hi-a-tus: (n) 1. a break or interruption in the continuity of a work, series, or action, 2. a missing part; a gap or lacuna, 3. any gap or opening, 4. Anatomy. a fissure, cleft, or foramen in a bone or other structure.
I’ve been on hiatus for some time now. I decided in the whirlwind of my last semester of college, that I would give myself time to recover after graduation. I wouldn’t pressure myself to leave town, to tackle a “real” job, to make ambitious plans of any kind. And I am so glad that I did that. These past six, now seven months, I have been lazy. I’ve done the same things every single day, established a routine, slept nine or more hours most nights. I come home from work, make dinner, and watch a movie with Erik. It’s a simple existence, and such a wonderful departure, interruption, gap.
I think, after many months’ hiatus, I am finally feeling like returning to the real world, so to speak. I am ready to ease myself into a more adult, busy, active existence. And I thought that a good way to approach this would be to make some New Year’s resolutions. I know, I know; that seems tacky. I mean, how much of a departure can making a New Year’s resolution be? For me, at this point though, identifying aims and goals for myself is something fresh and relatively new.
I have always been resistant to goal setting. Even as a kid and as a student, I didn’t like it. It makes me feel stressed, like I need to run around and achieve this thing RIGHT NOW. But I think maybe a resolution can be something different for me. Resolution means “a statement of intention.” I like that. I like the idea of facing the New Year with a sense of intention, after so many months of avoiding approaching things with an outcome in mind. I like the idea of intention, because it implies finding or choosing direction. Of being determined. Of creating and making and doing things, rather than just thinking about them; of committing to things again, after avoiding commitment in most aspects of my life.
So here are my resolutions, and a few of the sources of inspiration behind them. I hope that approaching this New Year in a way completely different than any that have come before, and with a new sort of intention, will bring about change and joy.
b
RESOLUTIONS
1. Give more love.
2. Bake cakes.
3. Road trip.
4. Write it down.
5. Share more.
INSPIRATION
A Homemade Life, by Molly Wizenberg
Orangette, orangette.blogspot.com
Handmade Living, by Lotta Jansdotter
3191, 3191visualblogging.com
Oh, and I loved this poem from today's Writer's Almanac:
After Our Wedding
by Yehoshua Nobember
When you forgot the address of our hotel
in your suitcase,
the driver had to pull over
in front of the restaurant.
Men and women dining beneath the August sun
looked up from their salads
to clap for you,
a young, slender woman
in a wedding dress and tiara,
retrieving a slip of paper
from the trunk of a cab
in the middle of the street.
And since that day,
many of the guests at our wedding have divorced
or are gone,
and the restaurant has closed
to become a tattoo parlor.
And we have misplaced and found
many more papers,
but no one was clapping.
And the motion of the lives around us
has been like a great bus
slowly turning onto a crowded street.
And some of the passengers
have fallen asleep in their seats,
while others anxiously search
their jacket pockets
for the notes that might wed
their ordinary lives
to something lofty and astonishing.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
a sigh of relief
this holiday season has been an interesting one for me. interesting being code for uncertain, quiet, and slightly disappointing. for one, i never really felt like i got into the holiday spirit. and for me, this is odd. usually i am itching to listen to holiday music, hang twinkle lights, and bake grandma's sugar cookies, but this year those desires were distinctly lacking. for another, the whole idea of christmas felt strange somehow. i will blame this partly on working a retail job and long hours, and partly on the fact that i'm not a kid anymore. what was i celebrating again? the merry season of buying-tons-of-things? a religious/quasi-consumer holiday that i don't particularly believe in? wow, i sound cynical. that makes me so sad.
i was chatting with one of my coworkers at the bookstore who is in her early forties, has four kids, and had a different, fun christmas activity planned every night leading up to christmas week. i asked her if christmas stops feeling this way (sort-of anticlimactic) when you have kids. and her answer was, "oh, ya." she remembered these years--the time when you aren't a kid anymore, and your christmas isn't orchestrated for you, and you are kind of at a loss as to what to do--and when you become a parent, and suddenly it's your job to make christmas magical for someone else. i found that wonderfully reassuring. i was thinking it was just me, but i think it might be just the way christmas will be for now.
that disappointment expressed, i have had a very nice christmas at home, with family and presents and good food just the way it has been every other year. it is also nice knowing that when i go back to work tomorrow, there won't be customers getting angry at me for not being able to get them something in time for christmas, or incredulous that i don't remember their specific order when i did fifty of them a day for two weeks in a row. i'm glad that things will be mostly back to normal.
so here's to christmas, and it's new form. and here's hoping that each of you found time to relax, recharge, and celebrate the season.
b
i was chatting with one of my coworkers at the bookstore who is in her early forties, has four kids, and had a different, fun christmas activity planned every night leading up to christmas week. i asked her if christmas stops feeling this way (sort-of anticlimactic) when you have kids. and her answer was, "oh, ya." she remembered these years--the time when you aren't a kid anymore, and your christmas isn't orchestrated for you, and you are kind of at a loss as to what to do--and when you become a parent, and suddenly it's your job to make christmas magical for someone else. i found that wonderfully reassuring. i was thinking it was just me, but i think it might be just the way christmas will be for now.
that disappointment expressed, i have had a very nice christmas at home, with family and presents and good food just the way it has been every other year. it is also nice knowing that when i go back to work tomorrow, there won't be customers getting angry at me for not being able to get them something in time for christmas, or incredulous that i don't remember their specific order when i did fifty of them a day for two weeks in a row. i'm glad that things will be mostly back to normal.
so here's to christmas, and it's new form. and here's hoping that each of you found time to relax, recharge, and celebrate the season.
b
Friday, November 19, 2010
discipline
lately i have been reading a lot of books about how to write. all of them are linked by a common theme: discipline. and the more i read about discipline, the more i realize how much i lack it.
