Getting Past It

Awoke to owl sounds on this snow-covered wonderland, Neebish Island. Waiting for pancakes, coffee in hand, reminiscing with cousins about good times and growing older. Pretty sweet. Yesterday's mistake slowly wearing off, the refreshing of the biting cold air and laughter of eight children seeping into my soul, washing away life's agonies and replacing them with goodness.

Why am I surprised? As I fell asleep last night, I was incredulous that any of this beauty would reach me. I was muffled, trapped in mummy-cloths of my inadequacy. So much for being an artist, a poet, a “feeler.” So much for being a family-girl, a people-person. I wanted to run away from everyone. It was a very old and familiar feeling, like clothes I’d put on so many days of my forty-two years.

How can we step out of those "old clothes" that weigh us down and start every day with newness- really? When our hearts want to weep and our bodies want to crawl under a rock and we've lost hope of our success as humans (do you ever go there?), what is the next breath? The next thought, the next step?

I'm a firm believer in replacing the negative with the positive. Not that this works without fail for me; but I see in the little nuances of this morning that it can be so. The warmth of those who ever love us, those who see our backsides throughout our lives- our families- and still love us, that warmth is filling the little cracks in my heart as I sit to type. The frightening chill of my very human error is giving way to this. It is succombing. Soon it will fall like a mudslide, slipping and crashing away. This I finally know.

I was reading Hosea 11 this morning (I’m sure you won’t ask why I was there) and like what I saw: It’s God talking. And whether or not you believe in God you may find this sweet:
“But they didn’t realize it was I who healed them. I led them with cords of human kindness, with ties of love….All my compassion is aroused….Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.”

So my take in this is two-fold: It takes the heavenly and the human to reach us. God speaks and heals through people, through those with whom we surround ourselves. And then he heals the broken places in our hearts if we let him. I personally believe in a God who reaches down into our every moment in compassion and love. It certainly does not show in everything we experience, but those times I have “waited” for him, he does show up. In compassion. In love. In healing. He has been faithful. All is not lost.

So today I’m not only banking on this, but I’m already basking in this. Sweet love through moments with people around me in this cabin. This is how God restores me. Some are new acquaintances, some are cousins with whom I’ve spent every Christmas and summer break my whole life. The give and take between us reminds me that I am not all about my mistakes; I have much to give, and that I have much to learn from others. And I am not alone. Thank God. Share

A Lonely Time of the Year?

12/26/09


This day after Christmas I have loneliness on my heart. Not that I feel lonely, but I’ve had enough of it in my life and am acutely aware that this is the time of year that presents such painful reminder to many that they are alone. Let me say from the start that I know there can be a world of difference between aloneness and loneliness; I get that. When given a choice any particular day, some of us will choose solitude and others prefer to socialize. But the aloneness to which I refer here is more of a pervasive state of being- a separation from family, partner, or other close companion. Today I’m focused on people who are not alone by choice, and so experience loneliness- sometimes profoundly. Here’s where aloneness and loneliness mingle; either way you label it, whether real or perceived, it is a state of disconnection with others. And that is just not a good thing.

This morning I took a few moments to walk through a scriptural perspective, since the Christian scriptures are where I find my truth about life. I write here from the belief that these are the inspired teachings of a real, loving and interactive God. Whether or not you believe in the validity of these scriptures, I think you will find an interesting and loving view towards man in this state, and an idea or two of how best to help. For my purposes I will use “alone” and “lonely” interchangeably.

Man was not meant to be alone.
God establishes His attitude toward man’s aloneness from the beginning, in the book of Genesis: “The Lord God said: ‘It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make him a helper suitable for him.” (Gen. 2:18).
The writer of the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes (probably the uber-wise King Solomon) wrote of the senselessness of aloneness. "Again I saw something meaningless under the sun. There was a man all alone; he had neither son nor brother.” (Ecc. 4:8). There are millions of “only children” out there with no sons of their own; but I think the point here is the “meaninglessness” of man’s being alone. Man hungers for meaning, or reason if you will; it is one of our most basic needs. The writer goes on in verse 9: “Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work. If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who has no one to help him up!” Look at that: pity is a pretty strong word here from the wisest of writers, if Solomon indeed penned these words. A man with no helper, no close friend, is pitiable.
“Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though they may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands cannot be quickly broken.” Contrasted to the contracted state of aloneness, togetherness brings warmth and strength. Nice. But think about it; that means being alone leads to weakness and being cold. Would we wish that on our enemies? (Don’t answer that).

Who are the most “alone” people in the world?
Throughout scripture, these four categories of “people alone” are mentioned together: Widows, orphans, Levites and aliens. Clearly, widows and orphans are those who’ve had a dear connection with someone, and then experienced loss of that connection through death. For those of you who think Levites have something to do with blue jean manufacturing, they were actually priests. I can’t expound but I suspect they may have been celibate or at least remained unmarried Correct me here…. Aliens are simply foreigners. Think what it’s like to travel in a foreign country and not know the language or your way around. Even if you have a few companions, you eventually feel isolated and long for home and people you’re connected with. Perhaps scriptures do not need my help, but I would certainly add the divorced and those emotionally predisposed to feeling lonely. The latter might include those experiencing mental illness, depression, or those simply hypersensitive to connection with others.

God wants those who are alone to be included and provided for.
Dt. 14:29: “At the end of every three years, bring all the tithe of the year’s produce and store it in your towns so that the Levites and the aliens, the fatherless and the widows who live in your town may come and eat and be satisfied, and so that the Lord your God may bless you in all the work of your hands.” So all the rest of us are to provide for the nourishment of those alone. Think about it; even today one of the most satisfying ways to connect with others is through the sharing of food. Whether you’re dining out with friends or delivering a meal to the family shelter, this is a way to connect from the heart through togetherness and provision. A side effect is that all the work of our hands will be blessed. I’m guessing that means we ourselves will lack nothing when we connect with these lonely people.
God reminds us to include the alone in our communities: Dt. 16:11: And rejoice before the Lord your God at the place he will choose as a dwelling for His name- you, your sons and daughters, your menservants and maidservants, the Levites in your towns, and the aliens, the fatherless and the widows living among you.” And verse 14: “Be joyful at your feasts- you, your sons and daughters…” He goes on here to list the same groups of people, including those alone.

Neglect of the lonely is a bad thing for all of us.
Job 22:9: “You sent widows away empty-handed and broke the strength of the fatherless.”
Granted, this is not God speaking to his people, but a man named Eliphaz speaking to Job, trying to make sense of his sufferings. Sure, Eliphaz is one of Job’s accusers, an unhelpful person in the scene of Job’s tragedies. But I consider him a standard human with standard ideas, such as “Neglecting the needs of the of the widows and fatherless is a bad thing.” I agree. Malachi the prophet says of people who neglect the lonely:
“’I will come to you for judgment. I will be quick to testify against sorcerers, adulterers and perjurers, against those who defraud laborers of their wages, who oppress widows and the fatherless, who deprive aliens of justice, but do not fear me,” says the Lord Almighty.’” (Mal. 3:5).

It is our job to connect with those who are alone.
James the brother of Jesus writes to the twelve tribes (likely Jewish Christians), particularly to a “dispersed people” in order to instruct and encourage them in the face of difficulties. He writes: “Religion that God our father accepts as pure and faultless is this- to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” (James 1:27). So this is my summation: “This is the definition of religion that God wants from man’s heart. Avoid being polluted by the world, and connect with the lonely.” Nothing else seems to matter.

God himself desires to connect with and provide for those who are alone and lonely.
From the Old Testament we learn about God’s heart for the lonely: “Sing to God, praise His name…a father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His holy dwelling. God sets the lonely in families.” Psalm 68:5. “Leave your orphans, I will protect their lives. Your widows, too, can trust in me.” (Jer. 49:11). This speaks to my heart in a big way. I’ve been divorced for a number of years. I have filled the role of mother and father for my daughters, and have felt lonely and defenseless, and not known whom to trust. But having drawn closer to God these feelings have, for the most part, melted away.

Fast forward to the time of Jesus’ ministry to the disciples. Jesus says, “I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you... On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you. If anyone loves me, he will obey my teaching. My Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.” John 14:18,20 & 23.

What a beautiful picture of connection, of togetherness, of the lack of aloneness. I don’t know about you, but for me, what keeps me from feeling lonely and disconnected is the perpetual awareness of the presence or love or attention of others who care for me. If God “makes his home with me,” that speaks directly to my need to be chosen, to be attended to, to be connected, and to never being alone.

