old movie stars

I made it home safe and sound from my trip last week that involved airplanes. Lots of praying and holding tight to my cross, and reading a fabulous book to take my mind off my fears. Everything was fine, and I am happy to be back home again. 

Dora spent the week in Ohio with my dad and stepmother. I never like the way this house feels without her in it, but we made the best of our time without her. We finished up projects around the house, got her room totally reorganized (finally), and went to a movie. After much debate we saw True Grit. Being the Coen Brothers/Jeff Bridges fans that we are, we both wanted to see it. But, I saw the John Wayne version as a kid, so I was apprehensive about that final scene with the horse. I remember sitting on the faded tan cordoroy couch in my parents' living room, shocked and crying about what happened. My apprehension about the final scene was over me like a cloud in the theater, and at the end when it came I was just as upset as I had been all those years ago. To me that has to be one of the saddest scenes involving an animal in a movie ever made. It just breaks me heart. 

I've always been an animal lover, and I can hardly bear to see one hurt in a movie, even knowing all the rules and regulations in place to protect them during filming. I read that the rules about the equine actors used in True Grit were more explicit and rigid than the rules governing the 13-year-old human actress. In the river crossing scene, the water had to be a certain temperature for the horses, whereas there was no mention of a required temperature for the humans. Nonetheless, I am always tender-hearted when it comes to animals in film. 

In the ladies room after the movie, I was not the only one wiping my eyes. For many of us, animals are a connection, a place of common understanding to which nearly all humans can relate. Sure, there are a few non-animal people out there, but most of us understand the way a cat or dog curls its way into your heart and home, staking out a permanent place of honor at the foot of your bed, on the back of the couch, or on your hearth. 

At Christmas, we adopted a cat from home, a beautiful, long-haired, black and white Maine Coon named Hedy. She had been given to me by my friend Maria years ago, but soon after she walked into my life she adopted my mother as her favorite human. She was definitely my mother's cat. She was a wonderful companion to her, sleeping on her bed, following her into the bathroom, kneading and purring incessantly. When my mom died, Hedy was sleeping on the bed next to her, curled up beside her like she always was, waiting for my mom's hand to stroke her black fur. 

Now that this old movie star is living with us, she sleeps on our bed, purring incessantly, kneading and drooling, happy to be with us. She's as beautiful as she ever was, happily waiting for the next opportunity for someone to pet her. Beyond just enjoying her company and her perfectly symmetrical markings and her stunningly long whiskers, my home and my heart are warmed by her presence because of the connection to my mother that she represents. There is something so comforting about running my hands over Hedy's beautiful black fur, knowing my mother did the same thing not so long ago. I hope Hedy feels that connection, too, a little spark of familiarity, a little bit of extra warmth from a hand that feels just a little bit like one she used to know and love.

all you need is love

Happy New Year! 

I know it's been a long time, but I'm still here. I still love this project, and many days thoughts of what I'd like to write go through my head. I can't always make the time to write here, but I'm going to keep it up when I can. Thank you for coming back to read again and again. That means so much to me. 

2010 was quite the year of ups and downs. We shared many joys with our friends and family - new babies (or news of babies to come in 2011), marriages, successes, adventures. We shared sadness, too - losses of loved ones, illness. Together Brian and I grew a lot this year, facing our own challenges and finding that our commitment and love saw us through yet again. We watched Dora grow into an entertaining, inquisitive, and loving little girl. We each branched out into new creative arenas - photography, craft projects, and music, music, music. We said goodbye to one of the world's most lovely and adorable cats, our dear sweet Mackeson.

This past year I was amazed again at the resiliency of love. In late November, a good friend of mine lost her son in Afghanistan. Her loss is unthinkable, yet she maintained so much grace and positivity I was overwhelmed. Her son's beautiful light in the world - and their love for each other - shines on. This year I saw love see friends, family, and self through pain and loss and seemingly insurmountable difficulty. Though in the darkness it can sometimes seem impossible, John Lennon was right. All you need is love.

I'm looking forward to 2011, trusting that love will again see us through the good and the bad. In less than a week I'm flying for work, which is a big accomplishment for me - facing a fear I've been unable to overcome for a long time. At Christmas I received three old Kodak Instamatic cameras that belonged to my mom, and I'm really looking forward to using them this year, holding in my hands the same tools she used to record so many of our family memories when my brother and I were young. This year I want to read, write, take pictures, make things, take care of my house, stay connected to my wonderful friends, and snuggle up with my beautiful family and pets. Yes, all you need is love.

