Change is good...but making it sure ain't easy

Have you ever had a lover that made you feel simultaneously:
a. like you were shooting 100 cc's of dopamine 3x daily between meals and
b. like you were trying on the same damn pair of shoes over and over and over only to remember that they are a 1/2 size off

Well that's how I feel about my town right now. I'm not kiddin', it's downright tempestuous.

Honest to god I complain about dressing head to toe in wool all summer, I complain that I can't see my mailbox through the soupy fog, I complain that waiting in line at Whole Foods for 15 minutes is JUST TOO LONG and that with every second I spend in traffic so grid-locked I don't move out of first gear, the very essence of my small-town girl soul is slowly ebbing with the retreating tide.

For all intents and purposes, it's time for a change.

And then, magically, the sun comes out and I've instantly forgiven my town for any trespasses against me I've ever claimed. Gone. Irretrievable. The fog ain't all that bad. Traffic? It's a meditation. Chilly? It's good for my Pitta firey dosha...balances me. Yep, everything is just hunky dorey here in the beautiful San Francisco Bay Area.

Recently, my husband Mike and I had a naked gun day. We call them naked gun days because of that movie from the 80's where the couple is shown dining out, going on cruises, taking walks in the mountains, touring museums, on a train in the countryside...and you think it is the span of like a three year relationship but it is actually just one afternoon? Well we occasionally (ahem, often) have naked gun days here in the Bay Area and they remind us of all the reasons why so many people LOVE living here.

We started out on our road bikes from our house in the Berkeley Hills and we rode down the hill to the little local farmer's market in our neighborhood to have a quick fresh-baked pastry and shot of espresso. Fueled up for the first leg of our ride we took the bay trail along the shore where kite boarders hung suspended beneath colorful sails and just the tips of buildings were becoming visible across the bay in San Francisco as the morning fog began its slow daily retreat. We rode as close to the bay bridge as possible then hopped on BART, peeled off our first layers of wool and got off at the first San Francisco stop where we emerged from underground smack dab into the middle of the Gay Pride Parade in full swing.

Perhaps it's just the nature of Gay Pride Parades everywhere but they are a spectacle to be reckoned with! There were whips, chains, leather dusters with nothing underneath, large breasted women, small breasted women, one-breasted women, piercings in all imaginable locations, men that were half-women, women that were half-men, steel contraptions affixed to penises in all shapes, colors and sizes, long term married couples with children, politicians and celebrities flying rainbow flags, old folks, infants, fluffy pink bunny suits with giant Samoan men inside them, 80 year old women riding banana seat bikes with nothing on but crowns...you get the idea. People-watching at its finest.


From there we rode along the Embarcadero to the ferry building for a late morning snack of oysters on the half shell, sparkling lemonade and a quick sunshine session (get it while you can!) and then made our way along Crissy Field and over the Golden Gate Bridge. From there we rode a heart-stoppingly gorgeous 30 mile loop along the coast and through the Marin Headlands before making our way back home to Berkeley, stopping only for a fabulous early supper at a hip cafe near our house. We arrived back at our house sunburned, windburned, fogburned and with that delicious tired feeling you get after a really fun day. Or as my niece says, "rhully rhully fun."

Perhaps because since leaving my home in Washington State for college, I've never until now lived anywhere for 8 consecutive years and I've actually had time to develop a deep love for the Bay Area. The kind of love that makes you forget, in one instant, that you had any complaints the moment before. The kind of love that, on good days, makes your heart swell to the point of bursting and on bad days swear that Omaha, Nebraska really is where it's at.





I listened to myself tell a friend the other day..."change is good"...and I felt like an imposter. Like I was posing as someone who actually practices what she preaches.

Oh sure, I'm a huge fan of radical change and I do believe with all my heart that change IS good. But does it make it any easier? I'm having trouble making change and it's all because I live somewhere that I simultaneously love wildly and would love to leave.


If I do ever leave, I'll certainly be leaving my heart in San Francisco....at least a big piece. But isn't that what it's all about?
Bronwen

Balance....The Eternal Quest

Michael (my hub) walks the line. Phra Nang Beach, Railay, Thailand 3/09

I have a confession.

I seem to have accidentally slipped and fallen in love.

In fact, slipping and falling is literally what I've been doing for the past two weeks and I don't think it'd be a stretch to say that I'm borderline obsessed. You see, I'm learning to slackline.

Slackline, the art of dynamic balance. It is akin to tight rope and high wire but uses tubular nylon webbing. Rope walking of one form or another has been around for at least a couple thousand years but has always been the realm of acrobats and daredevils. This is no longer the case. A slackline revolution is brewing and I'm joining the ranks!

Clearly, finding balance is the eternal quest.

Andy and Bron admire Jenny's aptitude for pregnant-slacking in Tonsai

Google "finding balance" and you'll become exhausted by the number of pages that come up. We practice yoga to balance our stress from living in a society which places too much importance on work and not enough importance on play. We take primrose oil to balance our hormones. Women resist motherhood because finding a healthy balance of career and family seem so unfathomable (ahem, not mentioning any names here...)

