restingmotion

Mid-Week Miscellany

Frustrations abound.  I have lost this post twice.  I've been on the phone with Apple.  Each iteration turns out to be an entirely different post depending on the vagaries of my state of mind.  Generally that (my state of mind) has been good overall, contented in the course of the big picture, but with hiccups.  

 

Let's see if I can distract myself from the minor frustrations: what is good?

 

Espresso:

I have finally reach a point where I am consistently pulling very good espresso from my fancy new machine, or at least it usually tastes good.  Admittedly the first shot of the morning tends to be my weakest pull, too much heart, not quite enough body or crema, but then I improve.  Perhaps I am just over eager, or my muscle memory needs a moment to recalibrate.  I don't know.  Like everything, I am sure I will improve with practice.

 Ninth Street Women

I picked up Mary Gabriel's Ninth Street Women from the library yesterday.  It is hefty and at first gave me pause, even though I knew it was a big book before I put in my request.  As I walked out of the library, my heart leapt -- 920 pages, roughly 50 pages a day if I want some wiggle room, but then I realized (and remembered) that there are 200 pages of notes.  I fell in love with the book from the first page, it is calling my name and I will finish.  I have to thank's Mater's instagram feed for the inspiration.

 

DIY

I made deodorant again, but I've also upped my game a bit, or at least so I hope.  My old deodorant was wonderfully effective, but it tended to separate if it got too warm, and was therefore a pain to travel with.  I wanted something in a stick-like form, so I started with this recipe.   Like my old recipe, it includes coconut oil, baking powder, cornstarch and essential oils.  Arrowroot was listed as an alternate thickener, and since I always have arrowroot in the house, and never use cornstarch, except for deodorant-making, I decided to give it a try.  In cooking the two thickeners act a bit differently and yield different results, but in a deodorant the difference may be negligible.  We will see.  

I made this batch using cocoa butter rather than shea butter for no real reason except that I think I will use it more often.  Besides, how can I complain about the aroma of melting cocoa butter wafting through the kitchen.   Despite the very subtle aroma added by my essential oils, the cocoa butter aroma is present when deodorant stick hits warm skin, but I my chocolate-loving soul does not see that as a negative either.  The cocoa aroma fades after 15 to 20 minutes anyway and does not return during the course of the day.  In terms of other modifications, I opted not to use probiotics simply because I don't see the point in a topical treatment, and I did not add Vitamin E oil because it usually gives me a rash. I added tea tree oil.

 

The deodorant is wildly effective, even in hot, humid, and sweaty conditions.  I don't yet know how it travels, and there were a few glitches in my technique, but already I will strike this up to a win.  

 

And now, I am on the sixth iteration of this post (three more crashes since I started above) and I am calling it quits before my equanimity is lost.  I shall take a deep breath and read for a while before dealing with Apple once again.  I am surrounded by the sounds of digging and moving earth, but I am safely ensconced in my library-tower.  Generally speaking, life is good.  Glitches are just that -- glitches.  Nonetheless I wish you all a glitch-free day.

Progress and Interruptions

I am struggling with internet connectivity today and keep losing words.    I will be back, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week.

 

In the meantime here are two photos:

Last week:

 

This week:

 

Puttering in the kitchen

I was tired this past weekend, and I gave myself permission to be tired.  I am not certain that this was so much a physical tiredness, as it was a physical manifestation of a basic introverted sort of emotional and psychological tiredness.  I needed to be quiet, to be still.  I needed the house to be quiet and be still as well.

 

The stonemasons were here early Saturday morning laying bluestone on the back patio and walk in preparation for the rain that was supposed to come on Monday.  The rain did indeed come and the masons returned yesterday, but that is another story, for another day.  While they were working on the back patio, I trekked downtown to the Market Square Farmer's Market.  I came home with this haul:

I returned home just as the masons were leaving, for which I was grateful.  I needed to work in the studio, hard pressed against a deadline, and did not look forward to traipsing back and forth across their workspace.   But before I could get to work I needed, at a minimum, to unpack.  I was too tired for my normal wash and prep work, tired enough to worry that I would make my deadline, even without the added kitchen work.