over and over again these authors, who have struggled and succeeded with writing, say that without discipline you will never be a real writer. you'll be a dabbler, a hobbyist--someone who plays with the idea of writing, but doesn't care enough to wake up early, to set aside half an hour every day, to invest in new books, to keep other poets words fresh in your mind, and capture your words when they arrive. i read once that william stafford woke up at 4 am every morning to write, because it was the only time that belonged solely to him. i've talked to peter, a writer who frequents union block here in town, and learned that he has rented out various work spaces over the course of writing his novels. he's written two to date, and is working on a third and a memoir. these people are willing to sacrifice for their work, to delve wholly into it. when do you get to that point?
maybe what frustrates me most about my current lack of discipline is that i have an inkling that writing is something that i really want to do. something that could consume me, give me direction, make me feel purposeful, alive, focused. every time i open a book of poetry, i get a little thrill. words reach into me and grab hold like few other things do. when i read essays about the art and task of writing, i am constantly underlining exercises and insightful remarks, making lists of things to try and to write about in the margins. it isn't that i don't have anything to say, or that i haven't thought about how i would say it, how it would look printed out on paper.
at the root of it, i think i'm scared. scared of committing to this thing that i know could take me over. it's a reasonable fear i think--we all want control over our lives right? we want control over our thoughts and emotions, and if i commit to writing, i know that those things will be closer to the surface, and that i will be more at the mercy of them. it's always scary to think of being taken over by outside forces. at the same time, i have tasted that loss of control before. i've had phases where i had to keep my notebook at hand, because the words were coming all the time, coming unannounced but truer than when i tried to force them. and i want that. it's just so hard to commit.
in "writing down the bones," natalie goldberg says that you have to write five years worth of crap before you will come up with anything that is worth reading. i find this really encouraging because it gives me permission to write over and over again, every single time i sit down, "wow, it's been a long time since i wrote." it also gives me permission to journal, rather than try to force myself to write something more substantive. i figure if i dump enough crap into my journals, eventually i won't have any more complaining to do, and i'll figure out what i wanted to say all along. now the trick is to complain more often and more thoroughly so that i can move on.
b
*****
lately, this poem has been fascinating me:
Ode to Plurality
Adam Zagajewski
I don't understand it all and I am
even glad that the world like a restless
ocean exceeds my ability
to understand the essence of water, rain,
of plunging into Baker's Pond, near
the Bohemian-German border, in
September 1980, a detail without any special
meaning, the deep Germanic pond.
Let the half-oxidized ego breathe
steadily, let the swimmer cross the
meridian, it's evening, owls wake up
from their daily sleep, far away
cars whir lazily. Who once
touched philosophy is lost
and won't be saved by a poem, there is
always the rest, difficult to reckon,
a soreness. Who once learned a wild
run of poetry will not taste anymore
the stony calm of family narratives
whose every chapter is the nest
of a single generation. Who once lived won't
forget the changing delight of seasons,
he will dream even of nettles and burdocks, and the
spiders in his dream won't look any worse
than swallows. Who has once met
irony will burst into laughter
during the prophet's lecture. Who once prayed
with more than just a dry mouth
will remember the presence of the strange echo
coming from a wall. Who once
was silent would rather not talk
over dessert. And who was struck
by the shock of love will return to his books
with an altered face.
You, singular soul, stand before
this abundance. Two eyes, two hands,
ten inventive fingers, and
only one ego, the wedge of an orange,
the youngest of sisters. And the pleasure of
hearing doesn't destroy the pleasure of
hearing doesn't destroy the pleasure of
seeing, though that flurry of freedom disturbs
the peace of the other gentle senses.
Peace, thick nothing, as full of sweet
juice as a pear in September.
Brief moments of happiness vanish
under an avalanche of oxygen, in winter
a lonely rook strikes his beak against the white
surface of the lake, another time
a couple of woodpeckers, scared
by an ax, are looking outside my window
for a poplar that is sick enough.
An absent woman writes long
letters and yearning swells like
opium; in an Egyptian museum,
the same yearning, unshaken and unbroken,
rubbed into a brown papyrus a few thousand years
older. Love letters always end up
in museums, the curious are
more persistent than lovers.
Ego gulps air, reason awakens
from its daily sleep, the swimmer gets out
of the water. A beautiful woman plays
a happy one, men pretend they are braver
than they really are, the Egyptian
museum doesn't hide human weaknesses.
To live, if only to live longer,
giving oneself to the power
of one of the colder stars and mocking it
sometimes because it is slimy and cool
like a frog in a pond. A poem grows
on contradiction but it can't cover it.
over and over again these authors, who have struggled and succeeded with writing, say that without discipline you will never be a real writer. you'll be a dabbler, a hobbyist--someone who plays with the idea of writing, but doesn't care enough to wake up early, to set aside half an hour every day, to invest in new books, to keep other poets words fresh in your mind, and capture your words when they arrive. i read once that william stafford woke up at 4 am every morning to write, because it was the only time that belonged solely to him. i've talked to peter, a writer who frequents union block here in town, and learned that he has rented out various work spaces over the course of writing his novels. he's written two to date, and is working on a third and a memoir. these people are willing to sacrifice for their work, to delve wholly into it. when do you get to that point?
maybe what frustrates me most about my current lack of discipline is that i have an inkling that writing is something that i really want to do. something that could consume me, give me direction, make me feel purposeful, alive, focused. every time i open a book of poetry, i get a little thrill. words reach into me and grab hold like few other things do. when i read essays about the art and task of writing, i am constantly underlining exercises and insightful remarks, making lists of things to try and to write about in the margins. it isn't that i don't have anything to say, or that i haven't thought about how i would say it, how it would look printed out on paper.
at the root of it, i think i'm scared. scared of committing to this thing that i know could take me over. it's a reasonable fear i think--we all want control over our lives right? we want control over our thoughts and emotions, and if i commit to writing, i know that those things will be closer to the surface, and that i will be more at the mercy of them. it's always scary to think of being taken over by outside forces. at the same time, i have tasted that loss of control before. i've had phases where i had to keep my notebook at hand, because the words were coming all the time, coming unannounced but truer than when i tried to force them. and i want that. it's just so hard to commit.
