Have you ever wondered what you are worth? Have you ever asked yourself why you exist? As vague and existential as this may sound, these maybe the very questions we need to ask ourselves everyday to make life worth living.
I came to such a conclusion when I read about my friend Sheena, who pretty much like me was a regular woman but unlike me was quite prodigious in the field of arts right from a very young age. We went to college together and I still remember the ease at which she conjured images on paper, black board or sometimes even etch on the wooden desks or stone or whatever she got her hands on, graphics, designs, pictures, cartoon, anything and everything. Her art was different, insightful, and extraordinary. We knew she would do great things with her talent and she would go places. She did become famous, but not so much for the obvious reasons of her talent to draw or design, but she went places, because she asked herself one day,’ what am I worth? Why do I exist? What do I contribute?
Sheena moved to the USA as a student in 1998 with a scholarship to study art in Parsons New York; the Mecca for any art student. And then went on to teach there. Sheena later joined a graphic design firm as a chief designer. She was the chief designer for many years and doing very well for herself. But the Sheena just wasn’t satisfied. She felt jaded in her work and wondered if she was another dispensable commodity in her firm, perhaps even the world.
I imagine that she may have asked herself “Why do I exist? Is there something I do that will make some difference to someone’s life?” “Will the world even clinch if I suddenly drop dead?” The sad realisation that except for a few friends and family, nothing would be affected and the world would just go on as it is would’ve shaken her to the core. “No one is indispensable” she would’ve thought to herself. It is a disturbing thought indeed. Perhaps on realising this Sheena may have wanted to do something of consequence. Perhaps she needed to contribute in some way to make a difference. She may have wanted to create her own ripple.
Life needs to be lived deliberately. We can’t simply exist and disappear, we are here for a purpose and we need to find our own niche in the system that turns the wheel of life. We need to be grease that makes the wheel turn better.
Of course anything Sheena did would be artistic. But here it was the thought to be of consequence that stirred her creative juice...and her talent was a mere tool in the creative process. She conjured up from thin air the Uniform Project. Before I go on to explain what that is, what you need to know is, Sheena is today famous in the whole of USA, as a girl in a black dress. So much so, the immigration officer has granted her the coveted celebrity status to continue in the US of A.
The moral of the story: If Sheena could do it so can we. All we need to is perhaps wake up from our sleep walk and think out of the box. Because we need more grease that turns the wheel of life. WE SHOULD BE INDESPENSIBLE.
And to know about the waves Sheena created from her single ripple, read on:
UNIFORM PROJECT
Our Mission
Revolutionize the way people perceive ethical fashion and place social responsibility at the center of consumer culture. Use fashion as a vehicle to make acts of charity more inspired and playful, enabling individuals to rise as role models of style, sustainability and social consciousness.
Our Story
The Uniform Project™ started in 2009 when a young woman realized she was drowning in the doldrums of an advertising career. To counter the uninspired demands of the corporate world, she came up with an unusual creative challenge; to wear the same dress for an entire year – but, and this is where the real challenge came in, she'd have to make it look unique every single day and do so without buying anything new. The challenge was also designed to be an online fundraiser, raising money to send underprivileged kids to school.
Thus, in May 2009, with fashion as her medium, and education her cause, U.P founder Sheena Matheiken launched the Uniform Project, pledging to wear one little black dress for 365 days as an exercise in sustainability and a fundraiser to support the Akanksha Foundation – a non-profit organization providing education to children living in Indian slums. And for the next year, Sheena reinvented her uniform solely using accessories that were either vintage, handmade, reused or donated.
Almost immediately, Sheena and the U.P were hit with a deluge of media attention. The project was featured in major publications ranging from the New York Times, The Guardian, CNN, BBC, Times London, LA Times, MSNBC, NPR, PBS, Vogue, Elle, Glamour, Marie Claire to hundreds of fashion, culture and design blogs, as well as TV shows around the world. By the end of the yearlong challenge, the U.P site received over 2 million hits and raised over $100,000 in donations for the Akanksha Foundation and Sheena was named one of Elle Magazine's Women of the Year for 2009
The U.P now has an international following of supporters, a few of whom have joined Sheena to form the Uniform Project company. The U.P is now in its second year, expanding its first year model as a global platform converging philanthropy, fashion, sustainability and social commerce into an ongoing mission.
