Tag: gratitude

What’s Up?

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It’s been a while. It’s a challenge to write when the stories aren’t only your own to tell. So I will do my best to do the dance of sharing without oversharing. For the last few months, my house has been full. Two adult nephews have been here, living in the extra rooms, while working and settling into a now familiar rhythm. Plus I’ve gotten a new kitten. Things are lively, to say the least. It’s remarkable to have constant conversation and activity again. And it’s hard to get wrapped up in my own ruminations when I have people to cook with and for. I’m learning new recipes, vocabularly, memes, music, generational and cultural differences. It’s fascinating, hilarious, exhausting, and fun. Some evenings, I can almost hear my big brothers chatting animatedly. And yet these two are very much their own men with their own experiences and stories. It’s quite marvellous.

I can say unreservedly this holiday season is less heavy in that I’m not wallowing in my own sadness and anger. I’m looking forward to baking sugar cookies and jolabokaflod and creating art and spending time with people I love. Being able to provide a haven and support while also being wildly entertained is a measure of good fortune that gobsmacks me all over again.

Now it’s not all beer and skittles. I’m one who loves to bake and one nephew cannot eat gluten. But every challenge is an opportunity to be creative. We’re finding our way. I also know that every season has its end and this one will too. I’m just glad it’s not quite yet. My heart is full. My gratitude cup, my joy nugget basket, my thankful tank, whatever you want to call it–full to the brim and overflowing.

To Be Present

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August is on the downward slope and September will be here before we know it. I’ve seen any number of memes about the pull to the coziness of fall–hoodies, warm beverages, nestling under blankets amidst the soft glow of low lamps when darker evenings appear. Kids are going back to school; parents are mixed with relief and grief. It’s such a challenge not to plan, be forward thinking, eye always on the future, but every season is rich unto itself.

Last night I took the fixings for a tarte a la moutarde to my cousin’s and her family. Now don’t tune out yet. Yes a “mustard tart” sounds kind of gross and a little insane, but it is probably one of the most exquisite summer dishes I have ever made. Dijon, gruyere, herbes de Provence, salt, pepper, and fresh garden tomatoes sliced up all on a crust with the edges rolled up. The combination of flavors is heady. As my good friend Holly would say–“restaurant quality.” The time at table with their family, my family, was so good.

In conversation with my cousin, we discussed “being present” versus “flow.” As introverts who value solitude, I could relate to her struggle with longing for flow–that place where we step outside of chronic consciousness into body, creation, and spirit (best I can do) and be physically, mentally, emotionally attuned to this moment in time. Many of these moments in time are brutal for reasons stemming from the personal to the collective. Some of them are boring and tedious. Some of them break our hearts. Bryan talked a lot about the importance of “being here now.” It takes discipline and effort. I find all the easily available tools of dissociation right at my fingertips. I’m not immune. But dissociation is neither presence nor flow.

What can I conclude? To continue to hunt for the joy nuggets of the moment and savor them in real time like we did those tarts last night–ripening tomatoes, produce to share, flowers in glorious reveal, eye contact with a friend over a bawdy joke, phone calls and texts from nieces and nephews, puppies, saying I love you–these help keep us grounded in the right now in ways that comfort our hearts.

Pumpkin spice, cozy blankets, and dark evenings will come soon enough and they will be worthy of savoring, too. Right now, every hot, dusty moment of August and the bucketloads of tomatoes will be plenty of joy unto itself.

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Blackberry Picking

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It’s August in Southeastern Washington and that means one thing–blackberries! Last weekend, I had to pivot to a new weekend plan. I had every intention of going to Portland to visit my cousin when my mechanic friend and co-worker recommended I’d better put that plan on pause until I get a few repairs done (another story for another time). Disappointed barely scratches the surface. I’d already missed out on a fun scheduled weekend with Mary, her Mom, and her godmother–the infamous “Moms Weekend”–to Portland a few weeks prior due to a savage bout of Covid. Ugh. Thwarted. Twice. Talk about bummed. In an effort to rebound, and redirect, I went for a walk at Mill Creek Friday evening–always a recentering. Saturday morning I enjoyed some coffee and classical music on my back patio. Then I decided to do something outside my more normal routine. Was it a fun trip to Portland? No. But it was good.

