Historically, I’ve found that Spring events can come at me fast, so I thought it would be fun (and hopefully helpful as the events pop up this year!) to compile a list of gift ideas that focus on intentionality, creativity, supporting small businesses when possible—plus plenty of low-to-no cost options.
So many of these ideas are applicable to a whole range of occasions! I hope you discover some inspiration in here, for whichever opportunities life brings you this season to show the people in your life that you are rooting for them. ♡
Someone I love, who’s in an older generation, asked me, “What exactly is Pride?” when she heard that I walked in the parade last week. I appreciated her curiosity and responded, “It’s… people owning who they are, and supporting each other in doing that.”
It struck me how simple that was. And how beautiful. And also heartbreaking, in that it’s born of necessity, this stubborn will of human spirits fighting against years of people and doctrine and law telling them to be something they’re not.
This painting was born admittedly out of some of that heartbreak (read also: rage at injustice) needing somewhere to go, but it alchemized quickly to hope:
There are people who love you and who will celebrate all of who you are. I repeat: There are people who love you and who will celebrate all of who you are.
Be that person to yourself, be that person to others, and surround yourself with those people. It’s needed, it’s sacred, it’s possible.
“I’m picturing the self-portrait on the easel, and you, the artist at work, looking directly at the camera with the expression of: ‘I did this.’”
David Bangley is a skilled photographer, and above all: a storyteller. I was on board with the vision immediately. I also quietly decided that it justified purchasing a fun pink jumpsuit, even though I primarily paint in a T-shirt and basketball shorts. Shhh.
In the studio, after the paintings and various light sources are fastidiously fastened into position, we got the shot within minutes–but the story it’s telling? That will be developing for a long, long time.
Photographer: David Bangley, 2022
“The best years of your life are the ones in which you decide your problems are your own… You realize that you control your own destiny.” -Albert Ellis
“I did this,” the artist’s expression says, as she paints the self-portrait.
What she is also saying: “I did all of this– the rational, the authentic, the harmful, the weird, and the total bullshit.”
What she is also saying: “You didn’t do this.”
What she is also saying: “Okay, some people and cultural narratives did do some things that have impacted this, but this is up to me now.”
“This is up to me now.”
The tyranny of the should
I couldn’t sleep the other night, so I ate a banana and started reading some of The Psychology Book (part of the “Big Ideas Series”), as one does.
Not every psychology article will captivate the 3am tired-but-not-sleepy brain but the one titled “Rational beliefs create emotionally healthy consequences” somehow snagged me.
According to Dr. Albert Ellis, said the article, the simple distinction between irrational thinking and rational thinking lies in whether or not the belief in question is ultimately helpful. “Irrational beliefs [are] illogical, extreme, damaging, and self-sabotaging.” (156) Meanwhile, rational thinking may acknowledge feelings such as sadness, frustration, or guilt… but “always allows room for optimism and possibilities.”
For example:
Irrational thinking: I need to be this one way, or I am bad/a total failure.
Rational thinking: I acknowledge feeling pressure to be this one way, but recognize that if I am not this way, it does not mean I am bad or a failure. I am free to be myself, and I am free to continue learning what that means.
Dr. Ellis’s conclusions about this, according to The Psychology Book, are influenced by German psychologist Karen Horney’s concept “the tyranny of the should.” Well well well, thought my 3am brain. A new favorite phrase.
I mean, it’s a powerful image: We become our own tyrant by upholding an ideal version of who we “should” be (based on who that teacher or relative or group said we should be)… because in doing so, we come to detest who we actually are… and never actually get to know her.
Alternatively, we can be peacemakers: We can accept who we are. Take the time to remove the mask and get to know her, and grant her grace as she progresses toward authentic goals. Rejoice at that miracle. Let it fill the cup and overflow outward when possible.
Heavens via Betsy
My health insurance provider granted us all 6 free counseling sessions last year–equal parts a privilege, the bare minimum, and something I’m deeply grateful for–and that’s how I met the kindest, least shouldy person in the world. She was the perfect companion and guide as I intentionally began the process of climbing out of my own guilt-ridden, people-pleasing, self-sabotaging chamber. We’ll call this unshouldy person Betsy.
