Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Most People

 

Most people don't care enough to make a difference.
Most people aren't going to buy that new thing you're selling.
Most people are afraid to take action.
Most people are too self-involved to do the generous work you're hoping for.
Most people think they can't afford it.
Most people won't talk about it.
Most people aren't going to read what you wrote.
Fortunately, you're not most people. Neither are your best customers.

by Seth Godin


Once in a while I read Seth Godin's Blog.  He writes from a marketing/business point of view but alot of what he says is easily applied to every day life.

I like this particular piece he wrote , whether we are thinking of creating something to sell or just to see who do you really want to be anyways.   Because  most people or  "average" person  will probably not be the one  would appreciate that beautiful Cladonia Shawl  Or those  crazy stripped socks.   Be prepared to not get the reaction from the ├áverage`person, that you might expect because most people just won`t get it.

Remember  those people who will pay a hefty price for a piece of art, because they can recognize when a piece of art has been created from passion.

Something to think about.

Alice

Saturday, August 18, 2012

A Nice Word For Hoarding

After reading this article it made me think of the fact that I never considered myself a very organized person.  My most common thing to do with   clutter which I discovered bugs me more than I ever remember, I revert to trying to tidy it and put it a nice basket or box and off it goes till a look at it again in a couple of years. When you have a house and  only 2 people living in it, it`s easy to do this.   I now think I`m organized again.  But why am I putting  things in  an attractive container to say I`m an organized person, when I should really look at why I still have it around in my life. 

These guys have really made an impact over the last months on my relationship to stuff in my life and my buying habits.  Most importantly was the fact that I defined who I was by what I owned instead of what I did and my experiences. 


This essay was written by The Minimalist :



We need to start thinking of organizing as a dirty word. It is, in fact, a sneaky little profanity—a pernicious little booger—who keeps us from simplifying our lives.

Our televisions would have us believe that there’s a battle being fought on the consumption continuum, a battle between the organizers and the hoarders. And from our couches it’s hard to see who’s winning.

We’d like to posit to you, however, that these two sides are working together, colluding to achieve the same thing: the accumulation of more stuff. One side—the hoarders—does so overtly, leaving everything out in the open, making them easy targets to sneer at. But the other side—the sneaky organizers—are more covert, more systematic, more devious when it comes to the accumulation of stuff. Ultimately, though, organizing is nothing more than well-planned hoarding.

Sure, both sides go about their hoarding differently, but the end result is not appreciably different. Whether our homes are strewn with wall-to-wall material possessions or we have a complex ordinal item-dispersal system, color-coded and alphabetized, we’re still not dealing with the real problem.

No matter how organized we are, we must continue to care for the stuff we organize, cleaning and sorting our methodically structured belongings. When we get rid of the superfluous stuff, however, we can focus on life’s more important aspects. Said another way: We can spend the day focusing on our health, on our relationships, on pursuing what we’re passionate about. Or we could, of course, reorganize our basement again.

Once the excess stuff is out of the way, staying organized is much easier anyway.


Alice

Monday, August 6, 2012

Listen




Listen
To the dream within you.
It’s there
In whatever
Puts stars in your eyes
And makes your heart sing.
Listen
To your feelings,
And you will hear
Who you are
And what you must do.
Listen
To your needs,
And you will know
Where to find
What you are looking for.
Listen
To the wisdom within.
It is trying to lead you
To your destiny.
Listen
To the song in you,
And your life
Will be one of harmony.
You will be
Who you were meant to be.
You will be complete
And at peace
And happier than you’ve ever been,
If only you will
Listen
To the dream within you.



Alice

Friday, August 3, 2012

The Race

Hello all.  To update you on the status of the shawls they have been finally opened and everyone apparently loved them and I have been told that I will receive a picture of everyone with their shawls.  Exciting !

I saw this link appear on my facebook this morning and wanted to share it not only for you but so that I could reference it for myself on a daily basis.    This post was writen by a very young man (early 20`s)  I`m blown away by the insight of this generation has on life.  More excitement !

