Love and The Waitress

After five years of marriage and six of living together, it sometimes seems that David and I can sit in the same room and read each others’ thoughts. This can of course be advantageous. It can even save face when one of us needs to be reminded not to mention that thing! You must know what I’m talking about. It isn’t always as effective as a swift kick under the table however.

Anyway.

The other night I watched a film called The Waitress, starring Keri Russell and written and directed by the late Adrienne Shelly. A friend lent it to me after I shared with her my musings of selling pies at the farmers market. From the cover I thought I had it pegged – cute girl in waitress uniform meets dishy guy who walks into her life exactly when she requires and he falls for her irresistible pie-making prowess and blah blah blah...happily ever after. So many times a version of this has been sold to us, this postcard love story.

(This is why I mentioned that I can read David’s mind)

Laura inserts DVD into player. David’s mouth is shut, however this does not betray what seeps into the air.

“I know what you’re thinking”

“I haven’t said anything!”

For those who want to see it, too bad, I am telling you now that she does NOT end up with that cute guy on cover and thank GOD for that. I will not rave about this movie, but I will walk away from it satisfied that someone has told us a story with a greater resemblance to real life, in that way at least. Why do we fall for the people we do? We can spend our lives trying to build a narrative for the decisions we make (and we do) but at the root of it all is something we cannot grasp. For some this might be worrying but examined from a different angle it can be beautiful.

Experience reveals the complexity of human relations.

At the behest of romantic comedies I spent my teenage years packing relationships into neat boxes. I expected all arguments to end with haste and hugs. Days of marriage would ooze with cuddles, agreement and endless understanding. Families lived together like they did in Full House and every other sitcom packaged into a 30-minute blissful resolution.

HA!

Love (or the love I have in my life) is powerful, but like the waves of the ocean love it has peaks and troughs. You wade through difficult periods and then something awakens inside and you once again realize why and how much you do (indeed!), love this person in front of you, beside you, behind you and with you.

And yet it is never that simple.

So thank you, Adrienne Shelly for giving us a quirky piece of art that reminds us that life, relationships and we humans are imperfect, and the best we can do is march uphill towards our dreams and love the ones around us while we go.

Tragically, Adrienne Shelly was murdered in 2006. Her husband, Andrew Ostroy established a foundation in her memory.

http://www.adrienneshellyfoundation.org/

Tables, Houses, and Storms on the Move

Perhaps the World Ends Here

by Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,

we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the

table so it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe

at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what

it means to be human. We make men at it,

we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts

of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms

around our children. They laugh with us at our poor

falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back

together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella

in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place

to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate

the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared

our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.

We pray of suffering and remorse.

We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,

while we are laughing and crying,

eating of the last sweet bite.

Last night, my early-to-bed attempts were interrupted by what sounded like a mean and drunk gorilla knocking holes into the sky with a big flickering flashlight. I commenced the curl-into-yourself-and-think-of-safe-and-pretty-places method of returning calm to my mind. Thunder and lightning danced the finale of their dispute right above my head until a turning earth pushed them elsewhere and I got to sleep again.

I got to thinking about disaster, about the recent earthquakes, tornadoes and floods. About how very little we actually control, but still hold tight to the illusion that we can. I thought about the impermanence of our stuff, how every time I walk into Crabtree Mall and see the dire, frenzied look on the shoppers' faces, I'd like to pick up their pretty bodies and sit them on a mountain, inside a canyon, or by a big fire next to a rugged guitar player. Then, for kicks, I'd smear some dirt on their nose and say, "Who needs Abercrombie, anyway?" I also want to do this for myself when I sink into ruts of worry. Call up a hellicopter and plop into a place where I can say everything by saying nothing and smile big while the Robin builds her nest.

That's what I love about this poem. It reminds me that no matter what: no matter what disaster, what worry, what heartbreak, there's a table (or a place) we can go to receive love, nourishment, healing, and acceptance. I think that's the point of love, however imperfect the outcome, to at least try, at least get the people around the table and do the best you can. I love how the author personifies dreams. "They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves," because sometimes, when we've tried and tried and tried and still, NOTHING: We feel fallen apart, broken. And it's okay, because "we put ourselves back together once again at the table."

I think "the table" has different names. Tom Waits sings about "the house" in this song, and I think we can agree, Tom Waits knows what's up.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJBqRzjCBSE


Love,


Corrie Lynn

Domestic Bliss and a Housekeeping Hiss

I have lived in Goldfinch Barn longer than any other abode, apart from the house I grew up in on Kluttz Road in North Carolina. Since 2006 it truly has been a love/hate relationship as a result of our choice to renovate from scratch. A work colleague once thought, when I told her we had no windows in our bedrooms, that I meant we had large gaping holes, letting the elements in so snow would accumulate at the foot of our bed. It never was that bad, but it was close.

