Ive been including the practice of warming up to my time in my studio recently. It’s an important part of art, just as it is in all creative or physical activities in your life.
I never really thought about this before until I watched a Facebook Live from @jeanneoliver on the topic. Everything she said made sense. As artists, or “makers” as she refers to us, we need to loosen up our wrists and hands and minds before jumping into our art. It’s a part of the creative process. It’s just as essential to warm up before starting your pieces as it is to practice on a daily basis.
These warm ups can include taking daily walks and noticing the beauty that shows itself in all forms all around you. Be present in your surroundings. Take snapshots along the way and make mental notes of colors and forms and lines all around you. Notice sounds and people, traffic and silence.
Bring these observances back with you and apply them to rough, quick sketches. Make it fun and don’t spend a lot of time on it. They are not intended to be complete pieces, but rather a swift time spent before creating art.
Practice time at my easel. as a go-to, I use my favorite art mediums on craft paper. Used here is white gesso, pastels and soluble graphite pencils.
My husband does not understand it. He’s analytical and looks at my practice and warm up pieces and does not see what I see. He does, however, see the beauty in my art. I point to the Practice Pieces and say “these, help me to create this” as I point to the finished frames pieces in our home.
After a solid few weeks of painting orders for everyone from my new Jan/Feb designs, I FINALLY have time this afternoon to take an online art class.
Ive signed up for so many art classes the past 3-4 months knowing that January would afford me the time for myself.
It’s so important to take the time you need for YOU. Even in the middle of a pandemic where most of us are isolated at home much more than normal, we find excuses and tell ourselves we don’t have time to do a leisure activity or hobby.
There IS time for you. Always. Make sure you carve it out on a weekly basis and do what you love. It will feed your soul and you will be better off for it.
My biggest challenge today is to decide WHICH class to start. Ive purchased and saved all of my favorites for the next few months – including a few from each of my favorite Instagram artists. — @reneedesigns, @mishwooderson, @jeanneoliver, @marygregorystudio @colehandmade
Creating Color Charts is often my first step when starting a new painting. It’s one of my favorite parts of the creative process. It’s a great exercise in your art journey. These charts teach you how to mix colors to achieve your favorite pallets while enabling you to carry fewer colors in your paint inventory which is budget friendly.
The beautiful thing about art and color is that there are endless hues you can create. I tend to be drawn to moody colors; grays, greens earthy blues. My charts consist of 2 oil colors and white to help with values. This helps to create color harmony in your piece.
I highly recommend this class if you are interested in learning this technique yourself. You will learn what supplies you need, how to draw charts and how to mix just a few number of paints to create a huge number of hues.
Id love to follow your journey so please tag me in any posts you make on IG with your own homemade color charts.
Both of these brands are favorites of mine because of their buttery consistency and superior ability to be used in a variety of ways. They mix and blend exceptionally well with all oil mediums and can be manipulated in a wide range from Transparent Glazing to Impasto. Their advantage over Student Grade Oils is their high oil content minimum fillers.
Brush Washer & Airtight Chemical Container
I Love this little airtight container for safely storing my Gamsol. I use it to dip my brush in when needing to thin my paint. I also use it at the end of my day as the first step in cleaning my oil brushes.
Any brand will do. I prefer Rosemary & Company because of their superior quality. With good care, they can last you a lifetime.
To wipe wet paint from your brushes on when changing colors. When Paper towel is done, store in a Ziplock bag filled with a bit of water. Seal bag, Dispose of properly.
There’s a melancholy sense of peacefulness and calm for many of us when thinking back on our roots and beginnings. We came from simple times. Before the electronic age took over our world and dominated our days and lifestyles. It was a time before media and news stories were available at our fingertips.
The “Olden” days. When things were simple, days were long and filled with outdoor activity for kids. Coming home after a long day of time with friends every night when you knew your father was home from work and your mom had dinner on the table. These are now considered vintage ideals. And, where there are vintage ideals, there are vintage goods.
