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A Question

Sometimes I wonder if I am just completely out of touch with the world around me.

Last week I was in a couple of different stores, buying fabric for some projects that are currently (still) underway. As she was cutting my fabric, one of the clerks in a particular store asked me what I was making, and I replied that I was making clothing that would be given to some children in Bolivia, and explained what I was doing and why. Although she seemed to think this project was fascinating, she also told me that my choices were too "good" for charity sewing, and that I should save the "nice" fabric for my children and grandchildren and get something from the bargain bin instead. I am not talking about anything fancy here; she was cutting quilting cotton.

Apparently this continues to bother me, perhaps because I was simply too stunned to come up with a witty response at the time. Not that it would have changed her attitude, anyway. I have no objection to saving money. If there was something I would have bought for my family in the bargain bin, I would have bought it. But why on earth would I make, or even give, something to another human being, even a person who needs charity, something that I would not deem worthy of giving to my own family? The mere thought makes my blood boil. To say "this is too good" is to say that the person who receives it is not worthy, and who am I to judge?

Is this what we have come to? Are we the land of "I deserve better"? Or can we be a land that realizes that life on earth and everything in it is a gift, a gift to be shared?

May 18, 2016
Bright Flower

My first ever clematis bloom!!!

It is such a simple thing, and I really did nothing but put a plant in the ground last spring and have patience. I'd never had luck with clematis before, they never came back the second year. I guess I just never found the right spot, until I found this spot. And yet the joy of such a simple thing is profound.

Last week was a roller coaster of a week. I was up and down and all around. I withdrew when I should have been social, I blurted when I should have been silent. It was a week ruled more by my inner four-year old than by my older and obviously not always much wiser self.

The weekend has been filled with garden therapy: some weeding, some planting, some digging, some hauling around of heavy things. I am tired, and achy, and much more clear headed. Blossoms bloom when, and sometimes where, you least expect them. I cried in church today, but they were tears of joy. They were tears of gratitude, gratitude at having a place where I am welcomed even when floundering. May we all find such places.

May 15, 2016
Paper Promises

Not many words this week. It is possible I am worded out, at least for the moment. But I've been sorting through boxes: scanning, filing, putting to rights, and shredding. Mucho shredding. Shredding paper is its own kind of magic, turning the weight of obligation into fluffy little bits of confetti.

It seems if you stop thinking so much about what you should be, you can find out who you really are.

May 12, 2016
Anniversary of a Goodbye

Three years ago, on May 10, 2013, I said goodbye to my husband, my love, my best friend. I was blessed to be there when he died, to be able to hold his hand, to say goodbye. That doesn't mean that letting go was easy. Although I didn't fully realize it at that time, the hardest part was yet to come.

In some ways this anniversary has been more unsettling than the previous one. I wasn't expecting that, and it caught me by surprise, although now, in retrospect, I can see that the tide had changed, and I was walking on shifting sands. I suppose I thought that there would come a point where I would be a new me, resurrected in some sense, and no longer touched by grief. Of course that is silly and a bit naïve. But there is no knowing of the process until one is in the middle of it.

The weekend caught me by surprise and hit me hard. There were tears; but they were not predominantly tears of loss or tears of self-pity. There were tears of release also. And there were dreams, dreams of bondage, and chains, and of breaking those chains. There were dreams and tears and the calm certainty of "I am", of growth and healing. This is not a post about sadness.

I'm really not sure I can adequately put this in words yet; I am not ready. There are possibly moments in life, moments of transition, of evolution, even of a kind of resurrection of sorts, that elude words, that elude definition, that are important precisely because of the subtlety of the shift in perspective they bring about.

Losing a spouse is like being ripped in two: One tree formed of two, grown together, entwined; and then, suddenly, as if hit by lightening, divided into two again. But this new half is somehow less and more than what one had started with, part of oneself is also lost, and part of the other is retained. Yes, we are ravaged by scars, but we do not have to hide behind those scars; they do not have to be a constant reminder of pain. They may pain us on occasion, they may have introduced a bend to our otherwise upright stance, but that very bend could also be an opportunity for new growth.

