Pink of Perfection

The bad news is, I killed a plant. A couple weeks ago, I went on a plant buying spree. Green plastic pots filled with pink polka dotted leaves and viney tendrils were two for $5 at the farmer’s market. Then later, walking home from a cafe, a flower shop had a tray of long-armed, spiny aloe plants for sale, and a tall, proud looking green thing. Of course, I had to have them all.

Ever since I visited my friend in Los Angeles in the spring, I have realized that my dream life has a lot more green things in it than my actual life. Jenny had plants hanging from the rail of her balcony, and a terracotta pot filled with succulents and a bed of stones. At night, she might have snipped buds from white rosebushes and slipped then into the narrow neck of a tall bottle back in her apartment.

I came home wanting more green on my windowsills and fire escape. And it’s why, when I ran into a jade plant at Trader Joe’s, I swooned. There’s something about jade plants that so speaks to me––they don’t need much, and they hold what they need, in reserves, inside of them. Yet despite the lovely symbolism and my ability to instantly make reality an element of my dream life right there in the grocery store aisle, I had to stand, weighing the pecuniary ramifications of a $10 plant for several minutes. Then finally it hit me: I’ll spend $10 on a sushi lunch but I can’t drop the same amount to make my ideal life vision a reality? So I got my priorities straight and happily carried that jade plant home, where it greets me every morning from my bedroom windowsill. An important lesson: it’s always worth it to spring for the things that really bring you deep delight, especially when they cost less than $20.

I killed the pink polka dotted thing. I think, perhaps, it was more delicate than it looked. It might have been the rain or the wilting heat. But I still have the jade plant, the aloe plant next to it, and two unidentified green things in the living room: one low and long-armed, one tall and proud.

Here’s the good news: I’m pretty into these cookies. In fact, would it be wrong to say my favorite thing about these cookies was the raw dough? It was the best I’ve ever tasted. Some of their magic seemed a little lost in the baking, but they came out of the oven soft and have stayed that way for days. Plus, while I would not go so far as to call these cookies “healthy,” they do have a number of good-for-you items in them, like whole wheat and oat flours, canola oil, and agave nectar. This is not reason enough to eat them for breakfast, but all the same, I did. Let’s just call that my other piece of bad news.

Continue reading “Chocolate Chunk Cookies with Almonds” »

A few weeks ago, I was craving comfort in a big way. I was getting over a lingering summer cold, and feeling neither interested nor able to deal with grown-up problems. I plucked Anne of Avonlea off the shelf, and for as long as I was flipping through those very old and faded rough-edged hardback pages, I did feel comforted. Anne’s is not a world in which she wonders about the meaning in her life. Meaning is as sure and tangible a thing as Marilla’s plum jam. The questions instead are how to extract oneself when you’ve fallen through the roof of a chicken coop and what to name a particularly enchanting place in the woods. There are scrapes, to be sure, but Anne snakes her way out of them.

I love ambiguity, questioning and grays, of course. But there is something deeply appealing to me about simpler worlds where families eat dinner together every night, self-worth and love are givens, and humans are replaced by bears and anteaters.

After turning the last page on Anne, I took myself to Books of Wonder and reacquainted myself with old friends like Mrs. Frisby and Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. I pulled aside several different teenage female clerks and asked for recommendations based on my love of spunky, fierce heroines like Anastasia and Laura. They introduced me to Mary Alice and Sheila the Great.

I shelved Joan Didion and Annie Dillard. Enough darkness, rumination, and underbelly. I parted the curtains to let in some light. And in these last very happy weeks of time spent at reading level age 10 and up, I’ve learned that when life feels a bit clouded and the way is unclear, these scrappy young heroines remind me of everything I need to know. Adventure is where you find it. Smart girls are cool. Being kind is more important than being beautiful. Work for good. Follow your passions. Love yourself and love with another will follow. But in the meantime, we’ve got bigger fish to fry, like learning to write novels, befriending old ladies in stone houses, and finding our home on the prairie, our dreams in the tall sea grasses.

So, friends: I’ve got Anne of the Island on its way from a used bookstore in Michigan. A Wrinkle in Time is in the queue, and when it gets chillier, I plan to read through all the Little House books. What are your favorites? What childhood books do you visit again and again? Which heroines taught you what kind of woman you want to be?