Video appointments with Betsy looked like this:
I would prepare one main topic I wanted to work through that day. In hindsight, I realize it often was my naming some irrational thinking, some “should” that had me in its grips for a while.
I’d describe it to the best of my understanding, name the sources to the best of my memory.
Then I’d state something along the lines of, “But I’ve noticed I am not that way” or “I’ve noticed that that doesn’t feel good” or “I’ve noticed I actually want/need _____”
Betsy would say it back, “So you’ve noticed xyz,” a gentle validation I hadn’t known how desperately I needed.
From there, we would examine ways to move forward. Perhaps there were breathing exercises I could practice to improve my ability to respond to situations from a place of rational thinking instead of conditioned thinking. Sometimes I could seek out books and resources to fill in what I’d realized were harmful gaps in my education. There were conversations I could initiate. Boundaries to establish. But almost always, Betsy would propose a thought exercise along the lines of:
“What do you want to tell that part of you [that is holding onto this ‘should’]?”
One day, weak from the exertion it took to admit that a particular pattern was not at all good for me, I gave the answer I’ll leave you with: “I’d tell it that I understand how it’s been trying to protect me… but there’s a more authentic way to go about this… and it’s safe to try it now.”
“Write that down.”
.
.
.
.
Note: I am obviously not a clinical therapist, but I obviously advocate for it!
Sources:
DK; Joannah Ginsburg; Voula Grand; Merrin Lazyan; Marcus Weeks. The Psychology Book (Big Ideas) (p. 297). DK Publishing. Kindle Edition.
Horney, Karen (1950). Neurosis and Human Growth: The Struggle Toward Self-Realization. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. (1991 edition)
It felt right to frame this in gold this week, but the original message painted itself about a year ago.
I know that because I’m writing this while sitting in the Midas waiting room during my car inspection.
A year ago, a mechanic walked into this same waiting room with an expression I’d only ever seen on doctor shows before, looking hesitantly in my direction, “Hi, are you the owner of the yellow Jeep?”
I stood. “Yes, hi….”
“I am so sorry… I hate to do this. Will you come with me?” I followed him into the garage.
_
Diagnosis: I had been driving a Jeep with a frame that was rusting in several prominent spots for who knows how long. It would need some in-depth welding—if not a total frame replacement—to be safe enough to drive again.
And this, by the way, is how I’ve learned to catch myself in a pattern of self-abandonment:
A loud, physical “SOMETHING’S OFF” that forces me to finally recognize where the frame of my life is anything but solid, healthy, and sustainable.
Because if self-abandonment is in the foundation of something, it will not stand.
Read that again.
–
A year ago, I was also a few months into a full-time job at a non-profit in Pittsburgh. Though hired as a childcare program assistant—a role I initially thrived in as I creatively supported kids through their pandemic-specific difficulties of online grade school—I gradually received lessening support and ever-increasing responsibilities. Oftentimes, I found myself alone in a loud windowless classroom of children with differing needs and grade levels but a similar urgency for my attention.
I’m tempted to say, “This happened over the course of a few weeks without my even realizing it” but in hindsight, I am aware that it actually happened over the course of a few weeks with numerous occurrences of my saying, “Oh okay, that’s fine!” before checking in with myself to see if was, in fact, fine. These are my rust spots.
One workday, I used the classroom phone to call the office of the brilliant, generous woman I was hired to assist. I asked if she could step away from her administrative tasks for a second to cover our classroom. This was so I could discreetly waltz into the donated toys closet, and let a nervous breakdown run its course.
“SOMETHING’S OFF.”
If you know, you know—I needed more than a second. It’s nearly impossible to stop the wave once it’s been given the space to move through you. Eventually I was able to shakily finish the day of work and drive home in my rental car, only to cry some more, and paint, talk, and feel it all out to completion.
To surrender. The quiet place where I listen to myself again.
