Dreamin'

This is the time of year for new: new calendar, new year, new resolutions. Fresh starts are practically a cultural mandate, and as a society of movers and shakers, of doers extraordinaire, we excel at the New Year's resolution. Rather, we excel at making the resolutions, but by January 20th most (though not all) of us have shredded our New Year's lists, or at least buried them in the backs of our journals.

Many resolutions seem to focus on corrective behaviors--we notice a trend we don't like (weighing five pounds more than last year at this time) and vow to reverse it, with a vengeance (I will lose ten pounds this year). This makes a fair bit of sense to me. I mean, if I'm making myself do something I really don't want to do in the first place, then I might as well go for the gold, right?

Not so much, it turns out.

The trouble with this type of resolution is that it brings out the very worst in me. I become a competitive, judgmental, resentful, lonely perfectionist. Ick. I've finally come to the conclusion that no goal, no matter how well intentioned, is worth that. So, what's a girl to do?

The options are many, but last year this particular girl resolved to ditch the resolutions and went dreaming instead. In the fashion of Jen Lemen, I created my very own dream list. They were big ones, and most have yet to be realized, but I'm okay with that. Having a dream come true is a wonderful thing, but it's the dreaming itself that's miraculous. 

Nine Dreams for 2009 (thanks to Karen at Chookooloonks for this one)

1.  As a recovering doer, I'd like to create space in the days, weeks, and months of 2009 for reflection, for being.

2.  I'd like to see some of my words in print.

3.  I'd like to take joy in the remainder of The Furrball's life and weather his death with grace.

4.  I'd like to make a new friend this year.

5.  I'd like to do something with the overgrown jungle that is our yard. Actually, as long as I'm dreaming, I'd like someone else to do something about our yard.

6.  I'd like to find a church home this year.

7.  I'd like to perfect a few dairy-free cookie recipes.

8.  I'd like my work to be an encouraging, hopeful part of my life, not be my life.

9.  And last but not least, it sure would be nice to finally install flooring on the second floor. The subfloor works and all, but carpeting up there might just make my year.

What are you dreaming for 2009?

The Big Thaw

Good thing it (finally) warmed up. He was getting a little chilled.

Forecast

It was supposed to rain today. This sure is prettier.

So is this.

Merry Christmas

Today's forecast was for snow turning to rain this afternoon. It currently appears as if the above-freezing temperatures have vacated the area. We may be in for a white Christmas after all. I'm kind of looking forward to the possibility, even if it means shoveling, yet again.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Blessings of joy and hope to each of you.

Digging Out

As much as I'm writing about it lately, you might think I've never seen snow. On the contrary, I grew up in western Michigan, near the lake, and spent the first six years of my married life in Vermont. I'm no stranger to snow.

It's just that when we moved to the Pacific Northwest seven and a half years ago, I was certain I'd never need to touch a snow shovel again. Alas, I've been proven wrong.

Proof

that it's still cold here.

that the best antidote for a cold morning is a sweet, warm, just-baked cinnamon roll.

that The Furrball patrols the far reaches of his territory—no matter the weather.

that The Furrball prefers napping

to portraiture.

More Snow!

My siblings who live in Michigan's Upper Peninsula chuckle and shake their heads. "You actually bought a snow shovel to remove this? There's hardly enough there to bother brushing it away with your boot!"

Yes, well. What can I say? I left my boots back in Vermont too.

Skating at Grandpa's

Skating at Grandpa’s
for Grandpa Carl

Elaine must have been there,
Eric, Angela, likely Daniel,
as we called him then,
but I only remember sliding,
twirling about with Kelly.

And Grandpa, I remember
Shoveling, scraping to find the layer of
Compacted snow riding the ice of the winter
pond, hosing it down, watering to make it
Grow into the skating rink of our dreams

Evening out the surface
Making our rubber-soled boots
The fastest skates in New Harrison, Ohio.
I remember mittens, hand-knit scarves
And icy exhalations

Cartoon starts and crashes
Giggles, belly laughs
Grandpa’s teeth flashing bright
In his chiseled, farmer face—
A hard, working man, playing.

It’s only now Grandpa, I wonder
When did you start scraping the pond,
Preparing for our visit, for those few hours
We played in the wonderland skate park
You designed specially for us?

