November 22nd, 2011
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This isn’t always my most favorite month.
There’s something about November that seems transitional to me; a wrinkle in the calendar between Fall and Winter, the weather hanging in balance, at once cold and snowy, then balmy and mild. It teases, and the sun doesn’t shine much. It brings Thanksgiving, and then we slide in to December, in Christmas and Winter and a last long descent to a new year.
But November, you’re just not my thing. You’re dark and dreary and suddenly twilight at 5:oopm and the wind feels raw, like knives trying to truss my cheeks. You are one long rambling gray day after another.
But a few years ago, November and I started to talk, to try and get along and see how we could be more inclined to one another. It started with an essay from Jeanette Winterson, an author I’d become familiar with that year. She spoke so eloquently of embracing winter darkness, of accepting the early fade of light in our day, to resist the urge to fill the home with artificial light and to try and live with the darkness. On a few occasions, with the guys away for an evening, I lit the house with candles and a fire and sat among the darkness, feeling it slipping through me and filling me with….. peace.
I did cheat just a tad on the light, using a few well placed strands of tiny white lights to help illuminate the darkness, but it added a softer light than incandescence, and this bakers rack in my kitchen is so lovely that it helped make the rooms brighter without all that harshness. Candles are such a favorite of mine, and I try to light as many as possible in the house when the afternoon light begins to fade, as their soft flickering waves send simple calming thoughts through my mind, helping it to slow down, to stop the incessant spinning of thoughts, life, work, meals. You know….. my normal thoughts.
 
Looking at November in this way, seeing it for what it really is, and not expecting that it can be what it’s not; embracing the inevitable change of season, and light and warmth, moving from sweatshirts to sweaters and slippers and hand warmers has created more of an awareness of what beautiful things can be found in this 11th month.
 
And I’ve discovered that I don’t dread the turn of the calendar page, the day after Halloween where it’s suddenly November, with cold and gray and drab. The moments when the light slips from day to evening, all rosy and purple, where shadows and light mix seamlessly are stark and gorgeous, watched over by a steaming tea cup or the hum of an oven. The nights call for another blanket tossed on the bed, it’s weight drawing me to sleep deeper, more restful, a content feline pressed to my leg.
So November, I’m thankful for you, especially in recent years when we’ve learned a bit more about each other, and found our common path. I have found that I can appreciate your gray skies, your cold winds and early darkness. I can love what you offer and settle in with your days, warm and snug. We can be friends, after all. I’m glad too.You’ve shown me some amazing beauty.
{{all these photographs were taken in years past in the month of November}}
It’s Week 11 of Just Write Tuesdays, hosted by the ever-grateful Heather of The Extraordinary Ordinary.
What’s on YOUR plate this month??
November 15th, 2011
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I have been abundantly blessed to receive this beautiful Nikon D80 camera as a gift, straight from the heart of a wonderful friend.
And here I am, someone who is so good with words and story-telling, and I can’t find the proper ones to express my gratitude for her kindness and generosity. She has blessed me, abundantly, and I am so excited to get to know this little beauty better.
You have no idea how much I look forward to sharing with you all that we’ll be able to create.
This week marks the 10th Edition of Just Write Tuesdays, hosted by Heather, of The Extraordinary Ordinary.
November 8th, 2011
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This boy…….
….is now this boy……
and everything about that is OK with me. I’ve waxed philosophic about his transformation in these pages here, times I look at him marching down his appointed road in life and I am warmed with the love and grace he carries, and the leaps and bounds he’s taken in life. He’s a good kid; he’s loved and treasured by his friends, adored by his family and solid in every way. He’s polite and courteous and kind and giving, he has an amazing laugh, he’s smart and funny and is learning to be such a good cook. He can take care of his laundry, do the cleaning, wash dishes and run a vacuum. He helps when he’s asked.
He still likes to sit next to me sometimes, with his head on my shoulder.
I get tears in my eyes when he snuggles our snuggly cat.
I love watching him and his Dad, their heads bent over a project, conversing about ‘guy’ things, both learning from the other.
I still wish sometimes I could reach under his blanket in the morning and feel his warm feet, as I loved doing that when he was a baby. Sometimes I still do, and he just smirks at me. Because he knows. Then he kicks my hand away.
I still marvel sometimes at the hair on his face, the depth of his voice, the growing up he’s done.
And I wrote a check out, placed it in an envelope and sent it in to confirm him for Drivers Ed. He sat through his classroom training, he saw videos of car crashes, he visited a salvage yard to look at the results of careless and inattentive drivers and when I asked him about it, his face went white a little, his voice dropped and he looked like he may cry. And that pleased me, in a parent sort of way.
