Pink of Perfection

When I first moved to New York, a friend set me up on a lunch date with a woman who had the kind of career I could only dream about. We met in a leafy spot in Bryant Park. She made her red miniskirt look like the natural, obvious choice for an esteemed intellectual: completely right. I was so nervous I could barely eat; she ordered chicken skewers and a bit of dipping sauce dripped on her chin. It was like having lunch with Nigella Lawson: frighteningly intelligent, head-spinningly sensuous, and totally at ease with her body and her power. I thought she was rad.

She was also very realistic. Here was a woman with a top-of-the-heap creative job, but there were limits: “I can write and have a boyfriend, or I can edit and write,” she said, “but I can’t write and edit and have a boyfriend.”

I thought of that lunch when I saw this silly pin on Pinterest. On the one hand, it plays into all the expectations of that maddening I-don’t-know-how-she-does-it illusion. It makes me angry that’s even the expectation.

On the other hand, it’s pretty funny.

I was quick to feel like my life was a little soulless this week: I had a killer day at work on Monday, and then still managed to make dinner and go to my crazy suspended-from-the-wall strength training class. I should have felt like I was kicking ass and taking names. Instead I felt overly busy and empty. So what gave? Work, write, exercise, clean, cook––If you can only choose two any give day, maybe I was picking the wrong two. Because the thing that makes me feel most grounded, connected, and inspired is checking in here. And the days since I’ve done that have been too many.

Does the idea of only picking two priorities a day kind of send you into a panic? For some reason, putting a limit on what I can do each day feels strangely liberating. Going to the dry cleaner? That’s not happening. Cleaning out the closet? Nope. Having to look hard and choose helps me really zero in on what matters. Some days, it’s cooking and listening to Conway and Loretta while I chop onions. Other days it’s picking up a rotisserie chicken and a salad so that I have more time to do whatever else feels more important.

The list of responsibilities and to dos grows long fast. And sometimes life gets busy and we have to buck up and take care of business. But that’s different from doing it all for the sake of doing it all, all of the time. How many of us feel worse off for the constantly trying and failing?

Me, for one. There are women made of hardier stuff who can keep going and going (and going), checking off items on a list a mile long. I admire them greatly. But I’m not one of them. That kind of busyness puts me in a frenzy: it makes me feel scattered and uncentered. And to what end? Why––and for whom––would I be doing all of that exactly?

How can we duck out of the expectations it’s all so easy to buy into, and check in with our own values and needs? What really matters to us? I guess it’s all about taking things off auto-pilot, which we end up talking about here a lot. How can we keep being present in the everyday, in a way that really means something to us?

For me at least, it might be a matter of keeping things simple: Take work off the list, and then choose two: see a friend, do the laundry, cook dinner, exercise, write. Choose two. Everyday this week that’s been my mantra. It makes it clear pretty fast what’s needed, what matters, and what will really make the day feel worthwhile.

So this is what I’ve been thinking about for my weekday life, and I’d love to hear your thoughts on this. But I also realize it’s Friday, and you’ve got weekend baking and sexy cocktails on the brain. So on that front, Aretha is in order. Also, feathers:

Happy weekend, friends!

Photo by sweetblue on etsy

My husband and I just celebrated our two year wedding anniversary. We were pretty giddy and corny about it, so much happier on that day in October than we’d been last year, and we tried to figure out why. First, there’s that fact that everyone says the first year of marriage is very hard. They start telling you that as soon as you arrive home from your honeymoon. It’s a very warm welcome back to reality.

But we also gave some credit to a piece of paper that’s been hanging on our refrigerator since January. It’s written on a piece of Elvis stationary my college roommate brought back from Graceland, and it has a faded tomato sauce stain of on it (a memento of the spaghetti and meatballs we ate as we composed it). On it are more than a dozen things we wanted to do in the new year. Written at the top is, “The 2011 Wish List of Terrificness.” (That was my handiwork.)

We’re kind of big on lists, traditions, and superstitions in our house, so having a list like this was nothing new. There was the year I drew an elaborate picture at the bottom of a list envisioning my look for the new year: I had short curly hair and was wearing cowboy boots. I didn’t cut my hair that year, and I didn’t buy cowboy boots either.

We got serious about our recreating in 2011. And so we went camping––sort of––even when we couldn’t secure a campsite in a state park over a long holiday weekend. We drove right up to my mom and stepdad’s house with a tent, my cast iron pan, a bag of taco Doritos, and made a campfire in the backyard. I’m not going to lie to you: It felt utterly absurd and embarrassing to me at the time. Why can’t we do anything the right way, like, for real? But that feeling passed as soon as we started having fun: cooking the most amazing campfire eggplant, going inside to brush our teeth and waking up to the sound of birds signing. We called it our trial run, and took notes on what we’d need for next time. (Flashlights, bug spray, more Doritos.)