All It Takes Is a Little Space

nowhere

now here

Iced In

Here in the Pacific Northwest, we don't get many days when the temperature drops below the point when water magically transforms into ice. And even less frequently do we get consecutive days of the same. Consequently, we do not own a snow shovel, nor does the city deem it necessary to plow or sand our street.
Yes, folks, that's our icy street, and we haven't owned studded snow tires since we left Vermont. All that to say, I'm home today and won't be going out, if I can help it, any time in the near future.

There are all sorts of projects that could use my attention, but it's mid-December, so there really wasn't any point in doing anything other than beginning the holiday baking.

Trouble is, these cookies are my new favorite, and if I don't stop snitching them, our friends' Christmas packages will be a little empty this year.

And a Few More

Tree Trimming

Grandma Mariam gave her grandkids ornaments, mostly handmade, each Christmas. She liked crafty things—beads, paint, stitchery of all kinds, crochet—and our yearly Christmas tree reflects her love of handmade as well as of us.

For the first time in my adult life there won't be a new Christmas ornament from Grandma this year. Oddly, this realization didn't occur to me until we opened the Christmas box this weekend. I might have thought of it at her funeral back in April or any other time in the intervening months, but I didn't. Out of regret and sadness, I had a fleeting desire to close the Christmas box back up, but that was quickly overcome by the excitement of remembering her as I traced my fingers over the ornaments she made.

Some are kitschy, some beautiful, but all were given in love. And in love and in Grandma's memory, I placed them all on our tree.

Post-Thanksgiving Album

Sunday Supper

Veg

Tofu

Pasta

and

Peanut Sauce

Supper

from scratch
in 30 minutes

or less.

Rachael Ray,
eat

your

heart

out.

The Nature of Stone

Someone once said stones can weep,
that if all else is silent, they will cry out.
And I’ve heard a stone will make a good soup
in the company of generosity.
So, tell me, what about my stone heart?

A Memoir, a Review, and a Plea

I have a thing about book reviews. I read them and find them useful at times. I’ve even picked up and read books I would have bypassed but for a good review written by a writer I admire or respect. But book reviews make me a little uncomfortable, probably because I never figured out how to write or give one.

Believe it or not, the Book Report is still part of the grade-school-through-graduate-education curriculums, despite the loss from those very curriculums of classes and units on grammar, phonics, and long division. This isn’t a rant against current educational trends, just a little harrumph from a person who actually learned the stuff no longer being taught but can’t figure out how to give what is essentially a third-grade book report. And this tiny, little truth creates any number of complications for me.

For example, I was reading Campbell McGrath’s latest, Seven Notebooks, on the bus awhile back and the woman sitting next to me pointed to it and asked, “What’s that?” Now, I knew she wanted me to close the book, point the cover in her direction so she could see the title, and give her my carefully thought out ten-second review, but darn it, I was in the middle of reading it, not thinking about summarizing or describing it, and my first impulse was to reply, “What? This? This, my dear, is called a book,” then glare at her for her inept interruption of my reading time.

Thankfully, I rarely act on my first impulses. Instead, I showed her the book’s cover then continued reading and she popped her ear bud back in and resumed listening, so the rest of the ride with my seatmate was comfortably pleasant. Plus, I successfully avoided having to say anything at all about the book, which, by the way, I liked.

See? I’m just naturally disinclined toward book reviews. But I read (a lot), and because people know this about me they have a tendency to ask me what I am reading, or have read, or am planning to read and what I think about what I am reading, or have read, or am planning to read. And because I read (a lot), I often run across surprises—books that are inspiring, erudite, impassioned, or all together good tall tales—that I just have to share with my nearest and dearest reader friends. But when it comes right down to it, about all I can come up with to recommend or describe the book to anyone is that I liked, loved, or hated the title or author in question, and even I don’t think that’s a compelling enough reason to pick up a book and read it.

I’m in just such a pickle now. I loved Lewis Buzbee’s The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop because it is exactly what the sub-title (A Memoir, a History) promises and I love books in which good writers write about their passions, in this case, Buzbee’s life-long love of books and bookshops. I want to recommend this book to Troy at Troy’s Work Table because as a bookshop connoisseur, inveterate reader, and writer extraordinaire himself, it seems to me that Troy would (if he hasn’t already read it) enjoy The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop. But I don’t quite know what else to say about it, and I can’t very well be so arrogant as to expect him to be even remotely interested in the book just because I loved it and am certain he will too, now can I?

