Full Circle — by Guest Mom Kyran Pittman

As Gabrielle mentioned in her sweet introduction, she, her sk-rt colleagues and I shared a memorable and intimate meal together this summer, bonding over the stories of how we fell in love with our husbands. Each of us spoke in turn about the twining paths that led us toward our mates and our children, toward ourselves as we are now. Our happily ever afters. No one budged from the table until the last tale was told, in full. We might have been sitting around a fire under the stars instead of at a table covered with half-eaten sushi in a trendy Chicago restaurant.

Listening to the others, I was profoundly reminded of one of my core beliefs and values: every single person has a Story, unlike any other, and yet, like all of ours in some way.

For this last post in the Jewelry Box series, I have a couple of more stories to tell. I have loved sitting around this virtual fire with you, going through my treasures, hearing about your own. Some of you have already come over to Notes to Self. I hope I will be hearing more from you. (Also, if your Mom works at William Morris, please have her call me, anytime). Let's get started.



This labradorite bracelet and matching earrings logically belong back at the opening of this series, with my everyday jewelry, but the story that goes with them belongs here at the end. That is, at the beginning.

“Fortune favors the bold,” he said to me
12 hours and 2,500 miles later, as I sat on the edge
of his hotel bed trying to make him understand why it
could never work out between us. Thinking he should at
least eat something before he had to go back to
Arkansas forever, I had brought him a bucket of
southern fried chicken, from an American franchise
that had opened next to a really good fish and chips
shop.

“I love you,” I told him, as he sniffed the chicken
skeptically and set it aside. “But I just can’t be
with you.”

from "Southern Man", offblog essay

That conversation took place just below Signal Hill, a granite cliff that flanks the entrance to the city of St. John's, Newfoundland's capital.

Signal Hill is one of the world's most beautiful places. The granite is flecked with pink, which the sunlight picks up and reflects back. The base of the cliffs is often enshrouded in mist. And then there is the sea, 180 degrees of it, the north Atlantic stretching out forever. As Patrick describes it, "It may not be the very end of the world, but you could hit it with a rock from there."

A number of significant moments in mine and Patrick's story took place there. When we were many thousands of miles apart, and I didn't know if I would ever see him again, I would drive up there at night to look at the moon, and take solace in the notion that he might be looking up at it also, from where ever he was.

Labradorite is an exquisite stone. It really does shimmer like the northern lights. This set goes beautifully with my Superhero necklace. The bracelet and earrings came from the giftshop in the old fortress on top of Signal Hill. (I tried in vain to locate the name of the designer in time for this series, but the gift shop is run by a department of the federal government. Suffice to say, you will have to go there in person and pick something out for yourself. It will be well worth it, I promise.)

The borders you must cross to get to Mexico
are nothing compared to the borders
you've crossed to get to where you are.

Going toward yourself is
the longest journey of all.

There are instruments to help you
get to San Miguel de Allende.
But the southbound bird winging
its way south without map or compass
holds within its heart some knowing
unknown even to itself.

from "To Kyran in Full Flight," An Island in the
Sky, Selected Poetry of Al Pittman, Breakwater Books,
2003

My father was a poet — a complicated, difficult, and marvelous man. He died in 2001, in Newfoundland, before I could get to his hospital bed. When I went back to his apartment to begin the long and lonesome task of sorting through his personal papers, I saw this pendant hanging on a nail. It is the prow of a Beothuk native boat, presented to him at the opening of an interpretative center dedicated to Newfoundland's extinct aboriginal people. He wore it constantly in his last years. I walked over to where it hung and put it over my head. It stayed around my neck for as long as I needed it to those first couple of years after he died. You can read a poem I wrote about him here.

Leaving the island and my family behind was the hardest thing I have ever done. I wish I could have had a crystal ball at the time to tell me how much I would come to love it here in Little Rock.

