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September

· September 3, 2010

September is upon us. In Starkville, we are having cooler weather already–a little unusual for Mississippi. That transition is always nice after the heat and humidity of Summer. Those first few mornings when the breeze is actually cooler usually lift my spirits right away. I know I’ve shared that Autumn is my favorite time of year.

As I was deciding on a theme for this month’s desktop wallpaper calendar (click to download if you like), it occurred to me that often there is no other time when we more readily embrace transition than September. In fact, at this time of year we are sometimes even eager for the changes that come. As I mentioned, September brings the end of Summer’s heat and the first hints of more pleasant temperatures. It celebrates the beginning of a new school year for so many youngsters. It sets in motion the warming up of nature’s color palette as we begin to see subtle shifts in the blue of the sky and the fading of green on tree leaves. These transitions shake us out of the tired landscape where we’ve spent the summer.

In September, Summer’s luxuries of play and rest and taking breaks give way to renewed motivation to get back to the tasks at hand. We re-adjust our schedules with more focus. We outfit ourselves with new “necessities” that will spur us on to accomplish new things. We shake off the doldrums and attempt to get ourselves moving again.

I’ve written about the many changes that have been happening in my life over the last few months. Transition should be old hat to me by now. Yet, I find that the doldrums of complacency in my heart still need a little shaking free this month. So often, the heart moves at a different pace than the rest of us in making a transition. Sometimes it leads the charge. Sometimes it lags behind and needs a little coersion. Sometimes it just grows wayward in avoidance or denial. But, the realities of change and transition are just that. Realities. Just as surely as seasons come and go; the cycle of life changes can not be denied.

In thinking about the resistence I sometimes feel in my own heart when faced with transition, I was struck by one little line in the Wordsworth poem I included in my wallpaper design.

“Unfaded, yet prepared to fade”

That observation of September is so appropriate. Summer’s verdant colors still largely remain this month. The cooler temperatures reminiscent of Fall will be sporadic at best. Summer remains unfaded. Yet. [That’s a big word for only three letters.] YET, in September, Summer is “prepared” to fade. For in September, just as in any situation ripe for transition, you never know which season you’ll get moment by moment. At a breath’s notice, Summer and Autumn are just as likely to appear. Perhaps it’s nature’s way of coaxing us into the change.

It’s becoming more and more apparent that this particular season in my life is one of transition. I want my heart to be prepared. I want my heart to be ready to embrace it, to accept it, to shine through it. As chapters fade and new ones open, I want my heart on board. Completely.

Categories : beautiful ordinary, free art + printables

Two.

Posted by haley montgomery

· August 30, 2010

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl! Two years ago today, you lit up my life with your smile, your softness, your unquenchable smile. I’m forever grateful for the incredible and beautiful gift of you.

Categories : mother's heart

Winding Roads

Posted by haley montgomery

· August 28, 2010

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line–or so the saying goes. I’ll bet that’s absolutely true in pristine geometry. In life, I’m not so sure it always plays out that way. In fact, I’ve realized that the winding path can sometimes yield unexpected rewards, and get me to my destination to boot.

A week or so ago, I was traveling to south central Mississippi to visit with a Small Pond Graphics restaurant client and ended up spending most of the day on the road–MS Highway 31 South, to be more precise. Oddly enough, Google thought the best (and fastest) way to get from Starkville to Magee, MS was through the curvy, two-lane highway route–a fact that may be uniquely indicative of Mississippi. Because it was true. It WAS the fastest way to get there, although 4-laned, 70mph speed limits were only a small part of the itinerary.

Stepping out of the four walls of my office and out of the mindset of the digital world proved to be quite a sigh of relief that week. One I’m still relishing. It’s interesting how a simple change of scenery can offer much-needed refreshment, even if that scenery is mostly seen from the front windshield. More interesting still is the new perspective that comes in releasing yourself from the need to get there as fast as possible.