It was also the summer I finally took the swimming lessons I’d been talking about for years. I had taken lessons as a tot years ago, but my skills had dwindled. I wanted to swim in the ocean, strong and unafraid, like Katharine Hepburn out in cold waves of Long Island Sound into her 80s. So on hot muggy nights, after putting in a day of work that left me feeling knotty and spent, I’d walk to the windowless basement pool at the Y and slip into the water. After an hour of paddling around, I’d slip my sundress back over my head and walk home in my wet swimsuit, hungry, exhausted, cooled to my core, and happy.

Then, on a lark, I bought a cheap guitar just so I could sing my favorite country songs. I looked up chords to my favorite Loretta Lynn and Patsy Cline songs and slowly strummed through them. I am not very good, but I enjoy it anyway. Sebastian bought a keyboard, and then a ukulele, and before we knew it, we were having evening jam sessions. We carried the ukulele to a dinner party recently where after chicken and waffles another guest brought out a packet of song lyrics and chords, swung a guitar onto his lap, and we all did our part to sing, strum, and harmonize into the wee hours.

I spend my days talking, listening, reading, and writing, and I realized something both of my new past times had in common: they were blessedly nonverbal. Underwater, the volume of the world gets turned way down, and my mind got quiet; struggling to land my fingers on the right spot of the guitar neck took all my concentration.

The difficulty of dipping our toes into new ways of having fun is, of course, the humiliation of being a newbie. By the time we reach adulthood, most of us have pinpointed our favorite ways to recreate, and we’re good at them: you’ve got a mental catalog of obscure ’90s rock, a flair for crafting cocktails, the speediest knitting hands, a strong, unstoppable run that can go for miles on country roads. But usually to be new at something is to not be good at it. To fumble with the chords, and gasp for breath in slow lane at the pool doesn’t feel especially cool. But there’s something to be said for that part of the fun, too. We may be hooked on perfectionism in our regular adult lives, but with what’s new we have to practice. It feels awkward at first, and humbling when you’re the type who likes to feel good at things (and who doesn’t?). But isn’t there also something liberating about just giving it a try, shrugging your shoulders, and keeping on, just for the fun of it?

So I’m collecting new ways to have fun: What gives you a thrill and makes you smile? What’s the newest just-for-the-sheer-joy-of-it habit you’ve picked up? What were you doing when you last lost all track of time?

Source: themakeupblogger.com via Sarah on Pinterest

A public service announcement for a Monday:

Somewhere in this week, with its meetings, bills, laundry, commuting, dish-washing, bed-making, hair-washing, shoe-trying, flossing, et cetera, find sometime to treat yo’ self. Fine leather goods and massages work, but so too does a yoga class, baking something from scratch, or finding the perfect fall novel.

I’m a big fan of seeking wise counsel, and from just about anyone who will give it: friends, paid professionals, parents, postal workers, kind-looking strangers. My feeling is that you never know what bit of wisdom someone might have to share. And though it so often feels that no one in the world has ever been in our particular bind or funk, chances are someone has. Someone, somewhere has felt the way we do before.

So I wrote to a stranger––two of them actually––who had made creative, good-looking lives for themelves. I peppered them questions, and sent those missives out into the dark recesses of the internet, preparing myself for silence.

But both women responded to me––and with kindness and consideration, to boot. At the risk of sounding florid and cheesy, I was really touched by their willingness to chat with some random stranger. I think of all the times I keep my head down and my blinders on, so focused on walking my own daily beat. Go to work, go to the gym, come home. Eat dinner, call my mom. Watch TV, look at shoes online, crawl into bed. It was so refreshing to reach out of my own bubble and into someone else’s, to listen closely to their story, their choices.

And so I listened. But both of these women quickly turned the questions on me (snap!). One question, in particular, has rung in my head for days: Where does your brilliance lie?

Does that question make you feel fired up and inspired, too? (And maybe a touch nervous?) Your brilliance. It’s not just what you’re good at––it’s a piece in you that shines bright. Each of us––yes, you and you and you and you (and me, too)––has a resplendent smarts about her. It might be buried under some insecurity or fear or denial, but it’s in there. Maybe it’s already out in full-force, each day in your life––hat’s off! That, I think, is the goal. To know it, to name it, to claim it, to live it. Your brilliance––whatever it is––has enormous value. Unfortunately, I think we are all to often in the business of undervaluing what we can offer this world.

Because isn’t that the thing? I think of Mary Oliver, whose poem guided me this week like a north star. She built a life around her brilliance, and offers it up like pearl, each day. Her brilliance is also her offering.

And so I reflected a bit on my own brilliance (and I will fully admit that modesty is so much in my bones that it’s hard for me to even write that sentence. Practice.) What is my offering? I’m awfully proud of this community right here: that what I try to put down in words feels welcoming, warm, and thoughtful. And I hope that anyone can drop in, new readers and old friends, and instantly feel some familiarity and some comfort. I hope, too, that there might be a spark of inspiration or gratitude that you can carry right back into our own life: that you will stop and notice the changing leaves outside your window, or look into the eyes of someone you love a little longer, or give yourself whatever it is you’re craving––a tea break, an Etsy perusal, a deep, easing breath at your desk, a bouquet of flowers, an early bedtime, a rare steak. That’s my brilliance, I think: keeping my senses wide open like an aperture, chronicling them, and sending out those feelings, of gratitude, of joy, of wonder, out like little waves of light, from my life to yours. Pass it on.

