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In My Own little Corner

This is one of my happy places.

In the library, the corner where my desk sits. Of course I look out at all the books except the ones behind me, but it is easy to roll my chair around as needed. This corner houses my cookbook collection, or about half of my cookbook collection. The other half is downstairs in the breakfast nook. The wooden stool is not usually there, but I needed to access a high shelf.

I recently resorted all the cookbooks. I had thought about it for a while; I've been cooking a great deal the last few months — exploring new recipes, revisiting old favorites, thinking about the way I want to eat now — and in the process realizing that the way my cookbooks had been ordered recently wasn't really working for me. But shifting books, especially big heavy hardback books, is a job. It is a job made all the harder because the books are on two levels of the house and when I started I had only a rudimentary idea of which books would go upstairs and which would be downstairs. All I knew was that the previous method, straight alphabetical by author on each level was confusing. The books I used the most were downstairs; the remainder were upstairs. But then I would start using a book that was upstairs more, and a book that was downstairs less. When I wanted to cook Thai, or Spanish, or whatever, none of the books were together, and I like to compare recipes. Long ago, when I cooked a lot, I grouped books by category. It was time to go back.

Admittedly I never really stopped cooking, but I had grown a bit staid and stale. Then I bought a new mixer after contemplating it for about 3 years. I hadn't really done any baking in those three years, whereas I used to bake a great deal. Baking for one is problematic, and my church no longer has a coffee hour on Sunday, so I no longer have the excuse of baking things that I can take to church. Yet I miss the act of baking and making dessert. I actually miss making desserts more than I miss eating them.

So I bought the mixer above and started playing. This will be a good mixer when I get to bread, but I'm not there yet. I started with simple and familiar basics: choux pastry (which does not require a mixer at all) and meringues and pavlovas. I made choux puffs to make tiny appetizer sized lobster rolls, then I made cream-puffs, where the mixer was required for the pastry cream, and savory puffs filled with pimento cheese, and salmon mousse. I made multiple batches of pavlovas with spring berries. I made a batch of cupcakes and then I stopped baking for a while. I'm not worried, I will start up again, probably as the weather cools. But the mixer, and the baking, shifted my brain from the utilitarian "I need to eat" setting to "let's play in the kitchen" mode. I'm still playing.

It seems like I've been doing everything except writing. I play in the kitchen. I work in the garden, mostly weeding, but I went through a period where my early mornings were all spent wrestling with chicken wire as the rabbits were feasting on my vegetable beds and my flowers. I've been sewing, slowly but steadily, learning new things as I go, but also making things I am happy with and happy to wear. Knitting. Reading. Occasionally seeing friends.

All of this makes for a very full and happy life, but it is not necessarily an interesting life to write about. What would I say? "I cooked dinner, I am working on a muslin, I knit four rows of lace?" Who cares? I've been reading, but mostly reading genre fiction which I have thoroughly enjoyed but I don't really have anything to say about the books, nor do I need to say anything.

Mostly I've just been wondering what the purpose of a blog is in this world where the internet and social media in particular sometimes feels like it has become too commercialized, to politicized, too fraught. I was an innocent when I started this blog. I am terrible about throwing away pieces of paper. I've lost a lot of things. I thought of this blog as a journal I couldn't throw away only to regret it later. A part of me wants to go back to those innocent days. That may not be possible. But it seems that writing here fills a role, provides some outlet that I still need. Throwing words out into the digital void is different than writing a journal. It is not better. It is not worse. It is different and I write differently. I also see myself differently, and learn about myself in different ways.

Somehow, a post Lisa wrote in 2011 came up on my feed. That post is here. I don't know why, I think I just needed a little kick. So I think I will post a picture from my kitchen window. If I am standing at the sink, this is the view from my window. But the entire outside wall of my kitchen is windows. I neglected to put in upper cabinets because I wanted the view. In the house before this house, the condo I lived in when I first moved to Knoxville, there was no kitchen window. The kitchen was in the center of the house, there was no view to the outside. I hated it. In retrospect perhaps that contributed to why I lost interest in cooking. George died. I had only to cook for myself. I felt claustrophobic in that kitchen.

It has taken me a while to settle fully into this new house; there were reasons, but I am here now. My kitchen is another one of my happy places. I watch the robins while my coffee brews in the morning. At the moment my big fancy espresso machine needs a bit of fiddling and I don't have the patience for it, so the drip coffee maker is out. Apparently this is a happy place for my orchid as well. No complaints here.

July 20, 2024
Settling In, Again.

This was not intentional, this precipitous dive off the blogging map. It just happened. One day I was filled with ideas and the next those ideas had taken a sharp left turn. All good, in many ways. What actually happened is that I needed to settle in.

It has been roughly two years since I moved back into this house and the construction was finished. They were not, personally my favorite two years, but the house was done and I was safely ensconced. The basic tools and artifacts of living were unpacked, but large parts of the studio remained boxed up and chaotic. This year I have given myself permission to play, to discover, to experiment, and, if that is what I wish, to simply sit in a pile of fiber and dream. There are no goals. There is but one rule: follow your heart. Do something, anything, without fear, without worry, without expectation.