George would have loved to sit in his chair in the corner of the sun room and look out at the garden. But I didn't work on the garden until after he was gone, couldn't work on the garden until after he was gone. He lost much in those final years, but he was not the only one, we both lost much. But we also gained much and found something that, despite adversity, might have otherwise gone undiscovered.

As for me. I am different and yet I am the same. But then, aren't we all, always the same, and yet different? Wounds heal, scabs appear, new skin forms. Sometimes life surprises us. Sometimes it doesn't, but it seems much better to be open to the surprises than to be dragged down by the disappointments. I am trying to let go of walls and things that distract from what is important to me now, but sometimes I'm not even sure I've hit a wall until after I've banged my head upon it a few times, or until a few tears have fallen. Only then it seems, can I say "yes, I knew that all along. Why did it take me so long to recognize it?"

May 10, 2016
Neighborhood Stroll: An Early Evening in May

It has been a while since I've posted pictures from my neighborhood walk. Last night we walked down around  the retention pond below my house.

The path is mowed periodically. It needs to be mowed soon as a few brambly things are growing up in the path, but it is still navigable.

It was breezy yesterday evening, and the flowers wouldn't hold still for their portraits. If I were a more determined photographer I would go back down this morning, but the light would be different. Or I would have waited longer, but Tikka's patience with this particular spot was already waning.   I look up and my frustration slips away at the beauty of the sky.

Of course, when the path is mowed, these beauties will disappear for a brief period, only to return.

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Leaving the retention pond, we wander across the hills and valleys of a field of future building sites, recently enough mowed that there is still a hint of the smell of fresh grass in the air.

The houses on this side of my neighborhood are older than mine, their gardens more established. I have to remember that my garden is only beginning its second summer.

But they are also more protected. Their locations are slightly sunnier. They are also protected from the winds that are always present at my house, the last house at the top of a hill,   The differences amaze me. Even when we buy and plant the same things, in the same week, the plants at the end of the street are almost always a week ahead of mine.

Even though our houses are all alike, and our yards are actually quite similar, with similar, if not identical, varieties of plants, each garden is slightly different, reflecting the preferences and attentions, or lack thereof of each homeowner. You can't see it in this photo, but a baby bunny hopped under those flowers above, just before I snapped the photo. I experienced a mad urge to find her, only wanting to say hello, but wisdom prevailed. Peace and safety are too sacred, should not be stolen for mere curiosity's sake.

And once again, we are home. Have a lovely weekend.

May 7, 2016
Five Things Friday, Mostly About Food

I've been scattered this week. There are, in fact, several good reasons for this and I have decided to cut myself some slack and just not worry about it.   There is a fine line sometimes between complacency and simply going with the flow, but I believe, and hope, that as long as one is aware and intentional, one can hopefully catch oneself before sliding too deeply into any hidden pits.

1. I roasted a chicken for dinner Wednesday night.   It is such a simple thing really, and yet too often I think we think of a roast chicken as a convenience, something to pick up on the way home from the store when we are hungry and feeling rushed. I have been known to succumb to that very urge. But although roasting a chicken does require some time, and this bird was rather large and needed nearly 1 1/2 hours to roast, once in the oven, the attention of the cook is not required, leaving her free to do other things.

2. The only downside to roast chicken that I can see is that it so delicious that I want to do it again practically immediately. In fact, you can see that I was so eager that I ripped a wing off practically as soon as the chicken was out of the oven, before it could cool, before I could take a photo. I have no regrets. Once the chicken had rested, I ate the legs along with the outer parts of a lovely artichoke I had picked up at Whole Foods, dipping the leaves in homemade Aioli. The chicken carcass went into the slow cooker with the contents of a bag of vegetable trimmings and my last two chicken feet, and I woke up to the smell of chicken stock Thursday morning.   A ladle of fresh stock, some leftover zoodles (zucchini noodles), shredded chicken breast, sautéed mushrooms, baby spinach, and a poached egg made a lovely breakfast. The leftover artichoke heart was sliced and combined with chicken breast and bell peppers in a quick sauté for lunch.

