Stuff and Nonsense

With Imperfection, On Purpose

It's awfully tempting, having been away from this blog for more than two years, to explain why. I don't know if I can, so I won't even try. I imagine many reasons will come out as I pick up the habit of blogging again, which, after many failed resoltutions, I am determined to keep in 2014, along with flossing (I do so hate flossing).

To get blogging again I focused on an impediment from the past: feeling embarrassed that my surroundings are too ugly to share photographically. The places we've lived since I last blogged ranged from lackluster to UGLY. However, the house we live in now is just as nice as the one we lived in when I was regularly blogging, and we've been in it for a year. Granted, it's been in a pretty catastrophic state since we moved in, with a few exceptional days. Still, looking back it's not as though our old house was ever in immaculate condiditon (those I did capture some of its closest moments). What was different is that I had a habit of seeing the beauty in it. I was satisfied with the modesty of our environment, of my photographic skill; I was satisfied with the imperfection around me, and I was really looking at it. So today, I resolved to find a few little images of beauty, specifically in the imperfection of our home.

Honestly, it looks like a bomb went off in here. We're purging clothes, toys, books, everything; repainting the bedrooms; putting new furniture together; not quite moving out the old; ignoring the dishes; washing but not folding or putting away laundry (until the furniture is put together); cleaning out holiday clutter...all in preparation for our big new project of the year, Baby, who is coming to live in our two-bedroom home in February. In amongst all the mess, my rusty perspective did catch a few little happy spots of color, texture, domestic reality. 

Although my stated resolutions do not include the word "imperfection," it's been on my mind as I attempted a new beginning today. In addition to flossing and blogging, I resolved to not worry so much, to have a year with only trace elements of anxiety. I resolved to enjoy myself, to appreciate where I am. So, I made a priority list for myself today before I abandoned the dishes: smoothie, dresser, blog. And told myself to chill out about the rest of it. Gritting my teeth and ignoring our disaster of a kitchen, I showered, made a smoothie, and put together my dresser while watching River Cottage with my kid. I had the opportunity to attempt another resolution by putting the dresser together incorrectly and and only just managing to notice the error as I started to apply the beeswax finish. After putting it back together, and then putting the drawers together wrong and having to redo all six of them, I finally got it all done, and without freaking out. When my husband got home from a special New Year's golf day, not only did he do the dishes--he biult a bonfire which included all our Ikea cardboard. Huzzah! Though it was nothing like my fantasy New Year's new beginning day, it was a banner day for realistic resolutions. And to cap it all off--with one push of a button I'll have blogged! I'm so satisfied with myself, I might even floss.

And now we are thirty.

For as long as I can remember, I have been looking forward to tomorrow. This anticipation might have something to do with spending my childhood and adolescence feeling much more at ease with my parents' peers than with my own. Whatever the reason, I have always felt that when I hit thirty, I would hit my stride. I felt certain that it would be a time of growth and a time of reckoning. And that is most certainly the case. It has been a gruelling and exhilerating six months since New Year's Eve, when I told myself quietly, "This is my year." In every area of my life, big, surprising changes. At this moment, my cup runneth over, and with everything.

My dear friend took this picture of me this weekend. Our children were playing together on the deck. The breeze through the window was warm and peaceful. We were eating olives, Mt. Townsend brie, and the last jar of the rhubarb ginger fig chutney I made this spring. I hadn't slept much. In the moments before it was taken, I had been crying. I love this picture. It is a candid picture of who I am, right now. It is a reminder to be compassionate to myself. I am exhausted by the intensity and variety of my emotions and thoughts. But I am, oh! so glad to be alive! I feel, for the first time, a grown woman. And yet, if I'm lucky I may expect another fifty years, or more, of beautiful life. I feel hopeful and curious. I feel sadness for the parts of my life that haven't turned out the way I hoped or planned. I can't say I regret--I feel so fortunate that this has been my life. And to everyone in it--I want to say thank you, and I love you. I feel ready to embrace the challenges ahead. Perhaps even the challenges I don't know about yet. As I reflect on all my heart contains, I may need to cry quite a bit tomorrow. But I feel pretty sure it will be my happiest birthday ever. So far. As Jane would say, Happy Birthday to me.

A good-fun day

Today was, as Jane would say, a good-fun day. My dear friend and her family came to visit us in Olympia, and we went to some of my favorite spots. We laughed, we ate, we frolicked, we burned in the sun. And we went to the Bread Peddler three times. In short, my kind of day. Pictures by Monica and Daniel.