Part of that process has involved a return to unpacking. All the boxes of fabric have been unpacked, sorted, photographed, cataloged and put on the shelves. I am now going through the same process with yarns and embroidery/needlework materials, although there is not quite as much a rush on that front. Even this one step has given me access, ideas, and the desire to hide out in my bright space and play.

At the same time I sent all the large rugs in the house out to be cleaned. The house has been colder without the insulation value of the rugs, so I spent some time working on my alpaca blanket. The visual change also prompted a reevaluation of furniture layouts and how I am using the house, so there has been some moving of furniture, both upstairs and down.

The small side tables that were upstairs were not working next to the library sofa, so they got moved to the front hall, where I felt something more was needed. I didn't know what until I happened to place those tables beside the front door. The small bowl shown has moved, and I found two green glass vases which I can fill with flowers. Now my entry is beginning to bring joy.

But you know how it is, move one thing, and then suddenly the entire room needs to be transformed. After moving the tables, I decided that the armchair in the library needed to be swapped with the reclining chair that had been in the master bedroom, where it was neglected. It works much better in the library, and gives the room a more modern vibe. There are no plans to get a side table for that spot at the moment, other than the little bubu 1er stool that is currently there. I have ordered a reading lamp, but it is backordered for a couple of months.

Going with the modern vibe, the two glass Eileen Gray side tables, which were not working in their previous locations, were moved up to the library to flank the sofa. Then the lights, which were the first lamps I ever purchased, shortly after I moved in with George, about forty years ago now, did not work with the new tables. Well, technically they didn't work before the tables were swapped either. So. I bought new lamps that had better-directed task lighting if I wish to read or knit. Above you see both lamps, the new and the old.

I really like this new arrangement. The lights and the tables disappear somewhat against the wall of books, yet they are both attractive and functional. I almost want to have people over for drinks in the library. Except that is not why it was rearranged. A home is about what works for the life of the people who live there, not about what it says to others. For me, a certain amount of visual harmony is paramount. It must work but it must also bring me aesthetic pleasure. Now I have a library/office/television room that does all that. It will bring even more joy when the rug returns and my ankles aren't always cold.

February 18, 2022
Brave New World

So much has happened in the last month I cannot even begin to catch up. At the same time it is as if nothing has happened at all. I am still here, in Knoxville, life still goes on, all is well. It is a life of little excitement, and that is often all to the good. But even that is ambiguous. I am excited. I am excited at small things, and increasing energy, at the ability to vacuum the cobwebs out of the corners of the ceilings and the light fixtures. I am excited that the various piles of life, the things neglected, are less neglected now, and that energy grows steadily, in small increments. The truth is that even joy takes energy.

Two weeks ago, well almost two weeks ago, I cleaned out the garage. This took most of an afternoon and it was dark by the time I finished. The box in the middle (green stripe) is now gone. The pile of black things in the driveway also. That was a floor-standing bike rack that worked in my apartment, but not in the garage because it is meant to lean against a wall and the floors of the garage slope slightly toward the center in order to drain any errant water that might find its way inside. Sold.

I abandoned the garage in the early summer. Oh I walked through it to get to my car. But it was filled with dirty shovels and bags of dirt, spills on the floor, cobwebs I hadn't the energy to tackle. Mess and nature were taking over and this fed my own bitter inner voices. How could I live here two years (almost 2 1/2 years now) and not yet have put up shelves, of organized the garage, have kept up with the mess? My inner voices moved beyond gentle admonitions to chiding to shrieks of outrage and disappointment.

But wait. I was in the middle of planting when suddenly I simply could not. it was not a question of what I would rather do, but one of what I actually could do. The question was "do I lift this shovel from the floor?" "Do I sweep up this dirt?" Or do I use what small remaining bit of energy remains to drag myself up the steps and back into the house. "Do I even have enough energy for that?"

Wait! I have lived here 2 1/2 years, but over 1 1/2 years of that time I have been dealing with other issues, health issues, energy issues, the push-pull of dreams versus the reality of limited energy. It is time to cut myself some slack. I can be happy with neat but not organized. Yes, there is more that could be done. The possibility of more always exists. I have always been subject to the whims of "more is more", to gluttony, not just in having, but in doing. I was trained from early childhood for a life of gluttony: the gluttony of doing; of being; the need to be "smarter than"; the push to be "more accomplished"; the drive to achieve. The call of "more" is yet another trap.

There have been other progresses. The espresso machine started leaking. It started leaking at the worst possible time, when my energy was low, when my brain was also trapped in a pit of molasses. It could flood the kitchen cabinet between my first and second expresso if I grew roots in my chair, if I allowed too much time to elapse. And then……. The flood and its aftermath would overwhelm my energy levels and send me back to bed, exhausted and coffee-less. But this was but a small crisis, a crisis of luck and even privilege in a world of greater crises.

A month later the coffee corner is back in business. The biggest source of the leak has been addressed, although there are still a few small adjustments to be made, as there are also a few small tweaks to be made adjusting the grind back to my normal house espresso grind after a month of grinding coffee much more coarsely. I can live with tweaks. To live is to master the need for constant tweaking of one's hold on reality.