Here is the scariest thing I’ve ever needed to do as a parent. It’s not the fear of holding down a screaming toddler when the nurse plunges a needle in to their leg; it’s not the scary first day of a new school, or the unknown of the first dentist visit, or telling your boy he needs to have teeth yanked from his mouth. It isn’t the plunging pain of watching doctors probe his swollen belly, while he screams in agony. It’s not the pain of holding them tight through Chicken Pox, strep throat or in the morning following a night of stomach flu. This isn’t like watching them closely in the ER, while a kind doctor slips thread on a needle and sews shut a fleshy gash in their skin.
No, this is giving them permission to operate a deadly weapon. This is giving them the go-ahead to get behind the wheel of a car, and know that they need to learn well, right now, this very moment. This is knowing that the next six months, after the permit is issued, that every time we go somewhere, it would be best to give him the keys, to sit tight and remind him, over and over again, of what he was taught. It’s knowing that when it snows, he’ll need to learn how to navigate that too, all while operating a deadly weapon. This isn’t a car; not in the hands of a 17 year old who thinks they know everything.
This car, this is a deadly weapon. He could kill someone with it. He could kill himself. He could kill us. If he doesn’t do it right, learn it right, be cautious about it, understand what he’s doing and learn the best methods, he could kill someone. And if this isn’t learned correctly, this will be a truth, possibly, that he’d need to live with the rest of his life.
This I repeat to him over, and over and over and over.
“You are not learning to drive a car.” I explain. “You are operating a deadly weapon.”
Today, my one and only child takes his permit test.
Please visit The Extraordinary Ordinary, for this weeks Just Write Tuesdays. It’s the 9th week.What’s on YOUR plate this month??
November 1st, 2011
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It sounds pretty simple, actually. Be yourself. Be true to who you are. Authenticity is a word tossed around frequently these days, a word used with abandon, but sometimes with little affect. I’m really hoping it doesn’t become some new buzzword, like ‘green’ has; a word who’s meaning has faded into a vapor that really means nothing anymore.
I try to focus on that real sense of me, both here on this blog and in my life, wishing to be true to the meaning of ‘authentic’ “not false or copied; genuine, real.” (Websters, 2010) It’s not a word I use loosely, in some effort to sound like something I’m not. I long ago gave up the sense that I had to be something in order for people to like me, and surprisingly (with a big ‘Duh’) once I dropped the stage act that I had no idea I was portraying, my life opened up and the blessings, friendships and opportunities rained down like a mighty monsoon.
But following your heart, and being true to who you are is hard. Reaching deep inside yourself to find the very pulse that makes you tick is a daunting task, and often filled with questions and fear. I firmly believe that each of us has within us an inherent wheel that pushes our life, and we are called to find the power that drives it. Most do, but many don’t. And I know it’s challenging. I’m still on that journey, the long road stretching out before me, and I can’t see over the horizon. But that’s good because it keeps pushing me forward, trying to find what’s over that next rise on the road. There have been moments on this road of mine, moments I’ve dropped to a crouch to fend off the absurdities of life, pulling my head down against the gale winds trying to knock me over, and I’ve stayed there, blind and scared to stand up, to continue on. I know people who’ve simply given up in this manner. There they sit, and there they’ll stay.
That’s not for me.
But being true means you need to admit when you’re scared; admit when you’re facing something daunting, or embarking on a new venture that’s both perfect and frightening. It means you reach out to people who can help talk you off the ledge. It means you say ‘I don’t know.’ when you really don’t know. It means you tell someone ‘No, I can’t do that. I’m sorry.’ when you can’t possibly fit another task on your calendar. It means you need to sometimes tell a truth that will hurt someone, like your spouse or your child or a close friend that just isn’t getting it, and it means that you shouldn’t have to apologize for being truthful. But it’s also being able to apologize when you’ve done wrong, accepting forgiveness from others, being able to forgive others and stick by that. It involves letting go of grudges and inequalities. It means calling a friend and saying ‘I screwed up.’ and being willing to come clean with your mistakes. It means making cookies when you want them, and making the exact ones you crave instead of what you think everyone else will like. It’s saying ‘I just can’t handle this, can you please help me?’ It’s about taking a walk, alone. Or just going to the library for quiet, for an hour of reading mindless magazines, or staring out the window or browsing a bookshelf whether you want to read or not. It means understanding where you fit in life, and recognizing that not everyone will be your friend, but the ones that keep showing up when you reach out, when you suggest dinner, a drink or morning coffee, are the ones you need to focus on the most.