100% From Scratch Pumpkin Pie

I cooked all day yesterday, just for the three of us. I made nearly everything - except for the butter, the drinks, the bread for the stuffing, and the fried onions for the green beans - from scratch. Even the mushroom sauce for the green bean casserole was from scratch. It was warm and sunny. We cooked with the windows open, peeled potatoes in our shorts.

It was a non-stop kitchen extravaganza, but we did find time for playing games - Candyland and Memory - while the chicken roasted. I couldn't see roasting a turkey for two adults and a toddler, so we had chicken with herbs. 

 

As we sat down to dinner, the song we danced to at our wedding - I've Got You Under My Skin - came on. It seemed like a sign - a sign of all that we have to be thankful for, a sign of commitment and what it really means to be in a committed relationship, a reminder that everything about us - even our beautiful girl - starts from one tiny, simple, sacred space together. 

It was a beautiful day, and the only thing that would have made it more beautiful would have been if our table could have somehow magically been surrounded by all our friends and family, all the people we love so much, living or not. That would have made the meal absolutely perfect. 

Most of what I made came out well, but not everything. The mashed potatoes weren't quite right, and the bread cubes I cut up for the stuffing were too large. The best part, without a doubt, was the 100 percent from scratch pumpkin pie. I've never before made a pumpkin pie that started out as an actual pumpkin, and now that I have, I'm not sure I'll ever make another one that starts out as a can. This pie was so absolutely perfect - great texture, delicious pumpkin-y taste - that the minimal (and I mean minimal) extra effort needed to roast the pumpkin instead of opening the can was completely worthwhile. The best part - even better than the fact that I still have about half of this pie left - is the fact that I have another pie pumpkin from Flying Cloud Farm in my collection of winter squashes, patiently waiting for its destiny in my pie plate. 

 100% From Scratch Pumpkin Pie 

 

For the crust: 

I use this recipe from Martha Stewart for my pie crusts. For this particular pie, you can halve the recipe. 

For the filling: 

1 whole, honest-to-goodness pie pumpkin 

2 large eggs 

3/4 cup brown sugar 

1/2 teaspoon salt 

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract 

1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon 

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg 

1 cup half and half 

Preheat the oven to 425. Line a rimmed baking sheet with tin foil or parchment and oil very lightly with vegetable oil. Without scooping out the seeds, roast the pumpkin, cut side down, until tender and browned - about one hour. Allow to cool completely. Discard seeds and scoop flesh (even browned spots) into a medium bowl. Puree using an immersion blender. When smooth, press through a fine mesh sieve into a large bowl, discarding any solids left in the sieve.

To the pumpkin add the eggs, sugar, salt, vanilla, and spices. Whisk until combined, then whisk in the half and half. 

Reduce oven temperature to 375. Place the pie crust in a 9-inch pie dish. Line the pie crust with tin foil, and fill with pie weights or dried beans. Bake until firm, about 20 minutes. Allow to cool for about 15 minutes.

Reduce oven temperature to 350. Pour prepared filling into baked crust. Bake until set, about 1 hour. Allow to cool on a wire rack for one hour before slicing. Serve with homemade whipped cream, and kiss those cans goodbye.

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A few weeks ago someone told me, wisely, that I should write down all the cute and funny things that Dora says and does. If I were actually finding time to do this, I'd have plenty of material. Like the time recently when she said to me while using the potty "girls stand up, and boys sit down". I asked how she knows that and she said, "because it's true". We went camping recently and she enthusiastically introduced herself to all sorts of people, kids and adults alike. She walked up to a woman dining at an outdoor restaurant and reached for her sweet potato fries, "hey, can I have one of these?"  A jogger ran by us at a waterfront park and she said, "I hope that man doesn't fall in the water!" Today she asked Brian why his chest is so hairy, and tonight, when I suggested she share a cookie with her friend, she said, "yeah, I can do that, because I'm really very nice". 

There seems to be no shortage of funny, charming, or observant things running through her mind at any moment. She's pretending all the time, imitating us, saying things we say. But she's coming up with her own things, too, showing us the little individual she's becoming. I feel now as I did when she was a tiny baby on her first day, wrapped up like a burrito in my arms. I looked at her, amazed at how different and interesting she was, and overwhelmed by how much I instantly liked her. 

 Last month she spent her first overnight visit away from us, staying a whole week in Ohio with my dad and stepmother. I enjoyed the time apart at first, the time to focus uninterrupted, the easy mornings, the spontaneous dinners out, seeing a movie together. But I missed her so much, too, our house feeling instantly cold and empty without her. A sock lay strewn across her bed, waiting. I woke up in the middle of the night terrified, panicked at the thought of the miles that lay between us. My home did not feel right without her in it, and I wanted her back as soon as possible. 

