Pivoting in 2024

Owner of the Chairs

The last time I wrote about pivoting, it was in the midst of COVID–2020. I wrote an article for a local, small newspaper about the idea of pivoting the way business was conducted to accommodate COVID closing, restrictions, etc. My dad loved the article. But, in general, he loved all of my articles simply because he was my dad and under some sort of obligation to say he loved my writing…

Here I am, almost 4 years later. Life has changed immensely (my Dad isn’t here to read this post). Business has changed immensely. The concept of pivoting has not changed…but the process has.

Last year, at this time, I had a plan rooted deeply in the confidence that could only come after a solid two years of continual change, adaptation and hard work with a trustworthy and dependable teammate. But just a few months into 2023, everything changed. Someone once said, “Change is inevitable, growth is optional. Choose wisely.” But, it soon became clear that this change, albeit inevitable, was about as welcome as an embarrassing infestation of termites in a log home. The change was barely noticeable at first but soon there were tiny telltale signs– the dust, the occasional sightings, the tiny holes. By the time I realized what was happening, it was a full-blown infestation and the damage was done. Like the termite infested foundation of a home, the confidence that had been the impetus for making long term plans was suddenly no longer solid, no longer stable and no longer reliable. And so I began to pivot.

The pivot began with learning to let go. I had to let go of my plan; I had to give up on that beautiful vision in my head. But the hardest “let-go” was letting go of an unwavering trust in anyone beside myself and learning to live with the facts: the only person who owes you anything or has your back 100%, is you. Loyalty is really nothing more than a concept the heart and head desperately want to believe in to address an insecurity we publicly deny having. When tested, learning that loyalty isn’t real can be devastating. When my reality smacked me hard in the face, I had to think about whether or not I even wanted to continue operating my businesses or if I wanted to just throw in the invisible towel that has been hanging just within reach, looming like the most undesirable option because it would mean I was giving up; that I was a failure.

There were as many reasons to throw in the towel as there were to stand up, dust myself off and keep going but the latter was my choice and it was the harder of the two options. I didn’t burn the house down, I pivoted and attempted to rebuild by salvaging bits and pieces where and when I could. It is a slow going process.

In rebuilding, I continue to learn more lessons on almost a weekly basis. For the last few months, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about retirement and what it will look like. Instead of feeling obligated to keep building a business to pass a proverbial torch, I am now focused on making the business as strong and successful as possible so that it can be sold for a profit. I am feeling less and less passionate about staying connected to the business ten years from now; when it’s time to go, I want to sell and be done with it. No strings attached.

I am no longer an open book. I consciously close the cover or turn the page in order to keep part of myself closed off. Not everyone deserves full access to me, my friendship or my generosity.

I’ve learned that it is possible to pretend termites don’t exist in my everyday life. But I’m no longer embarrassed to admit that they once caused a lot of problems and to discuss the extent of the damage with my family and friends. The funny thing is that a lot of my family and friends have had issues with termites themselves –in a manner of speaking. Most people validate my feelings, agreeing with how frustrating they are and acknowledging how devastating the damage can be. Others refer to them as the sneaky, point out how ugly the are and offer to come step on them (these are the same friends who will help me hide a body should I ever need to).

Daily, I remind myself that the termites aren’t gone; there are still signs of them and , when unmanaged, they sneak into the smallest places and build nests. When it’s quiet, I can hear them. Occasionally, someone says they’ve noticed them or seen signs of the damage. Pest control is ongoing as is the pivot of 2024; I’ll keep you posted.

200 Chairs

Owner of the Chairs

200 Chairs was almost Live Love Laugh Lasagna; it was a close call. I was eating lasagna on New Year’s Eve eve (leftover from Christmas actually) and I was considering what I wanted to do to unleash my deep desire to be creative in 2024. Being pretty “left brained,” creativity is what allows me to breathe. It came down to write a novel or start a blog, neither of which I actually have time for but blogging seemed to be more feasible than undertaking a novel. And, with a blog, I can write like I speak: passionately, fragmented, sometimes intelligently, often rambling and frequently wandering off in ten different directions. Who knows? Maybe 2025 will be the novel?

Being a naturally pretty indecisive person, deciding on a name (or a theme) for a blog required a good deal of focus, which I could not commit to. Remember the lasagna…? A friend once told me that the best writers write “what they know.” This very idea leads me down a path I am desperately trying to avoid here: losing focus. To keep myself accountable, I will try to admit to my shortcomings when they happen. You, the reader, will never know that I just wrote three paragraphs touching on Stephen King and Colleen Hoover and what they “know” and then, because I was clearly doing exactly what I am trying so hard not to do (wander off the path), I deleted the three paragraphs. What do I know? I know I have 200 chairs that I am desperate to get rid of.

So, here we are, almost back at the beginning which is the perfect place to begin.

Why 200 Chairs? Everyone has “baggage,” they need to unload. Some of us have baggage that is less metaphorical and more quantitative and sometimes the baggage is both. I literally have 200 chairs; I wish I were exaggerating. Where the chairs came from is a story for another day; because it’s a story I am tired of telling and I need to take a break from it.

