Brianna Chamberlain: Jewelry Designer Extraordinaire

Brianna Chamberlain photos by Tyler Seamons


briannachamberlain.com

photos by Tyler Seamons

If you've been reading my blog this month, you know I've been posting an eclectic array of women, famous and obscure, past and present,for Women's History Month. In the spirit of Women's History Month,I am pleased to introduce jewelry designer extraordinaire, Brianna Chamberlain.

I received a custom-designed necklace from Brianna Chamberlain's jewelry collection this past Christmas, and became an instant fan. Brianna is a local jewelry designer. Her designs are bold, original, and feature eclectic pairings of stones, amulets, and precious metal findings.

Brianna Chamberlain's necklaces, bracelets, rings, and earrings are treasures that are a brilliant reflection of the designer. If you live outside Utah and are unable to visit the numerous local boutiques and museum shops that carry her work, host a party, and she'll bring her collection to your home to share with your friends!

From what I know of Chamberlain's design life, work ethic, and her personal life, I think the refrain from Annie Lennox and Aretha Franklin's duo "Sisters Are Doing It for Themselves" is the perfect theme song for her:

Now, there was a time
when they used to say
that behind ev'ry great man,
there had to be a great woman.
But oh, in these times of change,
you know that it's no longer true.
So we're comin' out of the kitchen,
'cause there's something we forgot to say to you.
We say, Sisters are doin' it for themselves,
standin' on their own two feet
and ringin' on their own bells.
We say, Sisters are doin' it
for themselves.

Check out the music video.

To see more of Brianna's stunning jewelry click on the links to visit her website, and her new shop at etsy.

Brianna Chamberlain's web designer and photographer, Tyler Seamons, may be reached at Sector Nine Designs.

The beautiful hand-painted silk sarongs are available at S-Ence.

Poem Therapy at 10:27 P.M. Sharon Bryan

Sharon Bryan


Body and Soul
Sharon Bryan

They grow up together
but they aren't even fraternal

twins, they quarrel a lot
about where to go and what

to do, the body complains
about having to carry

the soul everywhere as if
it were some helpless cripple,

and the soul snipes that it can go
places the body never dreamed of,

then they quarrel over which one of them
does the dreaming, but the truth is,

they can't live without each other and
they both know it, anima, animosity,

the diaphragm pumps like a bellows
and the soul pulls out all the stops—

sings at the top of its lungs, laughs
at its little jokes, it would like

to think it has the upper hand
and can leave whenever it wants—

but only as long as it knows
the door will be unlocked

when it sneaks back home before
the sun comes up, and when the body

says where have you been, the soul
says, with a smirk, I was at the end

of my tether, and it was, like a diver
on the ocean floor or an astronaut

admiring the view from outside
the mother ship, and like them

it would be lost without its air
supply and protective clothing,

the body knows that and begins
to hum, I get along without you

very well, and the soul says, Listen
to that, you can't sing worth a lick

without me, they'll go on bickering
like this until death do them part—

and then, even if the soul seems to float
above the body for a moment,

like a flame above a candle, pinch
the wick and it disappears.

I am grateful for this body that houses me, and regret that I have spent so much time taking it for granted. No more!

I picked up a lime green and black sweatsuit today and plan to start back on my speedwalking workout tomorrow morning. I'm also heading to the health store and picking up fish oil pills and flaxseed cereal. And chili chocolate, of course.

Grace in the Afternoon

When I received the results from my needle biopsy, the doctor told me to go home and open a bottle of champagne; we'd found it before it had gone outside of the duct and become invasive. He told me I was lucky. There wouldn't be chemo or radiation, only surgery.

I know I am lucky.

My doctor was very proud of himself for being so OCD,(his words), about my ultrasound. I'm grateful. I'd never considered that this man helps women save thier lives for his living. He has seven children, (showed me his youngest on his iPhone), likes opera, (he prefers opera in his hometown, ChiCaGo!), and was listening to Beck in his office as we looked over my charts.

I waited until I got to the car to dissolve and send the text that it was the best of bad news: preventative surgery, but surgery nonetheless.

It's been two weeks since the surgery and today I received good news. I am a lucky woman. On the way down I rode the elevator with a woman who had the slightest scruff of hair visible under her scarf and ball cap. She chatted like a happy bird for two floors and then walked with me to my car. I could barely say anything to her other than I heard sugar isn't good for cancer. A myth, she said, and also, that chemo killed her love of chocolate, and food. She has two chemo treatments left and then she begins radiation. I wished her well, got in my car and waved as she drove away.

I wish all 192,370 women who will be diagnosed with breast cancer this year, well.

I've been thinking about grace. I can't really articulate what I feel or exactly what I experienced, but I know that brief encounter was most certainly grace. And also, that this exuberant woman is a mirror. I don't think meeting her was coincidence, at least not for me. I believe I was being shown just how lucky I am.

Women's History Month - 433 Words to Change Your Life

from Glamor Magazine, March 2010

An acquaintance gave the lates issue of Glamor to me the other day and I thumbed through it absent-mindedly, thinking it might have a few decent images for a collage. I certainly had no intention of reading any of the articles, because I assumed the target audience seems, so, not me, and I just didn't think I'd relate. Of course I read the entire magazine, enjoyed the articles on dating, sex, make-up, clothing, ripped out images of shoes, necklaces, and dresses.