 

I did however, also need to eat. In my bag were some chanterelles and some lobster mushrooms (upper right corner, on the paper bag).  I saw the lobster mushrooms first, and initially turned down the chanterelles because I had already purchased the lobster mushrooms.  But I went back, my mind filled with dreams of a late breakfast of eggs and chanterelles.  Initially I planned an omelet,  but by the time I sautéed the chanterelles I was so needy for sustenance, that I just turned down the heat to its lowest setting, and scrambled the eggs slowly in the butter and mushroom juices.  No regrets, just deliciousness.

 

I didn't even fret about not doing my usual round of food prep and cook-up.  I accepted that I was tired, that my schedule was actually pretty open, and I could allow myself to do as much or as little as I wished.  I gave myself permission to putter....

And somehow instead of cooking I felt like organizing cookbooks.  Slowly:  about 16 linear feet of shelf space over three days.  As I sorted, I would pick up a book and glance through its pages, perusing volumes that have become like old friends, and when I was tired I would walk away to return later.  No added pressure to do anything.  In many ways it was like an extended visit with old friends; with  a few new acquaintances thrown in as well. I still have my first cookbook.  I still cook form it, although only occasionally now.  But my collection isn't exactly about recipes, although that is part of the story.  I have books that I love for what I have learned from them, how they have changed my attitude and understanding about food and cooking, and my skills, whether or not I follow the author's recipes or not.  And of course there are new books in there as well, new friendships to be formed perhaps, although I realize that some of the new cookbooks will not mesh, and will be replaced.

 

I also spent part of the weekend rereading Lidia Bastianich's first cookbook, La Cucina di Lidia which was written before her PBS show, before she became a celebrity chef. It remains one of my favorite books.  The food is simple and true to its nature and source,  It is filled with memories for me, but also with inspirations and things I still want to cook.  It is delicious to read.  I spent a lovely afternoon knitting and reading, also remembering, but not in a clinging nostalgia-ridden way.  I remembered going to the Italian Market in Poughkeepsie, the one that would have baskets of fresh snails and I remember buying them and cleaning and cooking them, I remember learning to cook tripe.   Well, I had always loved the flavor tripe gave to a broth -- my parents made a good tripe soup -- but until this book I had disliked the tripe itself (I studiously tried to pick the tripe out of the soup).  Lidia taught me how to cook tripe in a way that enhanced the flavor and texture. I grew up eating tripe because my parents would buy a side of beef, or did they buy a whole cow, before it was trendy, but because it was an economical way to feed a family.  I don't remember eating heart, which I now like, although I do remember struggling with the liver.   But the book is not only about snails and tripe, although Lidia Bastianich's cooking in this book leans toward the Istria cooking of her childhood. It is about an approach to food that  embodies simplicity in terms of integrity toward the materials, to the act of cooking, and feeding others as an act of love and sustenance, in all the many forms sustenance can take, but not necessarily simplicity in terms of ease of use.  But we confuse ease and simple sometimes.  This book stays in my library because it is a part of my own evolving understanding of the world and life and my own place in this world.  This book stays in my library because it makes me want to walk into the kitchen, even when I am tired.

And yes.  I did get back into the kitchen, even that same day, although most of the prep-work was put off until Sunday and Monday.  As I had shopped I had imagined one of the lobster mushrooms, sautéed until just soft, with a little caramelization along the edges, with warm spices, served over a bed of little gem lettuces.  I ended up adding merguez as well. Lobster mushrooms look large and sturdy, and one would think they would keep, but they do not.   It was the perfect, simple dinner for a lazy day.  Sunday morning the last lobster mushroom was turned into a hash with shallots and sweet potatoes.  