in "writing down the bones," natalie goldberg says that you have to write five years worth of crap before you will come up with anything that is worth reading. i find this really encouraging because it gives me permission to write over and over again, every single time i sit down, "wow, it's been a long time since i wrote." it also gives me permission to journal, rather than try to force myself to write something more substantive. i figure if i dump enough crap into my journals, eventually i won't have any more complaining to do, and i'll figure out what i wanted to say all along. now the trick is to complain more often and more thoroughly so that i can move on.
b
*****
lately, this poem has been fascinating me:
Ode to Plurality
Adam Zagajewski
I don't understand it all and I am
even glad that the world like a restless
ocean exceeds my ability
to understand the essence of water, rain,
of plunging into Baker's Pond, near
the Bohemian-German border, in
September 1980, a detail without any special
meaning, the deep Germanic pond.
Let the half-oxidized ego breathe
steadily, let the swimmer cross the
meridian, it's evening, owls wake up
from their daily sleep, far away
cars whir lazily. Who once
touched philosophy is lost
and won't be saved by a poem, there is
always the rest, difficult to reckon,
a soreness. Who once learned a wild
run of poetry will not taste anymore
the stony calm of family narratives
whose every chapter is the nest
of a single generation. Who once lived won't
forget the changing delight of seasons,
he will dream even of nettles and burdocks, and the
spiders in his dream won't look any worse
than swallows. Who has once met
irony will burst into laughter
during the prophet's lecture. Who once prayed
with more than just a dry mouth
will remember the presence of the strange echo
coming from a wall. Who once
was silent would rather not talk
over dessert. And who was struck
by the shock of love will return to his books
with an altered face.
You, singular soul, stand before
this abundance. Two eyes, two hands,
ten inventive fingers, and
only one ego, the wedge of an orange,
the youngest of sisters. And the pleasure of
hearing doesn't destroy the pleasure of
hearing doesn't destroy the pleasure of
seeing, though that flurry of freedom disturbs
the peace of the other gentle senses.
Peace, thick nothing, as full of sweet
juice as a pear in September.
Brief moments of happiness vanish
under an avalanche of oxygen, in winter
a lonely rook strikes his beak against the white
surface of the lake, another time
a couple of woodpeckers, scared
by an ax, are looking outside my window
for a poplar that is sick enough.
An absent woman writes long
letters and yearning swells like
opium; in an Egyptian museum,
the same yearning, unshaken and unbroken,
rubbed into a brown papyrus a few thousand years
older. Love letters always end up
in museums, the curious are
more persistent than lovers.
Ego gulps air, reason awakens
from its daily sleep, the swimmer gets out
of the water. A beautiful woman plays
a happy one, men pretend they are braver
than they really are, the Egyptian
museum doesn't hide human weaknesses.
To live, if only to live longer,
giving oneself to the power
of one of the colder stars and mocking it
sometimes because it is slimy and cool
like a frog in a pond. A poem grows
on contradiction but it can't cover it.
Tuesday, November 02, 2010
mink river and hello, fall.
since starting to work in the bookstore, i have created a shelf that consists entirely of books that are on my "to read" list. that shelf only ever grows bigger--unpacking boxes at work every day, hearing customers rave about a new title, working on old lists of recommended books from friends: they all conspire to make catching up on reading an impossible task. recently though sylla, my boss, asked me to read a new book by an oregon author. it's called "mink river," by brian doyle. she told me it was a unique book, and that if i managed to read it that she would love to hear my thoughts. the fact that sylla, who is an extremely well-read person, felt the need to talk about the book with someone really intrigued me. i borrowed a copy on my lunch break, and by the time i finished the first page, i was hooked.
it isn't often that novels (especially) command my attention from the first page. typically, i find myself struggling to get into them--having trouble keeping characters straight, and getting frustrated when thirty pages in there is no clear focus. "mink river" was completely different. the first page sang. it sounded like a poem. i had no idea what was happening, but that was okay.
this book is the best book that i have read this year, and that's saying a lot. i don't have a lot of books that i would recommend to other people without qualms or qualifying remarks, but this is one of them. every word, from start to end, was lovely, poetic, moving. doyle uses a wonderfully creative and playful voice that captures the way that thoughts feel inside of our minds--the way we run words together, skip around, make odd, spontaneous connections. he also writes beautifully about the experience of living in oregon (the story is set on the oregon coast): the gloom, the small, depressed towns, the odd individuals who are sprinkled around the edges. he writes about the search for happiness, and all of the challenges that stand between us and attaining it. he writes complex and beautiful characters who are richly flawed, but still worm their way into your heart.
really, i can't say enough about it: you'll have to read it. and if you do, let me know what you think.
****
so it's been a long time since i wrote last. the month of october completely consumed me in illness, mad work schedules, and shortening days. for the first time since leaving school, i felt really out of control of my life: in the end all i focused on was getting through the days. it made me sad to watch a whole month pass this way, but it did push me to make some decisions. i quit the coffee shop, deciding that having two days to myself was more valuable than the $300 dollars it was paying me, despite having made friends with many wonderful customers. i started working on a quilt for erik and i. i opened by my box of stationery supplies, and have plans to write many letters. i have been slowly catching up on emails and blogs from my friends who are now scattered all over the world, having their own adventures. i've started thinking about the future--engaging possibilities, trying to uncover what it is that i really want for my life, and yes, reading. i am going to start writing again.
i'm glad to have come to my senses in time for the last kick of gorgeous weather, before i will be leaving and coming home from work in the dark. i managed to make salsa and pear jam. erik and i have been renting fun movies, making popcorn, and buying beer. we're pressing cider with my family next weekend. i got my sewing machine out of its case for the first time since june. things are looking better all the time.
b
currently reading:
austerlitz, by w.g. sebald
farmer jane, by temra costa
chez panisse vegetables, by alice waters
Thursday, September 23, 2010
where does the time go?
