there was something I was close to
and it was good
there was something I was near
and it was whole
there was something I could walk on
and it was solid ground
there was something I could fly from
and it always let me land
I feel it going
and am filled with sorrow for not knowing
what it was
what it is
what it could have been
There are times that I’m afraid of what’s on the other side of all this process and pain and laughter and learning and change and discomfort and excitement and hope and curiosity and question.
I’m afraid that the other side of this is just…
Fine, like a sandwich you get at a gas station.
It fills the space but leaves you empty.
Fine, like a flower without scent.
it fills your vase but leaves no aroma.
Fine, like fake wood
and flimsy knives
and rental roller-skates.
When I feel that fear,
I remind myself that I’ll only fall into fine if I don’t cross this chasm
all
the
way.
Fine is like a creek under all this, ready for a slip on the bridge above, ready to carry me off in it’s current like a leaf or a twig if I get scared, or lazy, or forget that all this actually IS important.
Fine tells me to settle down.
Fine tells me no one cares.
Fine tells me I’ll be okay without.
Fine tells me my dreams are just
Fine whispers, “wake up. get real. deal.” with a smile and a hug
as if it was being kind.
as if it was helping me to grow up.
(since when did “grow up” mean “get small?”)
I am not fine.
I am fight and flight,
finding and fastidious.
and I will not float away in fine today.
In honor of summer days, hot grills, cold beer, and the lady who forgot to buy the buns, I give you:
(what did you just call me?)
Combine all the ingredients and beat it on high for about two to three minutes until it looks like this:
And there’s a little bit of gluten stretch
Cover it and let it rise for 90 minutes. It’ll rise and puff up.
Divide your dough into the bun size you like and place them on a greased cookie sheet. I make little buns for my little ones and big buns for my big ones.
This should make 6-8 buns, depending on your preference.
Heat your oven to 350°
Brush your buns with melted butter.
Bake for 18-20 minutes, until they’re golden brown.
Remove from the oven, give them another butter brush and let them cool…
simple things, like glass and plans.
fleshy things, like heart and heroism.
weighty things, like platinum and promises.
And I could spend too much time chewing on the WHY things break
misuse
neglect
age
overuse
recklessness
but that would only distract from the real question:
“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”
― Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum
Art presents the question
and from the question comes response.
If the response is ANGER, the problem grows.
If the response is NEGLECT, the problem festers.
If the response is DIALOGUE, the problem is exposed
for discussion
for understanding
for healing
for progress
for empathy
for knowledge
for peace.
So, I’ve been doing quite a lot of experimenting with that sourdough starter from Day 32.
…this would be six loaves rising.
Now my creative, bakery-cart wheels are turning and I’ve got a hankering to make something I’ve never had before, but it sure sounds good:
I’ve never candied pecans,
and I may change the cherry to raisin,
but this would be day one
of my little culinary adventure.
Throw the sugars, cinnamon, and salt in a bowl
and mix it till it looks like beach sand.
Then, whip the egg white until it’s nice and frothy
and coat the pecans with it.
Toss the coated pecans in the sugar/salt/cinnamon mix
and throw the whole lot into a slow cooker.
Lastly, dry them on a cookie sheet lined with parchment:
Holy hazelnuts, these are tasty.
The hardest part of this endeavor is saving enough to put in the bread…I may have to make another batch.
In all the rest of the world, I’m quite sure there was a pause and a humming in everyone’s mind, wondering how a tune went, trying to make sense of a song forgot.
Last night, all the music in the world went silent to listen to sounds coming from inside a little church, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere, between hills and valleys, soil and sky.
For three years now, I’ve attended this annual concert. It is not comprised of a “band.” It’s a Dane, a Finn, a Shetland Islander, and a Bostonian who come together to share, to teach, to play, and to learn. They’re each masters in their own land.
They gather in a church that has a ship hanging from the ceiling. It’s a replica of the ship some of our immigrant parents arrived in.