And then, I read this powerful 433 word manifesto by Eve Ensler, (author of I Am an Emotional Creature, The Vagina Monologues, etc. Remember her from a few posts ago?).

I wish I had read this when I was ten years old and starting to doubt myself, starting to listen to every voice other than mine, look for validation in all the wrong places. Sounds like I could write a blues song (or a really bad country soung, eh?).

I'm just saying, every breathing creature should read this 433 word manifesto. As many times as it takes to believe it.

Women's History Month - Sally Mann

Sally Mann - Stick Figure Productions/HBO Documentary Films

Untitled (#1), 1998 from the "Deep South" series

Candy Cigarette, 1989

Sally Mann is fearless. Her photographs are unflinching, disturbing, thought provoking, and achingly beautiful.

I looked through What Remains when it was first out in bookstores. I loved it. I hated it. I loved it.

The stark images of human bodies after "we" exit them, will give you pause, but I think you'll find it difficult to look away.

St. Patrick's Day 2010

Vintage 1914 postcard

The luck of the Irish to you! Although, if you read history, the Irish weren't particularly lucky.

If you really want to get in the Irish spirit, (whatever that means), head to your local bookstore and pick up The Law of Dreams by Peter Behrens. It's a brilliant book that retraces the great famine, but definitely draws outside of the lines. There is an overwhelming representation of novels and films about the exodus from Ireland and the Irish diaspora, but Behrens novel travels familiar territory in such an original manner that you'll tell yourself that this is the first you've read of this bleak period in history, and may even wish you had such noble and tragic heritage. I love this book!

I'll have to google Irish traditions and St. Patrick's Day to refresh my memory. I am heading to MacCool's Pub tonight for traditional corned beef and cabbage , though. In any case, I'm wearing green, not that I'm in danger of being pinched.

This vintage postcard is from the February/March issue of Reminisce. My father gives the magazine to me after he's read it. I love the photographs, images, and articles, which are an invaluable resource for my novel.


Saints necklace - Virgin Mary, Our Lady of San Juan De Los Lagos, St, Therese, Sacred Heart flipside of Infant of Prague, Nuestra Senora De Guadelupe

I was in Phoenix, Arizona recently for a conference, and directly across the street from the conference center was the oldest Catholic church in the state. I wasn't able to go inside the cathedral but I spent a great deal of time in the contemplative garden and took a lot of pictures, which I plan to post. One picture I didn't take, even though I really wanted to was of an old woman in a red shawl, who was bent over intently holding the verdigris hands of a statue of St. Francis of Assisi. Taking a photo, even looking at her felt invasive.

I found these beautiful saint medals in the little shop under the church stairs. The shopkeeper gave me a St. Francis pin and the way he pressed it into my hand felt meaningful, as if there were a subtext to the gift. I have no idea other than my hand was still in its splint and I looked like I needed a little extra help. I also picked up a few milagros, and saint medals for friends and family. I've always been drawn to the ritual and icons of Catholicism. The history is fascinating, but oh man, is it bloody!

Next to the hotel where I was staying is the ALAC Galeria 147: Arizona Latino Arts & Cultural Center. I had the great fortune of meeting artist Santiago Jim Covarrubias. In the back room of the gallery there was a stunning Virgin de Guadelupe room that featured numerous Virgin paintings and altars. I had the impulse to kneel and weep profusely. I did neither. If you're in Phoenix, check out this gallery.

Poem Therapy at 1:04 P.M. - Elena Georgiou

Elena Georgiou

Questions In The Mind Of A Poet While She Washes Her Floors
Elena Georgiou

Will obedience leave me unknown to myself, stranded?

Is it enough for me to know where I'm from?

If I do more truth-telling will I be happier with what I say?

If I had three days to live would I still be sensible?

Is the break between my feelings and my memory
the reason I'm unable to sustain rage?

Am I a peninsula slowly turning into an island?

If I grew up gazing at the ocean would I think
life came in waves?

If I were a nomad would I measure time
by the length of a footstep?

If I can see a cup drop to the floor and shatter
why can't I see it gather itself back together?

If a surgeon cut out my mistakes
would the scar be under my heart?

How much time will I spend protecting myself
from what the people I love call love?

Would my desires feel different if I lived forever?

Will my desires destroy my politics?

Is taboo sex the ultimate aphrodisiac?

If I fall in love with the wrong person
How do I learn to un-in love myself?

Can I make my intuition into a divining rod?

Is music the closest I can get to God?

How many of these questions will remain
when I kneel to wash my floors again?


I discovered this poem and poet on my lunch break today. After reading her poem I wrote a few of my own questions. Try it, but don't try to compose a poem, just let your true questions emerge. The questions will find a way to become a poem. Here's mine:

My Questions - Danna

How many skins must I try on until I find one that fits?

Is it possible to find absolution in only one lifetime?

What happens to the lives of books once I've read them?

Can it be that thought and reality are fruit from the same tree?

Is it true that the end is present at the beginning?

Will there ever be a time when I don't have to worry about what I'm going to make for dinner?

Which ancestor watches over me?

If every moment is a white bull, am I transgressing for not worshipping them?

What will I do if there is an afterlife, a God, Heaven and Hell?

Is the universe a nesting doll, worlds inside of worlds?

Why isn't this body as fierce and strong as my soul?

How is it that I can love the intimate air that fills my lungs and not the dust motes trailing in the sunlight I brush away?

Will I ever stop demanding answers to my questions?