i foolishly thought that after i graduated from college, that the intertia of my life would lessen somewhat--or at least maybe pause. now it's already the end of september, and i am eating those innocent hopes every day as i realize that i missed peaches, and missing blackberries, and the tomatoes may not ripen if this cool weather keeps up. where does the time go?
i feel a bit like the leaves that are now beginning to tumble across the ground. buffeted. ragged. crisp and chilly. still clinging to their green. some mornings it's the best feeling in the world. others, i just feel tired.
my days recently are marked mostly by the passage of various books in and out of my hands. their weight is constant, which occasionally lulls me into the security of lost hours and their similarity. and then i realize i'm three titles further down the line, and i don't remember what i read four covers ago.
my start-of-fall recommendations:
"room" by emma donoghue
"zoli" by colum mccann
"all american poem" by matthew dickman
may your days pass slower than mine,
b
i feel a bit like the leaves that are now beginning to tumble across the ground. buffeted. ragged. crisp and chilly. still clinging to their green. some mornings it's the best feeling in the world. others, i just feel tired.
my days recently are marked mostly by the passage of various books in and out of my hands. their weight is constant, which occasionally lulls me into the security of lost hours and their similarity. and then i realize i'm three titles further down the line, and i don't remember what i read four covers ago.
my start-of-fall recommendations:
"room" by emma donoghue
"zoli" by colum mccann
"all american poem" by matthew dickman
may your days pass slower than mine,
b
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
summer zen
favorite bits of summer so far:
-harvesting a three pound cabbage from our garden row this morning
-seeing the tomato plants double in size every time i visit them
-reading lots and lots and lots of books (recent recommendations: plenty, the worst hard time, and, if you are so inclined, the organic farming manual)
-waking up at sun up and deciding that i can sleep for another hour or two
-summery wraps for dinner with veggies and homemade hummus
-that itchy feeling you get after your first sunburn
-summer fruits for dessert
-discovering how easy it is to make your own cheese (new projects!)
-the smell of lemon trees during long, warm evenings
-the way the hills start looking hazy after a few days of hot weather
-watching the tour de france with erik
-hints of a chaco tan
-iced basil and mint tea
*
i am currently re-reading zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance. i will freely acknowledge that this is at least the third time that i have attempted to read this book. each of the previous times i have just struggled and struggled to understand and make sense of the meandering and (apparently) purposeless prose. what the hell is this guy talking about anyway? all of the last times i tried, i ended up moving on to greener pastures by the time i hit page thirty. when i noticed a used copy of it sitting in the spirituality (?) section at third street books though (sporting a sweet old cover, yellowed and well-thumbed pages, and a friendly three dollar price tag), i decided to give it another chance... and i love it.
four times the charm, and i have come to see that this is one of those books you have to wait a while to be able to read. maybe you need to be in the right frame of mind. maybe you need to be feeling particularly patient. maybe you need to sit down to read it with a glass of iced tea and no distractions. i don't know. regardless, i hear ringing through these words so many of the sentiments that i have been carrying around inside of myself these past months, that reading it feels like sitting in a hammock. weird analogy i know, but you must know that feeling: the way you sink into it carefully, and at first you are certain you will wobble over the edge to your doom. then you learn to sit back and trust it. it curls around your body, suspends you in the open air, lets the brush of a breeze rock you mildly back and forth.
i think what i am most enjoying about this book is that it doesn't rush itself. it takes the time to notice red wing blackbirds, to reflect on the meaning of landscape, the way that it moves us as much as we move across it. it notes the significance of intuition and reflects on the modern affliction/situation of technological reliance and (utter, in most cases) lack of savvy. all things i have been thinking about. all things that i think i needed to hear someone else say.
hooray for reading books in their proper season. it makes me want to return to so many other books that i think were completely lost on me: to kill a mockingbird, of mice and men, a room of one's own, the great gatsby.
*
i think i will make coleslaw for dinner. what to do with the other half of that monster cabbage...
b
-harvesting a three pound cabbage from our garden row this morning
-seeing the tomato plants double in size every time i visit them
-reading lots and lots and lots of books (recent recommendations: plenty, the worst hard time, and, if you are so inclined, the organic farming manual)
-waking up at sun up and deciding that i can sleep for another hour or two
-summery wraps for dinner with veggies and homemade hummus
-that itchy feeling you get after your first sunburn
-summer fruits for dessert
-discovering how easy it is to make your own cheese (new projects!)
-the smell of lemon trees during long, warm evenings
-the way the hills start looking hazy after a few days of hot weather
-watching the tour de france with erik
-hints of a chaco tan
-iced basil and mint tea
*
i am currently re-reading zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance. i will freely acknowledge that this is at least the third time that i have attempted to read this book. each of the previous times i have just struggled and struggled to understand and make sense of the meandering and (apparently) purposeless prose. what the hell is this guy talking about anyway? all of the last times i tried, i ended up moving on to greener pastures by the time i hit page thirty. when i noticed a used copy of it sitting in the spirituality (?) section at third street books though (sporting a sweet old cover, yellowed and well-thumbed pages, and a friendly three dollar price tag), i decided to give it another chance... and i love it.
four times the charm, and i have come to see that this is one of those books you have to wait a while to be able to read. maybe you need to be in the right frame of mind. maybe you need to be feeling particularly patient. maybe you need to sit down to read it with a glass of iced tea and no distractions. i don't know. regardless, i hear ringing through these words so many of the sentiments that i have been carrying around inside of myself these past months, that reading it feels like sitting in a hammock. weird analogy i know, but you must know that feeling: the way you sink into it carefully, and at first you are certain you will wobble over the edge to your doom. then you learn to sit back and trust it. it curls around your body, suspends you in the open air, lets the brush of a breeze rock you mildly back and forth.
i think what i am most enjoying about this book is that it doesn't rush itself. it takes the time to notice red wing blackbirds, to reflect on the meaning of landscape, the way that it moves us as much as we move across it. it notes the significance of intuition and reflects on the modern affliction/situation of technological reliance and (utter, in most cases) lack of savvy. all things i have been thinking about. all things that i think i needed to hear someone else say.
hooray for reading books in their proper season. it makes me want to return to so many other books that i think were completely lost on me: to kill a mockingbird, of mice and men, a room of one's own, the great gatsby.