Some piles have simply been shifted to other piles, it is true.

I cleaned out my closet. I dreaded going in there. I didn't know what would fit, what would not. I wore the same few garments over and over again, and I was happy with the cohort of limited choice. But the closet still loomed. In the last month it has all been addressed. Everything, from undergarments to coats and everything in between has been tried on and divided up. The standard divisions were strictly maintained: keep, donate, mend or remake. Surprisingly, it all came out pretty evenly. About 1/3 of the contents of my closet remains, although that is more heavily weighted toward shoes and accessories.

Above is the pile of potentialities: things that need mending, things that can be altered or remade, things that show promise of transformation because the fabric or the yarn can be reused, reconfigured, reimagined. Of course, in the immediate future this just means one more pile in the studio.

I haven't sorted the studio out yet. It remains more a house of dreams than a fully functioning work space, although I am beginning, just beginning, to work there again. My hands itch at the prospect while simultaneously protesting as they struggle with fine motor skills. Every day my hands and my head come a little closer together. Every day dreams and reality butt heads. Every day the walls shift, even minutely.

November 22, 2021
Short and To the Point

Usually, I love bobbles. I love sweaters with bobbles, not that I own any at the moment; I even love knitting bobbles. That said a long row of forty-some odd bobbles did get a little tedious. I didn't mind knitting them per se, but I can also admit that I prefer my bobbles scattered out across the body of a sweater rather than marching like soldiers along a solitary row. At least I prefer not to knit the long row.

But the final result, that happy row of bobbles, makes me smile.

The west knits shawl continues slowly, and I am in no particular rush. I have seen some of the finished pictures; I feel no need to be surprised, am in fact content to know what is coming. Life seems filled with more than enough surprises without deliberately adding more. I also find that, despite my initial misgivings, I like my colors and they way they are playing out, even where the contrast is less obvious. I think I will enjoy not only the knitting, but the wearing of the final shawl.

Other than this, there is not a lot of knitting progress. I knit every day. But my energy is also returning and many things pull my attention away from knitting. There were a few days where that knitting might consist of three bobbles. But at the moment I find that it is good not to define myself as a person who accomplishes things, a woman of projects, rather instead, just to occupy my own space and do what I will, be what I will. How long that will last, I have no idea. It is the antithesis to a lifetime of training.

I did spend about a week winding the yarn for a blanket project that is in the works. That too was slow work as turning the ball winder was difficult on my hands as well. Intermittent stiffness, tingling, even occasional pain, is just the backdrop to life however. There are days I can do more, and days I can do less. The point seems not to be bemoan what is not, but to celebrate the work of creation itself, to find new ways to work.

The blanket is still more or less in the planning stage. It will be modular. I am knitting the first square, which is more or less a gauge swatch. I have learned that very large swatches, knit over a period of days, are the only way I can adequately compensate for the variations in gauge due to the varying stiffness of my fingers. I like the fabric that is being produced, and these larger, size US 10 1/2 needles, are easier when my fingers are more recalcitrant, but am not yet ready to tackle the math and finalize the design.

Winter is just around the corner. A new shawl, and a new blanket for that matter, may be appreciated.

November 19, 2021
This and That

I have been a bit under the weather this week, battling a sinus infection that probably rolled in with bad weather Sunday night. The sun is shining today, and my sinuses are better. I am still moving more slowly than normal but whether this is due to the lingering effects of a massive sinus headache or just the routine purling of my own thought-processes and temperament, I have no idea.

I will at least get this post up this week, although it is already apparent that I have failed in my goal of three posts per week, one to each of three blogs. I am less inclined to fret about this than perhaps I was in bygone years, and I think this is actually to the good. A goal is something to work toward, as I recall, not a hard and fast rule, and at this stage of my life I am inclined to think that meaning simply comes from being present, rather than from branding or accounting in any market-place sense of the word. As I write that I feel brave. It will not be long before I am once again plagued with doubts. It seems to me that the doubting, the questioning, the challenging, all of them building up to communing, which must be in some way related to communicating, both with ourselves, with the world, with others.

I don't know where I am going with this. Perhaps I had better stick with the accounting.

On that front I can't say that I have accomplished much. On Sunday, I disassembled and cleaned out the coffee grinder, the first time I had done that since probably around Thanksgiving. Usually this is a monthly task, but well, sometimes even the best routines fall by the wayside.

I must admit that the quality of my espresso improved noticeably. I had avoided espresso over the last couple of weeks, mostly making Americanos, because there was a tinge of bitterness and weakness in the espresso. What a joy it was to sit in the sun Sunday morning, espresso in hand. The timing was fortuitous as that espresso was greatly appreciated on Monday when I was felled by a sinus headache so severe movement was an issue. After the first two espressos I staggered upstairs for a nap. I managed to get back down to the kitchen for an Americano in the afternoon before curling up with a book, my head cocked at just the perfect angle, the one where it did not feel like it would explode and fall to the floor, grateful for good coffee, good books, a blanket, a comfy sofa, a cat by my side. I was reading Ask Again, Yes by Mary Beth Keane, which I thoroughly enjoyed: A slow, thoughtful, and lovely novel and a read filled with characters drawn with compassion. Now I am on Brit Bennett's The Vanishing Half which has been on my stack forever. I am not yet far enough along to tell you what I think, just that I have been drawn in.