Thank you, friends, for coming to see us. We can't wait to see you again.

 

Goldfish in the sky

I wish I could capture the sunset this evening. The clouds were luminous--luminescent like goldfish. They moved fast across the sky, vivid and orange pink. Against the dark blue-gray-brown clouds above them, they looked almost two dimensional. I had the child's urge to reach out and touch.
Along with the pleasure of of the spectacle, the pleasure of association. I thought the sky looked like an opal, perhaps my favorite stone. I thought of Maxfield Parrish. I thought of Klimt's Goldfish.  And then the sun set. Somehow the pleasure of soaking in the sunset has inspired me to treat myself to a good long bath. I hope your evening is lovely, too.

More answers.

One of the funny things about keeping a blog is that the sense of repeating oneself is increased. For one thing, you might launch into a story on the phone with a distant friend only to find she already knows about it, because she read it on your blog. This is disorienting. Although I occasionally get comments (which I love--thank you!) and have Google Analytics, I have a really hard time believing that anyone reads my blog. It's even more mind-boggling that someone I don't know personally might visit my site. Like you, dear reader, in Brazil. How did you get here?! And thank you for coming back again! 

I also find myself addressing the same Deep Thoughts over and over, or the finding links between posts I remember writing, and whatever is on my mind while I write a new post. Recently, though, I found myself on the brink of writing an almost identical post to one of my very first posts. I cut a bunch of flowers from the yard and stuffed them into a pitcher. I usually put flowers in jars, which are never big enough to hold everything, and tend to topple over. So for some time, I've been on the lookout for a vase while foraging at Value Village. Finally, I found this pitcher that I adore. It's in awful shape, but I don't care. I had a hard time arranging everything. I thought about my friend Sarah, who has a preternatural gift for flowers (and most everything else that is beautiful and useful) and tried to think what she'd tell me to do. So I put some rocks in the bottom of the jar to act as a frog and that help. And as I continued stuffing everything in, I saw these: I thought at first there was some sort of seed pod that had gotten stuck to the leaf. But no, they were part of the leaf. And as the hamster started to run in the wheel in my brain, I had the most tremendous sense of déjà vu. And then I remembered this post entitled Answers, which answered my question. Fancy that! Just to be sure of myself, I googled "wild rose galls" and found this. How satisfying! 

The flower arrangement has drooped and now has peonies from the neighbors' yard, but it looked like this. The pitcher is especially pleasing because it has lilies of the valley, and lately the charm to soothe my savage little beast at bedtime is singing "White coral bells." Such a light, pretty, magical tune. I've also been singing her favorite song from the Kid Songs CD, "I'm Going to Leave Old Texas Now," which I love to sing. It's breezy and soulful and simple, and puts me in touch with my inner Texan. 

It's my third to last week at my job, and my head and heart and To Do pile are full. June is, somehow, almost over, and I feel like life is hurtling forward. Friday, it'll be July already. And that means that my BFF will be here soon, to visit her family in our hometown, and to have a birthday party. I am so excited I can hardly stand it. This evening as I walked in the yard, I thought, "It's warm enough to have a beach fire on Yeomalt Point," not remembering for a moment that we are not 15 and she lives 3000 miles away. And thinking about her, I think how incredibly blessed I am in the way of friends. I've not always had an easy time fitting in with my peers. But there have been few moments in my life that I've been without the wisdom, compassion, humor and companionship of true friends. This moment of my life is no exception, and I feel my luck daily. If I chance to forget, my tea bag reminds me. Thank you for listening. 

Good news.

Slowly the weather is changing to something that vaguely resembles spring, and after only a few really warm days we already have grass as tall as I am in the yard. I went to see Jane Eyre with a friend from work. Matt's parents are coming for their quarterly visit, and stand a chance to see just how beautiful this part of the country can be (knock on wood). In short, lots of good news. But not as good as the good news about my new job. I am absolutely thrilled be hired by the Olympia Waldorf School as their Outreach Manager. I've always been pretty lucky. I've had many interesting and satisfying jobs, and worked with many wonderful people. But I have never felt myself so well-matched for job as I do for this one. For a month or so I'll be wrapping up my current work at the YMCA, and not without a great sadness--it will be so hard to leave. But then, I'll be off to begin a new chapter at the Waldorf school. It is an exciting time, and my heart is full. As usual, there are so many things I would love to write about here that I either cannot articulate or may not share. But as always, life is good and I have the pictures of Jane that prove it.

