What Villa?

My classmates and I were in a social science class in seventh grade. We were having a discussion about what our lives might be like at the turn of the century. That fateful day was about thirty years away. My little girl dreams came from the only small-town life I had ever known. I envisioned a life with a loving husband in a white two-story house in the suburbs of a large city far away. Our children, a boy and a girl played with a golden retriever underneath the oak trees at the edge of our lawn. Simple, sweet, secure was how I saw my destiny.

When the waning years of the last century finally arrived, they found me not in a happy home but in the middle of an agonizing divorce from the man I loved so much; my heartfelt as if it would implode. Even after more than thirteen years of emotional abuse, I still loved him. As he drove off into the sunset with his young girlfriend, I stood at the jagged edge of the end of my world.

I had invested everything I could borrow and every ounce of energy I possessed into our home and my jewelry design business. When our marriage ended, I had no reliable income to speak of yet. I had just begun to show at the Fashion Markets, and the boutiques were finally starting to buy my work. I had no savings, insurmountable debt, and no place to go. When we sold our home and almost everything we owned, there still wasn't enough to pay for all we owed.

At forty-five years old, I was deeply in debt, homeless, and emotionally destroyed. When an old friend offered me a place to live in exchange for caring for him during his last years of life, I felt as if an angel had offered me his hand.

 Many years have passed since that ultimate sadness.

My villa in the snow.

At last, I have a home of my own. It's only a few miles away from that classroom where I dreamed of a happy life so long ago. There are no children, and there is no dog. There isn't even an oak tree. Those dreams of a family of my own never came true, but I do own two businesses, and I am happy spending time with my dear Mr. Mickey. 

I am very grateful for this part of my life, but it is different from the one I imagined in my youth's restless dreams. 

C'est la vie. 

It's only string!

The cost of the materials used to create the work of art has no bearing on the cost of the finished piece. Consider the fact that a Rembrandt is just oil paint on canvas.

I've been trying to convey this message to the budding designers who buy their supplies from my company for many years. Artists create a tangible work born from their unique vision. The cost of that finished work of art has no correlation to the cost of the raw materials. This is so difficult for new artists to grasp. If you are paying yourself only to assemble pieces of metal or stone or wire.... you are nothing more than a machine.

This is a story I read many years ago but it has remained relevant throughout my life.

Thousands of years ago in a medieval village in a faraway land a merchant was selling beautiful rugs he had woven with his own hands from humble materials. The rugs were unique in their design because the weaver had been taught the technique by his grandfather.

He had been practicing this craft since he was a young boy. His work was flawless and intricate, always a thing of beauty to behold and a treasure to pass on to your children.

One morning an arrogant old woman approached his stall in the marketplace. After silently studying his rugs for a long moment, she asked the price of one, particularly beautiful rug. When he unapologetically told her the price for the elegant rug, she spat back at him, "What? It's only string!" 

He took the rug from her hands, untying strategic knots and unraveling the whole thing before her horrified gaze. "No madame... now it is only string."