They recover songs of the past, from composers long gone, and remember us to culture’s voice. They write and compose the sound of today; they pass it along and add to the cry of generation.
They tell story.
They relay history.
They nudge us into tomorrow.
I got to hear the Finn, who keeps the rhythm in his feet, without apology or restraint. Who pounds the floor and forces the beat up, up, up into your ankles and changes the pace of your pulse.
I got to see the Shetlander, who stirs the strings with his arm, and whips his wrist like a horse’s tail while his fingers fly on the board.
I got to see the Bostonian Lass, whose grooving knees and bouncing bun accent every slide and chop, cut and crunch, and whose wide smile almost hides the somber knowing in her eyes when the music starts to play.
I got to see the Dane, whose heart comes out in note and accidental, who is history in the making, who hears and plays the sound of soul. And his wife, the song, the muse, the Danish beauty. How they looked at each other when they played…
I got to see that. In a small pond of people, in a little church in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere, between hills and valleys, earth and sky. I saw.
Remember the Green Ice post? I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve had a protein shake nearly every day for 5 years. It’s reliable, healthy, consistent, and I can get moving in my day without thinking about what to eat. No-brainer.
Today, as I began to wake up, before I’d even opened my eyes, I felt fatigue like an ocean around the raft of my bed. Exhaustion was waiting for me on the other side of sleep, and I didn’t want to rise into it, no matter how loudly my alarm implored.
“Oh, do not attack me with your watch!”
-Jane Austen
The only thing that made me pull those covers back (which I still did in one of those ninja, roundhouse-kick, slam-the-comforter-down-onto-the-pillow-with-your-leg, and swing-yourself-sideways-to-a-sitting-position sort of ways) was a resolution to start the day off with something DIFFERENT.
And today, I wanted to break my norm, and declare victory over the weariness that laces my days like smoke from an extinguished candle, reminding me of a lightness that was there, and is no more.
Today, I set the protein shake aside.
I did’t want to walk into this day the same as all other days.
So this:
became the medium boiled egg that inspired this:
“There are times in our lives — scary, unsettling times — when we know that we need help or answers but we’re not sure what kind, or even what the problem or question is.
We look and look, tearing apart our lives like we’re searching for car keys in our couch, and we come up empty-handed. Then when we’re doing something stupid, like staring at the dog’s mismatched paws, we stumble across what we needed to find. Or even better, it finds us. It wasn’t what we were looking or hoping for, which was usually advice, approval, an advantage, safety, or relief from pain. I was raised to seek or achieve them, but like everyone, I realized at some point that they do not bring lasting peace, relief, or uplift. This does not seem fair, after a lifetime spent in their pursuit.”
-taken from Hallelujah Anyway; Rediscovering Mercy,
by Anne Lamott
For it is not the time invested in the pursuit of something that renders it useful, profitable, or fruitful. Time is actually a very poor benefactor. It is absolutely impervious to what we “deserve” and will march forward without the slightest hesitation, no matter how many do-overs or hold-ons we may beseech.
Yet time is the only thing that stands between us and the answer to questions we don’t even know how to ask.
So, maybe it’s not the answer that brings us peace.
Clear aim makes time a slave to it’s end,
a servant to the mark,
but time itself is a devious train,
and can cloud and pall in it’s ether,
leaving the sightless without course,
and the searcher without stop.
so, stop.
All the things I grow
in the earth
in my mind
in my heart
in my home
too often stay there,
in the earth
in my mind
in my heart
in my home.
and I wonder,
The good things I grow?
Of course, when they’re seed,
yes,
they must be sheltered and shaped,
pruned and secured.
Then comes sprout and leaf
and we test our foliage against the sun.
But the bloom –
the perfume –
This is the harvest. This is the good that grew.
out of the earth
out of the mind
out of the heart
out of the home
and into green rooms,
black corners,
blue moods,
and red mornings,