Find divine guidance again.
Breathe.
I texted my boss, “Can we meet tomorrow before work?”
“Release” was painted during this time!
–
I brought notes to the meeting, promising myself I would say exactly what I needed to say. How I was feeling, where I had over-agreed and actually required more support, and where I had ideas to improve the situation.
She listened, but said that with her other duties in the organization, she could not make any promises that circumstances would change.
I pulled away and took a deep breath.
She quickly affirmed how well I was doing and how much the kids appreciated me—which flattered me enough to nod and carry on. Rust spot.
So, nothing changed, except in the areas of my teaching quality and health (declining) and frequency of lunch breaks spent in stress tears (rapid incline). But everyone continued telling me I was doing so well.
–
Meanwhile, my rusty Jeep.
The task before me a few nights later was to return the rental car and drive the Jeep, carefully, to its used car dealership of origin—45 minutes away—to undergo needed repairs.
I called my mom. “I can’t do it. I’m exhausted.”
“Okay. Can you at least return the rental? We’ll pick you up and you can take the Jeep in the morning.”
I agreed.
The drive to return the rental was under a pitch black sky, in pouring rain pounding like fifty snare drums at once, amongst bright lights reflecting off streaming water in all directions, on McKnight Road at rush hour.
Halfway there, I pulled over in an Aldi’s parking lot.
I closed my eyes, forehead on the steering wheel, and breathed, unsure if I had ever experienced this degree of sensory overload in my life.Eventually I gathered up enough mental stillness to finish the journey. And just barely.
Then my dad picked me up from the Enterprise and breezily suggested that I drive the Jeep to the used car dealership that very night so the repairmen could work on it first thing in the morning. I was stunned. Every cell in my body required me to admit, out of sheer survival, because this was a stubborn pattern and that’s what it took:
“Dad, with all due respect, that would be my literal hell.”
“Oh.”
My brother ended up driving the Jeep that night, and my dad drove out to pick him up.
–
This event illuminated something important:
Driving 45 minutes in the dark in the pouring rain that night wasn’t everyone’s literal hell, but… that didn’t mean it was any less of one for me.
And that goes for a lot of needs and limits and priorities I’d been suppressing for months… and for years.
–
I let the boys do what was easy and natural for them, and not being a martyr gave me the night off to dig deeper. To find that divine guidance again.
In the quiet, I remembered watching a TED Talk once on something called “The Highly Sensitive Person.” I re-watched it, then watched an entire movie on the subject (“Sensitive,” which to my great comfort features Alanis Morrissette), then read as many articles as I could, and ordered the book. Pieces fell into place. Good, sometimes difficult, pieces.
About 1 out of every 5 people has the High Sensitivity trait, according to the research of Psychologist Dr. Elaine Aaron. Highly Sensitive People, simply put, have an intensified experience of… everything. Their sensitive nervous system makes them more aware of subtleties in their surroundings, including lights, sounds, and the emotions of others. They’re natural “noticers.” And music moves them to a wonderfully excessive degree… but slightly less wonderful when, you know, generally speaking, an Adele song has them on the verge of crying in the smoothie shop. Generally speaking.
The trait lends itself to high creativity, empathy, and intuition. Also, because of the higher depth of processing, it makes HSPs more prone to overstimulation, and more in need of down time.
When the trait is honored, HSPs can thrive and share unique gifts. When the trait is not honored, but suppressed–which, in a hyper-masculine culture that celebrates toughness and action over sensitivity and rest, is too often the case–they are more prone to anxiety, low self-esteem, sickness, and burnout.
Everything written about the trait felt hauntingly familiar. I had always sensed (highly, you could say) there was something a little different in how I processed things. And for the first time, that difference was presented to me as a wholly valid way to be. It was that night that I began the long road of accepting that my sensitivity didn’t mean something was wrong with me. My “weakness” became my key.
And then, in the quiet, this essentially painted itself:
I stared at my sketch book. Did I? Could I? What would that look like?