Now you. Don’t be bashful.

Photo: Lori411 on Etsy

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

Photo by joystclaire

There is much to be said for what discomforts a change of scenery can ease. And because I have been nursing a cold with a sore throat that only tom yum soup, apple cider, and hot tea could make feel better, we went apple picking.

It was 80 degrees, and the pumpkins and hay bales looked completely out of place in the hot sun. Sebastian and I piled into a wagon filled with children and their parents and rode into an orchard where rows and rows of Piñata apples were––literally!––ripe for the picking. It was so pretty there, with tiny apple blossoms and lush, glossy leaves on the trees, dark green grass below our feet and a big blue sky above. We wandered between trees to the Empires, then the Golden Delicious, and finally the Suncrisps. Later, with our modest five-pound haul, we walked back to the orchard entrance and bought some cider donuts, still hot in their white paper bag. We shared a cold bottle of cider and sat in a shady spot in the grass. I wondered what had taken me so long to do what has long been on my fall fun list.

Colds lead to thick, murky thoughts and minutes lost to staring off into the distance. And so Sebastian had to figure out what to make with all those apples. Wouldn’t you know that the rookie would come out of the gates with a grand slam? My mom makes the simplest of apple pies: just peeled wedges, sugar, cinnamon, and dots of butter. What Sebastian baked was ultra-rich, and bubbled over with a caramel-like sauce. It might have been the best slice of apple pie I’ve ever had. We shared a single slice hot from the oven late last night and pronounced it a victory. (But I’m still partial to tarte tatin.)

I didn’t intend for this post to be about Sebastian’s triumph in the kitchen or to tell you about the killer apple pie recipe he found. Both were just serendipity! I set out just to recount this kind of magic moment in the weekend where even with an aching throat there was something so sweet about wandering, foggy-headed, through an orchard in the sunshine. Why did something so simple feel so utterly divine?

We play this game in our house from time to time, “what was your favorite moment?” And the surprising thing is that it’s never the fancy dinners or big to-dos we planned for, spent money on. It’s always something unassuming and random, like a nice walk, or seeing some hilarious dog, or reaching up into an apple tree, grabbing a piece of ripe fruit, and biting right into it.

Continue reading “Sweet Suprises and Apple Pie” »

Sunday.

This morning I got up early and set the coffee to boiling. I fried some sausage and made biskit, and cooked some hominy grits and eggs. Maudy sat in Martha’s lap to eat, and Oakley got some church music on the radio. It was that old time gospel hour out of Bristol. And then, for a minute while everybody was eating, I felt like church. I mean I think I felt the way you are supposed to feel in church, which I never do. The back door to the orchard stood open and sunlight fell in a long solid block into the kitchen, touching Maudy’s red curly hair. Little bits of dust went twirling in the sunlight which lay warm and restful on my new linoleum tablecloth which is all flowers, red and white roses entwined in circle that repeat and repeat and repeat. It is real pretty. Can I have some more eggs? Bill said. You can’t fill him up! Danny Ray was reading a book which he does all the time and I said, Don’t read at the table. He was reading, The Mayor of Caterbridge. Here’s some more biskits I said and took them out of the oven and Oakley said, These are real good, Ivy. The Blue Sky Boys on the radio were singing Look on the Sunny Side of Life. I got us all some more coffee and sat back down and all of a sudden I thought how funny it was to have everybody there at the same time, usually they are off and running a in a million different directions especially the boys. Where is the honey? Oakley said because it is new honey, he has just robbed the bees, and I got up and got a piece of it still in the comb and put in on a blue plate. It is pale, pale yellow honey, the lightest sweetest kind. Oh that is good, said Martha, and the children were chewing the comb, they act like it is candy. Don’t reach, I said to Bill. Now you will just have to wash all over again, you are such a pig, Martha said to Maudy who had smeared it all over herself. Do piggy, Maudy said, and stretched out her fat little leg and wiggled her toes and Martha said This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed home, this little pig had roast beef, this little pig had none. Maudy was giggling, Oakley was staring out at the mountains the way he does, Danny Ray was reading The Mayor of Casterbridge. The gospel singers sang This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine on the radio. The sun felt warm on my forehead, like somebody’s hand. Bill was eating up all the sausage. I put some of the new honey on a biskit and ate it myself. It was smooth and sweet. This is the best honey yet I said to Oakley who said it was because we’d had so much rain. This little pig cried wee wee wee all the way home, Martha said, pulling Maudy’s least toe. Maudy started squealing and jumped out of Martha’s arms and ran around and round the table. Gotcha. Oakley grabbed her. I ate another biskit, may be I will get old and fat like all the women in Oakley’s family. Holding Maudy, Oakley was staring at me the way he does. It is clear to me now Silvaney that however much I may have wated to die, I am stuck smack in the middle of this life.

I remain

Your loving sister,
IVY.

––Fair and Tender Ladies, by Lee Smith

Photo: honey comb print available from Etsy seller butterflyfood