We all have our own forms of meditation. Things to quiet the chatter in our minds. Look within. Slow the breath and heart rate. A vehicle for non-negotiable concentration and absolute focus.

Bron hitting her stride (peanut gallery on sidelines, sipping Singha and critiquing)

Slacklining is a challenge that will never cease to humble you and
simultaneously make you feel like you own the world.


It's been a long time since I discovered something that makes me feel quite like I do when I'm walking the line. Slacklining brings me one wobbly step closer to that seemingly elusive thing we call balance.
Bronwen

MEN AND JEWELRY...THEN AND NOW

There is something
about a man
in jewelry.

But long before Johnny Depp and David Beckham were around to show us how well it can be done (ahem, it's getting hot in here..) men were wearing jewelry in every region of the world....and they weren't shy about it.




In Africa, when power was concentrated in a ruler who controlled valuable resources--marketable commodities like gold and ivory, for example--he generally encouraged the development of arts and crafts, both to express his power visually and to have offerings to give to the gods out of gratitude for his privileged position.

Today, objects of adornment are part of a multilayered communication system in all African societies. Jewelry, particularly beaded jewelry, communicated cultural values in a symbolic language that expresses rank, religion, politics, and artistic attitude. Beaded jewelry is central to the lives of all Africans--and its ability to reflect a cultural heritage is still more pronounced in Africa than in any other part of the world.



At least eight thousand years before Europeans crossed the Atlantic, Indians were making, wearing and trading beads of shell, pearl, bone, teeth, stone and fossils.

North American Indian languages appear to have no word for art; artistic expression was fully integrated into many aspects of life and not treated as a separate activity. Objects of adornment were created to serve a host of functions, both secular and sacred. The extent of their complexity depended on the lifestyle of the group and the resources available to them.

The best known shell bead was wampum: small, cylindrical, centrally drilled white and purple beads made primarily of the quahog clamshell. Strung on leather thongs or woven into belts, the wampum was sometimes worn as decoration but developed far greater significance as currency and was used for objects commemorating major political and ceremonial events.

In 1497, Jacques Cartier, a French explorer wrote, "The thing most precious that they have in all the world, they call it esurgny; it is as white as any snow: they make beads and wear them about their necks as we do gold, accounting it as the most precious thing in the world."


Until it was absorbed into China in 1959, Tibet was a Buddhist theocracy ruled jointly by a powerful hierarchy of monks and nobility that recognized the Dalai Lama as their spiritual and temporal leader. It was by far the most influencial country in the eastern regions of central Asia, with Ladakh, Bhutan, Sikkim, Nepal, Mongolia and Chinese provinces functioning as cultural outposts of Tibet.

Jewelry in these countries shared important similarities with Tibet. All personal adornment had religious significance. Tibetan jewelry is often monumental in scale, to express the rank of the owner and is sturdy enough to withstand life on the road. There is an exuberance of color in Tibetan jewelry, characterized by liberal use of turquoise, coral and amber beads.

The use of all adornment in Tibet, including beads, was outlawed during the Cultural Revolution and the Chinese repression of Buddhism in the 1960's. It has since reemerged.

Worldwide, jewelry continues to tell a story of our cultural history and values. Wearing jewelry proves to be a universal human need.

It's time to give men more options.
Bronwen

*credit: The History of Beads, Lois Sherr Dubin, copyright 1987

Rocky Mountain High

Sure, we've all heard the John Denver song but only those of us with a weakness for pristine aspen groves, afternoon thunderstorms and high alpine meadows truly understand that 'Rocky Mountain High' is an actual bodily phenomenon, which is contracted by frolicking in the state of Colorado.

It all begins by meeting up with old friends who know and love the state as much as you do.
The high comes on nice and smooth and by the time you rustle up some mountain bikes and make a few phone calls to old pals, you're beginning to wonder how long this feeling of euphoria is gonna last.



Chance upon an aspen grove suited perfectly for a jewelry photo shoot and the high quickly intensifies to the point of needing to pinch yourself periodically to make sure you are still capable of feeling pain.


Spend a few days camping in fields of lupine with snow capped peaks surrounding you and your symptoms now become a incessant verbal exclamation about the astounding beauty and a ruthless self-interrogation of what prompted you to move to the city from this paradise in the first place???


Throw in some serious girl time and and a little hubba hubba and you're beginning to understand the full magnitude of the affliction and wonder if you might be able to buy it on the street corner in east Oakland.



The high next localizes in the upper left quadrant of your chest in the form of swelling. You monitor and treat the swelling with plenty of fresh food and wine as you participate in the marriage ceremony of two humans that are so cool individually that the official uniting is almost too much to bear...so you dance wildly for a few hours to take the edge off.

Like any good high, 'Rocky Mountain High' leaves you wanting more.

And like any good high, a hangover is expected.

However, if managed properly with great photographic reminders (thanks primarily to Nic) and vivid memories, 'Rocky Mountain High' settles into a feeling of gratitude and the resolve to return for more.
Bronwen

Old...it's the new new

I love all things ancient.