Our human mandate:
The thing is, all of us who are alive are asked to reach out to the alone and lonely and meet their needs. Some call this “social justice.” My personal take on social justice comes from Isaiah 10:2: Woe to those who make unjust laws, to those who issue oppressive decrees to deprive the poor of their rights and withhold justice from the oppressed of my people, making widows their prey and robbing the fatherless.” Or you could just contemplate this as a life principle. I believe that when you are in need and focus on your need your heart becomes more contracted and you feel more pain. But when you feel pain and transform that into energy focused on meeting others’ needs, everyone benefits. If you are feeling this aloneness, try reaching out to others who are alone. What better way to diminish aloneness in your own community?! And if you are not alone, and are so lucky as to sense a perpetual connection to others, I’d invite you to share that rich treasure with others who, for whatever reason, are not so fortunate. I, for one, would prefer to live in a world where we all generate a little more happiness for ourselves and others every day. Share

Roux is a Wondrous Thing

Roux is a wondrous thing. A culinary product which, alone, holds little charm for most palates, the brown oil-and-toasted-flour base is a flavoring for a French, Creole or Cajun concoction- in my case, gumbo- the backbone and soul of the dish together.

Roux: A French word derived from the Latin word ”russe,” meaning brown or reddish in color. Paul Prudhomme says, “The cooking of flour and fat together to make a roux is a process that seems to go back as far as my ancestors of four hundred years ago…My mother used to start with a paste of animal fat and flour and cook it for several hours.” Prudhomme describes light roux to enhance sauces and gravies, red-brown roux for light white meats and seafood. But of my favorite- the black roux- the famed Louisiana chef says “results in the thinnest, best-tasting gumbos of all."


Roux-making is a test of the heart of the cook. It determines whether one has the patience, the hallmark of Cajun cooking, that brings about the rich, nutty, toasty flavor around which any reputable gumbo is created. I learned roux-making from my husband early in our dating. While our relationship was not one built on patience, patience could be found in us, nonetheless, in the kitchen. In this case, my first batch was made in a rustic cabin kitchen in an Alabama state park, just a long day’s drive from Washington, Louisiana, where the Soileau family roux was pampered in the hands of Maman (“Mawmaw”) Melba. I earned, that night in the cabin kitchen, the sparkle in my man’s eye by way of mastering the roux solo as he drove miles away to find a large, worthy gumbo pot. I guessed that all Louisiana state park kitchens came with a gumbo pot.

That sparkle moved on, but I’ve kept the roux and gumbo close to my heart. Last night I served up three pots of gumbo built around the best batch of rich, dark “black” roux I’ve ever made. It pleased the crowd of fifty friends, and brought me joy to share such a rich tradition- even one from a borrowed family heritage. Roux was, after all, adopted and adapted from the French by Cajun descendants and the creoles, Spanish and Africans.

Since roux is time-consuming and can be refrigerated or frozen, I make mine two weeks before a big event. To make a big batch I start with 4 c all-purpose flour and 2 c vegetable oil (not Olive oil as it will smoke and burn at a lower temp than vegetable oil). A typical roux proportion is one part flour to one part oil, but I use 2:1, flour to oil. In my largest, deepest cast iron skillet, I whisk the oil and flour together until it’s perfectly smooth, and continue to whisk the roux constantly over medium heat while holding good book in the other hand. After ten or fifteen minutes, the oil is hot enough to begin toasting the flour, producing the desired toasty-nutty flavor. At long last, I begin to note that the color has changed to a creamy off-white.

Slowly, miraculously, the flour-and-oil mixture takes on a mind of its own and becomes roux. From cream to “barely tan” to tan to cinnamon to dark copper penny, the tones the roux takes on are all beautiful, mimicking the natural browns and russets I begin to see outside the window in autumn. It is, after all, the only time I make roux. It was, after all, when I made my first batch that chilly night in the cabin, and it is always just the right time for my Thanksgiving gathering.

As the roux passes dark tan, about thirty minutes in, its character changes to “feisty.” The bubbling goes from gentle to angry, at which time I turn down the fire a bit. The smoothness gives way to graininess as the roux becomes thicker, the oil separates a bit, and I put my book down- far from the stove and any potential spits of roux lava. At this point, the kids leave the kitchen and my full attention is devoted to the blessed roux. I whisk faster and faster, being certain no scorched flecks develop. I grab my hot pads, watch for the magical moment at which the brown gives way to dark brown, but has no hint of burning.


Heaving the heavy skillet carefully into the air, I pour the liquid flavor into a clean bowl to aerate it, to cool the roux and slow the cooking. As it sits, a layer of oil floats to the top and the roux turns so dark as to look like the melted 85%-cocoa chocolate I love for baking. Once cooled, the roux will taste toasty and nutty, and feel a little chalky as it sits heavy on the back of your tongue. If it tasted burned, well, you’re dedicated to round two; there’s just no edible dish that begins with a burned roux. At this point the magic is complete and I’ve got a nice batch of roux to start five or six pots of gumbo. My treasure can wait in the refrigerator or freezer until I’m ready to spend another afternoon in the kitchen. And it is so worth it.

So tell me; what delicious concoctions will draw you away into the kitchen on a sunny Saturday? Share

eHarmony Got it Right

Now, I may be revealing a bit too much about myself by commenting on eHarmony. But they have some things going right for them and their clientele. One being the question, “What are three of your best life skills?” The question yanks our narrow hyper focus from “what do I want?” to “what do I bring to the table?”
Responsibility is carefully woven into this question. As I was pondering gratitude and contentment this morning, my thoughts moved swiftly from those tangible objects for which I’m grateful (and this includes people) to a sense that I have something to offer the world around me and that I am solely responsible for the sharing.
“Do you remember that girl from high school?” I asked a friend this morning.
“Of course- check her out on my FB friends list,” he retorted.
I did, and sent her a message of thanks. Because, whenever I think of a confident woman, I remember her. She once shared with me that she’d taken self-assertiveness class and that it taught her to be sure of herself and what she had to offer people. It showed, and I’ve never forgotten her example. She unabashedly shared her creativity through her avant-garde wardrobe and wildly changing hairstyles, and the look of self-ease in her eyes was unbeatable.

Moving in and out among people is something we do on a daily basis. Crowds on the sidewalk, a meeting room full of co workers, the line at the restaurant, those people we see at home if we’re really lucky. Many speeches have been made reminding us not to be so self-focused that we don’t even notice passers-by. I think many of us are moving past the “not-noticing.” We look at faces, we observe, we imagine what it might be like to know that stranger. But what I want to say today is that, instead of looking around for someone who has something to offer us, it is good to be self-focused enough to contemplate what we have to offer those in our midst. This is life-giving, depression-busting, and a great way to overcome insecurities so many of us are plagued with.
So, what are your three best life skills? Making people laugh? Helping around the house? Managing finances? Making art to inspire? Write them down. Keep them on your desktop. Remember what you have to offer. Imbue your holiday gift-giving with gifts of yourself, your time, your attention and your love. We will all be richer for it.
So, do tell me: What *are* your three best life skills? Share

Top Five Reasons to Live in Community

Top Five Reasons to Live in Community

Are you living in community today? Something odd is happening to me lately. Everywhere I turn, and in everything I read, I hear more about “community.” On this growing-up path since my painfully shy childhood, I’m reminded repeatedly to check my sense of the word.

Though I’ve always yearned to be a thread in the tight-knit fabric of friends and family in life, that expansive closeness has always evaded me. Not to slight my dearest friends (and you three know who you are) or my family (and beyond my fabulous daughters this group is oddly less defined), let me clarify what I mean by tight-knit fabric. I mean not just yards and yards, but miles and miles of beautifully-patterned fabric spread not only throughout my soul and life but that reaches across the U.S and to other countries as well and involves at least fifty very dear friends.

My heart simply hungers for deeply forged friendships in many corners of the world, and warming the remotest parts of my spirit; friends who not only know my middle name, e-address and Twitter i.d., but also ponder my whereabouts at least once a month as I do theirs, questioning when we might have the pleasure of embrace or hearing the soothing sound of one another’s voices. The bottom line is this: that I’ve made such an impact on their hearts that I become woven into their lives, and vice versa.

The difficult truth is that a shy (oh and let’s face it- insecure) little girl has a very trying time making an impact on anyone since she tries everything to maintain invisibility and not bother anyone with the sound of her voice. Certainly my forty-two years have removed me from little-girl status and yanked me from the utter solitude of shyness, but I never lose the sense that I’m light-years behind the average adult in being able to impact others’ lives and forge deep and lasting friendships. Is this truer of me than any other person? Do we all experience this hunger-and-doubt scenario? Regardless of how wide-spread (or not) the sensation, I propose humans thrive best in close-knit community.

Top five reasons why I believe living in community is so important:

1. There’s safety in numbers
2. There’s perspective in numbers
3. There’s bigger love in numbers
4. More people can build a bigger fire
5. There’s identity in numbers

1. There’s safety in numbers: Community can help us stay alive.

Having worked with refugees from many parts of the world, I’ve had reality checks as to my true priorities. Staying alive must not be overlooked as one of them. I’ve often thought, when threats of H1N1 and economic collapse arise, that I’d do best to surround myself with my refugee friends as they know survival. I’ve heard many stories of their survival, and seen first-hand the loving, protective nature of their communities. Consider the Lost Boys of Sudan, many of whom who survived by literally running together through terrorizing and deadly circumstances. From small children to early teens, many survived by sticking together, looking after one another, even carrying one another through alligator-infested waters. The morbid details are unnecessary to making the point that refugees, people who’ve faced terrific tragedy, know how to stick together to survive the most unbelievable circumstances.