Check out: http://theuniformprojectblog.com/
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
A gooey yellow monster called lacking.
Some days you get off the bed just because you have to. And I have wondered how my day would turn out if I decide to stay in bed. In all of my 34 years on earth I have not tried that. Something as simple as staying in bed, even when I want to, seems like such a luxury. And every waking moment is spend wondering, would I rather be in bed, than doing the laundry right now. Would I rather be under my blanket than wash the dishes? Would I rather dream my impossible dreams than sit here and write blogs.
The phone rings incessantly. I let it ring for some more time before I decide to pick it up. Even that seemed like an effort today. Every task at hand turns out to be Herculean. I just had to get out of this terrible feeling that was there in the pits of my stomach...or somewhere deeper. But it’s inside somewhere, can’t get a hold on exactly where it all begins....but as it rises the feeling turns into a physical presence, and I begin to taste it. It is bitter. So bitter that saliva gathers and it seeps through, my lips. I run to nearest basin to spit it out. Its nausea, I realise. I linger on near the basin. The dark presence starts small from the pits within...and rises up slowly gaining momentum and turning into this fluid monster. When it reaches the tongue I taste the bitterness. This time, it does more than seep through my pursed lips. It forces my mouth open wide. And out comes the yellow mass of fluid, bitter and sour. It’s bile.
With all of it vomited, I assumed that would be the end of my melancholy. Unfortunately it did not stop there. Though, the feeling does not turn into the yellow liquid monster I could still feel its looming presence. It was down there somewhere, bidding time. Waiting for the opportune moment to let its ugly face show.
I had to get to the bottom of it all. And get out of this wretched lethargy, pointlessness, and boredom. I was kind of sure the looming yellow monster was nurtured by these very same emotions. And benign as it would seem initially, it grew into this large liquid mass that couldn’t be swallowed. It had to be vomited, taking with it every small ounce of energy and optimism I had left.
So I had to put on my miner’s cap (the one with torch fixed on it) and a spade and got into the lift that miners use to get down to the bottom. So I did as well. As I went down, down, on either sides I could see the events of the day, week, month, as if, on a big screen. Actually it was quite an interesting ride. It was like one of those novel joyrides in Disney land perhaps. I looked hard and clear to find the hitch the root of it all...then there hidden behind all joyful facades was the stain of the yellow monster. Like a small yellow spill on the ground it lay....I am lacking!!! lacking was the yellow fluid, and it just grew bigger and bigger.
Some days the lacking is so conspicuous. Like today. On other days it’s forgotten. Like the days I am busy, overwhelmed with the volume of tasks at hand. Weighed down by guilt that accompanies working mothers. Like a loyal friend. There to remind you promptly of all your errors, shortcomings, absentmindedness, and most often selfishness. Beset by guilt it is interesting how I can forget my lacking.
But like once a dear friend read out to me....one day on the phone...the lacking is not a bad thing. It is this lacking that urges us to seek and probe....this lacking is our birthright. This lacking is what makes us human and hungry.....
But the challenge is to understand that there is an inherent lacking. It is just there. And not to try and fill it with wrong things rather, seek for the only thing that can fill the vacuum.
Do I make sense???
The phone rings incessantly. I let it ring for some more time before I decide to pick it up. Even that seemed like an effort today. Every task at hand turns out to be Herculean. I just had to get out of this terrible feeling that was there in the pits of my stomach...or somewhere deeper. But it’s inside somewhere, can’t get a hold on exactly where it all begins....but as it rises the feeling turns into a physical presence, and I begin to taste it. It is bitter. So bitter that saliva gathers and it seeps through, my lips. I run to nearest basin to spit it out. Its nausea, I realise. I linger on near the basin. The dark presence starts small from the pits within...and rises up slowly gaining momentum and turning into this fluid monster. When it reaches the tongue I taste the bitterness. This time, it does more than seep through my pursed lips. It forces my mouth open wide. And out comes the yellow mass of fluid, bitter and sour. It’s bile.