To someone who appreciates anything old, these chairs are somewhat of an exciting collection– old, mismatched and unique. Some date back to the 1800’s; it is remarkable to look at anything and realize that it has existed for 100 years or more. If you are like me, you think “If only this [chair] could talk.” I wish that I could feel excitement over the chairs but I don’t. Instead, when I look at the chairs I feel sadness, anger, anxiety and grief. My feelings are so “all encompassing” that I can no longer appreciate the incredible craftsmanship, the quality of the wood, or anything else about them. Instead, staring at the chairs in the cold, dark warehouse where they currently are somewhat organized, I waffle between wanting to scream and wanting to cry. The chairs are my baggage and until very recently, they were buried deep within the walls of a barn or a warehouse. There are days I wish the chairs were still buried so that I wouldn’t have to look at them or think about them. Anyone with baggage knows how hard unloading it is. But the more emotionally intelligent part of me knows that digging them out and getting rid of them is exactly what I need to do so that I can begin to breathe again so that’s what I am going to do. But hold on. Let me be clear that unpacking emotional baggage (or 200 chairs in my case) will also come with sarcasm, cheeky responses, wit and dry humor. It will come with walks down paths leading in the wrong direction, strong opinions, eye rolls and a lot of head-shaking. 200 Chairs will not be for anyone who likes to complain or is easily offended. If you’ve made it this far, well then take a seat. Literally. Thank you, that will be $10.

Getting Your Pink Back

Owner of the Chairs

One of the most lovely things that happens as you age is that you stop worrying about the unimportant little things. Am I wearing the cool brands, carrying the right purse, driving the right car? Does my bra match my underwear? Did I remember to shave my legs before laying out in the sun? Is it liquor before beer or beer before liquor?

Hitting fifty a few years ago was an awakening of sorts. Suddenly, I looked at things much differently. The things that had plagued me most of my adult life were a lot less important to me and so I just began to stop worrying about them. It was that deep breath you take before you jump into the cold lake on a hot summer day– breathe deep, don’t think, just go. And with that plunge into the water, the old me began to re-emerge–the very woman who seemingly had disappeared with a wedding ring and babies so many years ago.

The idea that I was missing from myself makes me think about something my daughter shared with me a few years ago when she first became a mother. Female flamingos can actually lose their brilliant pink color when becoming a mother. It’s believed that this is because most of their nourishment and energy goes into raising their young. Any mother of young children can very likely identify with the desaturated flamingos. Being a parent is exhausting and with the bulk of parenting responsibility still falling on the shoulders of women, it isn’t a surprise that we [moms] lose a bit of ourselves. Like the flamingos, we moms lose our “pink.”

I want to believe that we don’t really lose who we “are,” rather we assume a new temporary identity and who we were before is still there, it’s just covered up.

Imagine emerging bare naked from the tumultuous teens and early twenties, on the brink of discovering who you want to be as an adult and just finding your stride. Then you are handed a beautifully wrapped gift. You open the gift and it is a sensible, terry cloth robe. You love the robe and though it is a little stiff and unfamiliar at first, it becomes more comfortable and softer with wear. Magically, the robe soon fits perfectly; you get really comfortable in it and it becomes your favorite piece of clothing to wear. So that’s what you do; you wear that robe…for at least twenty five years while the bare naked truth of who you are is just below the shroud of gray terry cloth. For a long time, you don’t notice that you’ve been losing your pink because you are wearing that old robe. You’ve been too busy nursing babies, attending little league games, playing barbies, doing fifth grade math homework, driving kids back and forth to soccer practice, back and forth to friends’ houses and back and forth to the mall.

The good news is that, like flamingos, our pink returns. Now, more than ever, I am convinced that my “awakening” at fifty was my pink returning. It seeped from the back of my mind and the depths of my soul into my veins and made its way to the surface of my skin. As my pink resurfaced, I found such comfort in remembering the me I was in my early twenties; the me I wasn’t comfortable enough to embrace or love unconditionally all those years ago. The person I was before a wedding band, before creating a life, growing humans, giving birth to them and actually managing to safely raise them to adulthood; that vibrant young woman who was full of life, fun, loved learning, loved meeting people, loved making friends and was so driven to be someone who made a difference.

At fifty, my children were grown and I had my first grandchild. I was keenly aware that my life was more than half over and the “big picture” was much clearer at fifty than it had been at twenty three and that old terry cloth robe no longer kept me as warm as it used to and it no longer fit perfectly. So I hung it on the back of the bathroom door.

At fifty three, the robe still hangs on the back of the door and when my husband catches sight of it, he asks if I want to donate it or throw it out because I don’t really wear it much. But I don’t want to throw it out because occasionally, when I need it, I slip it on and it feels like a warm hug from an old familiar friend — the me I was for twenty five years; the me I am so glad I knew and I wouldn’t trade that part of me for anything.

However, life is a lot different these days. There is less laundry and fewer dishes to do, I rarely cook dinner, the only bedroom I have to worry about keeping clean is my own and the house is much quieter. I have a lot more time to focus on work, on writing, on reading. My husband and I have vastly different hobbies and we spend more time doing our own thing than we did for so many years when we were raising our daughters. The woman I was for all those years while raising kids takes a back seat to who I am now. I’m the one who doesn’t take life too seriously, who listens to the music she listened to at twenty one, who reconnected with old friends, who probably didn’t shave her legs this morning and who very possibly is not wearing a bra that matches her underwear but damn, my pink is back.