I left early for the trip because I didn’t really know the way, and while Google may be the quintessential authority on most things, I wasn’t convinced that the back roads of Mississippi were actually included in that knowledge-base. I’m sure I have traveled that part of the state a few times in my adulthood, but the last time I really remember paying attention to it was when I was a child. That was the trip I took with my Grandmother to trace the roots of her growing up years around Smith County where I was photographed religiously beside many personal landmarks. And, I have the goofy, mis-proportioned, knee-socked, pre-teen, girl-standing-by-a-road-sign Polaroids to prove it. This time I only passed BY the sign to White Oak, MS. I didn’t actually stop to recreate that childhood photo op. But I did take my camera. And, I took my time.

The trip was an exercise in stopping–to smell the figurative roses, perhaps. Although, I suppose the sense of smell isn’t the one that got the most refreshment. (Unless, of course, you include the distinctive scent of chicken houses as a source of inspiration.) My senses of awareness and appreciation were the ones piqued along this journey. If you’ve poured over the Junkie tags list (and I’m SURE you have), you may have noticed a tiny one called “vernacular typography”. It’s a big ol’ phrase that, for me, just means hand-painted signs. Searching them down and recording them is sort of a haphazard hobby I’ve had since college. I just enjoy seeing the ingenuity and creativity folks put into communicating themselves without the benefit of cut vinyl. For the unindoctrinated, winding roads and small towns in Mississippi are the mother lode of hand-painted signs, y’all. I’m beginning to share some of the images I found over at Plop! my company blog, if you’re interested. But, here, my mention of it is more an acknowledgement of the process of stopping. And capturing. Of driving and winding. And stopping. Of turning around and driving back where you came. To see something again. And to mark it in time with a snapshot. Whatever oddity it represents or what interest of the “designer” it communicates, the act of stopping and paying attention to something that caught your fleeting fancy is a phenomenal experience. Yes, my senses of awareness and appreciation were more than awakened.

In addition to capturing quite a few hand-painted signs, in this trip I saw turkeys. I saw rows of hay bales recently rolled and ready to be stored for winter sale or cattle grazing. I saw rows and rows of chicken houses representing one of the farming profession’s staples in this part of the state. I drove through the Bienville National Forest that boasts no cell service but stands of pine 12 feet from the road without the tell-tale reddish brown dying undergrowth produced by herbicides used to keep the normal summertime Mississippi roadside vegetation at bay. I saw the shade of those trees pierced by moments of sunlight. I saw the curves and the mailboxes and the road signs bearing the names of county folks. I saw Good Hope and Lena and Forkville. Morton, Polkville and Puckett. Yes, Grandmother, I saw White Oak.

I saw my need to get somewhere fast vanishing. I saw my own peripheral vision come into focus. I saw the journey grow just as valuable as the destination.

Categories : southern stories

Flying Light

Posted by haley montgomery

· August 5, 2010

Today is Little Drummer Boy’s first day of “big school” kindergarten. We’ve been anticipating it and talking about it all summer, and the big day finally arrived. It’s really just one more episode in a thousand new things LDB has been experiencing. When you are young, change seems so much more acceptable for some reason. Perhaps it’s because so many monumental changes in size and communication skills and motor skills are compacted into those first few years, that it really becomes “old hat.” It’s no wonder we seem ready to slow the process as we get older.

Little Drummer Boy was raring to go, all dressed up in his yellow and khaki school uniform and boasting a Bumblebee Transformer backpack–no doubt all he needs to face the big world today. The most energizing factor about the backpack seemed to be the fact that it lights up when he moves. LDB was intent on making sure the lights would show up in all our “first day of school” photo opportunities. I guess something about the red blinking lights amped up the “cool” factor. It’s hard to squelch the light. A realization I’m enjoying at the moment.