With all of it vomited, I assumed that would be the end of my melancholy. Unfortunately it did not stop there. Though, the feeling does not turn into the yellow liquid monster I could still feel its looming presence. It was down there somewhere, bidding time. Waiting for the opportune moment to let its ugly face show.
I had to get to the bottom of it all. And get out of this wretched lethargy, pointlessness, and boredom. I was kind of sure the looming yellow monster was nurtured by these very same emotions. And benign as it would seem initially, it grew into this large liquid mass that couldn’t be swallowed. It had to be vomited, taking with it every small ounce of energy and optimism I had left.
So I had to put on my miner’s cap (the one with torch fixed on it) and a spade and got into the lift that miners use to get down to the bottom. So I did as well. As I went down, down, on either sides I could see the events of the day, week, month, as if, on a big screen. Actually it was quite an interesting ride. It was like one of those novel joyrides in Disney land perhaps. I looked hard and clear to find the hitch the root of it all...then there hidden behind all joyful facades was the stain of the yellow monster. Like a small yellow spill on the ground it lay....I am lacking!!! lacking was the yellow fluid, and it just grew bigger and bigger.
Some days the lacking is so conspicuous. Like today. On other days it’s forgotten. Like the days I am busy, overwhelmed with the volume of tasks at hand. Weighed down by guilt that accompanies working mothers. Like a loyal friend. There to remind you promptly of all your errors, shortcomings, absentmindedness, and most often selfishness. Beset by guilt it is interesting how I can forget my lacking.
But like once a dear friend read out to me....one day on the phone...the lacking is not a bad thing. It is this lacking that urges us to seek and probe....this lacking is our birthright. This lacking is what makes us human and hungry.....
But the challenge is to understand that there is an inherent lacking. It is just there. And not to try and fill it with wrong things rather, seek for the only thing that can fill the vacuum.
Do I make sense???
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The wind in my hair...sand on my feet...song in my heart....love in my soul
I live in a small town, beside the sea. There are plenty of wide open spaces, lot of fresh air and the blue sea, from every vantage point. From the time I was young I’ve always preferred the picnic to the sea than the drive uphill. My dad’s side of the family had this fascination with hills, the chilly winds and plantations. With my mother’s side, it was always the sea. My maternal grandfather even owned a boat and had a house facing the sea. My rather adventurous uncles managed to get themselves a kayak. Those days it was a rare thing. To own a kayak in Kerala. (There was no need for it ofcourse, when we have kettuvallams) But for some reason they thought it was cool. And believe me it was. It’s very different from a kettuvallam. The technique of manoeuvring the boat is a different ball-game totally. Both required different skills, and one was not better than the other. But perhaps more novel because it was ‘foreign’.
Coming back to the romance with the sea, though all of us (my siblings) like to claim that our predominant genes are from our larger-than-life almost legendary paternal grandfather, my enthralment with the waters must be a genetic thing, that i inherited from my maternal strain.
And my absorption with the sea continued to grow as I grew out of adolescence, puberty, teenage, and early youth. My every fantasy had the sea along with it. My every day-dream featured the deep. At fifteen when I was this gawky teenager, with curly short hair, braces and stick like legs, not to mention dark and waif-like, I used to imagine that I would one day become this nymph. I would see myself (the model in the Old Spice ad that used to come on television in the early eighties). I would imagine that it I would look like this suntanned beauty with long straight hair. But even then, I preferred my hair black(the Old Spice model was a blonde) and in my dreams even though I had this awesome figure I still wore my sarong, never cared much for the bikinis. I would emerge from the waters, and slowly walk towards the shore. ...never got to dream further than that...but like I was saying it had the sea in the back ground.
