start? Because I know if I could read the thought bubble above my husband's head, it would say NOTHING about the other Dad's bodies.. It would read more like "Do I have the lime-a-coloda or the blue raspberry tornado-rita this time?" I know my children, and daughter, specifically, cared NOTHING about what peoples' shapes were.  There were concerned with things like another tube ride, schmoozing their way to get a big pretzel, trying to get their Dad on the "Tornado" slide and when the wolf howl would again summon the giant waves in the wave pool. 

So I pondered for a few days, the when, but more so, the WHY does this happen to the majority of women? Why could I not just sit there and feel "enough" because I had the courage and stamina to go down the "Tornado" with my son, which left my stomach in my throat for the majority of the ride. Why could I not just see this experience through their eyes; their parents were playing WITH them, screaming in delightful terror with them.  They gave not a second thought to their Mom's shape in a one piece swimming suit.  Why?  Why does it matter?  When they look back at this vacation will they think, "Our mom was squishy and un-toned?"  I don't know. But I don't think so. But why do those things just itch at my brain saying "You've let yourself go.  Gross."  Why am I still judging my worth, strength, dedication and/or value as a woman by my body's shape and it's ability to look alluring in 2 or less yards of lycra material?

I was so frustrated with myself, because I knew it did not matter. Logically, my brain told me this.  Logically I knew that it's called a body shape, because that is what it is: a shape.  Logically I knew my body is stronger now than in my 20's, but then that little bitchy voice says "Yeah, and fatter."  Logically I knew my body... my BODY grew three human beings inside of it.  Three. And then healed after having 3 babies surgically removed from it... the first one being evicted quite traumatically.  Logically I knew all of these things, but why did that knowledge fall short and, in the middle of a water park, matter so much less than the poochy tummy I grew over the winter?

I'm sure I can blame the big elusive evil empire referred to as "The Media" but it has to be more than that.  If I could be swayed by The Media that easily, I would believe that being born a Kardashian gave one innate talent.  And besides, I am not 23, spending my entire existence "plugged in."  In fact, when I think of my teens and 20's I gave significantly less thought to my body image than I have in the last 10 years.  Do I blame the Mommy Myth, that is we are to be/have/do it all, perfectly like the celebrities? But that is too easy and it is just a right arm of The Media.  So where... and why... do these thoughts plague me?  I am not even sure I know the answer, which is irritating because that would make blaming so much easier.

So I am left just pondering, does it matter I am squishier than a year ago?  Well, it does, to a point.  I am not comfortable.  My clothes don't fit right, and I like my clothes and don't want to buy different clothes.  My energy level is down and my irritation level is up.  

And then, a few days after returning from our vacation, in the middle of my daughter's birthday party, my 4 year old points to my squishy belly pooch and announced clearly  (to God and everyone) "Mom, there's another baby in your tummy!"

And that was the moment. 

I could identify with Olaf's body image struggle.

I knew then I had to steer myself back towards a healthier lifestyle.  What has become clear over the last early mornings of walking, and I hate mornings, is that I wasn't really jealous of those other women.  I was seeing in them what I was missing from my better self: strength, confidence, and a certain consciousness of my health.  It wasn't about the better fitting suite and pert breasts (ok, maybe I still wish I had pre-baby boobs)... it was regaining control over my body, and how I care for it, nourish it, strengthen it.  To stop treating it like a beat-up garbage can, and making excuses.

While sitting at that resort, I now realize my feelings of frustration were not from a thought of "Why can't I have that body" but from "Why did you let it all go?"  I was frustrated, angry even, for becoming so complacent and lazy.  So in the end, I guess the "Why" and "Where" of the body image comparisons, at this point in my life,  came from myself.  It came from the voice that reminded me this is not my best version of me.  I was not feeling dejected because I didn't look like a cover model, I was feeling frustrated because I looked like a sadder, lazier, excusier Me.  And I didn't like her.  And I know I am better than her.  And my kids, more than anyone, deserve her as a role model, not the other gal.