“Everything Old is New Again”
Apply that theory to art and for those who appreciate upcycling and vintage goods and the beauty of natural distressing and reconstructive erosion and the creative floodgates will open wide. I Love Vintage. And, farmhouse style.
My art journey has taken me in a new direction in 2020. What was once a concentration on hand painted journals and planners has now become the welcome addition of vintage, upcycled and distressed artful goods.
Most of my projects start with the hunt. I hunt for objects that once held new life and were both purposeful and decorative centerpieces of our households and day to day life. I browse garage sales and flea markets and look for discarded worn goods where I can still see the beauty. They are beautiful to me. The more knots, scrapes and dents they hold, the more interesting they become.
Recently, Cigar Boxes have been my jam. Ive hunted and found them. I see the possibilities in their time worn appearance and upcycle them and give them a second life. Most already have natural distressing and scrapes. I add oil paint or acrylic and pastel in broad strokes of florals and urban scenes from my childhood. They morph into a new artistic object to be once again enjoyed and put to use. They can serve a purpose or act as a decorative reminder of memories from a different day and time.
Vintage and worn objects pull at my heart strings. They bring me back to a day when things were simple and family was first. They are filled with stories and they seem to have a soul. And, I’ll continue the hunt on this new art journey of mine in hopes of bringing new purposes for vintage goods back to life.
Recently, I came to the realization that I think with the right side of my brain. OK, well, that’s not entirely true. I always knew I had an artsy side and was more emotional and compulsive than the average, female, hot mess. But, it was not until my early 50’s that I admitted to myself and acknowledged that yes, I am a right sided thinker.
It’s not that there is anything odd or unusual about a person who ignores the left side of their brain. It’s just that by acknowledging that you are indeed a creative person, you subconsciously end up putting pressure on yourself.
What am I, an artist? A Writer? An actress or filmmaker? A musician?
Let’s go back a bit….. By the time I hit my early 50’s, my boys were (for the most part) grown and on their own. I found myself with lots of time on my hands and wondering where my place in the world now existed. Up to this point, I had devoted my life to raising a family. I was, as they say, someone who wore many hats. As one by one my son’s left our nest, each hat would fall from my head and land on the floor at my feet. When the day came that my youngest son moved out, I found myself standing in the middle of an empty house wearing no hat at all. It was just me and a head full of salon colored hair to cover up the grey’s that started popping out when my boy’s started hitting their teenage years.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, being an empty-nester is wonderful! You can sleep in until noon if you’d like and eat pizza every night for dinner rather than the wholesome meals you once cooked each night for a growing family. Suddenly, every night around 5:30 is cocktail hour. You are no longer the chauffeur, chef, maid, nurse, personal shopper, or tutor. Your very hectic and chaotic lifestyle transforms into a peaceful paradise. Yet, the silence is deafening.
So, as I suddenly found free time on my hands, and a mound of used up hats at my feet, I decided to devote my days to my hubs and myself. But, where would I start?
I had always loved writing and had always had a pipe dream to one day write a book. With the encouragement from my dear friend Bonnie, I dusted off my laptop computer and indeed, started to write. I became a member of the WordPress family and created Being Margaret a lifestyle blog. I started writing about every day ordinary topics. I discovered that it came very easy to me. It was as if I was having a dialogue with friends and recording it into words. My writing seemed to be well received. My mom was my biggest fan and supporter. She looked forward to my weekly blog posts and would call me when a new piece was published. We’d laugh together, or cry together over the words I had put on the paper. We marveled together over my newly discovered gift of creativity. She encouraged me often to write a book but I had work to do first. I had to create a brand for myself and make a place for myself in some corner of the internet.
When you create a personal space online in this age of computers and WiFi, as I did with my blog, you slowly become very good at technology. You eventually learn to navigate your way through the inter-web highway like a Indy Race Car Driver. You find yourself discovering Websites and Apps that fascinate you and speak to your interests in life. Because I was on my computer daily, writing and developing my WordPress site(s), it was inevitable and just a matter of time before I would stumble across social media sites from every genré.