2. There’s perspective in numbers: Community helps us avoid painful extremes and mistakes.

Depending on how tenacious and independent you are, of course. The more people you’re close to, the more access you have to a large collection of personal stories- lessons of downfall and success. We look to those with whom we’re close for our stories, those lessons that help us avoid making some of the same mistakes. Isn’t it when we take off on an adventure without the blessing of anyone that we can really lose our way? Certainly we don’t have to have everyone’s agreement to succeed, but I propose that when all our people are strangely silent, or we’ve run from their critique, is territory ripe for expensive mistakes. At my age, I’m no longer interested in gathering mistakes from which to learn; I’m into maximizing the time I have left for success.
3. There’s bigger love in numbers:

Community surrounds you with love. Recently I found myself keeping the company of one person a bit too much of the time. When that person hit a rough patch, my feelings followed. Thankfully I had the sense to head to a group gathering at my church, where the importance of community is somewhat of a mandate we are pleased to pursue. My tears were met with strong arms, sweet concern, love, and a better perspective. For me, this often occurs in my church home. For others, this may be a social group, amidst workplace friends, or at the gym. The point is that a bigger group of friends is more apt to provide you with a consistent blanket of love, while at the same time more capable of consistently receiving your love than when it is only focused on one or two people in your life.

4. More people can build a bigger fire.

OK so I’m out of my rhythm here, but it’s a great word picture. Simply put, communities have more resources to offer one another. Think of those communities who use a common wood-fired oven in the center of their village. I’d love to meet my neighbors every night as I prepared my dinner over a bigger, better oven than I could have in my own home. Ever been out of commission for a week due to illness or surgery? Lost a job? Had a baby? Communities like my church group are quick to pull together to fill in for a person in need. This should not be taken lightly, as it is, of course, reciprocal. We often forget that, leaving a group of consistent servants to carry the load. I’ve received meals, home visits, a little extra cash, job leads, a borrowed car, a ride to the airport, a visit from friend of a friend in another state when I was hospitalized. What have you received from your community when you most needed it? What have you offered others? I venture to add that when you’re most down in the mouth, the quickest way to find joy is to help someone else in need.

5. There’s identity in numbers.

No, we don’t all need to be the same person. In fact, I suggest that community is more like a human body than a group of all the same parts. One person is the hands, one the eyes, one the ears, and so on. But another crucial part of community is that they remind you of who you are when you forget. One of my favorite quotes says something like this: “A friend is the person who knows the song of my heart and sings it to me when I forget.” How beautiful is that? How often do we become jaded or depressed by life and forget our own song, our uniqueness, our successes, our path? Community of family and friends will surround us and remind us, over time, how valuable we are as a unique but imperative part of our world. When others surround us, we remember that we don’t have to be everything, do everything; we just fit in like a puzzle piece with others and help create a more beautiful whole.

What can you do to strengthen your sense of community today? If yours is strong and vibrant, I applaud you. But if you’re like me, it will be a work of love. Reach past yourself today and enjoy the results. Where will you start? Share

Waiting for Sunshine

It’s no wonder so many wonderful people in my circle or friends and acquaintances are feeling a bit blue- or worse. The hue of their visualized emotion roughly matches that of the wet world around us. Rain. It has been raining for a seeming record number of days here in Nashvegas, dimming the fluorescent lights of the honkey-tonks on Lower Broadway as it does the inner light of many a creative soul. Rain. When will it stop?

The maintenance man told me he was going to have a talk with Noah. Coworkers tell of families in other cities with flooded homes. Rescue stories flood in from other states. But rain, rain, rain is all we get here in this seamless bubble of gray earth and sky.

As an adult, I’m a bold kind of girl. As a painter, I fill my canvases with bright, bold color. I prefer hard black lines to vagueness, and intense primary colors to olive, peach and mauve. In my home, I far prefer motion to stillness, noise to silence, and excitement to peace. In the same way, I’ve always preferred loud, passionate rainstorms to endless gray drear. There is something so numbing about being in the gray bubble of endless cloud cover; sound is dulled, absorbed into some unknown place. Even the sound of my own voice loses its crisp edge. Black lines in the landscapes around me become fuzzied and colors muted, making the shortening days of autumn even less colorful.

Somehow, the drear of this gray weather translates to my soul. I begin to question how I define myself, the lines that define foundational truths are fuzzied, I begin to doubt what I thought I knew for sure, the sparkles in my eyes that made the world look happy quickly fade, and I put on my gray glasses when I survey my personality and accomplishments. Sometimes even my body takes a toll and the clean, rested, happy feeling transforms into aches and pains and fatigue.

It can be scary to feel so numbed by gray dreary days, one after another. Scarier than when we face a clearly-defined storm and can see that there is blue sky and sun rays beyond it. Definition- those clear lines that delineate shape from shape, sound from sound, idea from idea, and demark our moments of time passing-definition is something we unknowingly depend on for peace of mind.

When definition evades us, as in these endless days of Nashville rain, we have some tools we can use to break the bleakness and reawaken our peace of mind. I find myself looking for ways to imbue my day with definition in color, warmth, sound, excitement, people. I take a walk. I phone a friend. I shift gears at work more frequently and to tasks that require more creative thought. I try to find something colorful and intensely flavorful to eat. I move- doing a little yoga in my cubicle or taking a walk. I breathe deeply.

But I propose today trying another approach- and I’m speaking to myself as well here; learn to embrace the uncertainty, the UNdefinition, the dullness. I’m no expert, I’m an explorer in this territory. What is familiar to me is my garden. I’m familiar with digging in the soil, turning in the compost, watching the seedlings pop out of the earth in bright greens, observing the unfurling of curly leaves under the sunshine, the burst of each opening flower or purple baby eggplant. Not so familiar to me is what is happening beneath the surface of the soil. What’s happening under there for days, weeks, sometimes months on end in the darkness is the crucial nurturing of the seed or bulb. Are we not unlike these seeds?

There are equally critical times of growth we must go through when we as humans are entombed in a dark, sometimes lonely place where sound is diffused and clarifying lines are fuzzied and we can’t see beyond the tips of our noses. Sometimes we are enshrouded in ambiguity, but we don’t realize that “this place” is like a protective womb nurturing our growth. These endless days of rain, we can recognize logically, are supplying our fresh water reserves and nourishing food-bearing land. Why is it so much harder to recognize our own need for such times?

My pastor’s wife, for those of you familiar with the Christian faith, likens these times to that during which Jesus was entombed, just prior to his resurrection. Three days came and went, during which his friends agonized that the dream of his becoming king had apparently crashed down, but down in the depths of the dark tomb, Jesus was ultimately transformed into the savior of the world. Whether you espouse this story as truth or not, this picture of the tomb evokes an agonizingly long time of what, death? What could be worse? Isn’t that our ultimate fear? Absence of light, of life, of others, of any joy, color, peace, or remaining purpose. That describes so accurately how I feel during dreary times in life like these endless days of rain. Nonetheless, we can embrace those times as moments of growth to be followed by far brighter days, as symbolized by the resurrection of Jesus from the tomb. We simply can’t rely on our sense to feed us truth about these times, so perhaps we can learn to remind ourselves of the impermanency of the darker times. One simple thought, the one that says “this is only temporary,” can brighten our outlook for hours and sometimes days on end.

I was just interrupted by the sound of my pager beeping. Talk about a delineating sound! That one tiny sound led to some interesting and highly defined bright moments in my day. Returning the page led me to meet some unexpected visitors downstairs, getting me up and moving which was nice enough. But as I awaited the visitors outside the hospital I met with more defined sound- that of a young girl throwing up. Now, I apologize for any shock, disgust or nausea you’re now experiencing. But turn your thoughts to this young girl- who was quite obviously a cancer victim leaving the hospital after treatment. I was instantly transformed by gratitude that my own daughters are healthy. The sight of this young lady’s smooth, hairless head instantly changed my mind about my daughter’s long hair that so often covers the bathroom floor. My thoughts were jerked from their stale, dreary outlook to a more realistic view. And when my visitors arrived, they came bearing brightest mylar balloons and bags of chocolate candy for our patients. My vision was instantly changed not only by the bright shininess of the balloons, the smiles on the faces of my visitors, my imagination of the taste of chocolate, but also by gratitude.

So what can you do to jumpstart another dreary day? I recommend a little gratitude first. It is a much more potent healer for the blues and blahs than anything else I know. Think of and express three things for which you are grateful. Secondly, try a little color, a little motion, crank up some music, see the faces of friends, amp up your day by dressing in bright colors, eating an interesting meal. Anything that tempts your senses makes you feel just a little better by reminding you that yes, you are alive. You may be experiencing the dull quietness of waiting under the soil like a seed being nourished, or in a sort of “tomb” where something in your life that needs to change is, indeed, being transformed. Either way, the bright hope is that while you are alive you still have choices, this is only temporary, and yes, the sun will shine on us again. Share

Why I Love Nutmeg

When I consider nutmeg, the sound of the word elicits luscious memories of the most creamy sensation between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Nutmeg, of course, isn’t creamy but rather grainy-dusty in both its grated and ground form, but what showcases the slightly metallic, peppery-sweet nutmeg better than the subtly savory, uber-creamy béchamel atop Mediterranean pastitsio? Or a chilled glass full to the brim with my favorite Caribbean cocktail, the creamy, coconut-pineapple-rum-laden Painkiller with just a smidgen of the grated seed atop?