So, if you happen to know of a helpful resource on writing book reviews, would you be so kind as to send me a short review, including the title and author’s name, so I may determine if the resource would be useful to me in my continuing education and in recommending The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop to Troy? Thanks.

Cheeseless (!)

We tried a new-to-us recipe last night: Sweet Potato & Bean Burritos from Moosewood Restaurant Low-Fat Favorites. Beans and sweet potato purreed to a gloppy mush, not a shred of cheese in sight...call me a skeptic, but I wasn't hopeful. I was, however, willing to try it. Why? A very good question, indeed.

We went mostly dairy-free a couple years ago after an allergy test revealed that Flip and cheese, butter, milk, etc. don't get along too well. We still have the occasional pizza and our favorite Nachos Sauce from the Moosewood Cookbook because a totally cheeseless life is just too sad to contemplate, but I'm always on the lookout for dairy-free options to add to my recipe box.

The trouble is, many dairy-free dishes just aren't very good—butter really does make everything taste better—and, consequently, my dairy-free repertoire is still rather limited. So when I happened across a recipe that has a note like this, "One young Moosewood waitperson said this was the first time she had ever loved a burrito without cheese," I was willing to set aside my skepticism and get out my skillet.

And to my unending surprise—these burritos are actually good! I don't know if they'd stand up to a side-by-side taste test with a cheese-filled burrito, but I'd enter them in a burrito contest just to find out. Anyone up for a cook-off?

View

Hope seems,

at times,

incapable

of holding its own.

It may

be worth

remembering

then

that hope

is intrepid

and hardier

than it appears.

Unexpected Encounter

I ran into my great-grandfather at the movies last week (The Secret Life of Bees), and I must admit I was a bit startled because Grandpa Alva died when I was a teen.

Grandpa was a beekeeper and it was his starthistle honey that sweetened my childhood cereal and made biscuits the best part of supper. His honey was light, lighter than anything I’ve seen or tasted since, and its flavor was clean—bright but not sharp, faintly floral. All the other honey I’ve ever come across has some mysterious bit of cloudiness in it that makes it glow both in the light and my mouth, but Grandpa’s honey sparkled. It was crystal clear and in direct sunlight it almost looked white.

I’ve spent the past few days trying to remember the sequence of the film, the ways it parted from Sue Monk Kidd’s novel, the scenes I liked best, but I keep returning instead to the ache I felt while watching that first beekeeping scene. I can’t remember who first showed Lily Owens what a frame full of honey looks like because all I could see was Grandpa in his bee hat, smoker at his feet, carefully lifting the frame from the hive’s top super. And I wish I had been Lily right then so I could have worked with Grandpa as he cared for his bees, so I could have asked him questions about the labor that occupied his hands and mind for much of his life, and so I could have tasted his honey, one last time.

-----------
edited November 21, 2008 —
One of my uncles just emailed this pic of Grandpa Alva and his bees. Photo taken by my great-grandmother.

Transitionary Curiosity

"How might I build on all that I have learned yet not resist new challenges and transitions?"

Kathleen Norris, Acedia & me

Pre-Thanksgiving Calculations

Planner Laura: Let’s see. We’ll be having turkey, unstuffed stuffing…
Critic Laura: Isn’t that called dressing?
Planner Laura: …oyster casserole, green bean casserole, dinner rolls, sweet potatoes and apples.
Critic Laura: Is everything going to fit in here?
Planner Laura: I think so. Yes, it will.
Critic Laura: But how’d it get so dirty?
Planner Laura: Lasagna, berry crisp, roasted veg, over-full pie, baked tofu…
Critic Laura: And when was it last cleaned?
Planner Laura: Ummmmm…
Long pause.

Laura: Do you think anyone will notice?

Wouldn't It Be Nice

I could use a nap like this one right about now.

Inside Out

Sometimes, inside out is the only way to be.

Seasonal Dilemmas

Our first year in the neighborhood, we ran out of candy on Halloween. Can you believe it? The horror!