The child is so into her hats. It's a rare moment she goes bareheaded. The other day, at dinnertime, she put her hat over her face and announced, "I'm Mr. Sun!" After we sang a few rounds, she de-sunned and ate her noodles with drama and panache. I could not stop taking pictures of her funny face.

Every day, she surprises us with the way she moves, speaks, and most of all, imagines. I can't believe I ever lived without her.

As I mentioned, we've had a few very fine days, accompanied by the riveting sunsets that seem to betoken summer's approach here.
Soon, there will be a blue skies and heavy morning fog along the creek, and at night the coyote pack will run the fog path and howl. Then we'll know it's really here. In the meantime, I have savored the taste of things to come. 
 

Writing about writing

Today I finally got around to paying my library fines so I could check out a couple of books. But then I went and bought them instead. Jane Eyre will be coming to Olympia soon, and before I see it I want to read the book again. And I bought Villette, which I have never read. I don't think I've read Jane Eyre since I was twelve or so. My mom brought it home after running errands one day. It was the first novel of it's quality I had ever read.

I read a few pages of Jane Eyre during my lunch, and it was hard to put it down. I'm sad to say that I just don't read very much anymore. I start books, and they go unread. Or, I read, snatching at a bit of illumination or patience, books like You Are Your Child's First Teacher, or The Miracle of Mindfulness. After my bookish lunch today, I decided to take advantage of my break and my location to sit and read more often. I visit the bakery across the street every day. I ought to just sit there, and enjoy my coffee with a book. (As a side note--I'm in week two of an anti-Bread Peddler diet. I'm getting chubby and broke. So far the diet has been an utter failure. As my dear friend pointed out this morning, I don't actually want to curb my visits to the Bread Peddler. Life is short.) The other thing I ought to do is write. I'm not going to commit to writing here regularly, because I know that's unrealistic. I don't want to add disappointment in myself to the equation. But I do want to try. 

When I first started blogging, it was 2003. I had finally gotten a job, been adopted by a group of friends, and started recovering from my re-entry culture shock (I'd just gotten back from France). As I began to connect with my friends, some old and new, I started writing what I called the Everyone Documents. I had written a "deep thoughts" email (for lack of a better descriptor) to a friend. He talked about it at a potluck, and a few people asked me to write another one, and send it to them. Then it happened again. How I had the audacity to send those pathetic, wandering pseudo-diary entries to a bunch of people, I'll never know. A bit embarrassing, now that I think about it. And then I discovered Blogger, which gave me something to do during the painful, slow hours I spent alone at work. It also gave me the anonymity to write whatever I wanted (almost). And even though I knew that people I knew were reading it, I somehow never believed it. I feel the same now. Someone will mention something personal and particular I've written on the blog and I'll feel shocked. How did you know?! 

I applied for grad school at about the same time (for which my writing sample really was journal entries, from my time in France), with the intention of studying publishing. I thought it would point me in the direction of a "career," something I didn't really want but felt I needed. I didn't believe I could write for a living, so I went second best. But I was intercepted by a mentor, a poet, in the first few weeks. I never took a publishing class, and ended up with an MFA in creative writing. I still don't have the confidence to think myself a writer. I think I write fine, maybe even well. But I have never met my own standards, and I let the writerly life slip away. Maybe on purpose. In my heart, I draw comfort from Jane Austen, whose literary flower budded in her teens but didn't bloom until her thirties. In my heart, I know I'll have the guts and maturity to do it eventually.

All this is on my mind for a lot of reasons. For one, I've been contemplating the concept of writing for a living. I've been wondering if I'm the sort of person who will be unlikely to write in her spare time if she writes at work, or if I'm the reverse. Also, this week I attended the poetry reading of a friend of a friend, both of them colleagues in an MFA program. We drove down to Portland for the evening. It was good, and strange, to inhabit that world for a few hours. I felt like I belonged, but then, not at all. Someone asked me if I was a writer. I think I um-ed for a full minute before my friend stepped in and said that I was. Someone asked if I had a reading coming up. Not only do I not have a reading coming up, I have written one, one, draft of a poem since I graduated from my MFA program in 2007. I'm pretty sure my husband has not read my entire creative thesis. I don't think I gave him the chance. The last time I had something published was the last time I submitted something--in 1998. I am bad about writing, but I'm worse about sharing.

What is that about? I'm not really sure. It might be why I like blogging so much. It's almost interactive, like a one-sided epistolary romance. And I love writing letters. Sometimes when I write, I think about you. Or you. And it's easier to speak. And sometimes I write a love letter to the void, and pretend that it's anonymous. So often there are things I want so much to say, and can't. Just as often, I don't know what to say. Either way, it's a start.