We met in West Virginia to exchange child and dog. We had lunch at a crowded, buffet-style restaurant. I took Dora into the dingy bathroom, and instantly thought of my mother, of all the dirty West Virginia bathrooms we braved in our years together, driving to vacation in the Outer Banks. I missed her so much at that moment, longing for her to be there, to see me now, to know me as a mother, to know Dora. 

Back at the table, the season's first snow falling outside, Dora looked at me and said, "where's your mom?" We've talked about my mom a lot before, but she's never asked me so directly about her. "Well, that's an interesting question," I said. "Remember how Mackeson got sick, and then he died and went to heaven? Well, that's what happened to my mommy. She's in heaven now." Dora pondered this a moment and said, "that's her home?" "It is now," I replied. 

I drove us home through the last signs of fall and the first snowflakes of winter. We passed flaming red poison sumac pointing to the sky, bright orange maples, the ground around them blanketed in gold. Above us was a bright, amazing sky - gray, foreboding clouds, layered with thin white filament and backlit with a powerful glistening sun. I wondered how it was possible a 3-year-old could not only charm me with her witty and often funny observations of the world, but also somehow be so insightful and knowing as to ask questions that shoot right into my heart like an arrow. 

I was asked recently about how I've felt my mom in my life since she died. Some people report dreams, or feeling a presence. For me it has been much more fleeting, much more like glimpsing the tail of a comet. Her smile appearing on Dora's face for an instant, or my hand looking just like hers in the evening, turning pages as I read to Dora, my mom's silver and turquoise ring glistening on my finger.  On the first anniversary of her death, Brian and I drove over to Lake Lure, me anxious for something to do other than sit around the house thinking about what I had been doing one year before. It was a surprisingly warm day. We walked Murphy along the lake, empty vacation homes all around. The cherry trees along the water's edge were covered in tiny, pink blossoms just beginning to open, and it was only January 7th. 

When my mom died, I hoped that I would someday have a daughter, that I would someday have that mother-daughter love in my life again. Now that I've been blessed with my amazing little girl, I want nothing more than for her to know all she can about my mother, to know who she was and what she meant to me. When she asks me her witty questions, or when she eats and writes and draws with her left hand, or when that mischievous smile crosses her face for just an instant,  I wonder if she already does. 

listen

I've been doing a lot of reflection over the past few weeks, noticing little things that have happened, a few choice words said by others, little glimpses of answers and understanding I've been searching for. Last week, I went home for lunch, for a quick break in the middle of a stressful and long day, to do some dinner prep, and to eat quite possibly the most delicious sandwich ever made.  I had on-hand all the ingredients to make a really killer pimiento cheese sandwich - City Bakery Seven Grain bread, a local tomato, leftover hormone free bacon, and Earthfare's chipotle pimiento cheese. A perfect culinary goodbye to summer. Yum.

That day I heard Joan Osborne's "What if God Was One of Us" on the radio. In it she asks, "what would you say if you had just one question?" I pondered this for a second and knew my answer right away. "what am I supposed to be doing with my life?" I wouldn't ask who shot JFK, or what happened to Atlantis, or if there really is a Bermuda Triangle, or even what Heaven is like. I'd ask for guidance, for direction, for an answer to the one question I find myself pondering the most: who am I, and what am I doing here?

Later that day I saw a bumpersticker - "Love my job, love my boss. I'm self-employed". I found myself wondering if God speaks to us through bumper stickers. It just seemed to be placed there for me to see it, to get stuck in my brain to return to when I start questioning myself again. I jotted it down on a piece of paper.

A few people, some who know me well and others who I am only just getting to know, have told me lately that I'm doing ok - reassured me that I'm doing a good job with my daughter, boosted my confidence about my job, complimented or even promoted my photography, or just encouraged me that the challenges I'm facing now won't necessarily last forever. It's not just these words that give me comfort, but the fact that busy people who are under no obligation to do so have found a way to lift me up, let their warm light shine on me, give a part of themselves to me in a way that really means something, really betters me in some way. A woman I hardly know the other day asked me about my work, and after explaining my day job to her I added that I do some creative things on the side - writing, photography, crafts. "You're an artist", she said, "I can tell." 

 I drove home through a light fall drizzle pondering this. When I think of artists, I think of real, trained, openly talented people - my mother, her beloved teacher Don Roberts, our spectacularly cool and also very loving neighbors Steve and Katherine Aimone. I think of superstar artists, and people whose work graces the walls of galleries, hotshot photographers whose websites make me swoon. Me - I'm just dabbling in things I love, stumbling my way through technological advancements, trying to understand my sewing machine, and relying on my innate understanding of the rule of thirds. 

