Taking Inventory

108. The number of times I've said, "I have no idea what I'm doing."
Give or take.
This week.

My “to do” Post-It lists are multiplying like rabbits, covering every surface of my desk as I prepare for the gallery.  I’m selecting, measuring, naming and pricing my woodturnings…and then entering them into the inventory system, praying that the printer doesn’t cut off half of the barcode.  (There are many things I’m happy to be known for, but The Woman Whose Art Won’t Ring Up isn’t one of them!) I’m also making sure that the gallery has my artist statement, bio, and photos of my work ahead of my September 1 debut—when I hope to appear slightly less like a hot mess than I feel. 

A Quiet Reminder

These days, with my life unfolding as one infinite “to do” list, my morning routine of skin care and brushing my teeth feels like the calm before the storm.  This morning, my eyes came to rest on a little reminder propped in the corner of my vanity: “With gratitude, the universe is endlessly abundant.”

Circa 2018, when yoga classes and workshops were the central focus of my life, I taught myself how to make mala bead necklaces for myself and my friends.  Each bead was securely hand-knotted—a time-consuming but meditative affair.  I did my best to imbue each knot with positive intentions for the wearer.   

I made a mala for my friend Rae, and delivered it to her at “yoga summer camp”—AKA Raising Your Vibration yoga retreat that she and I (along with the rest of our kula) attended every summer.  In return, she gave me a small plaque that has rested on my vanity ever since.

Rae’s plaque beside one of the malas I made in 2018.

For eight years, the plaque has borne witness to the changing seasons of my life: the shift from yoga as my central focus to woodturning; the death of my father; friendships taking root, blooming, and fading; relaunching Circle City Studio with a different but stronger focus; and, now, joining a cooperative artists’ gallery.

More Than 18 Characters

I began preparing for the gallery by taking inventory of the work I had made. Somewhere along the way, I found myself taking inventory of everything—and everyone—that had helped me make it.

The inventory system gives me 18 characters to describe each item. My “Spalted ambrosia maple burl hollow form with partial natural edge” has now become, simply, “maple hollow form.”

“Spalted ambrosia maple burl hollow form with partial natural edge”—or, according to the inventory system, “maple hollow form.”

But even its full name couldn’t account for all the people, places, materials, and turns of circumstance that brought this piece to a glass shelf inside my two-by-two-by-six-foot display cabinet.

I hope it speaks to someone and begins a new life in their home. If it doesn’t, I’ll happily keep it as a tangible record of how I came to be a member of the Cary Gallery of Artists. Either way, it is considerably more than 18 characters.

Apparently, abundance sometimes comes with a barcode.

Of course, none of my work would need a barcode if I’d been able to part with one particular machine in my father’s workshop—but I’ll save that story for September 13, when Growth Rings returns after a brief gallery-opening intermission.