*
i think i will make coleslaw for dinner. what to do with the other half of that monster cabbage...
b
Friday, July 02, 2010
ups and downs of twelve day work weeks
i found myself in a truly atrocious mood this last monday and tuesday. i was crabby, cranky, not sleeping well, exhausted, body sore, and just not into hanging out with friends, or even erik really. at the end of wednesday, my first day off in a good long while, i glanced at my calendar and realized that i had just worked for twelve days straight. i suddenly felt justified not only for sleeping in until almost noon that day, but also for being such a mess. twelve days was about five more than any sane person should ever agree to. i'll try not to make that mistake again.
to make things clear, i really love my jobs. i get to make coffee two or three days a week, steaming and swirling and stirring up drinks for about half regular customers whose faces i now recognize, even if their names still escape me, and half visitors who have been reveling in the oregon sunshine and mcminnville's sweet little downtown area that has been looking especially spic and span this summer. the other days i work, i am literally surrounded by books, answering questions for my fellow readers, tracking down hard to find books for excited customers, and recommending titles to those who happen to share my interest in memoir, nature writing, or food lit. i have no idea how i had the good fortune to land these two jobs. i take at least three applications from hopeful teenagers every single shift i work at the bookstore. i'm not complaining.
the downside of this is the reality of having two part-time jobs: very little time off. i'm the go-to person at both of my places of employment for covering shifts and last-minute calls of desperation ("can you come in today at noon??"; text received at 11:30). most days i say yes to these requests, figuring i need the hours anyway and for the most part enjoy what i do. long runs like this last one though, tend to end on a sour note. like the three people who came into the bookstore tuesday that i just could not make happy, or the poor woman that evening whose chai was not hot enough, too sweet, too milky, and i just couldn't get it right. by the end of that day, i felt like sitting down for a good cry. time for some time off.
i'm learning also that it is important to structure my time off carefully. too much lazing around the apartment, and i just feel gross at the end of the day. i take my time getting up, make myself coffee or tea and toast, sit down with a book until i feel like doing something. work on some small productive project for a while (we are still unpacking and arranging after all), and then make myself a nice little lunch. i also work hard to get out of the apartment those days, even if it's just for a little trip across the street to the library for more reading material.
*
today it is a little gray and gloomy in mcminnville, and i'm welcoming the need to wear flannel and a sweatshirt for a day or two. the world is a little less bright and overwhelming, and it feels good to linger over dinner and cuddle with erik until we both fall asleep. it reminds me why i look forward to fall all year long, and also why summer is always better with the occasional rain shower to help wash the hot and hectic days clean again.
happy july.
b
to make things clear, i really love my jobs. i get to make coffee two or three days a week, steaming and swirling and stirring up drinks for about half regular customers whose faces i now recognize, even if their names still escape me, and half visitors who have been reveling in the oregon sunshine and mcminnville's sweet little downtown area that has been looking especially spic and span this summer. the other days i work, i am literally surrounded by books, answering questions for my fellow readers, tracking down hard to find books for excited customers, and recommending titles to those who happen to share my interest in memoir, nature writing, or food lit. i have no idea how i had the good fortune to land these two jobs. i take at least three applications from hopeful teenagers every single shift i work at the bookstore. i'm not complaining.
the downside of this is the reality of having two part-time jobs: very little time off. i'm the go-to person at both of my places of employment for covering shifts and last-minute calls of desperation ("can you come in today at noon??"; text received at 11:30). most days i say yes to these requests, figuring i need the hours anyway and for the most part enjoy what i do. long runs like this last one though, tend to end on a sour note. like the three people who came into the bookstore tuesday that i just could not make happy, or the poor woman that evening whose chai was not hot enough, too sweet, too milky, and i just couldn't get it right. by the end of that day, i felt like sitting down for a good cry. time for some time off.
i'm learning also that it is important to structure my time off carefully. too much lazing around the apartment, and i just feel gross at the end of the day. i take my time getting up, make myself coffee or tea and toast, sit down with a book until i feel like doing something. work on some small productive project for a while (we are still unpacking and arranging after all), and then make myself a nice little lunch. i also work hard to get out of the apartment those days, even if it's just for a little trip across the street to the library for more reading material.
*
today it is a little gray and gloomy in mcminnville, and i'm welcoming the need to wear flannel and a sweatshirt for a day or two. the world is a little less bright and overwhelming, and it feels good to linger over dinner and cuddle with erik until we both fall asleep. it reminds me why i look forward to fall all year long, and also why summer is always better with the occasional rain shower to help wash the hot and hectic days clean again.
happy july.
b
Thursday, June 17, 2010
noticing lately...
old men wearing suspenders and plaid
the way evening light falls
bird silhouettes on power lines
the smell of rain-dampened roses
busy traffic on 2nd street
the smooth feel of new book pages
stationery and the promise of letters to come
the slow unfurling of my baby lettuce plants
craving black, milky tea on chilly mornings
*
i've been living without internet recently. i don't get to start the day with a convenient, unfamiliar poem (courtesy of the writer's almanac), and a quick perusal of my favorite blogs, but otherwise i am enjoying the freedom of an internet-less home. instead of compulsively checking my email or otherwise wasting time online, i have been reading a lot, slowly moving in, making summer plans, going to bed early, hanging out with erik, becca, and steve. i find myself calmer at the end of the day, and less tired in the morning, without the distraction of endless possibilities that the internet offers.