I have been feeling increasingly better since Tuesday, but I have remained in low gear. I did organize the hall linen closet, which remains somewhat bare. I need to buy new sheets for the guest bed. I need blankets as well, but I would rather knit those. There is no accounting for that. I could buy something perfectly functional for less money, and certainly less time, but that is not what interests me and what I have will do. I see no need to fill the space just because there is space to fill. As you see from the little hollow he made in the yellow cashmere throw, Moisés took a nap when I wandered away and left the door open. I also seem to have a lifetime supply of Kleenex. Somehow after the surgery to repair my broken nose, I have tended toward far less sinus congestion and Kleenex use than previously. I suppose there is a gift in everything.

The camellias began opening on Monday and the one shrub is filled with blossoms. There is another that has been struggling; it has buds but they have not yet opened and its ultimate fate is as yet undecided. I planted peas on Tuesday. I have cleaned out the herb bed in preparation for planting some sorrel and some lime balm, although I suspect it remains too cool for the balm to germinate. Other spring greens also need to go in the ground, but whether my timing is right or not is always a guess. I haven't yet settled into the groove of Tennessee gardening. But then a garden is always an experiment, a learning experience, and a reminder that much as we may prefer to pretend otherwise, we are not in control.

The sunshine and the advent of warmer temperatures seem to have sparked some kind of latent urge to clean and refresh, odd enough for me, and also an urge to sort through stuff and declutter (less unusual), as evidenced in the closet cleaning above. I cleaned the glass in the front door and the side windows, and then sat down in the living room to sort through the mail and admire the afternoon light in the entry hall. It seems like I have been fascinated with the entry hall lately, posting a couple of photos on Instagram. Perhaps I am simply in the mood for welcoming others in, inviting life in, although quite frankly I don't see that actually happening all that soon. There is something about spring however and the seasonal urge to blossom-forth I suppose.

I was talking to an acquaintance the other day, we ran into each in line at the hardware store, and she was complaining about how her son had painted his living room a color she did not like, how she hated homes where she noticed the colors of the walls, and in her opinion walls should all be neutral. This was shortly after I took the above photo. I think I smiled to myself and thought she would hate my house. That is not unusual; many people feel. they could not live with the color. Obviously I am a different sort of person. This bothers me not a whit. I should love my house, you should love yours; we should simply learn to find our commonalities and accept our differences, especially perhaps when our children disagree with us.

As I was cleaning the windows I noticed that I should really clean the window sills and the corners that stay in the shade in the winter but it is too early for that. I would clean and they would just get all nasty again after pollen season. Better to wait. The same thought occurred to me regarding some of the bedding plants. My neighbors have been out cleaning out their beds, and although I admire their industry, and their manicured and mulched beds, although I acknowledge that it all needs to be done, and chastise myself for my lack of ambition, it still feels too early to me. The nights are still too cold; creatures still take shelter, tender leaves and buds need protection. The time will be soon, but not yet. Of course what usually happens is that I think it is too early and then suddenly it is late and I feel rushed. The flower heads are still on my hydrangeas, the nuts I left on the ground have provided food for birds and squirrels. I think of myself as living in a conversation with my house, with my garden, with my place on this earth. Whatever I don't get to, Mother Nature will handle in her own way. In fact the bed which I am not going to landscape this year, where I planned to put in some buckwheat, currently looks lovely with a nice crop of lush, low growing weeds. I feel no need to disturb them at this time.

I suppose there has to be one of us in every neighborhood.

March 4, 2021
Woolgathering

Somehow, it struck me this morning that it has gotten to be Thursday and my blogging has fallen into arrears despite the fact that I have been working on four, yes four, separate blog posts. It seems to have simply been that kind of week, and I am hoping, since today is cold and rainy, that I can manage to pull something together, even though I am not inclined toward tackling any of those bigger, although not really weightier, posts or projects. Instead perhaps a few small things that have brought me joy this week, not so much a coherent statement, but a gathering of various bits of fluff.

(Success! I posted to the knitting. blog, and this is now the second blog post of the day, one I intend to finish.)

Above and below are photos of the finished Autumn Vine cushion. The lower photo is the pillow in its final home with two other homemade pillows, both of which I have probably posted to this blog over the years. In the photo above you can see the error in the vertical stripe, where I miscounted once between the green and wine strips. At the time I was constantly tired and suffering from terrible back pain, so I intentionally decided not to rip back. I do love the pillow, inordinately, despite the flaw. It is not its existence so much that annoys me as the fact that it would have been easy enough to fix. I suspect there is a lesson in that.

Anyway, my apologies for the overlap today. Both of these photos were also posted over on purlsandmurmurs, along with others, as I wrote a rambling post about pillow placement and the process of finding a home for Autumn Vine. These same photos will probably show up on instagram as well, so if you follow me there you may face repetitious overload.

Yesterday was sunny and warm and I spent some time working in the garden. I planted a few remaining daffodils, which should have been planted long ago and which may or may not bloom this year. And I prepared garden beds for fava beans and peas, perhaps some spigariello and other greens. While I was outside I noticed how pretty the thyme looked in the afternoon sun.