And, I stumbled hard. Instagram. It was a whole new world to me. Yes, it was for photo’s of family’s, vacations and friends, but it was much more than that to me. I discovered a plethora of communites of creative individuals ~ writers, artists, musicians. These communities spoke to me. I was fascinated by the gifts these fab people were blessed with and how they utilized them. I visited daily and I slowly started feeling like a part of the art community. My Instagram feed shifted from personal friends and family to online acquaintances who had my similar interests.
I was mostly drawn to the journal community. These people were gifted writers and artists that could take a bible verse, a famous poetic quote or their own words and make them the centerpiece of a gorgeous piece of art to be documented in what they called, their daily journals. I invested time learning all about this art form. I studied their methods and became increasingly fascinated with this kind of daily creativity. Before I knew it, I was purchasing paint brushes, paints and journals and creating my own method.
After months and months of involvement in the journal community, I realized that I had a new hat! It was an artist’s cap. I never knew I could paint. I didn’t know I could draw or create. At the age of 50 something, I had suddenly discovered a deeply buried gift. A gift that I had been blessed with at birth but had never tapped into or knew existed. It was as if the right side of my brain woke up the day that all of my other hats had fallen off my head.
Embracing my love of art and utilizing my gift of creativity opened up an entire new world to me. My ability and methods developed over time and I’ve slowly made a name for myself. I eventually created a website, JournalCreations, and started a small business. It’s my passion now. It’s my job now ~ a job I look forward to waking up to do every single day.
These days, my boys are out of the nest. My job raising them, up until this point, is done. Of course, that job will never be completely finished. I’ll always keep a few of my ‘Mom’ hats stowed away on a shelf in my closet. I’ll take them down from time to time and use them when needed. But for now, I proudly wear my artist cap. My new hat! My direction was made clear to me the day I tried that hat on and finally acknowledged that I was indeed, a right sided thinker. Imagine that. I’m an artist and was not aware of it until my mid 50’s. Isn’t life wonderful!
It’s early Tuesday morning and I’m sitting at my mother-in-laws bedside at the local community hospital. It seems as though this is the hundredth time I’ve found myself in this situation since moving her and my father-in-law back to Chicago because of failing health. My Father-in-law, or Poppi as he was endearingly referred to by all, has since passed away. He left behind his wife of over 65 years with a void in her heart as wide as the universe. Their love was deep and strong and centered around their faith. It was a strong union. Among the strongest I’ve ever witnessed.
My hubs and I drove to the hospital in separate cars because, well, life is busy and our hectic schedules would pull us in different directions after our visit. For us, even in the midst of emergency and tragedy, life doesn’t slow down. But, for my sweet mother-in-law, June, life had come to a screeching halt. Looking down at her in the narrow, uncomfortable looking hospital bed, I saw the shell of the woman that she once was. She lay there frail; shallowly breathing. I grabbed her hand and whispered to her that we were there. She struggled to slowly open her eyes. She fought to say something to us but her mouth and throat were too dry and her voice was whisper soft. We leaned in closer and were finally able to hear that she wanted to know what happened.
There’s something very humbling about visiting the elderly in the hospital. Especially when they are at the end of their life. If they’re able to communicate still, they tend to treat you to the stories of their lives. And, through those stories you realize that the things that have made the biggest impact on their lives and the treasures that they’ve carried with them to the end have very little to do materialism.
They remember experiences and people. They remember driving across the country in their car to visit a married daughter and her family. They remember growing up in simpler times, before technology. Beach days and sunsets. They remember overcoming hardships and being thankful for what they had rather than wishing they had more. All of their stories have a common theme. The topic always centers on people, love, experiences and faith.