The start of school always seems symbolically to represent the ending of summer for me, despite the reality that we’ll likely have at least two or three more months of summertime temperatures in Mississippi. Beyond that, this start of school for Little Drummer Boy seems to represent the ending of his “baby-hood” and his launch into full-fledged “boy-dom.” And although I often tell him “you’ll always be my baby,” there’s no turning back now. Yes, he was raring to go. And, I have to admit that I couldn’t help but want to hold the reigns a little tighter.

In the excitement of heading down the sidewalk toward Sudduth Elementary this morning, LDB stumbled and fell while holding my hand. My heart sank for a moment — a moment ripe with emotions and memories and hopes and a twinge of worry. Will he cry? Will a fall overshadow the fun of the morning? Will this squelch his excitement for the day and this new experience? Little Drummer Boy’s response was to stand up without a flinch and say, “I’m ok. I love you Mommy.” It’s hard to squelch the light.

Earlier this week, the latest American Life in Poetry installment graced my inBox. The featured poem, Fireflies, couldn’t be more appropriate in my mind at the moment. “Lightening bugs,” as we call them around here, are the hallmark of Summertime and catching them is a typical joy for almost any “boydom” or “girlhood.” Little Drummer Boy and Bug have had their share of experiencing the chase and the wonder of these little incandescent creatures. Baby Girl hasn’t had the pleasure yet, but I’m sure she’ll enjoy the experience with her own flair in due time. Even as a grown-up, I can clearly remember that there is nothing quite as giggle-inducing or excitement-sparking as capturing the fly in two hands, peeking into the dark space to glimpse the light and then opening your fingers wide to see him fly away spreading his light into the night sky. That moment is beautifully described in this poem, and it reminded me… There’s nothing quite as exciting as holding their light and letting it go for the rest of the sky to experience.

Last Summer after one of the boys’ excursions in pursuit of fireflies, I recorded one of my favorite Little Drummer Boy quotes. I’ve shared it before, but I was thinking of it this morning. They bustled back into the house all sweaty and filled laughter. They had caught two lighting bugs. And in their inspection, LDB announced that one of them “COULD NOT turn his light off.” If there is any one thing I can hope for Little Drummer Boy as he embarks on this year’s new experiences it is that he CAN NOT turn his light off. It’s a brilliant light that deserves to fly.

American Life in Poetry: Column 280
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

Marilyn Kallet lives and teaches in Tennessee. Over the years I have read many poems about fireflies, but of all of them hers seems to offer the most and dearest peace.

Fireflies

In the dry summer field at nightfall,
fireflies rise like sparks.
Imagine the presence of ghosts
flickering, the ghosts of young friends,
your father nearest in the distance.
This time they carry no sorrow,
no remorse, their presence is so light.
Childhood comes to you,
memories of your street in lamplight,
holding those last moments before bed,
capturing lightning-bugs,
with a blossom of the hand
letting them go. Lightness returns,
an airy motion over the ground
you remember from Ring Around the Rosie.
If you stay, the fireflies become fireflies
again, not part of your stories,
as unaware of you as sleep, being
beautiful and quiet all around you.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation, publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2009 by Marilyn Kallet, from her most recent book of poetry, Packing Light: New and Selected Poems, Black Widow Press, 2009. Reprinted by permission of Marilyn Kallet. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

Categories : mother's heart, poetry

Tags : American Life in Poetry

Green Flamingos, Nelson Mandela and Courage

Posted by haley montgomery

· August 2, 2010

Over the last few months I’ve noticed green flamingos around Starkville. They started popping up unexpectedly on bridge railings, electric boxes and the like, your typical vandal fare. But, they were some pretty well-designed vandal fare. These repetitive stenciled green fowl were nicely composed and sufficiently funky — something a designer would enjoy. And, it ticked me off.