Enjoy the read !



The Race - by Tynan

There's a race going on, but it's not an ordinary marathon. First of all, it's not a mere twenty six point two miles long. We don't know how long it is because we can't see that far; no one has been to the end of the course yet. And, really, it's more of a relay race than a marathon. The entire history of mankind has been running it, passing the baton to future generations. And now the baton has been passed to us, and we're on the course.

Even though we're all entered into the race-- every single one of us-- not all of us are running. Some people are sitting on the side of the road. As you run by, you can see them, staring at the sky with a glazed over look, completely oblivious of the honor that has been passed down to them.

Other people are on the road, but they're walking. They're zigzagging all over the road, but going in the right direction. They'll never make it to the end of the road. Neither will anyone else, but the irony is that the walkers are the only group who DOES think that they'll make it to the end. They have no idea how long the road actually is, so they figure they've got all the time in the world. Walk a bit this way, walk a bit that way, sit down with the sitters for a few minutes, start walking again.

Along the road, also, are joggers. They're mostly running in packs. Whenever one of them starts to get ahead of the group, the rest of them yell at him and he slows down and rejoins the pack. The packs of joggers are like soldiers, plodding away as a big unit. They won't make it to the end either. They know it, but they've accepted it. Just keep jogging, stick with your pack, make it as far as you can.

And then there are the runners. I'm a runner. Most of my friends are runners, but we don't run together. We're all screaming down the road as fast as we can, lungs gasping, legs aching, ankles threatening to give. But we keep running. Sometimes I'll pass a friend, and I'll smile at him and taunt him and whoop out loud, begging him to come run with me, like wild horses on a plain. Sometimes he'll run with me and even pass me. Other times he'll shrug and let me go past. My friends pass me, too. I always try to keep up with them, and maybe get ahead of them, but a lot of times they're faster than me. Sometimes we run alone, other times we clump together by chance. We never stop moving.

As we progress down the road, the scenery becomes more and more beautiful. We pass beaches with cool refreshing oceans lined with comfortable beach chairs. They're mostly empty, inviting us to sit down. There are stunning green fields punctuated with wildflowers. Picnics are laid out for us. How refreshing would it be to sit under the sun, quench our thirst, and get fat? The temptations become more and more enticing as we go farther. The determination we began with is threatened more severely with each mile. Occasionally another runner will slow down and exit the road, looking back at us, begging for understanding.

We don't stop running. We can't stop running. We know that we'll never ever get to the end of the path, and we've accepted that. We know that others are thousands of miles ahead of us, and that no amount of running will ever close that gap. Winning the race isn't even something to be considered. Instead, one day, our bodies will fail us and we'll fall onto the road, never to move again. As we fall, we will plant our batons in the ground, offering them to the next generation, hoping that whoever picks it up will understand what we've done, and will run and not stop. And if whoever picks up our baton won't run, we hope he will enjoy the scenery we've brought him to.

The running never gets easy. Those who have stopped at various points in the road give the appearance of happiness. They're wearing fresh clothes, drinking pure water, and eating delicious food. Meanwhile, our bodies and clothes are covered with sweat and blood and dirt. We are thirsty and hungry and tired. The only reason we believe comfort even exists is because we can see other people enjoying it on the side of the road.

Why do we run? Those from the sidelines, the ones who never ran to begin with, don't understand. They think we're fools, running a race that we can't possibly win. Our ancestors have already gotten us a thousand times farther than we can run by ourselves. Why kill yourself just to move, relatively speaking, a smidge farther? The walkers don't understand, either. We'll all get there eventually, they think, so why such a rush? The joggers figure that it's too dangerous to run by yourself, and that by staying in a pack they'll at least get somewhere, and don't have to worry about being abandoned.

We run because there's road ahead of us, and because we have legs. We run because someday someone will find the baton that we've left, and we owe it not to them, but to the descendants of their descendants, to move the baton forward. We run because we love to run.

from  http://tynan.com/

Alice