as erik and i slowly get settled into our little house, one of the major projects i've been working on is making it feel less apartment-y and more homey. this has involved numerous trips to goodwill, st. vincent de paul, and the restore. recent exciting purchases include a heavy wooden desk/work table, a big bookcase (which we painted bright orange and yellow!), and a sewing machine. my mind is overrun with possibilities of curtains and blankets and creative wall art involving old door and window frames. perhaps when i get better at arranging my days i will start in on those projects, sticking at first to necessary things like mending belt loops and torn pockets. i'm looking forward to finding a rhythm that allows for bread baking, writing, and visiting with friends. until i hit my stride though, i'm grateful for the extra hours the lack of internet provides.
b
the way evening light falls
bird silhouettes on power lines
the smell of rain-dampened roses
busy traffic on 2nd street
the smooth feel of new book pages
stationery and the promise of letters to come
the slow unfurling of my baby lettuce plants
craving black, milky tea on chilly mornings
*
i've been living without internet recently. i don't get to start the day with a convenient, unfamiliar poem (courtesy of the writer's almanac), and a quick perusal of my favorite blogs, but otherwise i am enjoying the freedom of an internet-less home. instead of compulsively checking my email or otherwise wasting time online, i have been reading a lot, slowly moving in, making summer plans, going to bed early, hanging out with erik, becca, and steve. i find myself calmer at the end of the day, and less tired in the morning, without the distraction of endless possibilities that the internet offers.
as erik and i slowly get settled into our little house, one of the major projects i've been working on is making it feel less apartment-y and more homey. this has involved numerous trips to goodwill, st. vincent de paul, and the restore. recent exciting purchases include a heavy wooden desk/work table, a big bookcase (which we painted bright orange and yellow!), and a sewing machine. my mind is overrun with possibilities of curtains and blankets and creative wall art involving old door and window frames. perhaps when i get better at arranging my days i will start in on those projects, sticking at first to necessary things like mending belt loops and torn pockets. i'm looking forward to finding a rhythm that allows for bread baking, writing, and visiting with friends. until i hit my stride though, i'm grateful for the extra hours the lack of internet provides.
b
Thursday, June 03, 2010
slow morning
the past few mornings, i have been giving myself time. i don't need to be anywhere, and even though i have plenty of things to do, my body thanks me for the extra hour or two of quiet before i begin the day.
this morning, i stumbled across a handful of lovely blogs. i love these collections of other people's snapshots and musings--everyone needs a little inspiration. i would like to start recording my inspirations in a simple way, as these do.
http://gracefullady.blogspot.com/
http://greenolivesdesign.blogspot.com/
http://www.hearblack.com/
http://folkloricblog.blogspot.com/
also: listening to this song.
b
this morning, i stumbled across a handful of lovely blogs. i love these collections of other people's snapshots and musings--everyone needs a little inspiration. i would like to start recording my inspirations in a simple way, as these do.
http://gracefullady.blogspot.com/
http://greenolivesdesign.blogspot.com/
http://www.hearblack.com/
http://folkloricblog.blogspot.com/
also: listening to this song.
b
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Think, after so many times, how/nothing is pure or completely/lost.
Landscape
Josh Booton
I love you, she said, meaning
why do you always have to be
like that. And he, turned
to the window--the loose tunings
of telephone wire, the half-drawn shades
across, a woman or man naked
from behind--thought,
after so many times, how
words mean more or less than
they mean to, are made up
of other words, agreements
for flux or inflection
or whole lives. So that
hotpot means that morning in Prague
when she burned her arm
and he mimed fire,
with his hands, to the young pharmacist
who gave him Astroglide
and her a scar, strangely the shape
of Czechoslovakia, to remember by.
Or why those nights,
he home drunk but happy,
she would listen to him
in the dark, taking off his clothes
and the whole evening--
the tipsy tables and forced jokes,
the brief signatures of smoke;
how the waitress called him
honey across the bartop's honey shellac,
the mile home--and think: watermelon.
Think, after so many times, how
nothing is pure or completely
lost. Each word to usher
the world in, each world
to make the words less sure.
Until there is nowhere to stand
except at the window
looking out on cars for miles
and think: desire.
Nowhere to turn but to her
through the black-earth scent of coffee,
the country blues from another room.
I love you, too, he said.
i miss poetry.
b
Monday, April 19, 2010
Monday, April 05, 2010
hood canal
hood canal
outside the window bank
small blue waves pass on their
endless way too and from
the end of the canal
brushing unknown depths
and here we three sit
each lost between pages
scrabble tiles scattered across the floor
the table set for dinner
later we will play games
maybe drink a beer
but in this moment
the silence between two songs
on an old scratched CD
we sit on the edge of the water
and that is more than enough
on the water
small worlds
lena lake hike
at the lake
cabin
mt. walker hike
view of the olympics
perfect calm
last evening on the water
b
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
anxiety
i am well acquainted with stress. i don't know how, after (almost) four years of college, i could have avoided that. stress is a strange sensation. i feel it bodily--not just in the blocked up sensation in my brain, but also in how my limbs become restless and my breathing rate rises, and how i start to sweat. the thing about stress though, is that i know how to handle it. i've become quite adept at ignoring it. passing it over. hiding it behind other things. it lets me do that: it's sufficiently dull to shove under a to-do list somewhere, and know that it won't show its face again for a while. lately though, i've been experiencing a new feeling. something different than stress; something that i don't quite know how to handle. and i have decided that it is anxiety.
for me, anxiety is a horrible sensation. just like stress, i feel it physically, and it is much harder for me to ignore. it's a kind of pressure, like some enormous invisible hand was holding me tight, and then squeezing. it feels like drowning: it's hard to catch my breath, and i'm afraid to because when i exhale, the tears threaten to tumble out.
last week, i found myself clinging to the edge of the kitchen sink, fighting back tears that i had no real explanation for. sure, it was a horrifically busy day. sure, i had to drive to portland for a thesis interview immediately after attending five hours of class in a row. sure, i had a long list of reading assignments and a detailed outline of dates and times scheduling out how it was i would manage to eek out a thesis draft in a little over a week. but i've done this before. it wasn't like it was new, or that i had double booked myself, or hadn't yet found a car to get to that interview. it was going to be okay. but even though i knew that was true, it was all just too much.