I thought about all of this as I sat next to this wonderful woman who had, so far, lived through 9 decades and had seen so many changes in her lifetime. Both June and Poppi had treated me to hundreds of stories in the years since I had joined their family through marriage. Stories that painted a picture of who they were and what was important to them. Stories that I would forever treasure and that I had heard so often that I could retell them in perfect detail, myself.
When I first came to know this sweet couple, my first thoughts were, “what a striking couple.” They seemed to have the best of everything. My mother-in-law was always impeccably dressed in coordinating outfits, would never leave the house without perfectly styled hair (and her lipstick on) and lived in a beautifully decorated, large home that most people would love to live in. My father-in-law was handsome, jovial and at his happiest when on the golf course or tennis courts. He loved good food, travel and the nicer things in life. He was one of the most generous men I have ever met. He was unique and outspoken and everyone loved him.
It did not take long after my marriage to Clark to get to know his parents deeply. Likewise, it didn’t take long for me to realize that the fancy material things that they were blessed to be surrounded by were not what mattered most to them in life. It was their love of God, family and friendships. They showed me this preference of theirs through their actions time and time again. I’ve always considered that lesson a gift and one I want to pass on to my children. Love and people matter most in life.
Back in her hospital room, June and I sat in silence, as we had so many times before, and memories of her life swirled through my thoughts. As I sat there, somewhere in the background was the loud whirring sound of some kind of machine she was hooked up to. Her legs were wrapped in special socks to keep her circulation pumping as she lay there. I could hear different doctors being paged over the intercom system in the hallway. There was the faint smell of Lysol and ammonia and some kind of disinfectant in the air.
Even as all of this commotion went on around us, it felt oddly serene and quiet sitting there holding her hand. I looked down at my now sleeping Mom. She was laying there naked faced, no lipstick, her thinning hair completely flattened and messy, and wrapped in a flimsy, faded hospital gown. And, I thought she had never looked more beautiful in her entire life. Her life had gone from fancy to humble in the period of a few years. Because she had never put too much weight or value into the material goods of life, she seemed at peace to me. She knew she had a family that thought the world of her. She had her faith. She knew that one day she would be reunited with her husband again.
I can never thank this sweet couple enough for the deep lessons they’ve taught me in life through their actions. When I’m at the end of my life, I pray that I will have made some kind of an impact on someone else’s life, too. I hope that someone will look down at me in my hospital bed with gratitude for lessons I’ve passed on to them. Lessons of faith and love.
I’ve always loved the snow. I’ve written about winter many times and by now you should have a pretty good idea that it is by far my favorite season of the year. I’m not sure why it so gently pulls on my heart-strings but when I see the snow falling to the ground it always takes me back to a time long ago. My childhood.
Growing up in South Bend, IN, there was always an abundance of snow from November through February. Sometimes even into March. The snow was always piled high everywhere you went. It lined the streets and highways, which back then were mainly two-laned. It covered bushes and tree branches and lined yards throughout our neighborhood. Which in the winter would morph into a snowy blanket of soft white. A true winter wonderland.
It’s the beginning of March. March 3rd. As I sit in my cozy, warm kitchen looking out through the ceiling to floor window lined walls that surround me, snow if gently falling to the ground. It’s a very light snowfall. A snowfall that movies are made of. The ground is already blanketed and the grass is covered. So, the snow falling now is the icing on the cake.
As I look out at it and write, something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. I turn to look at the tall evergreens that line the entire side of our yard and spot a bright red cardinal. It spot’s my movement as I walk over to the glass door. I stand there for a moment and look at it. Soaking in its beauty. It turns its head and from where I stand, it seems to be looking back at me. paralyzed. Both of us are completely still. We continue to spy each other for a few moments. And then, just like that, it fly’s off. I watch it as it quickly streaks through the sky. Over the top of the neighboring homes. Over the tops of the trees. Into the sky. And then just like that, it’s gone again.