3. While the chicken was roasting on Wednesday evening I entertained myself with a short stroll down memory lane. I had picked up my old, stained, and well-worn copy of Marcella Hazan's Classic Italian Cookbook after reading Lisa's post earlier this week. I hadn't cooked from it recently, thinking it really no longer fit my life. This was only partially correct. As I read the book I remembered my younger self, remembered my culinary explorations as a young bride. Although I don't really cook risotto for myself now, I remember learning the process, remembering the thrill when I finally got it right, the sense of accomplishment when it became almost second nature. I also remember the joy of making my first ossobuco and eventually mastering it. I haven't made ossobuco in a long time, although I occasionally yearn for it. As I am unlikely to find a gluten-free version in a local restaurant that will meet my standards, I shall have to cook it myself. I've been lax about cooking for friends so far this year, a situation that will have to change.

For a girl who grew up in Texas, even a girl whose parents were both adventurous cooks, Hazan was a revelation, opening my eyes to a sensibility about food that was a far cry from the Spaghetti Warehouse, lasagna, pizza, and my parent's fritto misto. I remember my awe at learning about the many ways one could cook artichokes. I grew up eating artichokes, but they were always simply boiled. I remember learning to pan saute mackerel with olive oil and rosemary, and my amazement that something so simple could yield such depth of flavor. In the late 1980s and early '90s we had a local fishmonger who often had beautiful mackerel, and it appeared frequently on our table. I occasionally see a beautiful mackerel in the fish market here in Knoxville, and I am reminded of those meals. Too often the fish are too large for one, but perhaps I will buy one someday. I remember that I used to also make a mackerel paté with any leftover fish and I could surely do so again.

I also remember the amazement I felt when I learned to think of parsley as an aromatic to add at the beginning of cooking rather than merely as a garnish. I remember that first whiff of the aroma of sautéed parsley, that first taste, the way it magnified the flavor and added incredible depth to the dish. It is a technique I have never forgotten. The first time I sautéed parsley I was making Hazan's recipe for spaghetti with tuna, a favorite dish for those days when I needed a fast, delicious, and satisfying meal from pantry staples. I made that dish for years, decades even. I could make it again. I might need to make it again soon.

4. I have taken great pains to be aware of movement and activity this week, to stretch, to use ice or heat as needed. I have been cautious about walking, limiting myself to 10k steps, and 10k only. Yesterday I took a long walk in the middle of the day, 2 1/2 miles, but it was only mostly level or gently sloping terrain. I am still trying to take a balanced approach, with a short walk in the morning and again in the evening, even on days that include longer excursions. I am still not walking the hills in my neighborhood though; it is not going uphill that is the problem, but rather coming back down. It will do me no harm to wait until next week.

5. I extended the fermentation time of my most recent batch of kimchi a little more than the previous batches and reduced the heat slightly. It has worked out quite well, still hot, but not quite as incendiarily so as previous batches. This batch is also slightly less "sparkly" and a bit more funky, but just as good as previous efforts.  The kimchi worked well in a scramble with some shredded chicken this morning. Just before the eggs set, I tossed in some leftover steamed carrots and their sweetness offset the heat of the kimchi and rounded out the flavors nicely. Kimchi opens another world of possibilities, one well worth exploring further.

May 6, 2016
After the Rain

The sky after heavy rains yesterday evening, shortly before sunset,

I apparently injured one or more of the adductors in my right leg Sunday night. I am not aware of doing it, although I am prone to such injuries, and may have been simply walking without intention following a lovely evening where I sat for far too long. Setbacks, reversals, and shifts in perspective are simply part of life, the trick is simply in negotiating the path.

Yesterday involved several therapeutic interludes of ice, gradual stretching, and rest. Walking was slow and painful, with small mincing steps, but I did (barely) get my steps in. I am finding it somewhat easier to move this morning; I can at least get out of bed, and even sit or rise from a chair without agony, which is good, but I need to take care and not do too or much too fast. Gardening activities, with the requisite bending and squatting will probably be on hold for the rest of this week as well.

But some of the other petty annoyances have been corrected or are scheduled for correction. There is light in the kitchen and the master bedroom, although the latter is only temporary and some shopping is warranted. The sink in the master bathroom will be reattached this evening. I was told the workman would be here late, after normal working hours, as it would be done after the scheduled install for today. I am fine with that even though I may end up missing a concert tonight; at this point I'd rather have a sink. If it is glued today, it can probably be plumbed on Thursday.

