reduce, reuse, and recycle

Tonight is a recycled post with recycled ideas and recycled clothing. What better time than now to slow down, celebrate where you have been, and enjoy your treasures all over again? Summer is, after all, a perfect time for churning over your thoughts and your outfits and still Being Here Now. For being true to you. Here’s to that basic ideology and best life advice. Even our FLOTUS follows this creed. Message me your thoughts! #slowfashionrevolution #summerfashion2021 #betruetoyou #wearitagain #flotus

Nine Cent Girl

Hopefully, everyone is reducing, reusing, and recycling. I’m on board, but not just with my cardboard. I’m all about keeping my clothing, season after season, opting not to buy into each new trend that surfaces. When I look back through my photo stream, I’ve noticed I’m often wearing the same dress, from Venice, Italy, to Venice, California, for over a decade. So I ask you, why hop on the shopping train, why not instead, keep your garments wearing longer? This year, as floral once again flooded the racks, I included an old floral favorite, worn first on a Kentucky waterfront a decade ago, then on a spring night two years ago, and resurfaced this year during my trip to France. Packable, light, and totally worth rewearing. Before you purchase a new wardrobe this Fall, consider how you might reduce your footprint, by reusing, at the very least, much of what you…

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Coronacoaster

In the suburban neighborhood I grew up in, each house had two parents, a handful or more of children, a cleaning gal who lived-in a few days a week, and an assortment of pets. Every household ran on the same schedule, with Dads out working, kids in school, while moms did everything they did until we returned to sit around the dinner table in our respective seats. Two houses down our lane was a family just like ours, until it wasn’t, and they moved across to the other hill in town, where properties were larger, houses grander, and then the husband left to make his bed with a younger woman in her city apartment. This mother, the one left with 5 teenagers still living in the grander home, she’s been on my mind, a lot, her image rolling around all this week. I picture her at her dressing table, drawing cat eyes with a black liner, a smoldering cigarette in a crystal tray, and a half-filled martini at her elbow. She was alone gazing into her mirror on those nights when we middle-schoolers were experimenting with beer and kisses downstairs in the oak-paneled den. I have no recollection about why I went upstairs to speak to her or what she even said to me, but I always did go. She’d flit about in a gold patterned caftan like Cleopatra, mesmerizing my imagination as she moved mythically from dresser to mirror, completing her toilet with care, as if her styling mattered, as if she was expected somewhere regal. Once properly primed she’d descend the wide staircase with care, imparting a question or a word, not a caution or warning, just a thought for our evening. Although I couldn’t capture her bleached-blond up-do or recreate that Valley of the Dolls barbiturate disposition, she has filled my imagination endlessly of late. I know nothing certain about her isolation or despair, but right now, those emotions lay torn open in me.

 

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Reach down. Lift up. Never Forget.

18 years ago this date became etched in something stronger than stone. In blood and horror, in loss and destruction, in fear and retaliation. But something brighter too. I would venture to say there is a tenacious streak, a solve it any way possible bit, that place where survival for all takes over and lending hands come from every direction while individual needs take a back seat. It pulls together unlikely alliances during the worst of times to change the tragic trajectory. This is what we understand to be wholly American. From our small towns to urban neighborhoods you can feel the ripple reshaping torn communities into something unified, something that makes us proud.

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