It is in his pleasure that a man really lives; it is from his leisure that he constructs the true fabric of self. ––Agnes Repplier

I’m not usually one to share the bizarro holidays that pop up on the calendar, but this is one I couldn’t resist. Today is Lazy Day, the kind of holiday I can really get behind. That we are in the dog days of summer, the kind that almost feel like a rut, makes it even more apropos. Who wants to do more on August 10 than sip a glass of iced tea, anyway?

When I was in college, a speaker came and gave a talk in the little chapel about the importance of leisure. I didn’t know then what real day-in, day-out work looked like, so I’m surprised what he said so affected me I had to scribble it down in my notebook: we reveal ourselves in our leisure as much as our work. The idea that downtime could somehow play a role in identity––that leisure could somehow be important––was an intoxicating idea to me. And now that I have daily work that consists of slightly more than “Read this novel; think about it; write paper; meet someone for coffee,” it’s an idea I can appreciate even more.

Especially after coming off such a fun weekend. My daily life is so much in my head: sitting, writing, writing, sitting. But this weekend on a bare Iowa horizon, I was in my heart and my body. Dancing, sweating, swimming. Smiling like a goon, and laughing till I ached. It made me think about physical fun, about being present in form, fully inhabited. Not talking it out, not analyzing, but relaxing into the summer heat, twirling skirts on the dance floor, leaning in for a kiss.

Which, of course, has nothing to do with being lazy. But it does have to do with fun. The pure, unadulterated bliss of pleasure for pleasure’s sake. And that feels related to a holiday about kicking back and doing nothing at all: il bel far niente.

And yet, I’m a little embarrassed of the word lazy. I certainly don’t want to be seen as such, despite how well I can nap and spend the better part of an hour in the bathtub. I’ve been known to wile whole Saturdays away in bed. But lazy seems so judgy; perhaps it’s just my Puritan roots shining through. I’ll be doing my best today to shirk off any ancestral guilt and find an hour to just sit and stare out a window. Consider this your invitation to join me.

image via LIFE

Consider this my first postcard from the land of tango, red wine, and red meat: I’m going on vacation! I’ll be back here on the 28th, but until then, I wish you days where you stay cool, drink delicious beverages, and make a bit of trouble. That’s what summer’s for, right?

xo
Sarah

PS If you need help deciding what to make for dinner, check here.

image via LIFE

Everyone needs beauty as well as bread, places to play and pray, where nature heals and give strength to body and soul alike. ––John Muir

Yesterday I attended a Quaker meeting in a deep shaded grove. It was what some call a “popcorn meeting,” where, one after another, people spring from their seats to quote from poetry and conversations with therapists. And in the moments of quiet that came in between bursts, I listened to the forests sounds with my eyes closed or watched the way the sunlight came through the trees. One serious conclusion: I use the adjective “heavenly” far too colloquially.

There was a through-line to the talk: about the delicacy of feelings and the power of words to hurt or to heal. I had spent the previous week in my own feverish ways, annoyed, anxious, unable to concentrate. But there in the woods, I felt reclothed in my rightful mind. I remembered the importance of stepping out of the flurry of the day-to-day to stop and breathe. To sit in quiet. To experience fellowship. Why hadn’t I been going to yoga? Why hadn’t I taken the time to sit in the community garden? I knew both would reset my clock, but I just couldn’t find the time. I had stewing to do and worries to fret. Important stuff.

Simplicity is something I struggle with. My apartment tends toward clutter; with language, I often have trouble being plain. So much of what we say is for effect and response, to get a laugh or to seem smart. But someone is always on the receiving end of that talk, perhaps sadly so. I resolved there to think more carefully of how what I say affects others. Words, especially written ones, aren’t just play things. As Joan Didion says, “Writers are always selling somebody out.” Tread carefully.

Someone at meeting used the phrase “beauty is but a light switch away.” Morning googling has revealed this to be some kind of cruel pick-up line, but in the context of chirping woodland birds and senior citizens in chinos, I had interpreted it so differently: We only have to flip the switch to be bathed in beauty. Just as, we only have to shift our perspective to feel peaceful and accepting again. Sometimes that means sitting quietly in the woods or floating in a lake or having a glass of lemonade with someone you love. What I had forgotten is how utterly within my power it is to bring those feelings about in my daily life, and I know just how to do it. Sometimes we need only a gentle reminder of what we already know.

Can you imagine, for a moment, the way the light through the window was dancing its patchy pattern across the table this morning, and across these cherries? It scatters still, across my cup of coffee and keyboard; it seems a fitting thing to bring up for what I’m about to try to say.