It’s been said that when you see a cardinal, it’s a sign of someone you’ve loved and lost coming back to visit you. Last month marked two years since I lost my beautiful mom. Taken from us all so suddenly and too soon. I’ve written about her Here and Here. And, she’s sprinkled all throughout my blog.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her and miss her. She was the reason I started to write. Well, one of the reasons. My dear friend Bonnie, who I wrote about Here – was the person who encouraged me to start writing. But it was my mom who was my biggest cheerleader. She would say to me, “Peggy, you need to write a book. I’ll be your publicist!” And then we’d laugh about it together. Over the phone. If it was in the morning, we’d laugh together while on the phone and chat over a pot of coffee. If it was in the evening, we’d spend our long distance time together over the phone, both with wine in hand.
She was such a treasure to me. I realize that not everyone in this world is blessed to have a true friendship with their family, but I was given the special blessing of camaraderie with my Mom. We had a very special bond. I miss her deeply.
So, the red cardinal came to visit me today. As we sat there, frozen in time, looking at one another, I could hear the distant voice in my heart of my mom speaking to me – “Peggy, here’s that beautiful snowfall you love so much.”
Last year, just about this time, I surprised Clark with a puppy. It was a spur of the moment decision on my part to go out and get him (against the wishes of my dear, sweet hubs.) I saw no reason not to adopt a four-legged, fury friend into the family. My hubs could think of many reasons to just keep things they way they were. In the end, I decided to just go against his reasoning and take the plunge. So, I went out and adopted Duncan, our adorable 12 month old Puggle. And for that reason, I take full responsibility of my faithful companion.
Now nothing makes Duncan’s tail wag faster than knowing he is going for a car ride. If the destination at the end of that ride is anywhere near a park or woods, he is in heaven.
One of the most appealing things about living in Palos Park is that you are centered amid the forest preserves of Cook County. There are acres and acres of recreational land and open space where millions of visitors and residents alike can take advantage of hiking, biking, fishing, canoeing or simply relaxing and taking in the wonders of nature. And, spending time with their dogs on walks or hikes.
My youngest son, Brian, has been trying to convince me for the past 6 months that the preserves are by far a better place to go with Duncan than just taking him on our usual walks around the neighborhood. I’ve been reluctant to heed his advice because frankly, I’m with the little pooch all day long and have come to learn about his deep streak of stubbornness. In short, we have trust issues. I’m not so sure he’d stick close to me or would come if he got too far away and I called him.
Now, this past week, it was unusually warm for this time of year. I found myself standing at the sliding glass door looking out over what I had hoped was the end of the frigid, Chicago weather. It was gorgeous outside. The sky was clear blue. I looked down at my puppy who was sitting next to my feet, looking back and forth between his outdoor playground and up at me. His tail would wag every time our eyes met. It was as if he was speaking to me through his big brown eyes. In the back of my mind I could hear my son’s voice – “take him to the woods.”
And so, I did.
I changed into my hiking boot and grabbed his leash and off we went. He bounded into the backseat of the car as if he knew where we were going. His tail was wagging furiously as he pranced from one window to the other, back and forth, all the way until we got to our destination.
When we pulled into one of Palos Park’s many beautiful forest preserves, I parked the car and grabbed his leash. I held it in my hand rather than attaching it to his collar, as Brian had encouraged, opened the back door of the car and out Duncan bound. He stayed close by my side, walking briskly through the parking lot and over the attached opened field, his nose to the ground the entire way – sniffing as if his life depended on it.
We took the path that wound along the tree line as far as we could see. It eventually disappeared into the woods – and so did we. And here, this was the spot that Duncan felt free. He started to run. He ran along the ravine, jumping over felled trees and their stumps and through the thick patches of roots and brush. I was walking at a brick pace behind him. He’d get just so far ahead of me, stop to look and make sure I was still there, and then wait for me. As I would catch up, he’d begin this routine again. He’d race down hills and then back up again, huffing and puffing and panting. Always keeping his eye on me to make sure I was there.