Years ago, Bryan took me to a place just past Waitsburg on the way to Dayton, up in the hills on an old gravel road near wheat farms. On a bend in the the road up a ways there’s a great place to park and a whole swath of blackberry bushes fairly easy to access and not terribly picked over. He had told me, Sara, Mary’s mom had shown him this place years ago. I made sure to wear a long sleeve flannel button-up, jeans, and socks and tennis shoes (in August!), giving the brambles less of a chance to tear into me. Anyone eavesdropping might have heard a rainbow of colorful expletives worthy of a sailor’s blush combined with an updated version of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” There might have been some prayers and minor begging for snakes not to find their way to me as well. As you can see from the photo above, my quest was successful. Later that day, I turned these berries into two pies. The next day I took one to my dear cousin and her family who live in town (yes, I have a LOT of cousins.)

I often think about solitude, loneliness, rugged individualism, and all that jazz. It occurred to me on a day where I was very much alone physically that I was in reality surrounded by people, by memories, by love. I started with a phone consultation to my baking mentor, my big sister. When it comes to pie, I’m going to refer to her expertise before the internet, before Betty, before anyone or anything else. She makes more pies in one session than I might for a couple of years. She doesn’t mess around and she’s honed her recipes and technique. Add fresh lemon zest and juice, you don’t need more than 3 1/2 to 4 cups of berries for an 8-inch pie. A pinch of cayenne will enhance the flavor. While she wasn’t in the kitchen with me, she was very much present.

The entire drive to the berry thicket, Bryan was with me in my heart and memories, journeying over roads we’d been on so many times, laughing, reminiscing. Sara was there too in a place she had shown him so many years before–a gift given to him then given to me. Later, in the kitchen, I pulled down my Betty Crocker cookbook with the broken spine. It’s one I found at a thrift store or yard sale. It had reminded me of my Mom’s and I had to have it. My Mama used to quote my great Auntie Iris when someone would compliment a baked dish or some culinary delight “Just Betty and me.” There was my Mom, my auntie, and Betty. The crust I make is one passed down from my sister’s mother-in-law, Erma Torretta. She worked in the kitchen of the old Walla Walla General Hospital. Her oil crust recipe was designed to make a large number of pies at once. Cut down to it’s smallest iteration I still end up with one 10-inch and one 8-inch pie. So there was Erma in my kitchen, too.

I can get so wound up in my pity parties of how alone I am without Bryan. And you know what, it’s a worthy thing to be sad about. I miss him. I miss the spirit of fun and teamwork and humor we shared. He was so interesting and smart and full of life. Kind. Good. Loving. The house is quiet without his presence and I often feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of all that has to be done. But this past weekend was a good reminder that I’m not truly alone and that even when things don’t go exactly as I planned or hoped, there is joy to be found and connections to be made.

Sunday, laden with garden tomatoes, basil, mozzarella, balsamic vinegar, blackberry pie, and vanilla ice cream, I headed to my cousin and her family’s house on the Old Milton Highway to enjoy the consummate Walla Walla brunch in August–caprese and blackberry pie a la mode. It was bliss.

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Gratitude Challenge Day 15 & 16: Music and Food

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Last night, with every intention of writing my Day 15 blog post, I fell asleep early and hard due to some pretty hardcore gummies–10mg of melatonin and some magnesium. WHOA! Don’t be making plans after that heavy-hitting dose! So, as penance, I’m going to have to write a two-fer on probably some of my most favorite things–things that bring me tremendous joy and fill me with gratitude. Let’s start with music and then segue into food. You with me? Ready? Let’s go!

I think I have a low-grade, constant struggle with mild depression. There’s any number of really good reasons for that *waves arms around wildly*. Genetics, probably first and foremost. But living on planet earth is no easy feat if you have two working brain cells and a heart and that’s on the days when children aren’t being shot or thrown in cages. Suicide rates among veterans and queer kids alone are enough to shake a person to their core. This living thing is HARD. (Okay, Bec, get to the gratitude part. I’m working on it. Gimme a second.)