Sure, nutmeg brings to mind everybody’s grandmother’s pumpkin bread, but I find it is lost there amidst cinnamon and clove. Nutmeg is feisty enough to stand up to alcohol, cloyingly sweet fruit, and fatty meat. I love its independence; its potency; its snap. Nutmeg likes to be shown off as a dark-sprinkled contrast to food and drink that otherwise appears plain and boring. Nutmeg may well be the very essence of mystery and intrigue that draws us in closer for a taste.

If you're among those who have never cared for the tinny taste of the pre-ground spice, I heartily recommend picking up whole nutmeg at your local grocery or international market next time you're in the spice section. Keep the seed in an airtight container and simply grate a sprinkling on your next sweet potato, fresh peach, or coconut-based summer cocktail. The fresh, round, earthy flavor will be less metallic and more heady than the canned ground stuff and, perhaps, you too will fall in love. Be sure to let me know what you think. Share

An Omelette: Behold the Fork

Ridiculous.

I call myself a foodie and I've never perfected the omelette. I have just one thing to say:

Behold, the fork.

I have applied spatulae of various shapes and sizes with tortuous twists and turns of the wrist to pools of whisked eggs in skillets of countless and varied materials. Omelette shame had met me face to face so many times that I simply gave up and have avoided the dish among my breakfast offerings. But today, this glorious morning, I rediscovered the beauty of the fork.

Perhaps the commonness of a kitchen tool deceives us; I have so many forks in my kitchen that they simply cannot be the key to any particular dish. One KitchenAid professional mixer is the key to many a light-textured cake; one potato masher is the answer for soft, fluffy mashed potatoes; one fork simply can't make the difference, I contemplated at 6:00 this morning, rubbing my bleary eyes as I perused the directions for a "plain omelette" in LaRousse's Gastronomique. But I was determined and gathered my muster, fork in one hand, bowl of eggs in the other, and my favorite, simple cast iron skillet before me over medium-high heat, bubbling with a mere two teaspoons of melted butter.

"I really can't believe I'm going to fork these eggs to death and expect a smooth omelette," I mumbled. I went for it, rubbing my eyes with one wrist. Hurriedly pouring the eggs into the skillet I made quick work of whisking them continously with my simple dinner fork. Once about half-set in a curdled, wet disk, I tempted the cohesed eggs to move from the surface of the skillet on the side closest to me. They lifted in such a heavenly, easy fashion I was, frankly, stunned.

Now I love my cast iron skillet for its non-stick properties, but eggs are normally the curmudgeon that defies me, sticking with a crust, ruining my breakfast, leaving me with a mess to scrub, and possibly lifting years of my Grandmother's precious seasoning from the iron. But lift they did without a spot, and I folded the near side of the disk over onto the middle. Pushing the fluffy, folded edge away from me towards the opposite side of the skillet, I gently nudged with my fork until the entire omelette moved up the sides and folded over on itself.

"I'm done. I can't believe I'm done," I thought. Here in my sleepy stupor I had finally mastered a simple omelette. The omelette possessed that delicate fluffy sponginess I'd sought to capture for so long; it was light and delicious, with a hint of kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper (I was out of the traditional white). And it was beautiful. Without a hitch, in the blink of an eye, and with only a fork in my hand. No fancy tools, no spatula, nothing but me and the fork. Well, and Grandma's cast iron.

Sadly, I forgot to take a snapshot before I scarfed down my masterpiece. Oh well.

Next, the lovely souffle.....





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Where All the Baby Socks Go

I'm not sure where to begin. There's that old adage to begin at the beginning:

For me, it happened back in 1989, when my college graduation trip fund became my washer & dryer fund. The generous gift from my maternal grandparents was now to be transformed into something exceedingly practical. I say exceedingly as I'd had no desire to be practical at 22 years of age. I'd long dreamt of the trip I'd make to Europe, what I'd do differently from my sister who'd graduated, received the gift, and gone off to Europe with a group wrangled by Mrs. Ruth Gay, (whom we appropriately called Ruthless Gay), God rest her soul. 

I'd do it differently, I was certain; I'd run off from the trip leader for more than just one afternoon. It was quite the daydream, as here I was already married and graduating from college. The reality of life and marriage to someone parading around as a nice guy had come to roost, and I felt the lifeblood slowing in my arteries even as I felt my first child beginning to gain substance in my belly. Running off to Europe no longer a possibility, I slapped all my trip fund into the hands of the Whirlpool man and made room for two shiny white machines that somehow managed to fit in my tiny apartment kitchen. I'd need, them, I thought, what with all those baby socks and onesies. 

That's where the mystery began. Only a few months later as Baby Kelli made her appearance did I begin to sprinkle my conversation with the phrase, "...where all the baby socks go."  For those of you who for whatever reason do not have children of your own and have never baby-sat a small child overnight, I'll fill you in on something: Tiny socks disappear. They vanish, inexplicably, into the universe. Statistically, new moms spend at least an hour a week searching for vanished baby socks with no satisfaction. 

I developed the theory then that my new Whirlpool washer and dryer had swallowed them. Now, at this point, I've had a few repairs done on each machine. And I assure you, I've leaned over the shoulder of the Whirlpool repairman (yes, he does exist), breathing down his neck but no baby socks have ever been discovered in the belly of either one. My updated theory? One of these machines is a portal. A portal into the universe. A portal to all things inexplicable. A portal to mystery, to life's deepest, darkest secrets, and to mountains and mountains of lost socks.

Fast forward twenty years. Baby Kelli will reach her landmark birthday in November, and has just driven herself to college for the first time. She's in her third year, but never before has she loaded up her own car with her worldly goods, hopped in behind the wheel and taken off. {Sniffle, sniffle}. And here the magic begins. 

I'm packing my bags for a road trip next weekend. I've patiently waited for all loads of laundry to be clean and dry to complete my weekend wardrobe which, for the most part, is casual. I plan to wear tennis shoes or hikers. With socks. I find only a singleton in my drawer which had held the three old and three brand new pairs of the cushioned wicking ones I'm so fond of I head to the dryer where I assume I'll find the dregs of the white load still resting deep within, amidst two or three well-worn dryer sheets. Enter Katherine, my 14-year old. She's getting ready for her first day of eighth grade: "Mom!!! I have no socks!!!"

You can only imagine the expletives aimed at the universe. The dryer. The black hole. And then the realization. It was, indeed, human hands that removed all those socks from our home. The same hands that once were so tiny, clapping as baby Kelli sat on top of the rumbling dryer in our old apartment kitchen had pilfered our sock collections directly from the wash. What now?

Aside from a trip to Target for new stock, I've only to reassess my theory. The one I've held so dear to my heart since 1989. No longer can I answer anyone's plea, "Where did _X_ go?" with my favorite phrase, "It went where all the baby socks go." For me, the answer must be this simple credo: Kelli ate them. Now I know. No more mystery, no more black hole theory, nor more speculation or intrigue. Everyone else will simply have to find their own answer to the universe. 

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It's Real Simple: Growing Up

"But, why do I have to grow up?"
I still reflect on that bittersweet moment long ago . I sat on my father's lap as he sat on the dark vinyl Danish modern recliner in our living room on Sheri Drive.
"But I don't want to!"was my protest, so often repeated in the most difficult moments of my life.

What I hadn't latched onto then but would some 35 years later, is that I wouldn't have to go this road alone. Adulthood, I had suspected, required a great and glamorous solo flight, the sort that would wow the world as they watched my wings spread within my own sinewy strength. Growing up, I now understand, is a weaving together of those elements of experiences and people in life that bind us in commonality rather than exclusivity. It takes a village to raise a child, and certainly a village to launch an adult. And for that I'm grateful. Share

The Washington Post: My First Published Clip

Now, why didn't I think of this before?

I wandered around in a general delirium for weeks, silly-headed over the fact that I have finally been published, and did not think to take advantage of my own platform here to broadcast the exciting news.
What could be more exciting to a writer than her first publsihed clip? I can think of two things right off the bat:
1. The paycheck (that is still sitting, untarnished, on my dining room table)
2. I was invited to write the piece

Hallelujah! I'M IN PRINT! And on the internet! And no one has taken my piece off the internet- which is even more life-confirming. Here it is, the little piece:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/06/02/AR2009060200833.html

Hope you enjoyed it, brief as it was. I will be submitting a longer piece to a magazine this month. Wish me success! Share

Fly Casting, Lesson 1

Fly casting: verb. Different from fly fishing, as one only does that when one actually catches something other than grass, trees, shrubbery or the skin of a nearby friend. The motion one achieves in the hopes of catching a fish and just plain enjoying oneself.