And now, I am going to go sit on the porch with a cup of coffee, listen to birdsong, and enjoy the softness of the morning air.

May 3, 2016
Now I Get It.

A long time ago, when I was 16, I had back surgery for scoliosis. My scoliosis was very bad, and I am grateful, even though what was state-of-the-art 40 years ago might now be considered somewhat crude.

Following my recovery from that surgery, my surgeon told me that I must take 3 walks of about 1/2 mile every day for the rest of my life. I remember asking if I could take 1 longer walk instead, and he told me no, that the effects would not be the same. For a year or two I followed his directive. Then I started varying my walks and becoming inconsistent. Often I only took one long walk per day. When George became ill, I gradually stopped doing even that.

This year one of my goals has been to walk more. Mostly I simply want to be stronger, but I was also frustrated at not being able to manage some steep hiking in the fall, and I want to be able to do as much as I can. I'd like to be able to take at least short hikes on uneven and even steep terrain. I'd like to ride my bike again. Walking, on both paved and unpaved terrain seemed like a good start. I already had a fitbit and I started using it again. Through March and into early April I managed to average between 70,000 and 84,000 steps every week, but I did not manage 10k everyday. Each week there would be a day I simply was too stiff and sore and tired to move, but I didn't worry about it because my totals were good.

Then I realized that I needed to be more consistent, and perhaps also more moderate in my approach. In the last two weeks I have managed to walk 10k everyday. And although my weekly totals have been lower, I have actually felt better, and find myself doing more. I have also finally understood what Dr. Dixon meant 41 years ago, when he told me that three short walks were better than one long one. I don't mind a long walk. In fact I enjoy it. But I can't take one long hike in the morning, and then just do routine tasks and walking for the rest of the day, unless I am spending the day on my feet moving around (ie walking). 7k or 8k early and then only 2k – 3k later doesn't work. I can finesse an actual midday walk because I don't tend to sit for hours on end, but whatever I do, I must take a walk in the evening, after dinner, and that walk must be at least 1/2 mile but preferably more, which really is not all that long, but it is more than just down to the end of my street and back.

.

I suspect that these two things, a morning walk and an evening walk are the critical points, at least for me, and possibly for others in the bad back, aging or arthritic camps. The timing of walks may be even more critical than number of steps overall in that we all have days where we can do more and days where we can do less. In the meantime I'll keep up my steps and I am planning a few more ambitious walks/hikes. Once I feel more secure with that, I'll tackle the bike.

The small silver llama figurines were my grandmothes. They live on the shelf below my tv and make me smile, although I see that they need polishing again. And yes, it is worth having silver objects out where they can be seen, even if it means polishing them occasionally.

April 30, 2016
The Uplifting Effects of Allowing Oneself to Grumble

Grumble, grumble, grumble. Sometimes minor annoyances seem to take on a life of their own. It is not that they can't be resolved, its not even that they even ruin your day. Sometimes, when too many things come undone, one simply wants to grumble.

My knees hurt. They have hurt for a week. No actually, only my left knee has been painful for a week, my right knee just started acting up yesterday. I barely got my 10,000 steps in, but I did; 10,012 to be exact. 10k steps is a pretty low-activity day, but I've done worse, far worse.

The fluorescent lights in the kitchen are not working. I don't like them, but they are there, and the kitchen is dark without them, I bought new fluorescent tubes. Then I had to buy a 6-foot ladder so I could reach the fixture to replace them, I don't know how I managed to move from New York with two step-ladders and without our previous 6-footer, which was far better made than the one I bought yesterday. But there you have it. The past is the past. No point in fretting over it.

Before my back surgery I was afraid to climb up on ladders as my balance was very poor. In fact I am still pretty nervous about ladders. But up I went anyway, and I'm glad I did. I replaced all four bulbs and the fixture still doesn't work. It must be either the ballast or something in the switch. Time for professional help, which is timely as the bulbs in the ceiling fixture in the master bedroom just burnt out again, for the second time in less than 60 days. It uses halogen bulbs that are none too cheap. Something is wrong there as well. How convenient that my electrical issues have so conveniently aligned their petty revolts.