And it means that even when every facet of life is pulling you all crazy, like a wild rubberband, that you have to grab the nearest anchor and tell the world to stop. Listen to your heart screaming ‘ENOUGH!!’ Forget the laundry and the shopping and the cleaning. Because the world will survive without you, for a day or two. But your heart will shrink, and your soul will crumble if you don’t give it the rest it deserves.
This is me; the real me. Who I am is plain to anyone in my circle, those drawn to my truth.
It’s Just Write Tuesday, the Eighth. Stop over at The Extraordinary Ordinary to see everyone.
October 25th, 2011
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There is no moment darker than the middle of the night, when some tiny slip of interference inserts itself through my consciousness and rouses me from a deep restful sleep. The worst part about most of these moments is that there is nothing happening outside the cocoon of my bed that needs my attention.
But there I lay, awake yet not awake. I’m exhausted and unable to fall back asleep, struggling to find the off switch to a high powered mind that never seems to want to stop moving. My thoughts don’t awaken me, but the moment my conscious mind senses ‘Awake’, the process begins to spin, dance and swirl. I’m on some weird lifetime sleep deprivation program, it seems. And there is no relief. The word ‘Insomnia’ hovers over me daily. But I adjust, surprisingly. My body has learned to make it through most any day, with or without the sleep it needs. I push through fatigue and churn out the energy needed, and sometimes, dinner is barely over and I know it will be one of those nights there I collapse in to bed far earlier than normal, the deprivation biting at my heels. There is only so much one can handle before total collapse. Blessedly, those nights are long and deep with good sleep and I awaken refreshed. I have no idea what it’s like to have that good sleep, night after night, to have the energy every single day that I possess after those marathon sleeps. What I could accomplish, were that the case.
Those moments, awake with myself in the night, aren’t all bitter and salt, forming a bad taste in my mouth. There is quiet, a subtle peace that comes in the midst of everyone else’s sleep, where I feel like I am the one being awake in a world unconscious. I can’t count the nights I’ve risen to stand at the bathroom window, listening to the owls outside, hooting for territory and mice, passing silently on feathery wings through the trees. When it’s intolerable, the awake state at 3:00am, I’ve risen to avoid the endless toss and turn, and in peace have sat in the darkness, enjoying a few moments with myself. I can open my computer and pour out my mind and release the thoughts that churn inside and then, finally, make my way back to bed, the warmth of my spouse and a sleepy cat or two and drift off. Thankfully those days are gone, and the conscious moments past midnight now are not so intense. Still, they come and I awake and I wonder what drew me from sleep so I listen to the house around me, the cats snoring, my husband breathing deep and peacefully. This is my life, whether it’s a imperfect slice, here in the pre-dawn utter darkness, or a moment of daytime that takes my breath away. This is what I have, and it’s me and a part of me, without fail. I manage to make it through, daily, on energy that I find from places I don’t know exist. And when the deprivation becomes too much and I can barely make it through dinner, I climb the stairs at far too early an hour and collapse, shutting the door behind me, drawing the quilt over my shoulders and settling, with a deep sigh, into the rare night of uninterrupted sleep.
I marvel at the energy I can grasp from these nights, incapable of realizing just how far I might go, how deep I could reach within me to release what I know is there, if only I had endless and consistent sleep.
It’s Tuesday. And you know that means Just Write is back.
Check out The Extraordinary Ordinary for more posts.
October 18th, 2011
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I look around the table at the women gathered there and I’m caught, just a bit, by the warmth and authenticity sitting with me. I feel blessed, and caught up in the moment of our conversations, of life and marriage, parenting and food and everything in between.
It’s chilly, and clear, but the wind is gusting hard against the old patio doors, making them rattle and throb in the gale. It is October, after all, and no one came here expecting to sunbathe and swim. We knew we’d find bare trees and dry brown grass, and everyone brought slippers or warm socks. Several people came with thick blankets to help ward off the chill of an October night.
But at this moment, no one is thinking about the cold hard wind outside. Because when you gather eight women who are all passionate about food, amazing things happen and we lay it out before us, gazing at the repast with gleaming eyes, exclaiming over the sight. We pour wine in to glass jars and pull up our chairs. Fragrant soup simmers and there is never a break in the conversation as we segue from one topic to the next, easily, like we’ve done this all our lives. Several of us have only met, just today and the moment the cabin door opened and the laughter swept in from the yard. But we know each other, as old friends, regardless of how much face time we’ve had. It’s inherent, this tribe. We have a bond and we just know, in our hearts that we belong here.