After careful tallying in subsequent years, we now know to expect about 30 trick-or-treaters clamoring up our walk and onto our porch, prancing around in their costumes, all high on sugar and asking for more. So, we buy Costco-sized bags of loot. I wasn’t sure if one would be enough this year, but I wasn’t willing to spend $26.00 on candy, either. Go ahead. Call me a cheapskate. I can take it.

But last Friday only 16 princesses, bees, fairies, pumpkins, ghouls, skeletons, and pirates braved the wet night and slippery sidewalks to be greeted at our door by a bowl of individually wrapped, fun-size bars—and an accompanying hiss from The Furrball. (Not that he was interested in the chocolate, because he wasn’t. He just wanted the interlopers off his porch.)

Only 16 trick-or-treaters. Polite ones at that. Not a single one of them grabbed a fistful from the bowl. Imagine! Consequently, we’re faced with the very dilemma confronting all parents of trick-or-treaters everywhere, and we don’t even have kids: What do we do with all this candy?

Hello. Is that a serious question? Of course we’ll be eating it, and faster than is good for us, too.

Yes!

Yes We Can!

My sleeves are rolled up.

I'm ready to get down to work.

The Power of a Four-Letter Word

I sat in the Seattle Repertory Theatre’s lobby on a gorgeous October afternoon after witnessing Charlayne Woodard’s performance of her one-woman play, The Night Watcher, and said to myself, “Yes! That is why we tell our stories. That’s the story I want to tell.”

Trouble is, sitting here in front of my computer, I’m at a complete loss as to how to define “that.” It made so much sense in the moment. I knew exactly what I was talking about. But it’s absolutely useless now.

Pesky little four-letter word.

In The Night Watcher, Charlayne Woodard shares the stories of her relationships with her godchildren, nieces, nephews, and friends’ kids, to whom she is “Auntie Charlayne.”

“Shares” is a little too tame, though—it’s not like she stood behind a podium and read from her prepared notes. She’s an actor, in a one-woman play. She shot around the stage portraying herself, her husband, all the kids, her parents, and her friends with aid of a single, armless red chair and a bazillion facial expressions, voices, and body movements.

And here’s another amazing thing: I bet that none of the people who saw her do this over the course of the four week run of the play thought she was the least bit crazy. In fact, I thought she was brilliant, but if I’d met her in the grocery acting like that…

Anyway, it’s absolutely, transparently obvious to anyone who saw the play that Ms. Woodard loves the kids she spotlights in The Night Watcher. She might argue with them, get completely exasperated with them, embarrass them to no end, and have to leave them at times, but she never turns her back on them. And they know this.

They call her in the middle of the night. They tell her their secrets. She hurts and cries with them and helps when she can. She encourages and supports them, like only an auntie can.

In short, she hopes for them, and therein lies the power and vitality, the depth and magnitude with which The Night Watcher impacted me.

Another little four-letter word: hope.

This one, not so pesky at all.

____

And speaking of hope, get on out there and vote today, won'tcha please?

Changes

L.L.Bean, circa 1996


Foamtreads, November 3, 2008

Captain Jack is right. Ya gotta be ready, because everything changes in the 21st century. Now, if only I can figure out how to focus...

Fall

Fall is my favorite season. The crisp air, the sharp smell of the dry leaves crunching underfoot, the burnished trees in the golden afternoon light. Buttery squashes. Spicy tart cider. Snappy fresh apples. Sweet homemade caramel corn. Toasty cinnamon rolls. The twang of nutmeg. Mmm. I love it.

Fall’s sensations enchant me; its tastes connect my body and soul. It is the portion of the year in which I feel most alive and full, perhaps because it is the season of my birth.

But Fall, as much as I love it, also happens to hold the memories of more than a few personal traumas. Today I marked the third anniversary of one of them with quiet and a few words of gratitude to the Creator of the Universe, with thoughts of the woman who shared that experience with me, and delight in the colorful morning sky. I wrote and wept. I pondered. I wondered how to express to myself and to others how meaningful, how poignant this milestone is to me.

Then I realized that I cannot tell you, or myself for that matter, all that this day means because its whole meaning has yet to be revealed. All I know right now is this: I find I am filled with both heartache and gratitude as I reflect on what has been and celebrate what has come, and I’m okay with that.