What did living a life that honored my own needs and truest desires look like? One that looked not to what I thought “they” think I “should” do, but to what I know I need to do? One of zero self-betrayal? One of self-trust?
There, alone at a desk, with no voice weighing in but my own inner one, I let myself dream.
And it became increasingly clear what it would ultimately look like: Something creative and generous and healthy and original and true. Something that would make five year-old Ally simply glow. A life beyond my wildest dreams.
Fuck.
–
It wasn’t all clear and linear after that. In my journal around that time, there are plenty of fervent prayers for “renewed job love.” After all, there were many good aspects of that season, and natural bonds formed between myself and the students, my boss, and my other colleagues at the non-profit. I still believed so much in the transformative work the organization was doing for the community.
Those prayers were indeed answered, but only in the weeks after I submitted my formal resignation letter. After that, I was free to do the best I could during the workday, then go home and build my website, research business requirements, paint, dream, and rest without guilt. Every step in the new direction flooded me with an energy I had forgotten was possible.
Well-intentioned people advised me to stay, some straight-up suggested I was making a mistake, and one colleague even said, “Don’t be overwhelmed!” which did not in fact “cure” my nervous system or make the job role suddenly healthy for me. My own conditioned and religious stories weighed in, because nonprofit work was seen as “good” and artistry as “indulgent.” My own conditioned stories of scarcity protested, even when I knew I had enough and would have enough.
But again and again and excruciatingly again, I trusted me.
Overall, the transition and good-bye were full of love.
–
Today, the diagnosis for the Jeep is better: Things look sound for the most part, except for this one part of the frame where the welding is covered by a questionable amount of putty and another small area still showing need of repair.
This has been a year of repairing the rusty frame of my life, of finding the places built upon self-abandonment and letting them go so that something truer to me can take their place. It has been no quick and simple fix. There are times when I want to trade authenticity for external approval so badly. There are times when I’ve given into that. There are times when my intuition scares the hell out of me, so I outsource it and take bad advice. There are times when I want to hide or give up. There are times I want to say “Oh okay, that’s fine!” instead of leaning into a vulnerable conversation about boundaries, and how something isn’t actually fine for me. There are times of grief, even when whatever I am losing is something phony, unfit, and/or outdated for me. But today I walk within a life that feels more fulfilling, more vibrant, more connected, and more my own than ever. My nervous system has a lot more breathing room and my intuition has a lot more say. It is, in all honesty, even better than what I dreamt up a year ago.
And I know there are still parts to bring to the light. I don’t want putty and bandaids; I want healing.
So while it’s annoying on a practical level that I had to schedule yet another appointment for a welder to look at the Jeep… it’s satisfying on a poetic level that I’m doing so the day after I finally scheduled an appointment with a counselor.
The ongoing path of self-trust has been the most divine walk of my life. And because of this, I have vowed to give no more advice… only non-advice: Follow your inner knowing.
I saw this message spray-painted in the middle of my walk to the produce shop today.
“All men cry quietly.” All men cry quietly. All men cry. Quietly.
I continued on, still chewing on it when I passed it again on the way back down the hill.
It is March (again? Still?), and it is Women’s History Month. Because of this, and not despite it, I think “All men cry quietly” is a timely statement to unpack.
More and more I am realizing that feminism is only partly about biological makeup and its consequences in our society. Another key aspect of it is, in a more abstract, energetic sense, reclaiming anything subconsciously deemed “feminine and therefore bad”— “feminine and therefore lesser.”
Crying, or expressing emotions in general, for example. Sensitivity. Rest. Creativity. Wonder. Beauty. Vulnerability. Introversion. Nurturing.
I’m taking this moment to hype up all of it.
Devaluing these traits affects women, surely—personally, as a sensitive, introverted, creative person it took a shockingly long time to not feel shame for wanting a career a) that I loved and b) that didn’t burn me out– but who is purely masculine? Who is purely feminine? If we’re being perfectly honest… if we filtered out the population for those requirements… we’d be left with psychopaths and robots.