Outside the cold bright day turns to a brisk and clear night. There is warmth inside those rattling glass doors that the chilly Autumn night can’t chase away. We sit over homemade salsa and tortilla chips, freshly made bacon jam with crackers and toasted bread, deeply flavored roasted nuts. The promise of warm soup hangs in the air, and there is more bread, delicious and healthy salads and the conversation that feeds us, on and on, an endless succession of nurturing topics, filled with appetizing laughter.
There is more wine poured, glass jars clink on the table and plates come out. Bowls are set near the stove and a ladle dipped in to the pot, drawing forth a steaming amount to smell, while quiet smiles play across faces rich with anticipation. There is no one in this room who isn’t wholly in love with food, passionate about it in every way; who loves to feed others, who lives to share the bounty. They are kindred, these women, these beings that I love. There is a depth to the emotion that runs further than I could have imagined. Food sustains them, and they sustain others with it, through emotions, and heart songs and old glass jars. Through fragrant bread studded with herbs, through kicky salsa that dances on your tongue. Beyond the crackers, and the tortilla chips, there isn’t a processed item in sight. We love our food in exactly the way it should be; freshly and lovingly made.
The darkness outside is impenetrable now, and the dishes are cleared and washed. We slowly move to the sofa, the comfy chairs. Blankets are drawn over full tummies, feet pulled up and tucked under for warmth and yet the conversation never stops. No topic is exhausted or drained from our lips. Now there is dessert, and coffee to give us a brisk resurgence, but soon the home brewed beer is brought out and we taste, slowly sipping, loving the results. It’s close to midnight before we admit defeat and stumble sleepily, happily and with stuffed tummies and hearts, in to our beds.
The morning is more clear sunshine and sustained winds, a humming furnace and sleepy smiles. “I slept like a rock.” resounds from every mouth that appears, eyes relaxed and dreamy, arms wrapped tight in a cocoon of contentment. The coffee pot bubbles and we slip easily into conversation, watching out the windows to a morning rising bright and clear over the lake outside. Breakfast, again, is a dizzy array of fresh baked quick breads, creamy scrambled eggs dredged through with colorful vegetables, the ripest and juiciest pears and apples plucked fresh from the trees only days ago. We’re quieter, more relaxed. We smile and need no reason. We just are; in the moment, right here with our tribe, right where we need to be.
With a sigh, we rise and clean and organize and pack and hug and hug and hug again and laugh and wander across the crunchy leaves to the waiting cars, calling out, again, a goodbye, a thank you, smiles so wide that it seems to split our faces right in two. I close the door against the battering winds and face the empty cabin, the incredible array of foods they’ve left for me to enjoy. My heart is full, the song played out with a few last fading notes to a silence that feels rich, yet forlorn.
They’ll be back again. This much I know.
Please visit —–> The Extraordinary Ordinary
It’s Week Six of Just Write Tuesdays.
October 11th, 2011
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The glory days of Fall, Indian Summer in it’s finest moments is fading fast like the last car of a train bound far away, and it speaks with an urgency “Go out there! Enjoy this!” because we know soon enough, this too will feel like an afterthought.
I’m wearing a tank top and it’s October 9th and I think that this feeling is something I wish to burn in my memory to carry around in January, and again in those late and dark days of March where winter feels interminable and the thought of Spring is like a dream you can’t quite recall. It’s dusty and hot and I love it but the dryness tugs at my throat as the dirt rises against my wheels.
The continual thrum of rubber on the road is sometimes the only noise I hear, that is, until I hit the patch of leaves and crunch my way through. No patch sounds the same, feels the same or even looks alike; these piles of Autumn’s detritus. I could kick them, or run my bike tire over like today and every sound speaks of Fall, but is completely new. I could ride forever on a day like today, all halcyon and copper, flashes of yellow, red and gold whipping past me and the wind on my face. The road is pretty quiet, cars gone elsewhere to enjoy the sunshine and I ride alone, without loneliness. I can’t ever feel lonely outdoors. It’s alive and it’s vibrant and it’s stoic in it’s stand against the seasons, rarely faltering or shrinking back from the blazing heat nor the snow and rain. It’s admirable, really. We could take lots of notes from the stalwart life of a mighty Cottonwood.