Which is: There are days when you burst into your own life. Your sense of self fills every bit of your body: the round tips of your fingers, your elbows, your earlobes. Suddenly, you are fully present in your form and in your life. You are dashing across the street like Mary Tyler Moore, twirling in your skirt, every synapse open and firing.

I am waiting, knowing this moment will end. It began Friday night with the surprise of love and support at the premiere of Colin Hearts Kay (which won Audience Choice for Best Feature!). And then it slid into Saturday when I was wearing a cute outfit and feeling quite lovely, sitting alone at the bar of one of my favorite restaurants with a glass of cold white wine, reading As They Were.

These are some of the things I love: friends, wrap skirts, chilly wine on hot days, M.F.K. Fisher. But for whatever reason, sometimes we turn to the things we love and they fail to stir in us that expected delight, the longed-for pleasure. Instead it is just a glass of Albariño, just a curled paperback.

But every once in awhile we find our lives transformed by joy for an afternoon or a weekend. These are days when we are so fully alive in our bodies, we feel like the stars of our story. Should it be any other way? But, inevitably, there are those other days. The necessary downturns, the going-through-the-motions, the sleepwalking in our own lives. And that’s fine too, if not because melancholy can serve a purpose, then because they make the slow, rapturous intake of pleasure even more satisfying. Too bad there’s not a valve we can switch on and off; but then, I suppose, that would be all too predictable.

I have been on my own personal cloud 9 since Friday at about 8:30pm. And it’s not because of any good news or career triumphs of my mate. It’s because, as someone close to me said, of a transformation. It’s sounds a little heavy or sci-fi, I know, but isn’t that a lovely word? It’s something humming in me, a gear that’s clicked into sunny, quiet place of wholeness. A group of girlfriends brought it on, then more friends, more family, a sewing project free of frustration, an iced latte or two. And now, after a slow wander through the bookstore and a dash to the farmer’s market, these cherries will sustain it. If only for a few moments more.

I am getting the distinct feeling that maybe y’all are a little burnt out on recipes. No? Am I being oversensitive? Are you just outside playing in the sunshine? Here’s hoping.

But in any case, I thought it was time for a little shake-up. Remember when we were all going on and on about morning pages last month? Well, when I found out that Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, was teaching a “Creativity Boot Camp” class at the Open Center, I figured it was a pretty good way to spend four Wednesday evenings.

Julia Cameron is a real trip, in the best way possible. She’s got these loose, luxurious blonde curls, wears deep red lipstick, and can somehow convince a room full of adults to sing songs with lyrics like, “your green heart is filled with apples!” In a word, she’s amazing.

In our first class, she did an exercise with us that I loved so much, I had to share it with you guys. So if you’re in for some creative, big-dreaming Friday fun, grab a piece of paper (or chime in in the comments) and let your imagination loose. Don’t spend too much time thinking about each list; just be loose and go with your gut.

1. Write ten things you love.
2. Write five things you would do if you knew you wouldn’t fail.
3. Write five alternative lives you would like to live other than your own.
4. Write four tiny things you can do in the life you have to bring you closer to those imagined lives.

Now, imagine an older, wiser version of yourself who has some advice to share.

1. What do you need to know?
2. What do you need to embrace?
3. What do you need to do?
4. What do you need to grieve?
5. What do you need to celebrate?

Happy weekend to you lovelies! As always, thanks for dropping in here, reading, and adding your delightful and insightful two cents.

Image via Valeriana Solaris

Oh heavens, am I ever happy to see you, Tuesday. You bring order, reason, and perhaps even a sense of proportion back into my life today. You’re a sight for sore eyes.

I had one of those weekends that starts as wonderfully indulgent––$1 oysters by night, chocolate croissants by day––but devolves into overindulgence. The kind of overindulgence that has you saying “Another round!” with too much exuberance, eating sausage egg biscuits from 7-11 at 1AM and waking up to a headache that makes you wish you were never born. With my allergy to moderation this weekend, I believe I made Mark Twain proud.

And so I am ready to become reacquainted with the whole grains in my cupboard and these green things called vegetables. I’m off to buy asparagus.

How was your weekend? Did you make delicious things? Did you drink eleventy-million beers, like me? Do you also have a problem making the fun stop once it gets going? Maybe it’s an Aries thing. Which reminds me: don’t forget to read your Astrologyzone!