You Are Here

From lost to found(ish).

My brothers and I began using a euphemism in our twenties. Rather than get kicked out of a place, we were merely asked to leave. For instance, on the night we all found ourselves at a New York City diner at 3am and my beloved cousin poured a beer directly over a family friend’s head (or her own, I literally can’t remember)¹, the waiter didn’t kick us out. He kindly asked us to leave.

Late last year at my old job, I laid out a vision that I thought was best for the company. After that, I wasn’t exactly asked to leave, but it was kind of like the exit kept appearing before me with blinking lights and a sign that said, “Margi, we would like to invite you specifically to please walk through this door at your earliest convenience!” And so I did, donning a killer all-white outfit on the day of my announcement to the company, to represent women’s suffrage. Because I believe in SYMBOLISM.²

The metaphorical (euphemistic?) door hit me on the way out and the smack was jarring. For the past several months, one of my prevailing thoughts has been, what the fuck just happened?

Before I have words for something, I have pictures. Images live deeper in my brain than anything else. They’re akin to whatever my soul is, to my core self. When I think of who or what I am, I know I’m an illustrator. I design things, or I write things—but I am and will always be an illustrator. I understood that before I ever knew the word for it.

This is why my books will probably always have drawings in them, because they reach into a part of me that exists without language, where words are a limit to what I know to be true.

It was basically an impulse, then, that compelled me to draw after the exit from my job. I set out to draw a map of the past eight years, but quickly realized that that amount of time is a book, not a page. So I ended up with little postage stamps of where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’m going. Sort of. It’s not finished yet.

The act of drawing something for myself, after a long hiatus, was challenging. Sketching was somewhat easy (no pressure), but inking took longer than I expected. I had to sit with the piece for hours on end, filling in the details, making adjustments. I forced myself to do it—over the course of two months—as a prolonged meditation. Even if it was hard to sit still, to let progress be slow, when I draw there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing. For so long, everything I made was attached to a goal, to a financial outcome. To make something that was its own end allowed me to be fully present for the thing itself, for the act of making.

When I draw, I use a part of my brain that isn’t always active—the right side. Drawing on actual IRL paper puts me in a flow state, helps me look closely, to still myself long enough to see. Scientists say that illuminating this hemisphere helps you find purpose in your life because it’s the right side of your brain that asks why and seeks to make meaning out of experience.³ I wasn’t thinking about any of this when I set out to draw the map—I just intuitively understood that it needed to happen. It was only later that I was like, why on earth did I spend so much time on this?

Drawing this reminded me about what I love most—pictures and words together. I’m working on a new project involving both. Spoiler alert: by “project” I mean company. I’ll share details very, very soon. Even though I don’t know what will become of my new company (outside of my wild⁴ ideas), I keep feeling a sense of self-concordance: the mission aligns perfectly with what’s most important to me. Books, pictures, words. And I think in this middle phase of my life, moving toward a thing that instinctively feels right is a path worth pursuing.

If all has gone well, by the time you read this I’ll be relaxing in the sun with a mimosa in hand and no small children nearby.⁵ Happy Mother’s Day, if you’re celebrating.

XO.
Margi

1. Incidentally this was also the night we invented a cocktail called Sex on the Pavement. It contained vodka and cranberry juice. We even came up with a tagline but I’m afraid I’ll get cancelled if I write it here.

2. Christian thought I was being a touch dramatic but what does he know. (Okay, well, more than me, but STILL.) And yes, I realize that women’s suffrage is about our right to vote. Hear me out. Voting is about having a voice—and when the exit sign kept flashing in my face, I started to wonder what that meant for my voice at the company. So I wore white as, I guess, my own flashing sign. I am 100% certain this symbol was lost on the intended audience.

3. I first read something about this in My Stroke of Insight by Jill Bolte Taylor. More recently, Arthur Brooks has been talking about it on his podcast, Office Hours.

4. Read: batshit.

5. WHO I LOVE WITH ALL MY HEART.