So I am setting out to find her again.  Mostly along a country road at 6am.  She may show up wearing pointe shoes instead of running shoes, but she is out there.  And I'm kind of excited to see her again.

Those days.

They have become very few and far between, but there are still days that hit me like a silent bullet to my chest.  It actually takes me a half a day to realize why I am starting to cry in the Subway line waiting for my turkey and provolone on wheat.  My insides are just jumbled, my skin is paper thin, and my ability to take even a sideways glance is non-existent.  I feel as though I am made of the most delicate porcelain; my being is fragile, breakable and unable to be touched.

These are the days that, even at 40 years old, I become acutely aware that I am longing for my Mom to tell me everything is going to be OK.  The need doesn't come around much anymore, but it usually follows a period when shit has hit the fan in triplicate, my hormones are ping ponging all over the place, the Hubby has been on long stretches of work and commuting and I'm left spinning and feeling out of control of even the tiniest thing.  

The thing is, a Mom is supposed to be the constant, the one who will always kiss my hurts away.  That is the way it is supposed to work. And then they die. And no matter how amazing my friends and family and framily are, I just want, need really, to put my head in her lap and have her reassure me that I am not a big screw-up.  I try to comprehend how, in my life that is filled with so much love from others, I can in these days feel so utterly and painfully alone from the death of just one person.  

And I have been through this enough times that I know there is no silver lining to these days.  There is no comfort in the trite greeting card cliches of "You know she is always with you."  Those comments are as soothing as a ghost pepper to my cornea.  There is nothing that makes it better.  I just know that eventually I will fall asleep and wake up to a new day, with puffy eyes and a slightly better outlook.  But in the meantime I sit in my Wonder Woman underwear by my snoring oblivious spouse and try to put words to the pain, hoping that maybe if I can describe it a bit that maybe it'll ease the pressure... like opening a festering wound a bit, allowing the yuck to drain out slightly and maybe it won't hurt quite so much.

Thrifting and prayers.

Recently my daughter and I spent the afternoon thrift shopping.  I've come to realize thrifting is my own warped sense of gambling... "What kind of vintagey cool unique thing may I stumble upon today?"  For her it is an afternoon of developing her style.  I believe in a style, not a fad or name-brand.  The current style her 7 year old self is cultivating resulted in an abundance of cheetah print.

As we walked to the last store, we heard the commotion before we saw it.  There was a young man, probably in his 20's screaming a profanity laden tirade as he and his pregnant female companion walked down the main street in our small town.  My daughter cowered into my side, gripping my hand tightly asking "What is he screaming about Mommy?"  I answered that I was unsure, and she asked, "Is it drugs Mom? Is that why he is acting that way?"

My life experiences have taught me that the young man was either suffering from the effects of alcohol, drugs and/or mental illness and my heart broke a little for him and his female companion that was obviously trying to make "everything better" as she chased after him to desperately cling to his arm.

As the local officers arrived to calm the man, my daughter stood peering out the window, intently taking in the scene.  The officers, the young man sitting on the sidewalk, and the upset female were knitted together in a disjointed web of society on the corner of the street in the late afternoon sun. 

Several times over the next few hours, my daughter said abruptly, "That was scarey Mom."

I finally had the foresight to ask, "What would you do if your boyfriend screamed like that?"  "I would run Mom. I would run and call the policeman, or just run away."

Oh baby girl... I pray you still feel this way when you are 16, or 24 or 33. 

I pray that you listen to that gut voice that screams RUN when your heart is saying "But I LOVE HIM." 

I pray that you know the difference between supporting someone who is struggling and trying to fix him. 

I pray that if you ever feel scared by the way someone is treating you, that you run. Run to a girlfriend, or your brothers or to your Daddy and me. 

I pray that you understand being alone is more fulfilling than being in a toxic relationship. 

And I pray that you never ever lose your fantastic sense of style to the pull of a passing fad.