Yes, that photo, too, was lifted from Instagram. Some thyme plants had clearly survived their first summer and winter, but this was one that I feared had died as it was all dried up and shriveled, at least until it burst into new growth. Change. How often it surprises us when we least expect it.

In the kitchen I was admiring my new oven gloves:

I bought these small sized welding gloves from Amazon in January, and they are at the moment probably my favorite kitchen tool. I have kept a pair of welding gloves by the gill for some time, but they are too large for me, and although they work when grilling, I need more manual dexterity in the kitchen. These seem to make everything easier and every time I wear them to lift some heavy pan out of the oven, or remove a hot lid from a pot, I feel like dancing around the kitchen as if I was in some kind of musical.

And while I am on the subject of small kitchen improvements, enter the bar mat. I Intended to buy this long ago, but instead was making do with a microfiber cloth, or a paper towel, or nothing under the coffee grinder and the constant little bits of ground coffee would drive me to distraction. Oh I know they are still there, and I still have to clean the mat, but somehow it feels more contained and intentional now. There are no more little bits of coffee dust skittering across the countertop and the mat is easily lifted and rinsed. It even cuts down on the noise from the grinder. Such a tiny thing, but it elevates my coffee making experience.

Small things, big joys.

February 11, 2021
Making and Mending

Over the weekend I finished knitting the trim on oversized boxy linen tee. I have named it summer sunset, although that is a little bit of a stretch…

Weaving in myriad yarn ends took a full evening of knitting time and I also admit that I approached the finishing instructions — to toss the thing in the washing machine and the dryer with a bit of trepidation, even though I had done exactly this with my swatches, and I had the data to prove this was the right course. But most of my knitting choices do not lend themselves to wash and dry, and I have felted a sweater or two in my time, so experience and knowledge were at odds.

Needless to say the sweater turned out beautifully. I actually think this will work well as a summer top for all but the hottest and most humid days, but also as a layering pieces in spring and fall, perhaps even the warmer days of winter here in Tennessee. I an already imagine it with a pink-coral turtleneck and brown chinos…. but today is too cold and I am not inclined to play dress-up.

After the sweater was done I started dismantling a blanket I had knitted at the end of 2004 and into early 2005. The colors don’t really go with this house, but that was not the reason for disassembly. The blanket was too large, and I was finding it impractical. I had knit it extra big, because George was a bit of a blanket hog, but now this larger-than-king-sized blanket blanket dragged on the floor off my queen-sized bed and felt cumbersome for a solo sleeper. It also required mending and was too large and heavy when wet for me to wash it.

I spent most of the weekend taking it apart. Lint and cat hair covered every surface and my sinuses were acting up a bit. I initially thought I would start this back in August, but health issues interfered, and Moises thought it was a perfectly cuddly bed. This weekend I paid the price in sinus congestion for allowing him the luxury.

Now I am washing the individual components. Once that is done I will lay them out and think about how to reassemble them, making necessary repairs as I go. There are several threadbare spots and holes. I don’t really like the way I assembled this the first time around, so my plans are different for this iteration although I don’t know what I will do with the old border, which I removed in its entirety. I do not plan to reattach it, but it is in such good shape that it seems a waste to discard it, and I am sure some idea will eventually surface.

I had thought that this would be my “next” project. But I see now that it will take several days just to wash the many squares, laying them out n my sweater-sized blocking board. I will need something to tide me over until I can start the process of renewal and reassembly. Which means, I suppose that I will be sorting through project boxes again later today.

Last but not least, I made a minor repair to one of my favorite winter coats. The separating zipper tape on this cashmere duffle coat was pulling loose and it had become difficult to zip. I did not make this coat, but I have always loved an unlined duffle, and almost always had at least one in my closet. This one is several years old and is by Kinross. When it finally wears out, I shall make my own, but at the moment, minor mending will suffice.

Last night my eyes were too tired last night to be able to even see the eye of the needle, much less thread it, so I put it all off until this morning, when I thought I would go to the studio to use the powerful embroidery magnifier. Luckily this wasn’t necessary. Freshly rested, I threaded the needle and repaired the coat in less time than it would take for me to walk out of my bedroom and over to the studio; in less time, in fact, than it took to make my first cup of coffee. This is good, because it is chill enough that I want to wear this coat again today.

December 7, 2020
Closing out 2019 and A Goal

Yesterday afternoon, during a period of a brief slump, I collapsed in a chair in the living room, not the coziest chair, but the chair that was most convenient to my current state of energy drain.

There I stained at the doorknob on the French doors which open to the Living room, for a good 2 to 3 minutes, before realizing that this was going nowhere. I as mostly just fascinated with the patterns of light in the glass. But I also realized that I have been inconsistent in balancing competing priorities since my return from Texas and was feeling perhaps a little overwhelmed. Trips, even short trips, often do that, at least for those impulsive among us who are never bored and always find themselves pouring themselves into more projects and passions than can ever be accomplished.