Yesterday before work I looked out the window and noticed the late April frost which seemed to creep up the hill and stop just below our fence. It looked as if it had spared our little section of land. This made me think of the idea of "ownership" and how 5 years spent in one house engenders a marriage between human and habitation. It made me think that ownership, in the big scheme, is an illusion because none of what we "own" has any real permanence.

When I moved to the UK I heard more than I ever did before a description of someone as being "house proud". I heard my mother-in-law describe how her auntie would diligently sweep their section of sidewalk because woe betide! it appear the slightest bit untidy. On one level I understand -- this is a small island and people like to show pride in the parts of themselves and what is theirs that are on display. "Cleanliness is next to godliness"... and all that.

For anyone who knows me well they know tidiness is not one of my virtues. I usually have a frenzy before any expected guests arrive where I have to meditate and invoke my inner Mitzi (I love you Mom) to guide me to the messy places. My car has been known to house over long periods of time strange things such as brooms, socks without partners and a lone bag of rice. My mind does not work in an ordered manner. I find it very difficult to view a room in my house and decide what needs done to make it look ordered. Intense concentration is required in these situations.

After spending a number of years in one house you do come to know that house like the back of your hand. I know which room is the warmest, which one holds the smell of cooking longest and how light travels through rooms as the day passes. My time in Goldfinch Barn has taught me how sandstone feels to the touch and how it traps heat. I learned where dust collects and how long spells of rain swells the wood. I adore the Spring in these parts and Winter fills me with a faint dread coupled with a determination to endure.

For now, I am on the right side of the Summer equinox so I will go sow some seeds and get my hands dirty. I may find some time to tidy up later too. (Mom will have her fingers crossed)

Lots of love,

Laura

A stately photo of Georgie, quite unlike him.

Taking Courage to the Corner

Habits form whether we want them to or not. Take hot yoga. Each week, I walk barefoot into a mist of stale sweat, reacquaint myself with the smell of adolescent feet, and roll out my mat just steps from the door. This one door into the heated room separates us from the reality of fresh, cool air. There is a crack under it and if you angle your mat just right, you can catch a hint of its heaven during the hell of the full locust or the respite of savasana. Sometimes, when you're lucky, and when your face spells "H-E-L-P," the instructor will crack it open or wave its gifts into the depths of our very own rainforest. Therefore, my first pitstop upon arriving to hot yoga, is the dumping of my mat to this spot, this crutch of cool air.

Reminds me of the time I took a trip to Mission, South Dakota with a church youth group in high school. To engage with the Native American culture we were serving, a group of us took part in the sweat lodge ritual. We sat shoulder to shoulder in a canvas tent around a pile of burning hot lava rocks. The Chief poured water over them, let steam permeate the congregates, and sang traditional chants. I had never coveted cold things so badly: orange soda, ice cubes, a brick wall-- anything! Because it was utterly dark, I found the cool earth with my face and rooted like a pig. Talk about humbling. And fifteen minutes later, I exited the tent, dirt-faced, drenched, and about the happiest I can remember. Talk about moving mountains.

And just last week, my friend Vanessa and I showed up to hot yoga fresh after an 8 hour work day. Many others had a similar notion. The lobby was full of first timers signing waivers, asking questions through their jitters, and as we piled into the room, I found my usual spot full of freshman yogis. So, we took to the dreaded back corner, the corner that couldn't see the horizon, the first daffodil of Spring, the infant's first smile. The muscular man with many tattoos laid his mat beside of me and I suddenly felt ill-equipped. Maybe I needed a barbed wire chain around my bicep.

But as most things go, we got started and we breathed deeper. We stared into our own eyes for the half-moon, the eagle, the tree. When the door opened, I couldn't feel the cool, but I knew it was there. When I quit expecting it, I gave more attention to my breath, to how happy the pigeon makes my hips, and how falling into child's pose after the camel is a lot like seeing the horizon. And then, I realized, the corner is okay. The cool air was how I remembered it the whole way home.

This photo has very little to do with my blogpost, but I found it so striking. Imagine being chased by a tornado of cotton candy! I suppose it's a little like hot yoga. A little scary and A LOT sweet.

And here's my lovely lady pal, Vanessa. We also ride swings at the fair together.

xo Corrie Lynn

Germination and Spring Agitation

It’s happening again, and I can’t seem to stop laughing. (Warning – this post might be manic). Oh and in case you and wondering my new shade of nail polish will be called (trendy, I know) "Dirt".

First of all, my Rainbow Chili seeds have germinated. Each morning I come downstairs much too early for a progress report on germination (having only checked 6 hours before). I read on the seed packet that germination for this particular variety of chili can be erratic, so sow them all. Apparently they are a wild sort of chili, moody and choosy about when and where to show up, and I’ve been successful in convincing them to show their faces in Weardale, in the boiler room of a barn on an exposed hillside of all places. Oh the excitement!