 

The books have all been put away and I am now slowly organizing the kitchen, again only in fits and starts, while also cooking my way through my haul.  There is no expectation here, no pressure to finish by a certain time.  The outside of the house is madhouse of work, but inside there is just time and peace.  When I am hungry I can just open the refrigerator door and allow inspiration to light the way.   Need satisfied with a bit of play. 

Settling In to Small Things

It is raining, albeit lightly, and that does not mean that the trades are not scattered across the place -- working on the landscaping, hanging gutters, moving things out of the garage so it can be finished.  Goodness knows what else.  It also means I have towels by each door, towels for muddy shoes and to wipe muddy footprints, not that there have been clean feet around here for some time.  When it wasn't raining, the air, and every surface, was covered with stone dust.  You could not walk outside without tracking it in, could not open a door without trails of dust rushing to colonize new space. I have accommodated myself to the idea of dust, of footprints on the floor, both mine and the beasts'.  Towels only go so far, and cats are not known for their patience with foot wiping.

The stone masons have laid out most of the back patio and walkway.  This photo is from earlier in the week, incomplete, but the work has since been covered with tarps to protect it from boots and rain.  Grouting will take place later in the week, weather permitting, although the masons worked through the rain last week, laying and cutting stone under tents.  Despite the noise and the dust however, my house is an oasis of peace, if not order. 

Everything was moved into the studio on Friday  and I posted the photo above on Instagram that morning, happy to see how nicely my rug and the loom looked in the space, in a brief moment of peace before all the boxes appeared.  While men moved heavy things, I unpacked fabric and started placing it on the shelves. 

But this is not what the studio actually looks like.  Below is a more accurate representation.  There are a few things I need to do sooner as opposed to later, but I am not forcing myself into timelines and deadlines.  I can do whatever I chose, whenever I chose to do it.  

That idea, of accepting slowness, of patience, is easier stated than lived however, much as I have long paid lip service to the idea.  I realize now that I was only flirting with patience, that I put too much stock in the doing and not enough in the being.  Perhaps this is a lifelong journey, one with which we all struggle.  After years of stating that it was the little things that actually matter, I realize that I always merely flirted with that belief -- I always had a big project in the background, providing a comforting anchor.  And now there is none -- no project, just life.  Or perhaps "just life" is actually the main project and the others have all been distractions.  I don't know.  I still tend to think a good day is a day I do a lot of things, but what if a good day is just a day I don't worry about what I have done?

I am sure that point will take a while to embed itself into my conscience, and by the time it is firmly established, I may not even remember that it was once a struggle.  In the meantime, this morning I poured a perfect espresso, although it is technically somewhere between an espresso and a luongo, but it is my "perfect" and that is all that matters.  I think I will putter about in the kitchen, figuring out some of the what and where that still plagues the space, at least until I am tired.  I play bridge this afternoon.  Perhaps I will run errands.  Perhaps I will take a nap, or read, or knit, or all of the above.

Ups and Downs...

I wish I could tell you that I was doing fun and exciting things.

 

I wish I had erudite and fascinating thoughts to share.

 

But neither one is the case.  I am here.  I am in, and happy to be in my home, but it has been a rocky week, at least as far as my general state of mind is concerned. This move has been harder than I anticipated, harder than any prior move that I can recall.  And I can't explain it.

Sunday was one of my best days in a long time.  I awoke with a glad leap, and felt fully myself and full of energy for the first time since I moved back home.  I watched tennis, finished the grocery shopping, had a great workout, spent an hour or so doing kitchen prep work: washing vegetables (yes even triple-washed organic baby spinach), steam-sautéeing cabbage, roasting spaghetti squash, browning ground meat, roasting some chicken thighs -- prepping food so that it is easy to make dinner (or lunch) on those days when I need to eat, need to prepare a meal, but have neither the time nor the emotional reserves to actually cook.   Long ago, when I was in my 20's, I learned the value of some advance prep work and the way a little time spent on shopping day could help with getting dinner on the table in 15 to 30 minutes or so on those days when energy or inspiration prove elusive.  I still think cooking is fun, but sometimes I just need something delicious to eat without much fuss. I used to think prep work was a tedious pain, but I've learned to make a game of it and the payoff is definitely worthwhile. Without a mountain of prep, pulling together a simple meal can be quickly satisfying.