Then I got up, made three passes up and down the hallway, practicing my lunges, drank a glass of water, and made an espresso. It seems I can either sink into lethargy or get moving. I opted for the latter. I had someplace to go. Owen’s school chorus was singing the national anthem at the basketball game that night.

But I also realize that at least a portion of my mental malaise was due to the dragging on of catch-up posts. So let’s close out 2019, at least in terms of books. Here is the full list, in order, with links where available, although in some cases the books are barely discussed. Highlighted books are my favorites for the year, although there are plenty of others worth reading.

Billy Collins, The Rain in Portugal. (poetry)

Michelle Obama, Becoming. (memoir)

Phillip Maffetone, The Maffetone Method. (health)

Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatore. (fiction) also mentioned here, and here.

Tana French, The Witch Elm. (fiction)

Dan Brown, Origin. (fiction)(treadmill)

Robin DiAngelo, White Fragility. (non-fiction)

Stuart Woods. Smooth Operator. (fiction) (treadmill)

Tara Westover, Educated. (memoir)

Stuart Woods, The Money Shot. (fiction) (treadmill)

Stuart Woods, Sex, Lies, and Serious Money. (fiction) (treadmill)

Stuart Woods, Below the Belt. (fiction) (treadmill)

Stuart Woods, Fast and Loose. (fiction) (treadmill) I had forgotten what a struggle that first month on the treadmill really was, or realized how far I have come.

Sally Field, In Pieces. (memoir) better than I expected. One of the good books.

Lee Child, Past Tense. (fiction)

Jeffrey Steingarten, The Man Who Ate Everything. (food)

Reese Jones, Violent Borders. (non-fiction)

Lee Child, Running Blind. (fiction)

Stuart Woods, Indecent Exposure. (fiction) (treadmill)

Stuart Woods, Quick and Dirty. (fiction) (treadmill)

Lisa Jewel, Then She Was Gone. (fiction)

B. A. Shapiro, The Art Forger. (fiction)

Michale Lewis, The Fifth Risk. (non-fiction)

A. L. Kennedy, Serious Sweet. (fiction)

Sally Rooney, Normal People (fiction)

Stuart Woods, Doing Hard Time. (fiction) (treadmill)

Mike McCormack, Solar Bones. (fiction)

Jean-Claude Ellena, The Diary of a Nose. (memoir)

Erika L. Sanchez, I am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter. (fiction)

Mikail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita. (fiction)

Dan Brown, The Lost Symbol. (fiction) Instagram

Kate Morton, the Lake House. (fiction) Instagram

Ruth Reichl, Comfort Me With Apples. (Memoir, food) Instagram

Bruno Monari, Design as Art. (art)

Ta-Nehisi Coates, The Beautiful Struggle. (memoir)

Mary Higgins Clark, You Don’t Own Me. (fiction).

Belinda Bauer, Snap. (fiction)

Leslie Bennett, The Beautiful Edible Garden. (garden)

Rafael Yglesias, A Beautiful Marriage. (fiction)

(by this point, I was still catching up, but perhaps starting to write more about the actual books)

Lee Child, Without Fail. (fiction)

Lee Child, Echo Burning. (fiction)

Lee Child, Persuader. (fiction).

Barbara Brown Taylor, Holy Envy. (religion)

Elizabeth Strout, Olive Kitteridge. (fiction)

Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending. (fiction)

Stephanie Land, Maid. (memoir)

Linda Ronstadt, Simple Dreams. (memoir)

Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance. (fiction)

David Brooks, The Road to Character. (non-fiction)

Lee Child, Make Me. (fiction)

Georges Simenon, Pietr The Latvian. (fiction)

Alafair Burke, The Wife. (fiction)

Rosalind Creasy, Edible Landscaping. (garden) I’ve had this a long time. Still a favorite.

Ruth Reichl, Save Me the Plums. (memoir, food)

Lidia Bastianich, La Cucina di Lidia. (cookbook, food) Instagram here.

Steven Pressfield, the War of Art. (non-fiction, self-help)

Tana French, The Likeness. (fiction)

Rosalind Belben, Our Horses in Egypt. (fiction)

Michael Eades, the Six Week Cure for the Middle Aged Middle. (health)

Oyinkan Braithwaite, My Sister the Serial Killer. (fiction) Instagram

Maria Semple, Where’d You Go, Bernadette. (fiction)

Mary Gabriel, Ninth Street Women. (Art)

Liane Moriarty, Nine Perfect Strangers. (fiction)

Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing. (fiction)

Michael Moss, Salt, Sugar, Fat. (food) also here.

David Graeber, Debt. (non-fiction) and here,

Rackstraw Downey, In Relation to the Whole. (art)

Kevin Kwan, Crazy Rich Asians. (fiction)

Elif Shafak, 10 minutes, 38 seconds in this Strange World. (fiction) Instagram

Meryn G. Callender, Why Dads Leave. (non-fiction)

Cid Corman, Tributary (Poems). (poetry)

James Baldwin, Gypsy and Other Poems. (poetry)

Kevin Kwan, China Rich Girlfriend. (fiction)

Louise Penney, A Better Man. (fiction)

Kevin Kwan, Rich People Problems. (fiction)

Tracy K. Smith, Ordinary Light. (memoir)

Katherine Eban, Bottle of Lies. (non-fiction)

Erik Larsen, the Devil in the White City. (non-fiction)

Salmon Rushdie, Quichotte. (fiction). Instagram post here.