But I probably wouldn't have believed it. When I first got here, after we completely ran out of money in Mexico, I thought I had landed on another planet. The desert around San Miguel felt more like my rugged island home than the lush Arkansas vegetation that obscured the horizon and seemed to close in on me. Little Rock's downtown in the late nineties was a ghost town outside of business hours, and we were staying with Patrick's parents in a suburb. Happily ever after was looking pretty grim.

Like two people in an arranged marriage, Little Rock and I both changed and grew, and came to love each other. We live in a beautiful historic neighborhood, lined with Craftsman homes and old oak trees, and dotted with cafes, shops and restaurants. The downtown has undergone a major revival. The arts scene—always vibrant here, but definitely under the radar—is becoming more and more visible. And we have an amazing community of friends, particularly the girlfriends who came into my life after I became a mom. They are my support system and surrogate family. I still have single and childless friends I adore, but honestly, those relationships take more work. My mom friends understand how to carry on a conversation through multiple interruptions, why you sometimes have to back out of a plan at the last minute, how you can love a child or husband with every breath in your body one minute and be plotting your escape the next.

Here are two bosom friends' bosoms, bedecked with jewelry from Little Rock artisans.



Missy is an independent clothing designer, mom to three girls, and wife to one of the all-time good guys. She is a raving beauty and a hill of fun. I fell in love with this necklace right away. My recent obsession with owls is threatening to overtake my Virgin Guadalupe fixation. I recognized its maker immediately. Working Thread jewelry is suddenly cropping up everywhere in our circle, and no wonder. Go have a look for yourself at her exquisite creations.



Bridget is one of the moms who makes the world go round. Mom to grade school twins and a toddler, she is married to a fabulously talented painter and sculptor. I think she single-handedly runs the PTA at the twins' school. If Bridget has a plan, it is best you get on board early, because either way, it's going to happen. These handstamped tags are created by Joella Peck. Most of my momfriends have them, stamped with their childrens' names.

It took me a little while to track down Joella, during which time I looked high and low all over the internet. Joella's are the far and away the best out there. She gets the depth of the stamp, the letter spacing, the cut of the metal just right. When I spoke with her by phone, I was floored to discover she didn't have an etsy shop yet. She sells her tags through a local boutique, also without an online storefront as of this writing. You want Joella's tags. You need them. She said you can email her at joellapeck(at)yahoo(dot)com and find out how to get them. Also, tell her I said, "etsy, etsy, etsy."



One last Little Rock piece by an independent artist, my son. You better believe I wear it, too. If you've ever been presented with a childmade piece of jewelry, you'll love Billy Collin's poem, The Lanyard.



Finally, we come back to the place where it all begins. We were married ten years ago this September. We were engaged—where else—on Signal Hill. I proposed. I thought it was the least I could do to honor this man who had pursued me so faithfully and determinedly up and down the length of the continent. And he gave me a ring a few weeks later! The engagement stone is a chrome tourmaline, a very clunky name for a beautiful gem. We bought it as a loose stone. To me, it looks how you think emeralds are supposed to, but never quite do. It was custom set in white gold with tiny diamonds in a channel on each side. The band is also white gold. I wanted the simplest, narrowest one we could find, and I often wear it by itself. I was thinking of a lyric of Liz Phair, who sort of introduced us (I would have to take over the Design Mom for the next year to tell you): "I won't decorate my love for you."

Happily ever after is not a static condition, a destination you arrive at and stay. Happily ever after is a series of stops along the way. It is a view glimpsed as you fly by on your way to where it is you think you are headed. It is a moment.

When our last son was born, the sun was
setting outside the delivery room. I felt no pain. I
had no fear. Patrick stood at my side, holding my
hand, his golden hair haloed by the dying sky. Our
eyes burned into each other. We could have been the
only two people in the room, in this marriage. But we
weren’t. This birth would add to all that was already
between and behind us, binding us and holding us,
sometimes against our will.

He squeezed my hand, hard, and with everything I had,
I bore down and pushed.

from "Ring of Fire", offblog essay