The day is hot and sultry, in expectation of the afternoon storm that never congealed. Tall marshmallow puffs of chalky white clouds form overhead as we stand on the banks of Percy Priest Lake, me with a fly rod in hand for the first time. Gnats, (aka jetskis) writing out a script on the water, are making waves just for us that lap lap on the rocks at our feet. I am here to learn, not so much to catch my dinner. In actuality, a fish does make a fair attempt to go home with me; the mysterious black-brown shape-shifter darting in and out of the smooth large rocks just a yard away from my feet. But no fish on the line means I am merely fly-casting and not fly-fishing. I'm alright with that. After all, it's early yet.

My instructor, or rather coach, kindly guides me through the motions...gentle subtle moves of the forearm and shoulder that belie the supposed complexity of fly fishing. It all started on the dance floor...or during discussion thereof, when he decided I'd be good at fly fishing because of my inherent sense of rhythm. When one dances well, one surely can fly cast. Much in the same way that one who has a musical ear is also proficient with foreign language learning. The music and rhythm are embedded first in the soul and can then be transcribed to many forms of physical activity and acuity.

My arm moves like a windshield wiper from 10:00 to 1:00. Positionally, that is, and not in terms of time. Imagine a clock face suspended over and perpendicular to my right shoulder in this blue late summer sky; I want to wave my fly rod back and forth between 10 and 1 when "false casting" to let out the excess yellow line and cast farther out beyond that rock. Delicious.... we talk of lemon meringue pie and I watch the lemon yellow line floating overhead back and forth...moving my arm carefully as I would spread the pillows of meringue over the tart lemon pie filling; there is pressure, but not too much; there is arm motion, but no wrist-flicking; there is power but not forcefulness. Subtletyis engaged.

My coach is enjoying this too much, reaching his arms around me to demonstrate, hands over mine, just the right tension and motion of my arms. Soon I'm standing alone, swimsuit-and-shorts-clad, waving my magic wand overhead with "tight loop" of line dancing overhead, flashing in the sunlight, teasing the fish out to play. And I can't wait for next time. Share

I'll Take Southern Comfort, Please

March, 2009

I've learned a couple lessons in the last six weeks. Not that I'm surprised. After a pretty big "life disruption" three months ago, my goal had been to learn, grow, and prayerfully watch and wait for what was next- more prepared than the last time I found myself in "this place." But sometimes truth hits you broadside even when think you're looking for it.

The Truth. Let me first digress and clarify: I'm hungry for truth about myself, as well as for what I would call "God's Truth" about life, the universe, and what is best for me in the midst of it; maybe that jives with you. Sometimes the Truth hits you in subtle gleanings falling on you like a soft spring rain, and sometimes it overtakes you like a good stomach virus or freight train. Last night, truth was a tsunami of tears, gut-wrenching, washing over me and subsiding in a heaving, rhythmic anthem; testimony to its import.

There were many levels to the revelation; first was the realization that some newly found hopes were lost-again. The vision of these hopes entangled with many older and equally-missed hopes intertwined in a mesh of vines in my head which I could not sort out. Confusion left after only a few moments, leaving behind the raw pain of fear that I may simply not have been good enough for the lovely man. That was a force with which I could not contend and left it on a mental shelf for later. What came next I was surely ill-prepared for. Not God's truth, (that will reveal itself over time), but a simple truth about men in my life that is sublime and darned near humorous.

Here it is: It's that sweet Kentucky drawl I'm gonna miss so damn much. Give me a southern gentleman over a northern man any time. Now, this may be nothing to you, but it is a massive shift in my perspective. After nearly five years with someone-not-from-the-south, I can't begin to explain how much I've missed those southern sensibilities. Southern mamas raise their boys right, teach them respect, how to open car doors for a lady and just treat her right- and GOD how I've missed that. And speaking of- Southern boys are more inclined to believe in God and live by Christian principles to which I hitch my wagon. (Yes they are- go write your own blog.)

In just a couple of weeks I've been treated better and made to feel more beautiful and special than in years with northern men. With his easy manner, the sweet soft affectionate way he carried himself, his hand grasping mine, a trip to Sam's for camping gear, and the myriad crickets he properly speared onto my fishhook one at a time- he couldn't help but snag me. Watching him looking for ways to jump in and help his neighbors- indeed anyone in the vicinity at any given moment- with his kind and compassionate heart he had me, hook, line and sinker.

A man from a southern family knows how to treat women because he has at least ten sisters from whom to learn a few key tenets of life and sensitivity to our sex. Because he's pulled food from the soil and fish from the water with his own hands , he's pragmatic, logical, sensible; he senses that life and death, flood and drought, joys and tragedies are all to be expected, and deals with them at a steadier pace than his northern counterpart. He appreciates the subtle beauty of roses popping open, the mist enshrouding the moon, and the deliciousness of an impassioned lightning storm. To him, the view of the city from The Hill and the feel of whitewater rushing the sides of the kayak are the whipped cream on the bourbon cake of life.

Now, I know not all southern men live out these southern charms, but in my experience they're more likely to than northern men. They're bred in there, somewhere, deep in their psyche. There's something, too, about the way the steamy southern summer heat breeds sensuality in a southern man, and molds all that goodness into one really sweet package. The watershed must be to blame for his good looks...I have no other ideas as to that. I won't even begin to tackle his huge, friendly southern smile.

So what do I do with this newfound revelation? For most of my life I've laid claim to my northern roots and my connections to French soil many generations back. I'd completely lost sight of how deeply my birthright as an Alabamian daughter of two yankees had impregnated my soul and mind and lifestyle. I've downplayed my own southern sensibilities, my own sweet southern charms and skills, as lesser qualities to global-mindedness and big-city-who-knows-what, probably to impress someone whom I didn't need to impress anyway. I'm recently reminded those southern charms are my best attributes. So I'd like to stake my claim right here, once and for all. I am southern born, southern bred, and I'll take my man southern, too.

And when I'm heard to pray, "God send your man into my life- and- Oh- can he have a foreign accent, please?" I'll know what to expect next time. Share

Gone Fishin'

It is beautiful here. Sparkling, golden, ringed with green, sun-dappled, hot as hot. I'm standing in the Caney Fork River in Tennessee. The very cold waters rush by my ankles, thighs and hips in such a way as to feel like I'm submerged in wildly whirling and fizzling soda water tickling my skin and chilling my bones. I've never felt anything quite like it as the powers-that-be release more water gently through the dam this late-June morning.

For the first time in my life I catch out of the corner of my eyes the silvery flashes of trout: browns and rainbows. I gasp with exhilaration...I've seen them!

I'm here to fish and to paddle my way from below the dam to the take-out, and I'm savoring every moment of the natural beauty, trying to focus and regain control over my thoughts which have been torn away since I returned from Spain. I'm constantly aware of the bobbing & turning of brightly colored kayaks around my own, like so many floating crayons strewn into the river by the hand of a child playing on the muddy, sandy banks.

It is beautiful here.

Mist and fog rolled and lingered just above the water last night as I watched, breathless, the deepening silhouettes against peach-pink sky and craggy trees. My friend held his line in one hand, rod in the other, motionless as I traced his dark outline with my eyes and snapped a photo, then another. The scene here today is different, changed. Alive. There remains mystery on the river today but of a different sort. The trees hold no secrets this morning- only the water does. It is deep green and thick with wonder, the excitement of the chase, and nourishment- and the meeting of the three.

The Caney is dotted with men in waders, only their hips to head visible, all strung between flickering lines and flapping fish. Some have handsome hats with chin strings, others baseball caps, but all heads are tipped slightly chin-down toward the water. Some flash their wide smiles at me and my friends floating by and offer kind words and tips, others grumble, still others indicate where we should go and blame us for their tangled lines and poor luck.

I make my way downriver in a jumble of tangled thoughts, moments of peace, muscle flexion, exhilaration, resting. Sweat pouring down my back, my hands grip my paddle then exchange it for rod and reel, slippery yellow powerbait or the corn floating in the little cup-holder. I take in as much of the beauty of water and sky as I can. I power through, then rest. I catch up with my friends, then let them float ahead. I can't decide; I am mixed. I find myself as often as I see the flash of the trout before it disappears out of view. I'm fine with this. I know I am fully here, and that's all that matters.

I try casting into riffles, runs, and pools, with no more luck in one than the other. Many bite, some bend my rod as I reel in, but none hangs on long enough for the #6 hook to embed. I repeat my anthem all day long: "AH!!-aaaoooohh."

As the sun beats down I'm seeing a few things more clearly. I am addicted to this new activity, fishing. I'm addicted to the thrill of reeling in bluegill after bluegill, and now the attempt at trout. I am addicted to the sensation of nibbles on my line, the subtle tug, the connection between nerve endings, woman and fish. I seek the Salvelinus fontinalis, the species grouping for any trout I might found in the eastern U.S. (so says genetic testing). For the moment, I choose to discount the Scottish study concluding that rainbow trout feel pain (it is hotly debated, anyway). For now, my quest is not merely for the thrill or for the rich aroma of my dinner over the fire, but for answers:

How long do you let one fish nibble away and play at your precious bait, potentially sucking it off your line leaving you empty-handed and worn? When do I cut and run?