i don't really know how to deal with this new feeling of anxiety. i can't hide from it, and when i try it just gets worse. but i also don't know where to begin. do i stop sleeping so i have time to finish everything i'm supposed to get done in a day? do i stop hanging out with friends in the evening so that i can complete job applications? do i eat whatever happens to be in the fridge instead of taking the time to slow down and make a meal that will actually feed me? none of these options are viable. at least not for me.
there are certain things that i refuse to sacrifice. sanity, for one. sleep, for another. time, for a third. without these things, nothing i do will make any sense, and i will have missed too many opportunities. that would only add guilt to the list. that's the last thing i need. after spring break and this draft, maybe i can figure out a few ways to take back control--something i was doing so well only a couple of months ago.
b
for me, anxiety is a horrible sensation. just like stress, i feel it physically, and it is much harder for me to ignore. it's a kind of pressure, like some enormous invisible hand was holding me tight, and then squeezing. it feels like drowning: it's hard to catch my breath, and i'm afraid to because when i exhale, the tears threaten to tumble out.
last week, i found myself clinging to the edge of the kitchen sink, fighting back tears that i had no real explanation for. sure, it was a horrifically busy day. sure, i had to drive to portland for a thesis interview immediately after attending five hours of class in a row. sure, i had a long list of reading assignments and a detailed outline of dates and times scheduling out how it was i would manage to eek out a thesis draft in a little over a week. but i've done this before. it wasn't like it was new, or that i had double booked myself, or hadn't yet found a car to get to that interview. it was going to be okay. but even though i knew that was true, it was all just too much.
i don't really know how to deal with this new feeling of anxiety. i can't hide from it, and when i try it just gets worse. but i also don't know where to begin. do i stop sleeping so i have time to finish everything i'm supposed to get done in a day? do i stop hanging out with friends in the evening so that i can complete job applications? do i eat whatever happens to be in the fridge instead of taking the time to slow down and make a meal that will actually feed me? none of these options are viable. at least not for me.
there are certain things that i refuse to sacrifice. sanity, for one. sleep, for another. time, for a third. without these things, nothing i do will make any sense, and i will have missed too many opportunities. that would only add guilt to the list. that's the last thing i need. after spring break and this draft, maybe i can figure out a few ways to take back control--something i was doing so well only a couple of months ago.
b
Monday, February 22, 2010
5 days of sun
if you haven't been around for the past week, you've been missing out. for nearly a week now we have been enjoying gorgeous, chilly, but sunshiney days that seem to have revived me from my tendency toward winter dullness. it's got me thinking about the things i want to do more of this spring.
i want to open my windows and doors more often.
i want to sit on the porch with a cup of french press and watch the morning come into itself.
i want to go for sunrise hikes.
i want to make time to write, instead of fitting it in between other things.
i want to take more pictures so i will have reminders of these days in the years to come.
i want to wear skirts.
february always has a "teaser:" a week or two of wonderful weather before march's gloom arrives. it's almost cruel how we get our hopes up, and then they are dashed so immediately. but i wouldn't have it any other way: every year, february provides a bright spot, reminds us of the glories of spring and summer, those things that seem so distant come january.
enjoy the sun.
b
i want to open my windows and doors more often.
i want to sit on the porch with a cup of french press and watch the morning come into itself.
i want to go for sunrise hikes.
i want to make time to write, instead of fitting it in between other things.
i want to take more pictures so i will have reminders of these days in the years to come.
i want to wear skirts.
february always has a "teaser:" a week or two of wonderful weather before march's gloom arrives. it's almost cruel how we get our hopes up, and then they are dashed so immediately. but i wouldn't have it any other way: every year, february provides a bright spot, reminds us of the glories of spring and summer, those things that seem so distant come january.
enjoy the sun.
b
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
of late
reading for fun.
"Today the distinction between draft and harness horses is arcane knowledge, and no image may come to mind for a blue roan or a claybank horse. The loss of such refinement in everyday conversation leaves me unsettled. People praise the Eskimo's ability to distinguish among forty types of snow but forget the skill of others who routinely differentiate between overo and tobiano pintos. Such distinctions are made for the same reason. You have to do it to be able to talk clearly about the world."
--Barry Lopez, in Crossing Open Ground
*
thinking a lot.
it's nice to have the time to think, and not have it orbit around scheduling or homework or other tasks. instead, i am finding myself dwelling on things that seem to be more important. here are a few snippets of late
*
skills and mastery.
lately i have been thinking a lot about the knowledge that i (we) lack, but that generations preceding ours just, well, had. for example: a hundred years ago, an individual probably knew the names of the plants they ate. and i mean varieties, not "corn" or "carrot." they probably knew who grew it too. they probably knew how many steps it was to their neighbor's front porch, and knew how long it would take to get to town and thus planned accordingly. women had (for the most part) intuitive knowledge of how to achieve basic household tasks like cooking or baking bread because they had been around it their whole lives. men had that same intuition about how to fix things, or how much hay they would need to haul to feel their animals for the winter. they knew that in february in oregon, there would be two weeks of nice weather when they could get ahead of the onslaught of spring work. they could tell the weather was changing by looking at the sky and noting the behavior of animals.
today, we have different sorts of knowledge. we know how to drive cars, microwave meals, and look things up on the internet. we know how to use ATM machines. we know how to text message. i know that because our knowledge is shaped differently doesn't mean that there isn't mastery present in our lives anymore... but i can't help but feel like all of these things we do, anyone can.
there seems to be so little variation in our knowledge and skills today. we all have these same things, and all learn how to do the same things. sure, someone might be really good at excel or at photoshop, but i feel like even the less technically savvy of us (me for example) could "get" that, given enough time. but there is something different about being able to cook a meal for others, and time it right so all of the dishes land on the table still warm. there is some sense of mastery about that--something more than following protocols or directions on a recipe card. there is feeling in that kind of knowledge, there is intuition; something extra that must be learned, must be earned. i suppose it was the same one hundred years ago: everyone knew how to watch for weather changes and tell when a loaf of bread was baked just to perfection. but i don't know. there is a difference between being "skilled" and "masterful." maybe the reason that distinction has faded today is because we move on so quickly. a new cell phone after a year. a new computer every two or three; software updates every month. can you ever master something like that? i want to master something--to be artful, not just proficient.