On really hard days, I listen to Bach. If it ain’t Baroque, don’t fix it. Amirite? This particular playlist is one of my favorites: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-zHXX9J_n5E

I like to read about artists and what influences their work. I know literature professors of mine would say “let the work speak for itself,” but since I am an artist and a writer, I know my art isn’t separate from me. It is me. In that spirit, I like to learn. Johann Sebastian Bach was orphaned at the age of 10. He lost several of his children before they turned one. He had every reason to be sad, bitter, lost. And yet, we have this most gorgeous, joyful music for centuries. I feel like there’s this kinship with him in that yes I can have a broken heart and still cry for joy, too. And do. A lot. On his deathbed, he’s attributed as having these as his last words: “Don’t cry for me, for I go where music was born.” The best, most succinct apologia for heaven I’ve ever read.

On a biological level, by listening to music you enjoy you can decrease your heart rate, blood pressure, and cortisol levels while increasing seratonin and endorphins, your body’s own feel-good drugs. In a world that hurts every day, it’s critical to have all the possible tools in your toolbelt. Music is one of mine.

The other is cooking good food for those I love. I enjoy experiencing new flavors and experimenting with recipes. But what fills my heart is cooking or baking something that makes someone close their eyes and get a serene look on their face for just a moment. It’s a way to say I love you, we’re in this together, here, have a moment of joy. I’m grateful for meals shared. Conversation over a well-spun pizza crust or a roast dinner can be so vibrant and fun and rich. Time with people at table is the essence of what is good. And I’m also grateful to live in a place where we grow amazing food and share. It’s no wonder some of my favorite books and films are about the experience of cooking, eating, sharing meals. MFK Fisher’s The Gastronomical Me, the film Babette’s Feast, the Spanish mini-series The Cook of Castamar, Like Water for Chocolate (either the film or the novel), Chocolat (I preferred the novel to the film). The kitchen dance Bryan and I used to do when preparing meals for each other and friends still makes me smile. I’m grateful for all of it, even a simple omelette when nothing else will do.

Gratitude Challenge Day 1: Comfort

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[It’s November 1st, and I’m going to challenge myself to write every day for the 30 days of gratitude prompts. I hope you’ll join along and maybe share some of yours.]

When I was little and we lived in Cleveland, Ohio, winters were incredibly cold and snowy. “Lake effect” is something we heard a lot. On Sabbath mornings, my mama would dress me in cute dresses and wool tights to keep me warm. Wool and my skin aren’t friends and I discovered that at a tender age. When I was eight or nine, my Auntie Lila would help prepare me baths that would sooth my skin. Under stress, and one’s parents divorcing certainly qualifies, my body reacts and often it’s my skin that takes the brunt of things. I joke with folks a lot that “I’m not built for hard living” or that I’m a “delicate flower.” Truth is, I’m tougher than I let on and more so than I would prefer having to be, but such is life. So, I clothe myself in cotton and surround myself with soft things. I’m careful with detergents and soaps as they can aggravate things too.

Right now, as I type this, I’m in a pair of Bryan’s plaid fleece pants and a cotton waffle-weave shirt. I have three blankets I’m cuddled under–one is an afghan Bryan’s mom crocheted years ago and the other two are the softest, snuggliest blankets I’ve ever owned. One is from my first cousin, Melissa, who gave it to me just before Bryan died, knowing the necessity of soft comfort while dealing with brutal pain. The other is from another first cousin, Jonell, who made me a warm fuzzy blanket that can convert into a pillow. I feel loved and hugged every time I use them.

This external comfort is so meaningful to me because it goes from the outside in just like the stress and anxiety comes from the inside to the outside of my body in uncomfortable ways. They’re connected for me in visceral ways. I am physically comforted and in that process become emotionally and spiritually comforted, too. I am grateful for this softness. Much can be hard, scratchy, and irritating in life. Those measures to mitigate it, especially when given in love, make it far better.