How can I distinguish between kelp and a keeper before it rises to the surface?

What bait is best? What color? Type?

With what body motion, wrist flick, hip twist am I most likely to reel in a trout?

How much muscle do I use? Does this fish want gentle subtlety or a hearty tug?

Does sweet-talking help in any way?

(Sound familiar?)

Should I go after the plethora of troutling because they're there, or wait it out to try for the Big Brown in deeper waters?

I am quiet, and mark my observations. Moment by moment the water plays tricks on me, mimicking the precise sensation of a nibbing trout as the current drags the sinker along the bottom and plays catch-and-release with the kelp. And then something bites- tears fast and furious at my hook- and in an instant is gone, disappointed with my measly bait, only to leave me wondering just how big and beautiful it was, and what my friends would've said had I muscled it up to reel it in. Did I not have what it takes for that one?

And karma seems to have little to do with success on the river; the guy who behaved so badly at camp last night has caught a stringer-full today. Woman keeps her dignity but no fish.

My friend turns to me and says, "This one just bit the whole hook, line and sinker down to its belly!" He has dinner. That fish wanted the bait so badly, liked what it saw so much, that it went in fully committed the first time- no doubts, no question, and got the bait. You could say, despite the obvious implication of an impending fish fry, that they both won.

Now it must be obvious where I'm going with this. I'm a girl who loves connection, as you know: connection to people, the feel of my nose against the roses in my garden, connection of my hands to my food, and to that subtle nibble on my fishing line extending from my fingertips through my forearms. I even love to hold the freshly-caught fish. But while I so enjoy the gentle sensation of a first touch or initial nudge, I am a bigger fan of the thrill of the catch- whether it be face to face time with friends, or capturing the attraction and love of a special person.

They say patience makes a great fisherman, patience brings you dinner. At least that's what they were telling me on the Caney today. So I suppose my answer is not in how to dress a hook, what color bait to sport, or my motion, but in what I'm gonna do with all that time on my hands while I wait.

I'll let you know. Share

Goodbye Spain

It is nearing time for me to say goodbye to a place I've spent more time planning to visiting than actually visiting. Not easy, but it does come naturally to wind down, stop walking, and contemplate. 

My mind wanders to the many facets of life in Spain that I'll miss. What first comes to mind for me is the Catalan lisp. I realize no one here considers that delicious sound a lisp but, well, there's no better way to communicate it to english speakers. The hard "c", the "z," and the sedilla "c" (I think I'm correct) are all pronounced in such a way as to produce a wet, lusciousness in speech rather than a sound for which to apologize, as Americans would have it. In Nashville when I want to go salsa dancing, I head to a club called "Ibitha." not "Ibiza." I won't correct you when you say it the latter way, but I would rather remind myself of how Spaniards pronounce the island name. Look at me funny, snicker behind my back, but it shall remain. The sound creates a soft richness of speech which makes my eyes linger on the lips of the speaker. And now I'm at a loss as to say more. Come to Spain and you'll know.

The hot, bright sunlight slathered over every person and landscape I will certainly miss. This should have come first. what my friends know of me is that I'm first a sunlight addict, if anything. I would retire in southern France or Italy or anywhere in Spain to chase the sun til my last breath if I could work it out. Just as my daughter was reaching her limit of heat on the beach I was just beginning to feel perfect. Even now I'm situated as close to the sunlit balcony as my chair will allow, my legs cramped against the permanent half-window sealed here for safety. Last evening as we sauntered down the sidewalk to Placa de Reina (say "Platha"), the evening sun was so bright as to defy anything I've ever known of the 9pm sky. (Sunset is 10:30 in June). It blinded us so that we had to cock our heads to the side to make our way to our destination. It is this sort of sun that cheers both psyche and soul and warms the skin. I want nothing else.

With only a few moments to finish before dragging our bags on the 20-minute walk to the train station, I must admit that I have enjoyed far more than expected the unexpected nature of our travels. Up until my trip to St. Martin last summer (which was nearly derailed despite rigorous planning), I was studious before any vacation, determining before departure my chosen haunts, best routes, and the recommendations of seasoned adventurers. The St. Martin trip taught me that sometimes reality works against a plan, and that my stubbornness nearly unraveled my joy. Perhaps that left such a mark as to cause in me an inexplicable inability to plan this current trip to Spain. Up until a week before I felt frozen.... I could not so much as look at a guidebook, map, or train schedule. I had only our flight confirmation to and from Europe, and the desire to see and spend time with my daughter who is studying for one month on the Spanish coast. The impromptu has proven incredibly satisfying, indeed freeing for me. I've been able to follow the momentary whims of my thirteen-year-old daughter who is my travel companion, the late notice of group plans in a hostel, and other surprises along the way. I can honestly say that this is now my preferred way to travel.

I must go. Time to hike it to the train station, back to Barcelona, and to the airport tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, enjoy the unexpected.

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Simple Pleasures Abroad- Vital to Any Big Adventure

Sometimes we allow fear of unknown to keep us from following our sense of adventure. This is particularly true of traveling abroad, seeing the world beyond one’s familiar borders.

I know a number of people who will forego a trip abroad because packing up one’s life for even a few days and planting oneself in a foreign country feels too complicated to be any fun. Did I consider before traveling that that something could go wrong medically, politically, or otherwise beyond our control in unfamiliar surroundings? That my 13-year-old daughter/companion might grow irritable? That the French language with which I’m proficient would hold minimal sway in attempting to explain my needs to a Spaniard? That a few days without my Honda scooter might incapacitate me psychologically? While the answer is a resounding YES, I consider these worthy risks for the level of joy and fulfillment that new life experiences and global education impart.

I would add, though, that being cognizant of the power of a few simple pleasures improves one’s travel adventures remarkably and evokes a joyfulness that no environmental complications can outweigh. I’ve kept track of a few, both photographically and in jotted notes, but find that sitting here in a breakfast nook overhanging Alicante’s La Rambla is the perfect time to share some of them. Without camera or notebook, let me see what comes to mind in this peaceful morning moment, Spanish music softly filling the background….

Well, firstly I note that I’m surrounded by people whose mere proximity to open water seems to have kept them relaxed but passionate about life. Romanticism and bonding are ever-present everywhere I look. Here on this “White Coast” town of Alicante, Spain, most couples hold hands…. particularly the elderly. Friends hold one another’s arms when crossing the street and ascending the metro station stairs. As I’ve seen on other European beaches, entire families play together- and they do so half-naked- with such ease and delight as to make single people like me utterly jealous.

.Coffee. Café con Leches. Espress. Call it what you will, European travel for the coffee lover is palatary fulfillment. I’m coining the word, so just add it to your spell-check. Opaque walnut brown, nutty, smooth, with the mouth-feel of velvet, fantastic coffee in white demitasses can be found on every corner and every nook at any hour. And I hate to admit it, but even the little packets of European Nescafe instant coffee make an amazing cup unlike any American attempt. Our first Barcelona hotel room was outfitted with a chrome hotpot that boiled water in 30 seconds flat- I kid you not- and three of these packets. While not as delectable as the espresso downstairs, that first cup of coffee after an unimaginably long day of travel was a simple pleasure that rocked my first day in Spain.

Columbias. Not a typo- these are my shoes of choice. I brought one pair of heels, tennis shoes, and my Columbia flip-flops. One can’t appreciate other simple pleasures while traveling if one’s feet aren’t happy. Comfortable, fashionable in that “world traveler” sort of way and indestructible, they’ve supported me for two full years before this trip and are keeping my feet and back happy every day in Spain. I’m going to write the company as soon as I get home.

Sunshine. My friends know I am a sunlight addict, the sort who runs home not to catch happy hour but the last few rays after work. Daily long doses of pure, hot sunlight (illuminating my keyboard) just make me feel great inside and out. (This is no health blog so I’ll skip over all the implications of exposure other than to comment that my fair-skinned Irish/Cherokee daughters slathering themselves with SPF 50. This outstanding and fee pleasure lasts from 6am to 10:30 pm.

Piping hot bubble baths: Eight hours of touring Antonio Gaudi’s fantastical architectural sites in Barcelona and your body is bound to ache. (This was the day I chose not to wear the Columbias- silly me). Our hotel came fitted with a short bathtub, a large hot water heater, and shower gel. Three cheers for the massive mounds of bubbles and piping hot bath one can produce with those simple ingredients.

Free wifi (say “weefee” in Spain). The best decision I made in planning this trip was to forego other hotel room niceties to find free high-speed wifi. Suffice it to say that very little of the effort I put forth to ensure I had the correct hardware would have made any difference in Europe had I not had a place in or near my room to log on. With a child asleep during my best blogging/ photo-uploading /emailing hours, I could never have visited distant internet cafes for web-time. H10 Hotel on Las Ramblas in Barcelona also offers two computers- enough for the clientele-which became immensely valuable after my computer charging fiasco. Hotel Rambla in Alicante provides me with free fast wifi in the breakfast area, stairwells, and for a huge bonus- in my room.