In the past, I have comforted myself a bit about losing my mother when I was just 28 by recognizing that, while our relationship was cut short, it was also very strong, very close, very lovely. Like everyone else we fought and had our differences, but other than a few minor details there is little I would change about my relationship with my mother if given the opportunity, other than of course making it longer. I'm realizing now that this is the way life is - everyone gets some things right, and other things that aren't so right. Some people get a long time to work on their relationships with their parents, but are never as close as they might want to be. Some people know exactly what they want to do in their working life, know their calling as if God's plan for them was delivered to their doorstep wrapped tidily in a bow. Some people don't get to live in a town they love, but they know they're doing what they're supposed to. It seems that God just doesn't let us have all the answers at once - none of us do, even those that seem to. 

A pastor once told me that God speaks to us when we get quiet and really listen to ourselves, to our hearts, to our gut instincts about what we should do. I try to remember this - to give myself time to get quiet and hear that voice. I feel now that God also finds ways to speak to us through others - through those who know us well and those we have only just met who find a way to say just what you need to hear, just when you need to hear it, even though they have no idea that's what you need just then. If I have learned anything from my recent challenges it is perhaps that staying alert for and open to those voices of encouragement is as powerful, if not moreso, as listening to my own voice, my own questions.

This morning, Dora cimbed into my bed in the darkness to snuggle with me. She pulled me close and said, "mommy, you're my best friend". God knows what we need to hear. Sometimes we don't even need to ask. We just need to listen. 

clarity

I've been neglecting my blog, partly because I've been busy with some other new projects, like working on my photography, and partly just because my life has been really complicated lately. I have a lot of things to write about, and then again some things I haven't wanted or been able to put into words in a way that I can share here. I've had such a lack of clarity lately that it's been difficult to know where to begin.

Yesterday when I went to pick Dora up from school, I was really looking forward to seeing her. It's been a long week, full of evening meetings and other activities making our time together limited. I was excited to start our weekend together. When I arrived, though, the teacher told me she had just bitten one of her friends, for "being in her way".  I spoke to Dora disapprovingly, reminding her of the consequence the last time she bit one of her friends - no TV all evening.  

We had to make a quick stop at the grocery store for milk and orange juice. I toyed with getting some ice cream and in the split second I stood still to look at the choices, Dora decided to take off. She's run from me in the store before, but this time she completely disappeared. The store was packed with people starting their weekends. I turned round and round in the produce section, paced back and forth at the ends of the aisles, and she was nowhere to be seen. I thought, is it time to start screaming her name? Then I saw the flash of her plaid shorts by the milk and cheese, following a girl of about 7 who was trying to help her. I grabbed her arm hard, admonishing her never to do that again. She started crying loudly, saying she didn't want a time out. It felt like that scene in a movie when the film slows down a little, every head slowly turning to look at us while I dragged Dora to the checkout line. One man glared at me as if to say, "if you had held onto her properly you could've avoided this". 

I sat in my car feeling like the world's worst parent, embarrassed by my anger and frustrated with my inability to coax good behavior out of my daughter at times when I need it most - in public, or when she could be in danger. I started to cry, thinking of my friends and their lives that seem less complicated, feeling pangs of jealousy of those who seem to (or do) have what I want. I thought, "how can I want two children when I can barely handle one?" 

The truth is, we do want another child, but for some reason, it hasn't happened for us yet. While second babies seem to appear every day amongst my circle of friends, we remain three. I'm sure there are many reasons, but sitting in my car in the afternoon sun, Dora whining for her blanket, I thought perhaps God hasn't given me a second baby because I'm not yet doing a good enough job with the first one.

My logical mind knows this is not the case, that there is not some cosmic scorekeeper above, deciding who's had enough tragedy or hardship, evenly distributing the natural disasters by population and demographics, checking off the boxes next to discomfort and disappointment in each person's life. I know you don't "get" a second baby by being "good enough" to your first one. But the voice of one's logical mind is not always the loudest. 

This afternoon, Brian had a gig and Dora and I had a girl's afternoon. We went to the trail around Beaver Lake in Asheville, me snapping pictures and Dora riding her little Skuut bike. We had to stop and pet every dog. I pointed out every turtle. Dora said hi to every person we passed, and she chatted with others. A group of teenage girls were lounging in the grass, and she said to me, "I want to go talk to those ladies." We talked to an older couple walking a dog, and another couple who wanted to know all about Dora's bike. Dora ran up to another woman walking by herself. We spoke for a few minutes and as we were about to part ways, Dora grabbed the woman's leg to hug her. The woman said, "where does she get all that love?" 