 

The prep work came in handy on Monday. Monday was a different story. Monday morning I found myself fighting back a growing quaver in my voice as I discussed frustration over things not yet done in the studio, minor things to be sure, minor delays about which I had felt a trifle annoyed but not necessarily emotional on Sunday.  I struggled not to burst into tears.  I found myself hiding in the bedroom or the library, feeling teary and fragile, emotionally far more overwrought than the situation warranted.  I don't think it was just the delays in getting into the studio that set me off -- probably an impossible to discern jumble of things, a bit of a struggle in the gym one day, even if followed by a really good workout another, the constant presence of noise and workers and interruptions, the sense that I can never quite finish anything, never quite be alone, a conversation with friends where I perhaps allowed myself to be a little more emotionally vulnerable than is my wont -- that alone could kick me on the path to self recriminations -- but it also seems evident that a supportive response to that vulnerability also caught me by surprise.  I am far more prepared for rejection than I apparently am for tenderness and the surprise of it has left me feeling even more vulnerable, a touch more exposed, although I suspect that ultimately it is in a good way.

 

I simply don't know where I am.  I am not referring to physical location here, that is evident, but my emotional landscape still feels a bit jagged and uneven. I am confident in my intelligence, in the many things I can do well, and yet there is a vulnerability, perhaps partly in simply exposing a dream, and the realization that I have stumbled on yet more walls that need to come crashing down and more teary track's through the wreckage.

I am surrounded by energy and excitement. Bluestone arrived Monday afternoon. I was thrilled to see it, thrilled to watch it be unloaded, excited by all progress.  At the same time I am also exhausted by the very same hubbub, by the sense of being constantly exposed. By the time every one goes home I am too tired to pull myself together, and I feel as if all my nerves have been stretched thin.

 

And yet.....

I started unpacking fabric yesterday even though there is still no furniture.  Workers are uncovering the windows today.  I went out and bought a crochet hook.  I can knit tonight.

Part of the back yard is starting to take shape.  The stonemasons are here today, placing that bluestone on this patio.    As I sit here typing, three men are 15 feet away, finally finishing up the guest bathroom.... 

 

Perhaps even here, in my heart and head, as I sit and type, I am creating a new emotional path.  Will there be more tears?  Probably.  But how could there be joys in a world without tears?  Perhaps that is all it is, profound happiness, sometimes requiring its toll in profound sadness.  I would want to say it isn't so, but I would never give up the happiness, even if it meant fewer moments of tears. Somehow, someday, this particular vista will all fall in place.  And then the heart will find new paths to explore, new fields of flowers and new rocky shores..

 

 

 

 

 

Slow Fruits

In many ways this has been a week in which pent-up frustrations (previously hidden, at least to myself) become increasingly manifest.  And yet it was also a week of steady progress, of good times, and continued new beginnings.    Like a puff of smoke, those frustrations were freed, apparently only beholden to my own unwillingness to let them go.  For that I can thank the power of the spoken word, of naming problems rather shoving them back into the hidden drawers of my psyche, where they had no choice but to fester.

And yet I must also thank the power of handwork, even slow and at times tedious handwork that was not always meditative.  I wound skeins of yarn into balls.  I did it manually, by draping the yarn around the chair pictured and cannot pretend that I was always happy with the slow process of winding five skeins, five skeins each containing 580 yards of lace-weight linen.  I should have done it weeks ago -- I could have been knitting, but my darker frustrations were too busy nibbling away at my energy.  Of course, now that the yarn has been wound, it is possible that I may move into the studio next week, and that ball winder may be unpacked.  It is only a month after move-in, after all.  But promises have been made before, and the ability to knit, to knit something I am actually eager to wear, is both a gift and a therapeutic balm.