Computer technology: What naturally follows is a comment on the simple pleasure of the correct adaptors, converters, chargers, batteries and upload cables, without which little of my contact with friends back home could have been possible. Sure, I could email people from an internet café, but where are those and how long is the line and how much will it cost me? Besides, owning my technological comfort is so much better. Beyond that, I am convinced my friends would have been more silent had I not been uploading photos. Their comments on my Face Book photo albums have been a lifeline for me since I’m traveling without adult companionship. One heartfelt note for the Mac owner, though: Insist that your Apple store clerk SHOW you how to connect every blessed part of your European converter/ adapter / laptop system before you leave town. I jumped for joy four days into my trip in an Alicante student apartment when my daughter’s roomie casually pointed out she was using the same adaptor I’d brought from Nashville. She had pulled apart a certain segment and connected the adapter.....otherwise, one would never intuit how it connects, and may lose one’s temper at a random Apple store clerk.

Carry-on luggage. I am both a petite and savvy traveler. I pride myself in my equally petite luggage- usually. But I lost my mind before this trip, and bought the biggest red suitcase I could find for my stuff while reminding my child to pack light. After I finish typing this, Big Red (that blasted back-breaking suitcase) is headed to the shipping store, “Correos,” for its trip home- stuffed and alone. The simple pleasure? My 19 year old who is studying here brought an extra carry-on at my suggestion, and has handed it over to me for the remainder of my trip. Associated simple pleasure: The bottle of Woolite for sink-washing the outfits I will now need to repeat.

There are so many hundreds more simple pleasures I’d like to relate, but for now must get outside and experience them. Blogging is such a joy for me, but here I am in Spain indoors with only four days left to romp. Here is a short list with more to come:

Friends and family back home

New friends

Croissants

Drinking chocolate

Millefeuille

La Boqueria or any other open-air market

The Mediterranean- it really is blue-green!

Train tickets

Tilework

Patterns

Beautiful wood-carved doors

The abundance of beautiful Spanish men (hey- I’m from Nashville, where women outnumber the men! The streets in Alicante are positively lined with men who smile and call out to me!)

The Mercadona: where I bought five bags of groceries including two bottles of wine for 21 euros- which, with the ailing dollar, was only about $35!

Anchovies- thanks Pere!

Watching Kelli windsurf and kayak

Watching Katie on her photographic journey

A 16-pack of AA batteries- good suggestion, Dad! So much better than rechargeable.

An Agatha Christie compilation (Katie’s choice)

Familiar music on my laptop and iPod

iPhone: I recommend AT&T’s World Traveler plan for a few text and phone calls only, and following their advice on phone settings to avoid using data at all. Their web sites and customer service have been exemplary.

OK I’m sorry but I must run outside. It is sooo late in the morning. Enjoy your day- wherever you are and whatever you do and whomever you’re with. There are simple pleasures everywhere!

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"+Food +Hot +Man +Cooking"

http://www.twitpic.com/191zn

Frombecca posted a photo of a marvelous-looking paella with the caption: "A man's job to cook paella?" (See URL above). Her tags, even more telling of the thought process, caught my attention:
Tags: +food +hot +man +rice +cooking +prawns +gas +paella +heat +cooking class.

I, for one, think these words stream so beautifully together. Starting with "+food +hot + man +cooking"....pick your word order. While I do Tweet with Becca, I can't speak to what intrigued her about paella and the tradition of men preparing the dish. Nonetheless, I am quite certain these ideas run together for many a female foodie and non-foodie alike. I know because I have been involved in numerous conversations in recent weeks exploring the simple concept of men and cooking. What intrigues us about an act so simple, so traditional, so unsurprising as men being personally and physically involved in food preparation?

I come bearing no answers, but do have an idea. We could pretend that the intrigue generates from the age-old conflict that gender roles have demarcated segments of our lives. Can we not move past the stereotypic "female in the kitchen" even at this point? You need not look past the kitchen door of pick-any-restaurant-in-your-city to find a number of males who are utterly food-savvy, yet when we peer through a home kitchen doorway we somehow still expect to see a woman standing there. While this does present a conflict, it is not what has my attention, or < I think, the attention of many women in my sphere.

Here is what I believe to be the real intrigue over men in the kitchen: I'd like to say it aloud (as loudly as one can on a blog page):
Women love to see men cooking.
Give me a man preparing paella and I'll show you a dozen voyeurs who'd gladly lean in to observe, giggling, oohing and ahhing, and not over the paella. Where the art and science of preparing food become alchemy in a man's hands, where he can be seen caressing ingredients, nurturing them, magically creating something delicious for a woman to taste, you've got a scenario more titillating than a paperback bodice-ripper.

Give me a man who loves to discuss how he culled radicchio from his garden and carefully incorporated it into a dish, or who had to rush to the herb sale for purple basil for a Thai dinner with his girlfriend that night, and I'll show you a swooning handful of ladies just drooling to meet said man. Regardless of looks or education or property or success in other areas, a man who can cook- better yet, a man who talks openly about cooking with a glint in his eye- comes very close to having any woman he wants. Let this be a lesson to my male readers: A man who cooks may cover a multitude of sins with his kitchen skills- provided that he exercises them often.

Forget whether it is a woman's job or a man's job to do the cooking. Do we really care any more? It's a relationship thing. Explore the pleasures of food through preparing it, talking about it, sharing it- and you'll find it can lead to a multitude of other pleasures. You can make your own list. Today, mine will simply be "+food +hot + man +cooking." Share

Sun, Sun, Sun

Let’s face it. April is just a teaser for spring. What do you long for in the depths of cold, dark winter? Sunlight, of course! So do we all. But even here in mid-April I feel teased and tricked by the sun as it ducks and hides behind dreary clouds and covers its warmth in a blanket of drear. Other April days may well be ablaze at sunrise as every icy dew drop catches a spark of sunlight and magnifies it in orange-red...but the truth is that days are still feeling short and it just ain't summer yet. So we are sun-starved.

In sitting here frustrated at not having something to write that anyone else would care about, I recognized something. While my inspiration was sapped by the dreary morning, by the lack of sunlight bursting forth, I am nonetheless quite warm, comfortable and content. The source of my comfort is two-fold: my morning spiritual studies and my $200 Alaska Northern Lights lightbox. I won't go into the former as this blog isn't my spiritual platform. Yet. But I would like to talk about my beloved Lightbox.

I'm a huge fan of sunlight. No, that won't do: I'm an outright sunlight junkie. I can't get enough of the sun. In my cubicle, a vast distance from any window, I can sense when a cloud moves over the sun. Honest. I am one of the masses who become downright depressed when the wintry days of drear pile up, one after another, in a meaningless, undefined shapeless mound of, what's the word? BLAH. Thoughts won't take shape, sentences don't congeal, feelings are muted- particularly happiness. There is a "vacancy" sign parked in the space that my sense of life's meaningfulness ordinarily occupies. But when that beautiful moment comes and sunlight streams sharp and bright-hot through the dreary gray- I'm suddenly alive- spiritually, cognitively, emotionally. Can you relate in some way? When the real thing hides, enter The Lightbox.

This miracle Lightbox is bursting with happy energy from special bulbs whose light mimics the sun's rays, sans the harmful ones. Mine is a 26"x18"x4" rectangular idol sitting directly before me on my desktop, just beyond my Mac Book. I plant myself before it daily in ritualistic fashion, my eyes lifted to it in awe, to re-energize my life force, my feelings of joy, my sense of purpose. Really- no joke. I've never experienced anything like it (well, outside spiritual pursuits) and wouldn't give it up for anything. And yes, I can feel it working on me right now.

I won't try to relate to you the sense of desperation and dread that blanketed me the moment I dropped my first Lightbox and a flick of the switch confirmed that The Light had left me. For those of us with Seasonal Affective Disorder, the fix of sunlight is worth any price, so I sprung for another as fast as my fingers could pound out the correct combination of credit card numbers on my keyboard. In a few days, my wonderful friends at Alaskan Northern Lights had shipped me my new idol. My face reflects its glory every morning and sometimes late evenings as well. My family, friends and neighbors see that The Light has come, that I am changed. And my inner experience? Peace, man. You'll just have to try it for yourself and see.

Of course, the sun is on its way, today or tomorrow, to lavishly spread its hot fingers over us, warming us inside and out, healing the pangs of winter blues. I can't wait. No other brightness can compare; not the glorious flash of lightning in the pitch-black of a furious spring storm, not the flash of a camera at a loving family Easter gathering; not even the sweet flickering flame of a candle lit by lovers. No, I wait for the real thing. But I wait in front of a Lightbox. Amen, and Amen. Share

My New Favorite Elixir: Frends, Food and Art with a Twist of Lime

Sometime this morning in the twilight between sleep and wake, I decided this: when I experience an event that I refer to as a "highlight of my life," I should not only blog about it but titrate out the intriguing elements so I can repeat them-often. So here I am. I have for years maintained that nothing could be better than getting together to eat with friends. (Before you protest, please note that only certain material is appropriate for the blog platform). This morning I must add one component to that aromatic elixir of friends and food: Art.