I was amazed! I Loved it! And, I knew he did too. It was beautiful out and so peaceful in the woods. There were leaves matted all along the forest floor and winding trickles of streams. If you stopped and listened carefully, you could hear the sounds of forest life all around you. I felt invigorated! And, Alive! And like, Pioneer Woman! Yes! I was keeping up and hiking deep into the forest and through muddy underbrush – (very unlike me!) I quickly discovered that I loved this part of Palos and wandering freely all through this peaceful, beautiful setting. It was a glorious afternoon.
Soon it was time to turn around and head back. So we did. Back along the ravines and the hills. Back over the felled trees and muddy earth. Duncan led the way, I followed.
When we got back to the car, he hopped up into the front seat as if he felt he had somehow earned that place today. I walked around to my side of the car, got in, opened up the windows of the stuffy car, turned on the ignition and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. We were hot and dirty. My shoes had mud on them. He had dirt all over his fur. And, I was sorry to see our time in the woods come to an end. It had been such a great first experience together out there.
I looked over at Duncan. He was standing sideways on the passenger seat, head sticking out the half-opened window. His ears were flying back in the wind. His big gummy lips were flapping in the breeze. His tail was wagging.
I smiled to myself as we headed down the road towards home. I thought back to the time one year ago almost to the day when I went against Clark’s wishes and brought home our new family member. I knew deep in my heart that my decision was the best one. And, Nope, not a single day had gone by since that decision where either of us have regretted adding him to our family tree.
My life has recently taken a 360 degree about-face. It went from spending every spare moment I could squeeze out of my day on writing, to journaling 24/7. Some might say that those are the same thing. I’m here to tell you that they are very, very different.
Think of journaling as the reader’s digest version of writing. It focuses strictly on the peaks and valley’s of your day, month or year. I stumbled upon this creative art form while lurking and posting on Instagram – (one of the very many addictions and time soaks of my day.)
In last month’s post I touched on this new fascination of mine. I mentioned that I had started an Etsy Shop at this address – Journal Creations – where you could view and purchase my lovely planners and journal books. <— another shameless plug.
I did not, however, mention at that time that some people consider it a place of online popularity as well as very competitive and highly lucrative business opportunities. I ignorantly neglected to mention this fact because until recently, I was not aware of it. I mean, c’mon! How was I to know that there were people out there looking to get rich off of the idea of planning and journaling those very special moments of your life. I was clueless to the fact that there were women slinkinkg around the dark corners of the internet, keeping their ever watchful eye on the total number of their competitor’s “Instagram likes & views” and growing online presence. Apparently, it’s a cardinal sin to rise above someone else’s popularity who happens to be peddling the same wares as you. Once someone rises to top spot of queen bee on IG, they plan on settling in and staying there come hell or high water. (Sheeeeesh – I had a lot to learn.)
I became personally aware of this nasty side of the competitive nature of Etsy Shop owners last month. I was logging into my account feed to see if anyone had noticed anything that I had posted since late the night before when my eyes about popped out of my head. I could not believe what I was seeing on my ever so virginal feed. Someone had not only posted rude comments directly under one of my journal photo’s, but also, viciously abusive remarks as well. I sat dazed and a little offended and surprised. Did this kind of stuff seriously exist? Was it an acceptable and normal practice for an online community to speak to each other in this fashion?
I got a creepy feeling. I looked over my shoulder as if I was being watched. I could feel my heart start to race a bit. Looking back at the screen, I reread the vicious words again hoping that I had misunderstood their meaning the first time.
Nope. I had not misunderstood. There they were staring me in the face. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, they were big and bold because just that morning I had changed my usual discreet font to the more popular Comic Sans Size 12 Bold Font.
What in the world? I again looked over my shoulder. Then quickly up at the small dot of a camera on my laptop screen. I wondered if I should cover it up with some thick masking tape in case the culprit was somehow spying on me. (And, if they were, did I look all skewed and bow faced like you see on TV when someone is peeping at someone through a peephole in a door??)