It ticked me off so much that I was poised to launch one of my infrequent, but soul-cleansing rant posts complete with a few of the following points:

1. Kids these days.
2. Great. My tax dollars are going to have to clean that up.
3. That whole underground starving artist thing may seem glamorous, but it’s, well, NOT.
4. Get a job!
5. It may look like art, but it’s actually a misdemeanor.
6. Your talent is a gift. Make it count.

Yep, I’ll admit I was ready to unload, but that’s not the essay I’m writing. An overloaded schedule (and maybe some poor time management skills) stepped in and allowed those uncensored thoughts some time to germinate. Although I may still feel the same way on many of the points, they’ve also reminded me of the need for a shift in thinking.

“Your playing small doesn’t save the world.”

It’s from a quote by Nelson Mandela. It’s been floating around in my brain since I read it in a transcript of a commencement address several years ago. I can’t escape it. And, before I knew it, my impetuous rant turned into a post about courage. It’s been a while since I’ve written about the pursuit of my 2010 theme word. Perhaps I’ve been too immersed in exercising some courage in a few areas of late (where exercising equals being tossed into the deep end and hoping your swimsuit top doesn’t fly off.) I suppose that the laboratory takes priority over the lecture series in life lessons just as it often does in the traditional classroom.

I read in last week’s Starkville paper that the green flamingo vandals have turned themselves into the police department. They are exactly who I imagined they were — a couple of art students at the university making their mark on the world, literally. They are offering restitution and performing clean-up duties in hopes their records can escape with only minor blemishes. I’m sure their parents are hoping the same, and that their dollars spent on higher education will not go to waste. End of story.

Only not.

I’m sure there are more personal elements to the situation, to which, as a mother, I would likely be sympathetic. As an artist, I’m sure even more sympathetic. As a person, quite challenged with the realization that talent deserves courage. The broader quote from Mr. Mandela says this…

“Our worst fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘who am I to be brilliant gorgeous, talented and fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t save the world.”

This from a man who has seen and lived at the pinnacle of authority and power as well as the despair of imprisonment, a man who HAS changed many aspects of the world around him. My first reaction to green flamingos was to say… Your talent is being misplaced. Your education is a privilege many in the world aren’t offered. The opportunity to learn in the arts is one many in the world don’t experience — or at the least they experience it with makeshift tools and eagerly devote themselves to the instruction knowing it may be their only hope to rise from desperate living situations. The superfluous materials of stencils and spray paint are luxuries many in the world can’t afford because they need rice or flour. While my first notion was to remind those young students of these facts, my more in-depth realization is to remind myself. To challenge myself against laziness. To challenge myself against cynicism and pessimism. To challenge myself against pity and compaint. To challenge myself into embracing big gifts.

I’m talented, as each person is in unique ways. And those talents aren’t entitlements or rights. They are gifts. Remarkable gifts. It’s so typical to diminish them. To be shaken by others who diminish them. To deny them. To apologize for them. To waste them. To shirk them. To make them seem small. To use them as if they WERE small.

“Your playing small doesn’t save the world.”

Even if the only world I’m saving is the one where I sit every day, I’m realizing that whatever talents I bring to bear on that world require courage. The world where I sit deserves a courageous talent, one that is used wisely and generously, without fear and without apology. To make those gifts count in whatever tiny sphere I apply them is my privilege. My responsibility.

Categories : on social justice

Hello & welcome! I’m Haley Montgomery, and I’m the designer and owner of Small Pond Graphics. I sometimes fancy myself a frog kisser— a documentarian coaxing poignant moments from unexpected places. This blog has evolved from those moments.

The small Pond FIELD GUIDE is part diary, part sketchbook, and part wish list – an archive of ordinary wonders. For years, this space has housed my stories – creative ideas, vintage inspiration, our forays into curious places, and the simple artifacts of quiet of conscious living. Through watercolor, photography, and illustrated tales, these pages uncover the blessing of ordinary days and the wonder found in authentic places and pursuits.

I invite you to open the boxes.
Peek into the drawers.
Rustle through the pages.
I’m honored to have you here.