And as I grew older, though I never became the Old Spice model, not even close(my legs changed from sticks to cellulite endowed). My reverie changed drastically. But the sea faithfully remained. I saw myself as this average built person who was happy about how she looked, even though she wore shapeless shorts and absolutely unflattering T-shirt, not bothered about her unwaxed legs, but just happy to be...with the wind in her hair, the sand on her feet, hands stretched out wide. The smile on her face reflected the simple joy of who she has become, and everything she believed in. Happy with life and most of all, always surrounded by this love-that-knows-no-bounds, kind of a feeling. It was picture perfect. This has remained my day dream till date. And the sea still remains in the back ground.
However , I may one day build a house on a cliff-top and have my very own, room-with-a-view. I may grow old to become a grandmother (still with my sarong) who walks the beach barefoot collecting shells with my grandchildren. And I pray that the sea still remains. Azure and blue.
Even if I mange to do all that, it’s the scene from the day dream that continues to fascinate me. It’s my perfect picture postcard. A snapshot frozen in time, of a life well lived and living.... (Sometimes I do feel the person I become when I am here (BlogSpot) is pretty close to what I want to be on the beach on that perfect day. )
Don’t know if it’s merely a fancy, a wishful thinking perhaps maybe even a distant dream. But I have made this promise to myself....the next time I am on the beach....my day dream will become a reality. Even if it means it will take another year, or a few, or maybe even a decade to visit the beach again!
Coming back to the romance with the sea, though all of us (my siblings) like to claim that our predominant genes are from our larger-than-life almost legendary paternal grandfather, my enthralment with the waters must be a genetic thing, that i inherited from my maternal strain.
And my absorption with the sea continued to grow as I grew out of adolescence, puberty, teenage, and early youth. My every fantasy had the sea along with it. My every day-dream featured the deep. At fifteen when I was this gawky teenager, with curly short hair, braces and stick like legs, not to mention dark and waif-like, I used to imagine that I would one day become this nymph. I would see myself (the model in the Old Spice ad that used to come on television in the early eighties). I would imagine that it I would look like this suntanned beauty with long straight hair. But even then, I preferred my hair black(the Old Spice model was a blonde) and in my dreams even though I had this awesome figure I still wore my sarong, never cared much for the bikinis. I would emerge from the waters, and slowly walk towards the shore. ...never got to dream further than that...but like I was saying it had the sea in the back ground.
And as I grew older, though I never became the Old Spice model, not even close(my legs changed from sticks to cellulite endowed). My reverie changed drastically. But the sea faithfully remained. I saw myself as this average built person who was happy about how she looked, even though she wore shapeless shorts and absolutely unflattering T-shirt, not bothered about her unwaxed legs, but just happy to be...with the wind in her hair, the sand on her feet, hands stretched out wide. The smile on her face reflected the simple joy of who she has become, and everything she believed in. Happy with life and most of all, always surrounded by this love-that-knows-no-bounds, kind of a feeling. It was picture perfect. This has remained my day dream till date. And the sea still remains in the back ground.
However , I may one day build a house on a cliff-top and have my very own, room-with-a-view. I may grow old to become a grandmother (still with my sarong) who walks the beach barefoot collecting shells with my grandchildren. And I pray that the sea still remains. Azure and blue.
Even if I mange to do all that, it’s the scene from the day dream that continues to fascinate me. It’s my perfect picture postcard. A snapshot frozen in time, of a life well lived and living.... (Sometimes I do feel the person I become when I am here (BlogSpot) is pretty close to what I want to be on the beach on that perfect day. )
Don’t know if it’s merely a fancy, a wishful thinking perhaps maybe even a distant dream. But I have made this promise to myself....the next time I am on the beach....my day dream will become a reality. Even if it means it will take another year, or a few, or maybe even a decade to visit the beach again!
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Thank yous and Sorrys
Let me begin by saying that this post is dedicated to my friend who pushed me into blogging.
Now I go on to other facts. Is it always necessary to bother with nice-cities like thank you and sorry, with friends?
As the ode goes, friends are there for you, in good times and in bad times. A shoulder to cry on. Among friends there are no thank yous and sorrys. There are so many. If I start writing it all down, I might be guilty of plagiarising every card on Archie’s gallery shelves. It’s not that I think I am above these cards. How much ever I laugh at these cards, when I get one I do feel good about being acknowledged somehow.
