Island Time
[This is part 1 of 4 in a series about a questionnaire I recently answered.]
On Monday, Eliza and I took my mom to Vinalhaven, an island about fifteen miles off the Maine coast.
Sitting in the car that morning, drinking coffee and waiting for our turn to drive onto the ferry, I found myself caught between conflicting stories. Both of them equally true.
I could say to myself: With the amount of work on my plate, I never should have taken a Monday off to play tourist. That’s what rich people do.
I could also say: How lucky we are to have the freedom to spend a beautiful day with my mom as she approaches her 80th birthday. I’ll remember this long after the work is forgotten.
Both stories are accurate descriptions of the same event. But each creates a different reality. One makes me feel guilty. The other fills me with gratitude. As the ferry rocked gently on a calm sea and the granite shores of Vinalhaven came into view, I found myself rocking back and forth between these two conflicting narratives.
Questionnaire
The stories we tell ourselves shape our lives. They shape the evolution of our work as well.
This tension between conflicting stories was on my mind when I answered the first question in Shelley’s questionnaire: What’s the history of Norton Stoneworks, and where are you now?
Before Shelley could help me grow my business, she had to understand where I’ve been and how I’ve gotten here. And before I answered that question, I had to make a choice. What narrative do I choose? Norton Stoneworks isn’t just a business—it’s a story I’ve been telling myself.
Brief Company History of Norton Stoneworks
I started working for myself nearly twenty years ago, originally under the name Norton Stone and Tile. I told myself a simple story: I’ll do stonework when it’s warm, tile when it’s cold, and say yes to any job that comes my way.
For a while, this story made sense. It kept me busy and my bills mostly paid. But eventually, a quieter voice inside me started whispering another story. Every time I said yes to a tile job, I felt like I was missing out on what I truly loved—creative, artistic stonework. I don’t know why I kept telling myself I had to keep doing tile work. I came up with all kinds of ‘reasons’ why I couldn’t make the change to stonework full-time. Flimsy excuses like: I’ll go broke if I stop doing tile work. I’ll starve in the winter. I’ll upset my clients and no one will ever hire me again.
Looking back, I can see those were just fears—the kind that come up when you’re standing on the edge of something new. Eventually, I listened to that quieter voice and took the leap. I rebranded as Norton Stoneworks. Hearing myself say it now, it sounds like such a simple decision, but at the time, it felt monumental. It was like rewriting the story of who I was and what I wanted to be known for.
Since then, I’ve continued to refine that story. Instead of saying yes to every stone job that comes my way, I focus more and more on projects that inspire me: dry-laid stone walls, sculptural installations, and artistic projects that push my boundaries. It’s an ever-evolving story—one that challenges me to find more clarity, to be honest with myself about what I really want.
Back on the Mainland
After a day exploring Vinalhaven’s winding roads and abandoned granite quarries, I had to choose which story to tell myself: guilt over taking time off work, or gratitude for the chance to spend time with the people I love. As we made the ferry ride back to the mainland, it was an easy choice.
The stories we tell ourselves define our lives. And they define our work, too. So, what stories are you telling yourself? Are they working?