Anne Thurston, Knowing Her Place: Gender and the Gospels. (religion)

Rachel Cusk, Kudos. (fiction)

Allison Pittman, Loving Luther. (fiction)

David Graeber, Bullshit Jobs. (non-fiction)

Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol. (fiction)

David Brooks, The Second Mountain. (non-fiction)

Ann Patchett, The Dutch House. (fiction)

Deborah Levy, The Man Who Saw Everything. (fiction)

Marty Makary, The Price We Pay. (non-fiction)

Lee Child, Blue Moon. (fiction)

Rob Gieselmann, Irony and Jesus. (religion)

Kevin Barry, Night Boat to Tangier. (fiction)

Stephen King, Elevation. (fiction)

Stephen King, Dr. Sleep. (fiction)

Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon. (fiction) Rich tapestry of a story, best read as poetry.

Jonathan Haidt, the Coddling of the American Mind. (non-fiction) Interesting and thoughtful exploration of one aspect of American culture. Not as combative as the title implies

Ian McEwan, First Love, Last Rites. (fiction) beautiful and compelling stories about the more disturbing and perverse underbelly of the human psyche.

Earnest Cline, Ready Player One. (science fiction)

Patti Smith, Just Kids. (memoir) Fascinating, at times poignant, at other compelling. True to the artists voice, and about finding one’s path.

Elizabeth Strout, Olive Again. (fiction)I am not part of the Olive club, but I enjoyed this more than the first.

Thanhha Lai, Butterfly Yellow (fiction, young-adult) Beautiful novel about a young Vietnamese girl who escapes from Vietnam and comes to America to find her young brother who had been airlifted out, and away from his family years before. Pearlescent is how I described the language in my notes. But also difficult until one gets the hang of the speech. The author uses phonetic spellings to capture Vietnamese-inflected English, which takes a bit of getting used to but also adds power to the novel.

Celeste Ng, Everything I Never Told You. (fiction) I loved this story, and exploration of loss, of secrets gone awry and the way the things we do not say have an impact far greater than we would wish. Perhaps I also enjoyed it in conjunction with the two previous novels.

Done. Or almost. It suddenly seems important to stop littering my life with catch-up posts. There is nothing wrong with looking backward as a reflection. I will still do an annual book list, much like the one above. But, I am already behind simply because I believed, for most of January anyway, I would pull out an end of month book post and I see now that it is time to upset that cycle. I could have written a post about the last two novels of 2019. I will write a January post of some sort, but January will be the last month I allow this kind of round-up post. It seems that as I settle into my house, my place, I am settling my mind as well, coming more comfortably into myself, but that path is sometimes bumpy.

January 30, 2020
Pouring the Driveway

Yes, I know it has been over a week since the driveway has been poured. I am driving on it now, and pulling my car into the garage, for the first time in over a year. And yet it seems I have been busier than ever. Or perhaps just more panicked. And so, better late than never.

This photo was taken about 5:45 AM just before the first concrete flowed into the space. The crew had been on site, setting up, since before 5, and they were there, working until about 6::30 in the evening. This photo was also posted on Instagram. Apologies to those who follow me there.

Walking into the house after walking Tikka, just about dawn. The first time I saw the lights in the studio in the dark or near dark. The crew is busy on the other side of the house.

Even though the pour was a week ago, and even though most big things were unpacked, except in the studio, it seems like last week was the week of delayed panic, a kind of second-flush of unpacking and settling. The big piles of things you see here are still in the front yard, although the job is supposed to finish up the end of this week. I will believe that when I see it. But at least I am able to pull in and out and park.

This is the last week of summer, the last week of August, the last week before Labor Day weekend here in the US, In many ways it is an arbitrary transition. Schools have long since started in this part of the country. The art and social seasons are gearing up. But the air and the light have already shifted. The sun is different in the sky, the air smells more of autumn, of decay more than new growth. This all means that I need to get busy. What isn't put away and settled this week may remain on hold until winters settles in. Hence the push. This is made more imperative by the fact that I can actually get in and out of the house now without climbing through a construction site and walking to my car, parked somewhere up the street. I have no more excuses to hide behind. It was such a minor problem really, a privilege even, but during that phase all I really wanted to do was hunker down.

So the books are all organized, which means I can find things. My desk/office corner is organized. Perhaps I am just too deeply wedded to a sense of order. But, despite the fact that when life grows too calm something in my psyche needs to create a small storm of chaos — a disruption which leads to creative discovery — a constant sense of chaos and disorder creates an atmosphere of unending low level stress that seems to magnify over time.

CDs and LPs have been unpacked, sorted and put away, although the CD player has developed a glitch and may need to be sent out for repair or replaced, much to my annoyance. An upgrade to the stereo system is not a possibility at the moment. But much as I am annoyed, life goes on, and the turntable is working beautifully.