*
precision and understanding.
the quote that opens this entry resonated with me. in particular, the idea of there being a special precision in knowledge that is important to maintain: an overo versus a tobiano, for example. or hard white wheat versus hard red. or marjoram versus thyme. it is not just a horse, or a flour, or a spice that is denoted by these words, but a whole world of distinctions: of things that make each unique, characteristics that the other cannot achieve. i think our ability to differentiate, to make these meaningful distinctions is greatly diminished today. take for example those commercials on t.v. that equate changing a light bulb to changing the world, or buying a new reusable shopping bag to responsibility. i'm sorry, but those are not the same thing.
when will we move beyond the "i changed this thing by replacing it with another, and therefore have done my part" mentality? someday we have to realize that a different item consumed is not the same thing as changing your consumption, and that changing a light bulb is not the same thing as not turning it on in the daytime when you don't need it anyway. a while ago i listened to a radio show on n.p.r. where the guest speaker was diagnosing what he saw as the real crisis in the climate change "crisis." he argued that the whole global warming hullabaloo has nothing to do with CO2 emissions or hybrid cars or cap and trade. if anything, all of that is distracting us from the real crisis. the real crisis, he argued, is a crisis of lifestyle: global warming isn't about cutting out the use of fossil fuels--it's about realizing that we live in a finite world and cannot live as if it were infinite. replacing petroleum with hydrogen or LNG or what have you is not going to solve this problem. only changing the way we live will. not living 50 miles from your place of work is one step; not participating in conspicuous consumption is another; replacing money spent on entertainment with time spent with loved ones is another; simplifying your lifestyle to live on a single income instead of two is yet another.
the problem with these changes is that they are hard. way harder than buying a different sort of light bulb or car. they require a more precise understanding of the way things are in our world, and they require that we differentiate between "action," and real, active change. as barry lopez wrote, "you have to do it to be able to talk clearly about the world." without talking clearly about the world, how can we ever do better by it?
*
no real conclusion(s).
so i've been thinking a lot. who knows if it makes sense. but i do know that i want to differentiate. i want to be more discerning in how i speak, make decisions, and live my life. i want to be masterful, not just skilled. i want to make these important distinctions. i feel like they will help somehow. how that is, i don't quite know.
b
Thursday, January 21, 2010
a poem a day...
... sounds ambitious. but i like the idea. what about a one sentence, one line poem? every single day day.
i am going to call it the "today beth..." series, and i may even dedicate a new notebook to this endeavor. i want to pay more attention to my days. i was telling erik just yesterday that i have a horrible memory. so often a friend will ask me, "what did you do today?" or "how was your weekend?" and i struggle to remember what i did or how i felt about it. it is sad to me that so much time passes unnoticed. maybe that feeling is particularly acute because i am so close to the end of a lot of things right now. maybe this can help.
today beth opens windows, lets in light.
b
Saturday, January 02, 2010
a baker's dozen
as you may or may not know, i have a bit of a love affair with to-do lists. perhaps it is more of a love-hate affair. without them, i become a complete flake but with them i tend to be stressed. occasionally, however, they are all happiness.
i am endeavoring during this month to do an amazing amount of baking. i mean a stupendous amount. i mean a my-measuring-cups-will-never-be-clean-and-i-might-gain-a-few-pounds amount. mmm yum. here is my baker's dozen to-do list for the month:
1. raspberry ricotta muffins
2. quinoa muffins
3. sour cream orange biscuits
4. cheese biscuits
5. sourdough scones
6. sour cream scones
7. popovers
8. lemon blueberry bread
9. yogurt bread
10. mocha-oatmeal cupcakes
11. wheat berry bread
12. cottage cheese loaf
13. sourdough rye beer bread
additionally this january, i would like to become acquainted with the subtle magic of sourdoughs. these breads are ancient--employing the native yeasts of kitchens from around the world and across time. they also happen to be delicious: chewy and tangy.
something about sourdoughs is intriguing to me. not only do they free the baker from reliance on commercially available yeast, but they represent an inheritance. my mom had a sourdough starter her mom had given her for years, until it got contaminated somehow. it isn't uncommon for starters to be passed down for several generations--well cared for, their lifetime can long exceed our own. it's pretty cool.
here's to a month of baking adventures!
b
i am endeavoring during this month to do an amazing amount of baking. i mean a stupendous amount. i mean a my-measuring-cups-will-never-be-clean-and-i-might-gain-a-few-pounds amount. mmm yum. here is my baker's dozen to-do list for the month:
1. raspberry ricotta muffins
2. quinoa muffins
3. sour cream orange biscuits
4. cheese biscuits
5. sourdough scones
6. sour cream scones
7. popovers
8. lemon blueberry bread
9. yogurt bread
10. mocha-oatmeal cupcakes
11. wheat berry bread
12. cottage cheese loaf
13. sourdough rye beer bread
additionally this january, i would like to become acquainted with the subtle magic of sourdoughs. these breads are ancient--employing the native yeasts of kitchens from around the world and across time. they also happen to be delicious: chewy and tangy.
something about sourdoughs is intriguing to me. not only do they free the baker from reliance on commercially available yeast, but they represent an inheritance. my mom had a sourdough starter her mom had given her for years, until it got contaminated somehow. it isn't uncommon for starters to be passed down for several generations--well cared for, their lifetime can long exceed our own. it's pretty cool.
here's to a month of baking adventures!
b
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