One of the master bathroom sinks detached from the cabinet. It was an undermount sink that was apparently simply glued to the granite, which I am not convinced is correct, but which nonetheless needs repair. Moises was standing next to it on the counter when it fell. Needless to say, he was a bit startled. I located the company that installed it originally, and am now waiting for them to email me the contract I need to sign before they will agree to come out to fix it. And waiting…. If I don't hear from them by this afternoon I will have to call them again. In the meantime, I am using the other sink, the one I continue to think of as "George's sink" even though I am well aware he will not return to reclaim it. Whatever happens, the master bedroom and bath with return to normal and there will be both light and water.

And very simple pleasures, like putting a puzzle to rights, take on a joy that far exceeds the effort involved. One of these days my grandson will figure this puzzle out, and he will be amazed at how simple, and obvious it was all along. And I will lose the pleasure of watching him trying to sort it out, and the pleasure of putting it back to rights.

Overall I am feeling far more hopeful, despite my grumbling. Or is it because of my grumbling? They are all minor things, these annoyances. Yes, there is always much to do. Yes, things always go wrong or break or change in some unanticipated way. But I am growing stronger, and not just in my ability to do things, but in my ability to not do, to go with the flow. What will be done will be done, and what is not, well, its ability to annoy me will fade with time.

April 28, 2016
On Weeding Out and Celebrating Blossoms

Roses and azaleas in the front yard:

There was a period of a few weeks from the end of March through the first half of April where I committed myself to too many disparate things and I felt a little scattered. Some of those projects were things I really wanted to do, and others were things I agreed to just because I was available. Oh wait, maybe I wasn't really available, or maybe I shouldn't have been available. It seems a bit of recalibration and sorting is in order.

In the midst of all this busyness, a person whom I hope will become a friend, made a comment that brought me up short and set me to thinking. My interpretation of the comment was not at all the way it was intended, but it was what I needed to hear at the moment for it brought me up short and made me realize that I have been drifting along on autopilot, and although I realize, and say, that I am doing well, and am finally at a point where I can focus on myself, I have actually been rather bad at exactly that.

Two weeks from today will be the 3rd anniversary of George's death. 10 weeks from today will be my 58th birthday. In many ways I've gotten my focus back, my energy back, and my ability to be at home by myself with little risk of falling into the slough of despond. And yet, I haven't quite accepted that priority of self yet. There are things I want to pursue, things that make me happy, things that mesh with my gifts, talents, and inclinations, but I haven't always given myself permission to put myself first, to honor those gifts, to honor those needs. For a couple of years after George's death I needed to busy; I needed to be busy outside of myself, and I became very good at keeping myself occupied. Too occupied in fact. Too occupied with stuff that was really not the best use of my time and interests, too occupied with stuff that kept me from doing what I really need and want to do.

So I've been engaged in a bit of spring cleaning: physically, mentally, and emotionally. I am in the process of pulling out of a few things that aren't right for me, and I've put out feelers toward some projects that are better uses of my skills and interests. It is a good process, but sometimes a rocky one, and hence I've been a bit inconsistent here on this blog. Well, I've been a bit inconsistent overall.

One problem I've noticed is that once I give myself permission to set aside time for myself, for the things I want to do, I have to actually figure out what those things may be. It is a process of discovery, a process that yields occasionally surprising results. Something that, at a distance, seemed like a precious flower proves only to be a weed. Sometimes weeds prove to be the most beautiful flowers. It appears to be a slow process, but I am learning.

In the meantime I am in the garden again. At this point this involves mostly weeding, digging and grunt work. I am behind schedule. As you can see if you look closely, weeds still rule. The garden is not where I hoped it would be, I will not plant everything I hoped to plant. I missed an opportunity by occupying myself elsewhere, and yet at the same time, I have learned that some things I thought would be difficult are easier on my back than I had presumed. This has lead to dreams of grandeur and future gardens, although at this point there is really no evidence that I can keep up with the garden I have. But we shall grow together this garden and I, through whatever mis-steps and surprises come our way.

April 26, 2016