I still have a lot of unpacking in the studio, and this will be my focus this week. Ideally, I had hoped to be sewing all summer, learning to warp the loom, and generally playing with fiber. Despite initial promises that the studio would be done 2 weeks after I moved it, it was closer to two months. There was an initial flush of unpacking, only to be followed by a period of moving the things that had been unpacked, or repacking, when it was decided that some more work needed to be done. My frustration increased, but luckily in many ways I was also distracted by questions and other tasks, the ongoing hardscaping, the "punch" list and various interruptions.

But all in all it is good, and I am happy. It is far from done. Well, a garden is never done anyway, and aside from a flush of larger plantings to take place sometime in the fall, much of this garden will evolve slowly. I make mistakes when I do too much too fast. I remain a bit overwhelmed, and slow to find focus. The fact that we are moving into fall, that winter is coming, and that next spring is far away is probably a good thing for me and my garden. It gives us time to get to know each other a bit before taking the next step.

August 26, 2019
The Last Big Thing

I took the picture below about 5PM yesterday. The preparatory work for today's concrete pour was winding down, and I was entranced by the warmth of the late afternoon light across the front yard and the driveway. Workers were beginning to drift away, although a couple would be here for another hour, hopefully (at least in my mind) not the same ones who had been here before 8 in the morning, but I know that is just wishful thinking. I've worked with some of these people for a year, they feel like friends.

The pour itself started at 5 AM this morning, and they tell me that it will wind up, that they will be washing and cutting, sometime after 10PM tonight. if the weather holds and they are able to finish the pour today.

As they have been cleaning up, framing the driveway for the pour, and generally getting everything together and in place, the yard has been becoming just that, a yard, a place to live rather than a construction site. It is still a little of both but it is beginning to look like the place I imagined. Better in fact. And that is a testament both to my dreams and ideas but even more so to the fabulous people who have been helping me realize them. You can't really see the future driveway in the picture above, just a bit of crushed stone on the right side, where it will meet the pavers, but it is there. The area of dirt in the back will be grass, even though I think our obsession with grass and lawns is environmentally ill-advised, and it might well evolve into something else over time. The areas covered with black landscape fabric will eventually be planted, but they may also just exist as swaths of mulch for a while, as I figure out what I want to do and buy plants. It is too hot to plant now, too late in the season to order plants if I intend to be particular, and I do, so this will be a garden that evolves. But evolving gardens is something I can do on my own.

Here are more pictures from yesterday afternoon. At one point there were several large mechanical creatures crawling around my driveway: loading, unloading, thumping, packing-down. The house shook. Tikka retreated back under the bed.

But I can really imagine it now, imagine how it will look, someday in my dreams, when I've figured out plants and all that. Which may never happen. I am not interested in a landscape, in hiring someone to toss in a bunch of plants so it looks manicured and neat. I am interested in a garden. Of course there will be the public face, and the more private inner circle…..I don't quite know how that will evolve yet.

But it will. In the photo above I am looking west, into my neighbor's backyard — the private space. And I want my own space to be just as nice, not in the same way, but in my own way. A part of me doubts I can pull it off, not because I am not capable, but because I always have more plans than patience, and I tend to start and never finish. Or maybe I am gaining confidence in my own dreams, and my ability let them fly, as long as I don't let those dreams run away with my common sense. Piles of dirt can become gardens with time and vision and work. I wonder if it is foolish to think about 20-year gardens when I am 61. But why not? The worse thing that can happen is it can become just another overgrown hunk of yard, but it will be my overgrown hunk of yard. Or I can decide I am no longer interested in DIY gardening and capitulate to the landscapers. At the moment I think having something to work toward, even at my own pokey pace, is a joy. This hunk of dirt isn't just a hunk of dirt. It is life. It is potential. It is its own field of dreams.

During a final walk-through yesterday evening, we paused and looked in toward the patio. That patio, its placement and charm, is one of the things that attracted me to the house. Silly I know, to be drawn to plants (most of which are now gone) and ephemeral stuff. But I have maintained the feel of the space, and the intimacy of that small space is still there, but better. One plant I love may or may not survive the work, but others are thriving and a few things I disliked are gone. The colors of the bluestone make me smile and echo the colors of earth and sky and plants all around. In fact the whole back yard is evolving from a space that was just an afterthought, a place I would rather not think about into a space I love. As I mentioned in the first paragraph, it doesn't quite look the way I imagined it, it is better. What I really wanted was a feeling, a space that felt a certain way. And I think we are on our way, this back garden and I.

In fact the thing that has really amazed me is that it is turning out so incredibly nicely. Deep in my heart, throughout this whole process, I have feared this would prove to be a mistake — a folly on a grand scale. It happens a lot. But fear is not necessarily a bad thing. I think it drives us to push ourselves, and even everything had not turned out as well as it appears to be so far, despite upsets and changes, I think I would be glad to have done all this. Perhaps fear is even a good thing. If I am afraid of doing something perhaps it is exactly what I need to do, to push myself, and the fear itself can also be a system of checks, a driving force toward compromise and a brake on arrogance. Of course the fear can also easily get out of control so who knows. This is all just posturing after the worst of it is over.

Of course I still have to see the actual driveway. But whatever happens it has been an adventure.

August 15, 2019