restingmotion

I said something about dresses didn't I? 

Four dresses have been made.  Four big-girl dresses, as the little girl dresses were already spoken for.  But these dresses proved to be the perfect project for me.  Three are size 10, one is size 8. Really, they are all the same, only the fabric is different, and one does not have a contrast band at the bottom, but never mind that.  It was the first dress, and I messed it up and then, after panicking, and buying fabric for two more dresses (just in case, you know) I figured out how to fix it.  There is fabric for one more dress cut out. It is slightly different, but still using the same pattern, and I will finish it this week.

 

When I started I was nervous.  It had been so long since I sewed any clothing.  No matter that sewing girls dresses is easier than either Armani-style suits or evening dresses, I was still terrified.  Now I wonder why.  After I messed up that first dress, I had to go work in the garden and clean out a closet and just do other things, until suddenly, in the middle of the night I knew what to do.  Then everything was ok.  I went back upstairs and sewed dresses.  I didn't follow the directions because I knew what I was doing, as if some deep seated muscle-memory took over, as if some long dormant part of myself had reawakened.  I lined the dresses because I knew how to line a dress, because I figured they would be sturdier and would last longer, because I think facings are fiddly and hate them (unless I am attaching them to linings).  Whew!

 

 

The pattern called for buttons and thread loops, or fabric loops, or something.  I opted for little tabs with snaps.  I love snaps, although initially I thought I would do buttons and loops.  Truthfully, I didn't think it out at all.  I just figured something would come to me, and it did.  Not a recommended course of action, but it worked this time.

 

I can't really explain how settled I feel, just making a few simple dresses.  I feel at home, like I've come home after a long absence, and I suppose in a sense I have.  I've been building up to it, but not actually opening the door, just kind of peering through the crack.  The funny thing is that it is easier than I thought it would be.  I remembered the years of angst, where I felt that I was doing everything except what I wanted to be doing.  I can understand that it wasn't a good place, and the problem was mostly in me, in denial, in frustration, and the way denial and frustration aligned to build an impenetrable wall, a wall ringed by a moat of expectation.  I couldn't sew, and I was so cautious, and almost afraid when I did because I was afraid I had lost myself, had lost part of myself, and in fact I had.  I think we all risk doing this at times, we all make decisions, and sometimes they don't work out, but we are so invested in our view of ourselves based on those decisions, our view of our place in the world and what we have made it,  that we can't even see that we've wandered.  We convince ourselves that our former dreams were but illusions and we are different now.  But it isn't true. We may have wandered, we may need to wander, but we can still come home.

 

I sewed.  I am sewing.  Well, not right now, but regularly.  And oddly, even the non-sewing things are falling in place.  I am more certain about what is important to me, at least right now, and I am happier in the garden, happier in the kitchen, happier in my social interactions, just happier.  Interesting how that happens. 

 

 

And the odd thing is, the thing that made me happiest, was not sewing dresses, although sewing dresses opened the door.  The thing that made it all connect in my head and in my heart was sewing sweatpants, sewing sweatpants for small boys.  I didn't expect sweatpants to be difficult, just routinely boring assembly-line sewing.  And so it could be.  But I reveled in it.  Perhaps it was the softness of the mid-weight cotton fleece, perhaps it was the lovely navy color (I have some left over, perhaps a garment for me come fall, or two garments for some smaller person). Perhaps it was just the simplicity of it that cut through to my core self.  I love making things, making useful things, that someone will use, just as I love cooking food that will nourish body and soul.  Sewing sweatpants make me more myself, odd as that may sound.  But I think there is more to it than just that.  It is the interaction of the fabric and the maker and the intended recipient.  It is the fact that all things exist for a reason, and should not be taken for granted.  Fabric is meant to be something, someone is meant to make it, and the two, material and maker, combine.  That is how it should be.  It is not, perhaps, how it all too often is in this world in which I live, but never mind that.  A flat, two-dimensional thing, fabric, cut and sewn to make a three-dimensional garment, sewn with intent and respect, and the thought of a small boy, perhaps a series of boys, running and jumping, until that fabric can run and jump no more.  In that there is joy.

Small Rebellions

During my absence, I've been doing a lot of things, and this is good.  It has been a process of rediscovery of sorts.  But I'm not writing about that today.  You will have to wait. 

 

Today is about unfinished business, or about the fact that I finally got my act together and figured out what to do with the planters my grandfather made.  It meant rearranging the furniture on the screened porch. And somehow it took me a while to wrap my head around that.  I also needed to change the cushions.  The covers were in fine shape, but, despite having outdoor fabric over them, the cushions themselves were disintegrating.  This may be something to address in the future.  Or it may just be the price of using inexpensive cushions from Lowe's (the source of my porch furniture).  Apparently there will be more research and decision making ahead.  But not this summer, at least concerning cushions.  Besides, without thought, learning, change and growth, what is the point of life?  Is there life at all without these things?

 

But it is too early in the morning for questions without answers, or at least for contemplating same.  Instead it is good to sit on the porch and enjoy the early morning air.  By moving the seating to be on the diagonal, instead of lined up flush with the perimeter of the room, I can admire the garden from every seat.  This of course, makes me want to sit on the porch even more:  with morning coffee, curled up with a book enjoying the scent of honeysuckle or the perfume of daylilies, with a glass of wine in the evening, and if it is cool, a fire.

 

 

The irises out back have been blooming profusely.   This is their first bloom, and I had feared that I had lost them after my neighbor, only attempting to help, weed-whacked the hill behind my house.  The irises were in a defined bed, but I can see how the leaves look much like grass.  He was worried about weeds in our lawns.  I am not, still.  Apparently I have no great interest in a perfect lawn.  I had considered that the hill would make a lovely wildflower garden, but obviously those plans were also dashed.  I now take a more considered approach, realizing that although my preference is toward a more informal look, I live in a neighborhood of formal and defined gardens and compromises must be made.

 

This year at least,  I get to enjoy the irises.  And there is clover in the lawn on the side of my house away from the neighbor.  He keeps the lawn between us in perfect glory but I rather like the clover blossoms. I like them enough that even though keeping clover out of the flower beds is a bit of a pain, I still would rather deal with that than poison the heck out of my lawn, besides it is not, technically, my responsibility.  Most of that lawn is common area.  If the neighborhood associations cares enough to do something about it, they can.  I choose not to.  Every week the clover blooms, is mowed down, and blooms again.  The blossoms make me happy.

 

 

Recalibrating

Apparently, if I am making I am not writing.  Perhaps I am not even thinking, or at least, not over-thinking.

 

 

Or is writing a form of making too?  Gardening and cooking definitely are.  And I continue to be a kind of all or nothing kind of person, a person who is most at ease when I am not scattered and pulled in too many directions.

 

I need to make time for this kind of work.  I need to let time make itself into what it will in my life.  Perhaps this requires looking at everything with new eyes, perhaps it means I should stop looking and see what is already here.

 

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?

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.

 

 

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.

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?"

 

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.

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.

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.