My first instinct was to quickly log out of my account, turn off my pc and hide it under something heavy… ( like my hubby’s fully lined arctic suit which he keeps in the back of the basement closet in case we ever get stuck in a blizzard and can’t get out of the house and he has to trudge slowly across the neighborhood through the chest high snow for milk and bread…..)
Oh this was ridiculous. This new journaling interest of mine was just a little hobby I had become interested in doing during my free time. The last thing on my mind was that I’d suddenly become rich and famous and the bread-winner of our humble household because of my popular online presence and business talents. Sheesh!
I was no online newbie with my head in the sand. I had heard all about online confrontations and these kind of unpleasant things happening. I wanted no part of some foul-mouthed, super scary cyber world, popular wanna-be. I didn’t want some online tough guy (or, in this case, tough girl) finding out where I lived. Or worse yet, muddying up my good online fake name to all of my online virtual fake named friends whom I’ve never seen or met or talked to and probably never would!
So, I ended up doing what most middle-aged women would do who found themselves in this unsettling situation. I called my hubs.
Me: sounding a little sulky – “…hi clark….”
Hubs: loud, hectic noises in the background – “Hey, honey bunny!!”
(Hurray! That salutation was a sure sign that he was in a good mood. Otherwise I would have gotten a distracted grunt.)
Me: still sulking – “….are you busy?”
Hubs: “Nope, I was just thinking about what to have for lunch”
(It was only 9:30am)
Me: silence & a little annoyed that he did not notice the distress in my voice.
Me: continued silence and a big sigh
Hubs: “Is everything ok?”
(Ding ding ding!!! OK, that was better. Now we were getting somewhere.)
I went into every gory detail of what had turned my usual happy morning coffee and online lurking time into an unpleasant experience. I told him about how nervous the entire incident had made me. I told him that I was going to give up painting and journaling forever because there was an online bully that was after me!
He listened intently and gave a audible sigh of relief realizing that this time it was not him that I was perturbed with this time.
After I finished relaying all the gruesome facts to him, he scoffed. He told me that the entire thing was uncalled for. He said that the online browbeater was out of line! And then, for good measure, he tossed in that if he found out who it was, he was going to kick their ass for upsetting me! (My hero!!)
I felt better about the situation after emptying my troubled soul to Clark. He called me frequently in the next few hours to make sure I was ok. I think he was so relieved that he was not the subject of my dismay (this time)…that he went full on caveman.
That evening when he got home, we looked into it together. And, together we found out that the source of the online intimidation was a loud mouthed, 20-year-old punk who was trying to get me to walk away from what was sure to be heavy competition for her.
Good Grief!! I was being bullied by a snot nosed 20-year-old? It was laughable! After getting my nerve up and wiping the moisture from my sweaty, nervous palms, I fired back a mildly mature, rather annoyed reply to her through a private message. (After-all, I didn’t want to scare off any of my possible future customers.) I told her to watch her language and attitude. I also told her that I was very sorry if she felt she was the only Etsy shop owner that had the right to sell this type of product, but that I fully intended to continue to sell mine.
Then I cowardly put her on ignore and blocked her from my account. And, wallah!.. just like that, my world was all roses and sunshine again.
I’ve not had any trouble since. My business has grown and the ideas are flying out of my head at a pace faster than I can keep up with.
I think about that bully every now and then. I feel sorry for the youth today. I feel badly about how the virtual world plays such a significant role in their lives. It’s disturbing how caught up in all of this online stuff people get. How they keep track of their “likes”…and how many followers they have…and how well-known they have become to the swarms of people that they don’t even know in real life. It’s sad and disheartening.
Ok, and if I were to be honest with all of you and confess full disclosure, I’d admit that I peek at her account from time to time………..just to make sure I’m more popular than her.