One. Last. Show.
I ran two full marathons in my life: sheer euphoria and pure hell wrapped up in a not-so-tidy 26.2 mile package. This show season reminds me of the months of training for those and then running the races. Except this time, I’m limping across the finish line.
The weather has made this show season particularly rough. That, coupled with having the bright idea of signing up for shows every weekend for two months straight has left me pretty weary. I know that when I don’t listen to God and pump the breaks on my life, He tends to step in and intervene. That seems to be the case this week.
Wind gusts from yet another tropical storm whipped through Harvest Fest at Gore Mountain in the Adirondacks last weekend, causing huge pallet racks to break free from their zip tied places on the grid wall and sail in the direction that gravity deemed. I just happened to be sitting under the ones that took flight and now have the bruised imprint of two 3-foot pallet racks across my back and a jacked up left arm where another piece of agony art went careening into my unsuspecting wrist.
While unpacking my trailer yesterday morning, a groggy bee rallied one last time to sting me multiple times in the left palm.
I then removed a tote from the trailer, and, forgetting it had poured the night before and my tarp has a hole in it, poured a gallon of water that had collected on the tote’s lid down the front of me until it pooled in my boots.
During life seasons like the one I’ve been in recently, it would be so easy to sullenly sit in a corner, licking my wounds from the ramifications of doing life my way. I have to remind myself to see the joy in each day and be thankful for the little things, even while in the throes of refinement. That my boots will dry. That I’m not allergic to bees. That I’ve had the chance to travel around the east coast and meet some incredibly talented and awesome people. That while I have this weird protrusion on my arm, I didn’t break it. That the pallet rack missed my neck by a few inches. That I’ve had this huge internal growth spurt at the age of 38.
And instead of feeling sorry for yourself, you find yourself smiling at the poignant encounters with others. Like chatting with a 6-year old girl at your booth about school and then giving her a pencil holder full of pencils, to which she responds by rooting through her bag of black and yellow eggs that hold prizes from an egg hunt, cracks one open, and hands me this glittery plastic ring in exchange:
Or how antique windows and doors keep showing up on my driveway from a kind-hearted neighbor who knows they are treasures to me and lugs them over from all around the area on my behalf.
Or how friends save random pieces of this or that for me to incorporate into a pieces, like this wine table that was inspired by the small metal glass holder you see underneath the 167-year old barn wood table top. Another friend has been on the hunt for sewing machine bases for me, so when I got this antique Singer sewing machine table from him (complete with the sewing machine), I took it apart, painted the base, added a barn wood top along with wine bottle racks I’ve been saving for the right piece, and added the glass holder underneath. It’s like a mini wine bar. Perfect for this last show. It rolls. And it won’t fall off grid wall. And it’s a reminder to celebrate the end of a growth season on Monday, no matter what this weekend holds.
Find the joy in the little things.
(I have two of these wine tables for sale; if you are interested in one, please let me know before Thursday evening as they’ll be road tripping with me to Oyster Bay!)