 

The yarn is Prism's Euroflaxx Laceweight Linen Layers and it will be used to make Laura Bryant's boxy linen tee from the summer Vogue Knitting magazine, pretty much exactly in the color as shown.  I don't subscribe to Vogue Knitting anymore, after being a devoted subscriber since they began publishing again in the 1980s.  I have enough knitting patterns, and it is rare that enough appeals to me to keep the magazine.  Summer sweaters are difficult given that I live in a place that is both hot and humid in the summer and I prefer neither.   But I can wear most "summer" sweaters in the winter here, and perhaps this one even in the warmer transitional months of early summer and fall.  Perhaps this is all just an indulgence in wishful thinking.  Perhaps I need to travel someplace cold and drafty for the winters so I can wrap myself in wool.

 

The winding itself was slow.  I admit to being spoiled.  I miss my yarn winder, and in the missing began to fret about all the unpacked things that I miss, almost all of them are tools for handcraft.  The missing fed the sense of tedium and frustration, reminding me of the fragility of our perception of the world, that the difference between tedium and mediation is purely state of mind. Once I was willing to let go of my own perceptions of the self-importance of my time, it became evident that this yarn was probably best being hand-wound. The linen tends to grab onto itself; I myself tend to push myself, and inner demon crying  "harder" and "faster" -- the combination could have quickly spiraled into a massive tangle.  The quickest skein took me a little over an hour, the slowest, most grabby and somewhat tangled skein, took two.  

 

And so it seems that despite my initial petulance, the bitter muttering and grumbling, by the end, the act of winding itself had become something that offered time for quiet and reflection.   For all that I say, and do believe, that it is the slow work of our hands, of sustenance and existence, of slow moments with friends that bring meaning, I am also a product of my time.  I want instant gratification, easy access, more and more and more.  Time and again I have to slow myself and give in to the process itself.  Time and again, I must relinquish and be relinquished from the bonds of rushing.

 

Is in this, the process of living, of doing, of making,  that peace is found, in our connection with this place that is actually home, this earth.  Perhaps we have fallen too much under the spell of "life is brutish and short" mentality about labor, about the slow physical acts of feeding and clothing ourselves.   Joy is in those moments with friends, in the actual labor of our hands, in the making, both of things and connections, not in the consuming.  And yes, in this world, consuming isn't just about things, but also about busyness and experiences, about being more and more and more, when what our souls really want is less and even less.

Every day I drive under this crape myrtle, into the construction site that is my backyard.  The construction site is filled with busyness, and often ugliness, but also promise.  The crape myrtle simply hangs there, and is.

 

Tuesday: Fragmented Thoughts

My brain has felt fragmented of late, as if I cannot hold onto thoughts -- they skitter away like mice seeking shelter.  I played bridge yesterday, for the first time in a couple of months, but after an initial semi-burst of focus, my attentions wandered, bouncing around the room, flitting between conversations, everywhere and nowhere all at once. I lost count. When I was supposed to deal I shuffled.   I don't remember being this scattered after a move before.  Perhaps I was and have simply forgotten; the fractures in memory perhaps a gift.

 

Perhaps I should just capitalize on that, meandering and fragmented thoughts today, assuming that cohesion and coherence will follow in their own good time.

 

(1)

This is the first week that I am not constantly exhausted, that I awake with a glad heart rather than yearning to burrow deeply beneath the covers, seeking rest but really unable to slow myself down enough to actually achieve a restful state.  Actually, I started to feel rested over the weekend, and I took a break from exercise, which may have helped.  Rebooting my exercise regime while moving may have been a tad ambitious;  but then I've always tended to operate at either full-throttle or full-stop. Overdone or undone:  one has no recourse but toward self-compassion.