Meanwhile, my cat Annie is highly annoyed that I’ve taken over her warm space on the boiler for seed planting.

Second, I should point out why I have the giggles. I recently watched an episode of An Idiot Abroad starring Karl Pilkington, the one where he travels in India and visits the yogis. If you are so guided to seek this out, do look for the part where one flexible fella wraps and manipulates his manly member in a most astounding manner. My mind’s eye would not expel this image during my yoga class as we were prompted to close our eyes and breathe deeply. The laughter was bubbling out and I felt called to explain this incredible feat to my classmates. What a man did with his “willy.” I'm sure some of them wished I had kept my mouth shut as they were imagining waterfalls and birds chirping.

So that being that, I just consumed the last of my 2010/11 harvest by chomping on an unexpected crop of flavour-packed parsnips. When I said above that it was happening again, of course I meant the second birth of my green fingered frenzy. The temperature is ever so milder here, the daffodils are aiming for the sun, and my fingernails just will not come clean due to my love affair with soil. Crumbling it, shifting it, conditioning it for the children it’s about to accept into its fold.

I should also add that RuthandLucille is about to celebrate birthday UNO! Shall we sing?

Thank you so much for stopping by!

My little tomatillos. Their overbearing mother has pushed them into the best spot for sunlight.



The new plot, which came with bigger biceps.



Pretty In Purple Rainbow Chili Seedlings - arms open!

P.S. If you're interested in where I purchased my seeds, see http://realseeds.co.uk/.

P.S.S. The title of this blog makes me think of Michael Jackson's song "Black or White". Am I alone here?

Laura xxooxxoo

Give Ridiculous Some Light

Last Thursday, I stepped out my apartment door and looked up to see my gentleman neighbor also stepping out of his. His face spoke all kinds of shock. On this mid-March, rainy afternoon, I was wearing nude panty hose, a ruffly black skirt (with unseen gingham bloomers underneath), white leather Mary-Jane tap shoes, and a bright yellow rain coat. He'd caught me on my way to clog.

I turned the key to lock my door, giggled through our expected "Hello," and followed with a simple request: "Don't ask." So down the stairs and to our cars we went, chuckling for different reasons. I'm quite confident I gave him a colorful quandary to solve. Maybe he thought I was planning to pop from a birthday cake or that I was the entertainment for a Civil War Reenactment. Maybe he reconsidered his relocation to the South or wondered how I got my legs so tan.

Little did he know I was on my way to meet a group of people dressed just like me, geared-up to clog (and for those of you unfamiliar with what clogging is, take a look at this video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cs2j8f7H2WY) for a room of red-faced, inexhaustible elementary schoolers. It was Heritage Night at Harris Creek Elementary school, where Latin American, Irish, and Appalachian folk dancers were to show these little ones vintage ways to bust a move, which they did without hesitation around and around a cafeteria-sized circle.

It's these little moments, these kinks in our chains, that cause us to look up and let the world surprise us a little. Too often we let our routines and expectations build walls around our imagination. Too often we let misfortune define our worth. But it's when I wear this ridiculous outfit into the light of day to see children absorb the elaborate dances of our past without an ounce of judgment, that the beauty of this world shines a bit brighter.

As for the neighbor, I look forward to the next time our paths cross. Hopefully I'll be wearing a pair of jeans and flip-flops.


Love and little jig,


Corrie Lynn

Busy Fingers and Boiled Bones

What to do on a day off? I find it hard at times to relax at home. There always seems to be a job, and I don’t see it getting any easier as I potentially have things like motherhood ahead of me. Sometimes it can be tricky to continue caring for yourself as you pass into and through adulthood.

Yesterday I decided to boil some chicken bones. I had been planning this for awhile, the boiling of bones. I planned it when I roasted a chicken that my friend Lesley gave me, by stripping all the remaining flesh off the carcass and giving the bones to the freezer to hold steady for awhile. Hold steady until I was ready. Yesterday was the day.

Stock is a simple creation, so why do we so often resort to the shortcuts that supposedly simplify? Why do we buy it wrapped in shiny paper and condensed in little parched cubes? The powder dissolves in hot water. To me this always feels wrong and unnatural. Boiling bones, I discovered, produces the most evocative smell. It helped me recover from the cold I didn’t know I had. The stock graced my house.

And what did I do with that stock? I spread it out too thinly. I gave the whole pot of chicken-bone nectar to an even larger pot of minestrone and then I added water. The flavour stretched until I had to beg my palate to find it. Could this be…. a metaphor?

When we strike upon a thing golden in our lives, we should always try and keep some for ourselves.