Unintentionally, I cultivated my fascination with ancient things while in college. I simply kept taking the interesting courses and and lo and behold four years later I walked out of Boulder, Colorado with a degree in Anthropology.

No intent to dig.
No intent to teach.
No intent to collect data (at least in the career sense anyway).

In fact, I spent a lot of money on a college education that has done virtually nothing for my career path...but one that has seriously shaped the manner in which I look at objects in the world. I love objects with a history. A story. A meaning...and therefore, value.

The more surrounded I become with objects of mass production, the more I feel myself gravitating to objects that have been around for a while. Things that look a little rough around the edges. Things that have been around the block a few times. Things with some real live grit and life to them.

I dress almost exclusively in used clothing.

My most recent obsession is antique trade beads. African, Indonesian, Middle Eastern, Native American, European...beads that were really truly traded as gifts of power and a form of currency before we had coins and bills. Beads made of glass, horn, bone, tusk, teeth, clay, coral and stone. Beads that were artfully crafted by hand and assigned a value. Beads that today still carry value, and will continue to increase in value because we can never again make a trade bead that was made in Africa in the 1700s.

I used to gasp at price tags on antiques. I don't anymore. Now, I appreciate.

As container ships line up to pull into the port of Oakland, packed with shiny new chotchkies fresh from a factory in China, India, Vietnam...my appreciation for all things "old" deepens. I think old is the new new.
Bronwen

Eco~nfusion

In the eco-fashion world, it's become a bit of a quest to discover the new "it" item in sustainable style. Hemp is passe but bamboo is smokin' hot. After all, it reproduces faster than Angelina Jolie and when mixed with lycra it can make any garment feel like your PJs. Organic cotton has simply become mainstream (and it's about time).

In the accessories division, the lines have become so blurred between recycled, reclaimed, repurposed, fair trade, eco-friendly, greener-than-green...I reluctantly admit that at times I find myself almost virtually incapable of thinking critically about sustainability anymore.

I was shopping in Portland, Oregon recently and passed a store front displaying a bedroom set which made my heart immediately leap up and pay attention. My eyes were literally watering. Rough barn wood that was so perfectly worn and mismatched yet so masterfully put together.....my body turned at will and marched in.

The label on the furniture line read "Eco-Furniture" and at once it seemed too good to be true! I inquired about the history of the pieces, the supply chain, the origin of the raw materials, the design process, manufacturing...and the saleswoman eagerly shared information about this "Eco-Furniture" line. I learned that the wood was, in fact, reclaimed from old barns in Brazil (oi! one of my favorite countries on earth....was meant to be!!!) then shipped to America where a team of designers set to work on the plans for the perfect bedroom set. From there it was sent to Indonesia where it was meticulously crafted by...well...we weren't quite certain whom...and then sent back again to America where the drawers were lined with...well...we weren't quite sure with what...and placed in this very window where I stood outside waiting for it....like a long lost lover.

The price tag flirted with me with it's "Eco-Furniture" prelude to the $7,500.00 retail price. My heart and brain were in conflict as I tried to quickly calculate the fuel used for shipping from Brazil to America to Indonesia and back again, the questionable labor in the manufacturing process and the ingredients used to treat the furniture......but it was "reclaimed" barn wood afterall.....and therefore pronounced "GREEN!"

I'm confused. And I find myself going back to the basics for reference. I came home from Portland and by chance met a woodworker who specializes in handcrafting all non-toxic furniture from dead-fall around the Marin/Sonoma area. He collects it in his old rusty truck, drives it back to his shop and magically turns it into the most incredibly beautiful, rustic, local furniture you can imagine. We sat on a sawhorse and discussed my ideas for the design. We shared an apple. We talked about costs...his business...my business...his children. We connected as two human beings face to face, who share a common concern for the planet and transparency in our actions.

To me, this feels organic. This feels "green." Somehow I think my new furniture will have more meaning to me this way. I like this version of "green."
Bronwen

Viva Baja

Spent 10 days in Baja recently. 5 days sea kayaking down the west coast of the island of Espiritu Santo in the Sea of Cortez. Stunning. Desolate, arid landscape meets tropical ocean complete with healthy living reefs festooned with fantastically colorful fish, mantas, turtles. With the exception of a local pulpo fisherman, we saw and spoke with no one else but eachother and I found myself thinking much about "place." Our place as humans on this planet...and my little place in the midst of all us humans.

Spent the other 5 days exploring southern Baja and found it rather perplexing. It seemed every other vehicle had either a California, Colorado, Washington, Oregon or Montana license plate. Modern adobe homes with staggering pricetags sprouting like agave in every imaginable color on the mexican spectrum. The owners of the shops, galleries, restaurants, and hotels..... American.....and the Mexican wait-staff speak almost exclusively in english. The dollar/peso exchange rate apparently a formality. We paid more for migas in Todo Santos than we do at home in San Francisco. The newspapers are in english.

The world is getting smaller. And it's happening so fast.

We have to trust that we will all end up in our right "places." Clearly, I'm still trying to find mine.
Bronwen