 

(2)

 

The shelves for the master bathroom finally arrived last week and I was able to finally unpack and begin to organize.   This photo was taken when there was still a yellow film over the window.  I posted another picture yesterday, of the other set of shelves once the window was revealed.  I am well aware that open shelves would not work for everyone, but I've come to hate drawers.  They are never the right size for the things I want to store in them, and I am very particular about things being grouped and lined up particular ways, about there not being a mess. No junk drawers for me.  If it can't be lined up in a way that everything is visible, then there is simply too much.  

 

My mom is probably rolling with laughter at that because she well knows how much I tend to create huge messes when I am in the throws of some creative inspiration.  Perhaps that is exactly why I want the rest of my life to be orderly.  Perhaps this is also the constant struggle in my own walk through life, how to balance my need for peace and orderliness with the danger and messiness of creation, tinged as it is with a basic underlying laziness.  One thing about maturity, one does eventually learn that it is easier to maintain a system than it is to wrest orderliness out of chaos.  There is always some spot of chaos in my house, in my relationships, everywhere really.  I don't think you can force life into a particular mold.  Life is never really perfectly balanced, always a delicate dance along a fine line.

 

(3)

I wrapped the shade around the Alta Costura lamp last night and it is finally standing in my living room, for the first time since moving into this house.  The shape is made by the artful shaping of a long rectangle of translucent PVC.  Designed by Joseph Aregall in 1992, the lamp is inspired by the work of Balenciaga, and is a wonderful lesson in the art of draping, and a reminder of what I like about dressmaking.  It is always that transformation that appeals to me, in sewing and knitting as well, as taking a simple line or a simple 2-dimensional rectangle and creating something three-dimensional that flatters and is beautiful.

 

This detail, this small thing, somehow in my heart, cries "home at last".

 

 

 

In....And In Progress

Oh dear, oh dear, I feel like I should be channeling the White Rabbit, muttering some variation of "I'm late, I'm late" except that it is more like "I'm behind, I'm behind, I'm terribly behind".......

I am back in the house and most everything in the house was completed before move-in but there were still enough unfinished things that the first 10 days involved the house being constantly being filled with workers from the various trades.  There were days I could unpack and days where I was surrounded by rooms in various states of undress, with various half-unpacked and half-finished projects dominating the scene.  It was more stressful than I could have imagined, and there were several moments where I was supremely grumpy or close to tears.   But a quiet house over the weekend, and some lovely time spent with friends has also helped.   I am here now and there are a few small oases of calm, one of them here, in my library/office/occasional guest room, although I am afraid the guests may get short-shrift being relegated to an aerobed with a feather-bed topper.  Fine by me as I am more interested in owning a house I use daily than in space that sits empty but for a few days a year.

 

A couple of views from my desk this morning, out the window next to my desk (top) and into the library from my desk, which is at one end.  Books are all on the shelves, although not necessarily sorted or arranged in any coherent order, but that can happen over time.  My desk is actually a mess, I haven't yet managed to organize this corner, but that is not as upsetting as it might be simply because I am able to look out, past the clutter into this calming and inviting space. This is one of the few places that is safe today, a place where Tikka, Moisés and I are happily ensconced.

Although I may have to wander downstairs soon for another espresso.  I haven't quite mastered the new espresso machine yet, but I have made many cups of very good coffee and even occasionally almost gotten the right proportion of rich dark coffee and crema.  I knew it would be a work in progress with a bit of a learning curve.  But pulling an espresso has proven to be one of those simple joys I look forward to daily.  

 

Otherwise, not much to report.  I've been to the farmer's market, bought my first, small, bag of food, roasted a chicken, started playing with new appliances, but am not yet really fully settled...the kitchen itself is not yet fully settled or installed so it is a bit of a process, but life is always an adventure.  Here's to hoping that the studio is really finished by the end of this week (as promised, and no I am not holding my breath) and that my house and eventually a studio will be a refuge in the midst of the chaos that ensues when my parking lot is turned back into a yard.

 

More later....