My plan is working as the hum of my bike and clicking of the changing gears begins to churn the mass from my mind. I can let go of days, events, time and stress by letting loose in nature, and with each gear change, it’s like clicking open different parts of my skull to allow it all to pour out, freeing me to think straight again. I need to get myself out and away, putting behind me the Instagram days where I filter over the picture of my reality, making it softer, cleaner, or giving it a whole different feel in order to make it tolerable. It’s my coping mechanism when the world begins to disappoint and crush. But my favorite world, the one that never lets me down, is among the trees and leaves, on the waters edge watching a hundred geese make their smooth landings, the wind tickling the hair on my arms.
Ten miles have passed, nearly without effort and I am making my way home. I’m tired, sweaty now and a bit off kilter from this purge of last weeks life. It was a big week, with a lot of amazing happenings and even when it’s gone and over, there is still a residue behind, that little bit that requires some extra scraping to remove. I’m worn, feeling empty, but I’m elated too, ready for another go at it. The wind feels cold almost, against the sweat under my helmet. I stretch, feeling every muscle sing with the energy I’ve just poured through my limbs. I dream of the hot shower, clean clothes and relaxing afternoon ahead.
Visit The Extraordinary Ordinary for more of this week’s Just Write series.
October 4th, 2011
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The stems and vines are withered, but the fruit holds on. Like the last of the season’s tomatoes, and peppers round as a globe just knew that this week of unseasonable warmth was coming and they’d have an excuse to reach their peak.
“The frost won’t get to me.” They reassure, holding tight to the vine of life. “We know what’s on it’s way. Be patient with us.” And like knowing, instinctively, that life just needs an outlet no matter if it’s alive in the flesh or in a plant, I wait, sitting back on my heels to watch, and to hope.
Because these vines have rewarded me profusely this year. And I am so grateful for their bounty. And with that, I will watch, I will water under the warmth of October sun and I will carefully trim the battered and split tops of the ripe tomato away to reveal the sweetness of sugared flesh underneath. A thin grind of fresh black pepper and my mouth tells me, without a doubt that I was right to practice patience.
But it tugs at me and I am tired. Tired of dirt and weeds, and of walking the compost bucket out to the garden again and again. I’m tired of watering and bugs and grasshoppers that leap up in front of me as I make my way to the yard and yet, I’m sad that I’m tired of this all because I can’t imagine anything better in life than a garden, lush with life in plant and animal, where sleepy cats lay beneath bush heavy with leafy shade and butterflies flit carelessly, chasing the bumblebee so thick with pollen. But it still tugs at me. It’s October. It’s time to shut down and to stop. It’s the cycle of seasons that’s ingrained over 47 years and I can’t stop it, even as Indian Summer blazes on my skin and burns it, tender and sharp like pins. The vines are withered, the plants are tired, but for as long as they hold on, for as much as they’ve given me this year with their endless bounty of beautifully colored orbs that taste of sunshine and wind, I can stop the relentless march inside me, the days towards winter light and darkness and let the last of nature play out in my yard.
Because I will miss those tomato days, I can do this, and care for them, as long as they’ll hang on. A week of unseasonable temps in the 80’s likely will be our swan song. I’ll harvest what I can, and return to the earth all that’s left; bury it under a layer of leaves to rest until next year. For more plantings, more herbs, more peppers round and fat, more tomatoes that taste like they grew in a sugar pot, more sighs of contentment.
A pan of these beauties, so carefully tended and raised just steps from my door roasts easily in a hot oven, collapsing on itself like a weary child, and releasing a luscious liquid, an elixir that sends its scent to the very tips of my kitchen. I scrape the sections in to a bowl, peeling back the wrinkled skin and the juice is whisked with the warm oil. There is manoush bread on the counter, and the house, finally, is empty for a few precious hours and I’m unable to ignore the growling belly that guides me to a brush, the tomato flavored oil and slices of bright yellow Golden Jubilee tomato. A handful of torn kale leaves are scattered on the top, along with the tiny thyme leaves stripped from their teeny little stems, and finally, rich Brie cheese.
Soon, under the heat of the oven once again, the transformation takes hold. I am entranced by the smell.
And at this point, with a warm wedge of perfect dinner in my hands, I think that every weed pulled and water droplet sprayed is worth the flavor on my tongue. Every bucket of compost walked to the garden, every carefully laid pile of mulch, every trimmed stalk and the extra ties to hold up plants sagging under their own weight, every cotton sheath laid tight and snug to ward off that first damaging frost…… everything I did, and continue to do now under the sun of October is worth the glory of homegrown.
I will miss this so much.
Please visit my dear friend Heather, and read all the links in this week’s installment of Just Write.
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