What could have been a nice little art show opening, a few supportive friends drifting in and out on their way to fulfill bigger and better Friday night plans, transformed into an evening I'll never forget. Last night, a calligraphic art exhibit, "Words," opened at Centennial Art Center in Nashville's Centennial Park. Three pieces of mine were hung (actually four, but the declined nude painting will save for later discussion) among the gorgeous works of my colleagues- not enough pieces to merit much attention, but enough for me to celebrate my recent overcoming of artist's block. Thankfully, I decided to celebrate my overcoming of more than a few difficulties of late by inviting nearly everyone I call a friend to this, my fifth art opening. The results absolutely bowled me over.

When I arrived (a moment late, as my daughter was home feverish), two friends, Christy and Jim, were already perusing the works of art. From that moment until after the show ended two hours later, I could barely catch my breath for all my friends arriving and commenting. The room seemed filled to the brim with only my own guests- a real coup-and was bubbling over with warmth and joy. Did anyone else see that, or was it just that I felt so loved? I do have pictures....

Admittedly I did not have opportunity to contemplate the works of my uber-talented calligrapher friends, but I will go back and do so another day. For now, forgive me for enjoying the sense that it was "all about me." (OK, me, and the free wine...).Terrible, this self-promotion, I know, but P.T Barnum said, "Without promotion, something terrible happens- Nothing!" So I am learning to promote my art and my writing and today am luxuriating in the love and attention of many wonderful friends as a result. Sometimes- many times- that is precisely what we need. Providing a venue for my outdoor buddies, dance partners, and FaceBook friends to co-mingle made sense; but somehow I'd overlooked the fact that many of my friends really do enjoy the art.

And there was plenty beautiful art covering the walls of the venue. From manuscript lettering to gilding to contemporary italic texts, the calligraphy displayed was lush and varied. Surrounding ourselves with beauty and inspiration moves a gathering of friends up a notch in terms of experience. Everyone is jovial, inspired. Two friends offered to buy one of my painterly works (which was commissioned, so no sale). Even better than those offers, I received heaps and gobs of soul-nourishing, ego-building compliments to my work, which is an intimate reflection of my heart and soul, joy and grief. There is nothing else so sweet as that compliment.


As the reception was wrapping up, we re-congregated at Fiest Azteca (one big shout-out to the staff) around the longest, most hyper-extended table one could possibly fit in the room. We slurped margheritas from icy pitchers of ruby red and wan green, downed basket after basket of crisp tortilla chips and bowls of chunky salsa, and relished the companionship of friends. There was talk of the huge group of paddlers meeting tomorrow at Old Hickory Lake, of baby "Snap" due in May, of a group gathering for Easter dinner, and of the poor use of grammar rampant in the U.S. Then, of course, there was talk of this and that person's desire to paint, write, draw, or photograph, peppered with the assumption that one is either born with talent, or without. I disagree, by the way. Everyone- to my house for art therapy! A joyous throng- that's how I can best describe our group last night. Therefore I postulate: Friends+art+food must = wonderment, joy, love, life.




Forty. That's how many years it took for me to really "get" friendship. Regrettable. I grew up painfully shy, then overcame it. But it still took years for me to understand that friends come in many different packages and have different roles in our lives, that no one ever really completely "gets" us, and that, while it is up to us to love ourselves, friends make life so full and beautiful.

Like the works of art at last night's reception, every friend I have is a unique work, a beautiful expression of his or her experiences, and possessing a nuance of life and love that noone else does. I'm grateful for each person who took the time to come out to "Words" whether in support of me or to be seen or to be inspired by art or to catch up or just for the free plastic cup of wine (you know who you are). I still carry the scent of the perfume of each person with whom I came into contact last night. It would be assenine of me to lump my friends together as "the group," although together we made a sumptuous and fragrant bouqet. So I would like to take time to thank each of you as I would write in your school yearbooks since we don't have those at our age:

Kurt A.: What a true friend. Thanks for getting us all together! It was amazing, thanks to you. Your encouragement goes a very long way.
Ginger: My best girl, you are a wonder in all ways. Sweet, Loyal, full of integrity, intellect and wisdom, and a heck of alot of fun! Thank God our senses of humor match so we have an outlet in each other :-) You have the best laugh in Nashvegas. Snap is so lucky!
Christy O': You are a delight. Always smiling and encouraging. I've never heard a negative thing from you!
Jim: You are everywhere! You make me smile. When will you dnce with me?
J.C. Jones:My favorite EVER cajun, contra and waltz dance partner; looking forward to next Saturday night! Thanks for stopping by.
Bryan & Mary Laurens: I love you two! But I love Zim and 'Liza more...JK. You are amazing friends and I'm grateful to have some o dem cajun cousin' raht down de street, cha! Looking forward to Easter dinner..thanks for coming out!
Chris J. T.: I can't believe you came! So glad you did. You are a kind and good soul and a real encourager; love your quick sense of humor. Here's to bluegrass and bluegill!
Michael T.: CONGRATS on finishing your e-book! You are a great friend and such a cheerleader- thank you for coming out! See you for the non-fiction writer's meetup!
Marsha B.; A true friend and kind soul. I love you! Hope you had as much fun as it seemed.
Susan N.: You're so beautiful! Smart as a whip. Thank you for all the uplifting words..they make me strong. BTW, I can neither walk a tightrope nor play the bazouki. (Are you scoring for grammar here?) When will your cover for "Nashville's Most Beautiful People" contest be out?
Chris Highfield: You never fail to uplift and challenge me spiritually, and are a wonderful example of the best sort of man. One day may you cook for me when you are not so busy...
James H: You're so sweet to come to the show! I look forward to catching up with you soon.
Jennifer G: I look forward to getting to know you- it was great to see you. Let me borrow that jacket...
Logan: Man, I LOVE your fashion sense. PLEASE teach other guys or open a shop. I love the way you look people in the eye when they speak to you. And I gotta tell ya,' your grammar is sheer perfection ;-) Glad I met you. Let's hike!
Mark A.: Another fine example...you are the kindest soul and a true friend. You have the second best laugh in Nashvegas, and you make a great dad.
Bryan T. My GOD how does that keep happening! You're one of my closest buds yet you aren't getting invites..I'm sorry! Let me make up for it by riding in your convertible.. you know I love you! Thank you for coming to the show :-)
Ann W.: A truly inspiring artist. You're lovely and kind and supportive and..I could go on and on. Great to see you!
Jenni P.: My love! You are a shining example of friendship... and such a loyal bunny mama. How was Mindy last night?
Theresa: You're such a creative woman- thanks for your friendship! Let's do fire again soon...:-) Enjoy your new job!
Fran P.: Glad to have you as a new friend. I enjoyed hanging out with you last night and hope to hike with you soon!
Jason D.: Your sense of humor has gotten me through many days. Send on those jokes, buddy! When are you coming for your first calligraphy lesson? You have a great heart, btw.
Beth C.: You're a wonderful friend and great woman. Thanks for being there!
Jay N.: CONGRATULATIONS! You finished your masterpiece! Will this be your magnus opus? Surprise us... I want a, autographed first edition, of course. You inspire me.
Doug F.: You looked like you were having a great time last night! Thank you for coming out. See you on the next hike? I barely spoke to you..look forward to catching up.
LaRae: Please tell me the story behind your uber-cool name! You are a ray of sunshine and I'd like to spend more time with you! Only I my bike can't keep up with your bike... Thanks for coming!
Lori/ Laurie: We didn't discuss your spelling... Thanks for coming out..it was a pleasure to hang out with you!
Susan B.: Always a happy laugh even when times are tough. We have some kindred spirit in us... You're an amazing woman and I'm glad I got to hang with you again. Looking forward to the lake tomorrow and to Rock Island later this summer!
Susan P.: What a sweet friend. Things are developing behind the scenes for you, chica..you'll be amazed you ever worried! I can't wait to see what's next for you and know it will knock your socks off!
Steve H.: You inspire and challenge me- thank you. Congrats on your exciting gallery deal! Thanks for coming out.
Michelle O.: You're a lovely and brave globetrotter and I'm so gald you came out last night. I miss your company! Let's travel together soon.
Ingrid: You are a beacon of hope:-) Amelie is such a beautiful little pea pod- congrats! I can't believe Lelo is your mom...she's the best we've got in Nashville.
Yvonne and Frances: Your compliments were stunning. Thank you for taking the time to encourage me! London...really???
Valerie C.: A huge thank-you for being the hands and feet of the show. And for letting me down easy about the nude figure....
Dan C. My real estate agent (this begins to sound like an Oscar speech): One day we will buy that house! Thank you.
Gary W.: An inspiration on many, many levels. you are a kind heart and great man. See you on the lake..or dance floor...or trail... or flying through the air... or ziplinging....
I know I haven't covered everyone, but there were two margheritas last night and my brain's a bit foggy.

Here's to what art each of us shares in some way. Share