Rien mis en place

I'm having a Sunday evening sigh. The day started well, with an early attack on the chutney. But I forgot how long it takes to chop everything up in those tiny pieces. It was better than the squash, but the rhubarb curls up when you quarter it, like celery. By the time I had everything chopped, Jane had already watched enough Bugs Bunny to ask me for a bowl of carrots and say, "Bah. Whassupdoc?" about a million times. The canning part went well. All of my lids made that joyful little pop as they sealed one by one. But as usual, the lack of focused attention on Jane early in the morning made her behavior more erratic, and the day more difficult for everyone. I ran some errands, and forgot half of what I went for, and still managed to spend too much. And in spite of my good intentions, aside from the rhubarb absolutely rien d'autre n'a été mis en place for Monday. Laundry's not done. House is a wreck. I'm feeling like a shoddy mother, and thank God I'm not currently judgnig myself as a housewife. But there it is. Time from some tea and self-sympathy/denial. And a few pictures from the rest of the weekend. 

Look how excited I am. I'm actually even more excited than I look. 

I'm sure you're getting tired of sunset pictures. But it's that time of year when even dull days are bookended with something special. Like these clouds:  May your week be a joyful, fruitful one. Even if you're not ready for it.

 

Mise en place

In the news--bought a new (old) car today, went to a poetry reading in Portland this week, and put Jane up for sale on Craig's List. Just kidding. For once I have a million pictures and million things to say, but I have to get to bed before midnight. So I'll just tell you this evening I've been getting ready for chutney making tomorrow. I'll be making a ginger rhubarb fig chutney with a River Cottage recipe. Let's hope the day is less eventful than the last chutney day.

I went out in the twilight to harvest rhubarb. The frogs were singing. I stood in the rhubarb patch with my eyes closed and listened, and smelled the grass and the approaching rain. It's easier to breathe deeply when the world smells so sweet. Then I went to work. I needed three and a half pounds. I got carried away and gathered six. I think I'll freeze the rest. Unless any of you want some?

I love trimming rhubarb. It has the most incredible smell. It's pungent, but also heady and floral. Satisfying work. The figs have to soak over night in orange juice with orange zest. I've never chopped a pound of figs before. Fun at first, but so sticky that by the end you might as well be chopping with a rolling pin. It smells amazing in here. Tomorrow it will all simmer for hours, and the smell of vinegar will have permeated the entire house. It might be a slightly footish smell, but it will be worth it. I love vinegar. I love chutney. I love looking forward to the new day.

Good night, world. You're difficult. But I love you, too.

 
 

Hope springs eternal

Finally, spring. I feel more awake to the seasons in this house than anywhere, ever, before. There's something about it that is magic to me. I'm always thinking I want to be closer to town. And then, I take a walk outside, just in our yard. And it fills my cup. 

There's the light, and the landscape--

There's the bird watching. Not the best pictures. You might need to click on them to see.Can you spot the tanager?

The swallows (tree swallows?) are impossible to capture, like tiny kites in a strong wind. They have white bellies, and I believe some nest in our eaves. The zoom around the yard, very low, and Ifelt and heard one zipping past my head like a bullet. Or, if you lie in the grass, you can see them high above in swarms of twenty or thirty against the blue.

Another close flyer, you can hear them humming and buzzing as the swoop toward you and then away, over and over. Finally caught one with the fancy whatchamacallit lense my dad loaned me (sorry, Dad--telephoto?) I think it's a rufous hummingbird. They're like rubies. Stunning.

And I caught my favorite bird in flight! I know. The robin may be pedestrian. But its song...

That beautiful dawn and twilight song... It makes my heart bouyant. And besides, I love the ruddy breast.

The most reliable harbingers of spring in the flora realm were the last to show.

Volunteer strawberries in a forest of bracken fern

Blossoms on the apple and plum trees

I look forward to lilacs the most. Only one of our bushes is blooming this year.

Wildflowers in the lawn, miniscule white forget-me-nots?

And the native camas.

And as for fauna--ours is a never ending, never repeating, cycle.

I look at her, and I can't believe that she is. That she is so much herself. Always makes me think of this poem. A year ago, she was this baby:

And a year before:

Everyday she changes so much, it's hard to remember ago that three years ago, she was in my belly. Now, she's not a baby. As she says, "I'm a girl!"

My beautiful girl. My funny girl.

She is my constant reminder to embrace life.