Therefore I think to be thankful is one thing and to say thank you is another thing. Being thankful is a state of being. You can be thankful to a friend, situation, stranger perhaps even to God. Also you can live in a thankful state all your life. there is much beauty in that. But to actually say the words is a different ball game totally.
I was walking by the road the other day and a bull rushed towards me. I was caught in the space between the two horns and thankfully didn’t have the horn going right through my intestine with my innards hanging out from the other side. Who was I being thankful to here? To the bull?
I was just thankful for my fortunate situation and maybe even to my guardian angels and to God who appointed them....and to the saints who were praying for me....and the list could go on. Maybe even to the bull, whose intention was probably not to attack but to just scare me. And I could be thankful, that all it did was SCARE THE LIFE OUT OF ME!!! I did say ‘Thank God!’ more than once.
So the question is really do we have to say 'thank you' to our friends or just be thankful that they are there for you.
All of you who think we have to say the word do write a comment in my blog.
Now to what I think, after all this is my blog. I think, thank you is a word that has to be used more often. Something we often forget to use. It is just not used enough.
IT’s about two things. Firstly, you are aware that you are thankful, for better or worse. Secondly, you are humbled that it’s not just you who is responsible for this blissful state of realisation. Also that this state could not have been achieved if not for the other. (There seem to be more than two reasons) Thirdly, you are acknowledging the person’s goodness and admitting it to yourself. Fourthly, it is good manners, just like how you were taught in Kindergarten.
So back to the ode. Friends may say that they don’t want to be thanked. But that’s just another way of saying welcome. Please go ahead and thank people.
Now about saying the word ‘sorry’. Well! The above rule applies for that as well. Now do you want me to go over the whole thing again?
Oh! By the way I forgot. Thank you dear friend, for being my muse!!!
And sorry I took so long to say that.
Now I go on to other facts. Is it always necessary to bother with nice-cities like thank you and sorry, with friends?
As the ode goes, friends are there for you, in good times and in bad times. A shoulder to cry on. Among friends there are no thank yous and sorrys. There are so many. If I start writing it all down, I might be guilty of plagiarising every card on Archie’s gallery shelves. It’s not that I think I am above these cards. How much ever I laugh at these cards, when I get one I do feel good about being acknowledged somehow.
Therefore I think to be thankful is one thing and to say thank you is another thing. Being thankful is a state of being. You can be thankful to a friend, situation, stranger perhaps even to God. Also you can live in a thankful state all your life. there is much beauty in that. But to actually say the words is a different ball game totally.
I was walking by the road the other day and a bull rushed towards me. I was caught in the space between the two horns and thankfully didn’t have the horn going right through my intestine with my innards hanging out from the other side. Who was I being thankful to here? To the bull?
I was just thankful for my fortunate situation and maybe even to my guardian angels and to God who appointed them....and to the saints who were praying for me....and the list could go on. Maybe even to the bull, whose intention was probably not to attack but to just scare me. And I could be thankful, that all it did was SCARE THE LIFE OUT OF ME!!! I did say ‘Thank God!’ more than once.
So the question is really do we have to say 'thank you' to our friends or just be thankful that they are there for you.
All of you who think we have to say the word do write a comment in my blog.
Now to what I think, after all this is my blog. I think, thank you is a word that has to be used more often. Something we often forget to use. It is just not used enough.
IT’s about two things. Firstly, you are aware that you are thankful, for better or worse. Secondly, you are humbled that it’s not just you who is responsible for this blissful state of realisation. Also that this state could not have been achieved if not for the other. (There seem to be more than two reasons) Thirdly, you are acknowledging the person’s goodness and admitting it to yourself. Fourthly, it is good manners, just like how you were taught in Kindergarten.
So back to the ode. Friends may say that they don’t want to be thanked. But that’s just another way of saying welcome. Please go ahead and thank people.
Now about saying the word ‘sorry’. Well! The above rule applies for that as well. Now do you want me to go over the whole thing again?
Oh! By the way I forgot. Thank you dear friend, for being my muse!!!
And sorry I took so long to say that.
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