We were near the end of our walk then, so I carried a tired Dora, her bike, her helmet, and my camera back to the car. I thought about what the woman said, thought about curious, open, outgoing Dora, who walks up to old African American ladies at the drugstore and grabs their hands, who says hi to every passing person, even the grumpy ones, who asks to pet every dog. I may not be doing everything right with Dora, my life may be so hectic right now that I can't give her the attention she deserves. But one thing is for sure - she knows she is loved, and she knows that showing that love to other people is part of her job in this world. That loving spirit that shines from within Dora, and the knowledge that I played at least some part in creating it, is more important than nearly anything else I can think of. Perhaps what I need to do is realize that, for now at least, knowing that is clarity enough.

wind in the trees

Last week Dora and I went camping with friends Mandy, David, and Isaac at the beautiful and wild Hunting Island State Park in South Carolina. It still amazes me that I now live just a short and easy half days' drive from the ocean, one of my favorite places on earth. More amazing still is to go from our rainforest-like mountainous habitat to this tropical, coastal, exotic place in a mere 5 hours. In the morning I was packing our car and running last minute errands and in the late afternoon we were climbing around on the trunks of lumbering, dead Live Oak Trees, waves splashing against decaying stumps and fallen Palm fronds, like characters in Robinson Crusoe, or Lost, or Lord of the Flies. 

Dora had an absolute blast exploring this natural playground with her favorite little boy, Isaac, and canine friend Joey. I just tried to take some deep breaths and let the peacefulness instilled by the ocean sink deeply into me. I hope to carry back to Asheville with me some shred of that solitude, so difficult to hold onto amongst the stress and deadlines and constant interruptions of normal life. I took advantage of the spotty cell phone service and (essentially) refrained from keeping up with emails and checking the dreaded FB account. 

The first night, I slept restlessly. There is something so vulnerable about sleeping with nothing but a thin mesh zippered screen between you and the rest of the world. I haven't done that much camping, although I do enjoy it, but I always feel that slight sense of edginess, wonder how quickly I'd wake up if someone else started to slowly unzip my tent. Dora was restless at first, too, but the ocean breeze and promise of a day full of exploring and beach time lulled her to sleep. I lay awake looking up at the moon through the trees, worrying about having left home, worrying about our future, worrying about worrying.

The next morning dawned incredibly windy. We were in campsite 2, right behind the dunes, the ocean only steps away at high tide. Our site, vulnerable as it was to the elements, was surrounded by tall pine trees. I looked up in the gusting wind wondering how they continued to stand against such a force. Down on the ground, clothes fell off the line, chairs toppled over, our tents wobbled and rain flies snapped. Up above, though, the trees barely moved, swaying gently, a united force expertly designed to withstand natures' coastal chaos. I pointed the trees out to my friend, noting that they seemed to be helping each other. The gusts of wind seemed to be instantly dissipated by the trees' foliage, each absorbing a bit of the impact so that no one tree was required to bear the brunt alone. 

That night, though the gusty wind worried me, I slept better. I hoped that a limb wouldn't break lose and crush our tent, comforted myself with the remembrance of how the trees seemed to be helping each other. I thought about those trees like the people in my life, standing all around me in the wind and all of us helping each other. As I often do, I wished that my mom was here still, to stand amongst those trees by my side. I feel her absence every day, but most of all at times of stress and uncertainty, and I always miss her when I'm near the ocean, a place she so dearly loved. I tried to really think about what it means to have all those supports nearby - whether in body or in spirit - all steeled around me in solidarity, and I fell asleep. 

The next day, the wind had died down. We drove home through hot South Carolina, back to work and stress and all of the messes our lives include that are waiting for attention. Later in the week, Dora and I drove to the park for a quick bout of running through a field blowing bubbles, me somehow remembering to squeeze in a few moments of unplanned and silly fun in our week. The windows were down, music playing, both of us with whisps of hair flying around our faces. I remembered the trees, and my sadness that my mom is not among them, and realized there is a new little tree there now - growing tall beside me, both of us steeled against the wind together, helping each other every day in ways we may not even fully understand yet. I smiled thinking of my little tree, her glowing presence in my life easing the pain of the other absence just a bit. 

  
That night, we booked campsite 2 for October. I think of that wind, and how much stronger it might be in October, and I worry a bit about us in our little tent, steps away from the waves. The trees will be there, though, standing all around us, helping each other, making sure that we can rest easy - all three of us.