Feminism, then, is for all of us. While it absolutely says “get lost” to any notion that women need to be entirely feminine to be “good” (thank goodness, say my sportiness, boundaries, and ambition), it isn’t about women being entirely masculine either, and it surely isn’t about men being entirely masculine— because we need both parts of the equation. On an individual standpoint, we need hustle and action or nothing would happen, but we also need quiet and art and emotions or nothing would have meaning. No one would feel connected to themselves or each other.
We need this all to be “good,” because when it is all expressed, the resulting balance is so incredibly good. The masculine parts of you are good. The feminine parts of you are good.
We need humans. Finally allowed to be humans. And, for God’s sake (and I mean that), we need to stop de-valuing anything creative, compassionate, or emotionally healthy.
So, to all the men (and women who have also internalized that a rigid toughness is the only way to succeed in this world) I leave you with this: Feel free to cry loudly. I am here for you. It is normal and it feels really frickin’ good and I could probably use a good cry too.
May unity continue to be the name of the game, friends. Go forth and be.
This is another “I taught Kindergarten once” story, but I taught Kindergarten once and it was really amazing and also really hard at times. A few months in, I caught myself in countdown-to-the-weekend mode and that was the LAST thing I wanted to teach, or live.
So, I had a good cry about it, and then had an idea: add celebration to the middle of every week.
The final block of every Wednesday lesson plan, from there on out, was wholly dedicated to “Feliz Miércoles.” We made a giant card, grabbed the maracas and tambourines, and surprised one teacher or other staff member with a grand display of our appreciation.
So, today I say: What if we let Wednesday itself be a reason to send a card, shake a maraca, praise God, buy flowers from the supermarket, disrupt life a bit by celebrating it?I think it could change things. In fact, I know it could.
Happy Wednesday, friends.
“Even at High Tide.”
“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33
This image is a testament to that gentle, perpetual strength. May we trust that it will see us through, even at high tide.
I’ll get right to it: From now on, I’ll be giving my full-time side hustle (painting, writing, etc.) a bit more of a main seat at the table. Because, well, if I didn’t, I think when I meet my Maker, He’d say something along the lines of, “I love you… but you failed at being Ally.”
Hahaha SO, glory to God, I now officially sell works/fulfill commissions for profit as a sole proprietor, with 10% still benefiting Honduran families and Finca del Niño. This is a significantly more sustainable model that allows me to allot more time to my creative work! And more time for creative work means that each and every day is more fulfilling than ever. A little more of my artist story can be found here.
The website, as you may notice, has a new domain and some new features (a gallery of prominent paintings, a shop with many new products, a collection of prominent published writing, commission information, etc.!), but the blog remains unchanged. All posts can be found under the “Archives” tab under “Blog” on the left side menu.
Thank you so much who have been walking this journey with me!
“Pittsburgh Sunset.” 16X20” acrylic on canvas. 2020.
December 30, 2020
Left to my own devices, I’m on a bus, plane, train, boat, or road trip of sorts every couple of weeks.
I remember planning my 2020. Lol. I took the job at Panera last January not to eventually fund my artistic dreams (which is happening now, surreally enough) but to fund traveling… everywhere. Anywhere. Seeing everyone.
And now my big NYE plans are driving 20 minutes to play Bananagrams with the family and I’m so here for it. While I know the traveler within remains very much alive and well and will be rip-roaring ready to go when her day arrives… I gotta let something be said for being still. Experiencing every season again. Seeing Pittsburgh from some new angles, family and hometown friends and myself in freeing, more mature light. Giving my eyes time to adjust to all the rich complexities and hope waiting to be seen right here.
Excavating instead of traveling, if you will.
There is loss and ache in my backpack, surely, but that can’t stop me from noticing, and deeply loving, this remarkable view right here. And I have 2020–not my own devices–to thank for that.
“Many are the plans in the mind of a man, but it is the purpose of the Lord that will stand.” Proverbs 19:21
for this life itself, for the unique ticket to participate, for all of you being all of you, and for every unexpected depth of beauty that today can behold.
If I remain open to it. If I practice it like a song.
