Old cookies = OK?

So I went digging last weekend, in a trunk, in my basement. This trunk was full of magical treasure--from pictures to diplomas to old letters from old loves to lots and lots and lots of writing. So I took a smattering of it and brought it upstairs to lose myself in my silly old self.

Just to give you an idea--this smattering included a "book" I had written in the 2nd grade, about my favorite pony. In my story, Misty the pony wasn't just a pony that I took lessons on, but was a famous racehorse, of course. And the story was a mixture of two of my favorite Little House on the Prairie Episodes and a Ramona Quimby book...with Horses. I laughed out loud at points--especially at the "illustrations" I added, in magic marker.

It was funny to read the pieces from my early college years, too--not only to see where my brain and heart and soul were at that time, but also to see how much they changed over four years. It really is amazing how much you learn in college: about your past, about yourself, about how those things affect each other, and about how they affect your path.

As a whole, the essays and stories painted a picture of a girl trying to learn to like herself and deal with the cards she had been dealt. And they're melodramatic and girly and nostalgic. But at least they're not recycled episodes of Little House (I learned SOMETHING!).

And one of the pieces, only one, I actually was really impressed with. It was my final story in a creative writing/short story class I took my sophomore year in college. It's complete, and it's creepy, and I love the ending. But here's my big question--is it OK to go back to something that old and resurrect it? I think I can improve it even further...but is that...allowed? It feels like the new me cheating off the old me!

In any case, I'm going to keep digging in that trunk. I think there are a few years I missed. And I miss them.

Morning Tea and Books

When I get into work in the mornings, it's either just me, or me and one other person. It's so quiet and special to be in a normally busy studio with laughter and art bouncing off the walls all by yourself.

I unlock the doors, turn on all the lights, including the fish tank lights, at which point the fish go nuts because they know food is coming. I feed them the stinkiest fish food ever (was fish food always so stinky?) and chat with them for a minute or two, especially since a few of their fish friends have gone to fish heaven over the past months. I try to get them to talk about it, but they just flip their tails at me. Then I warn them that they'll eventually need major psychotherapy unless they start expressing their feelings.

Then I put on some music and open the blinds to look out over the harbor. This morning is dark and rainy and the water looks almost black. It's so quiet, just so quiet, and people walking over the bridges to work hurry below me while I feel so still. I sip my tea and breathe and then settle in for the chaos.

These are the simple things that I never write about but that comprise my day, my-almost-every-day. Which means that they're probably the things that I should be writing about, right?

In other local news, I have been hit by a great children's book idea, which really, is a lot like a bird flying above and aiming poop directly at your head: it doesn't happen very often and everyone says it's good luck, but it does require a lot of work.

I'm so excited about it. I'm working on my (as Anne Lamott says) shitty first draft, and then I'm going to sit in a pile of my ultimate favorite kids books (like Vivian, here) for hours and hours.


To get me started, does anyone know any good names for giraffes, monkeys, turtles, and horses? Especially non-gender-specific names?

A tall glass of milk with your strawberry waffles?

Milk reminds me of my little sister, Abby. She refuses to eat cookies without milk, and though she is almost in her 30s now, she still drinks a glass of milk with her dinner, like a good girl.

My sister has moments we call "Abby" moments--moments of complete hilarity and unbelievable foolishness. These moments are so funny mainly because my sister really is a very intelligent person. Really.

Here is an Abby moment: we were at brunch, studying our menus and deciding what to eat. The server arrived to take our orders, and asked if we had any questions. Abby, with every shred of confidence and poise, said:

"Actually, yes, I do. What kind of fruit is on the Strawberry waffle?"

THAT is an Abby moment. And there are a LOT of them. My sister is a highly entertaining person.

My favorite Abby story, though, isn't so funny.

Growing up, we had a golden retriever. Her name was Muffin--mainly because, at ages 2, 5, and 9, my sisters and I named everything after food. Abby's doll was named Cheerios. Our dog was named Muffin. We had a lamb named Cookie. I'm really not making this up.

In any case, Muffin was a truly amazing dog. She was our best friend. She was the heart of our family. And she lived to be 16 years old--extremely old for a dog, especially a larger dog. During her last weeks, we knew that Muffin only had a short time left: she was having trouble with her hind legs and was almost immobile. She was in pain, and we didn't want her to live in pain. The day finally came when we knew it was time. My mother, Abby, and I prepared ourselves to bring Muffin to the vet.

I came slowly down the stairs, ready to go, when I saw Abby sitting with Muffin near the front door. Abby had her hand on Muffin's belly, and in her other hand was one of our favorite childhood books, called Morris' Disappearing Bag, by Rosemary Wells. My sisters and I had memorized that book; every word, every illustration, every tear or spot on the page.

And there Abby sat, trying to read it to Muffin though her tears. I asked her what she was doing, and she looked up at me and said softly, "Reading her a bedtime story".

And in that minute I saw pure golden heart of my sister, unchanged since the moment she was born. But I didn't completely understand what this moment meant for her until after we had gone to the vet, after we had kissed and hugged Muffin goodbye. While my mother talked to the vet, Abby went outside and sat on the curb. I followed her out, sat down beside her, and put my arm around her. After a few minutes, she said to me, "So, I guess this means we're grown up, now, huh?"

I hugged her and said that yes, I guessed it did.

But I knew, and still know, that my sister's golden heart will never grow up completely. While she is no longer naming things (like her daughter) after food, I know she will always have "Abby" moments. I know she will always drink milk with her cookies. And thank goodness for that.

A blessed smattering of pasticcerias

My husband and I just spent 10 days in Italy. Even though I had been there before, there was a lot that surprised me on our trip: the ancient streets, the bewilderingly stunning cathedrals, the espresso, the hidden art on street corners, the haute couture, and, of course, the food.

The food; the fooooood. Our days would begin with a croissant and a cappuccino. We'd then walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and eventually walk into a trattoria or cafe for lunch. We'd spend at least an hour savoring every bite, letting our feet rest, recharging as we basked in the pasta, relished in the truffles, sank into the wine. And that was just lunch.

There was usually gelatto after lunch, an yes, also after dinner. (It's vacation, people!) While the flavors ranged from lemon to hazelnut to caramel, my tasting menu included dark chocolate, chocolate, and very dark chocolate. I could actually feel the cocoa on my tongue, and most of the time it was so rich I couldn't finish the smallest portions, despite desperately wanting to. (The Italian word for the largest portion is "maxi". But late one night Chad asked for a "mega." I imagined this surfer dude mega-gelatto and was giggling so hard I became the obnoxious American and had to leave the store.)

There was fresh penne in saffron sauce; there was fettuccine with duck ragu. There was crusty bread and pecorino with black truffle. There was thin, sweet, plate-sized pizza with creamy mozzarella and there was prosecco. There was minestrone with mashed eggplant and bread, unlike any "soup" I have ever seen. There were foamy smooth cappuccinos. There were fresh cookies in the pasticcerias, so so many pasticcerias that it was hard to commit. What if there was a better one around the corner?

But that was the thing...it is Italy. There are always surprises around the corner. There are ancient fountains next to revolutionary-minded graffiti, and Fiat parades with proud owner-drivers honking horns and waving flags driving by 16th Century statues. Women riding bikes in stilettos. Very, very old men driving loud, little Vespas. Amazingly beautiful little girls coming home from school on a water-taxi, meeting their fathers at a "stop" down the canal.

Were these all surprises to me because we were in a different world? Or because we actually had the time to notice them? Probably both, but either way, our routine that we came home to I am seeing with new eyes. There are always surprises around the corner here, too. A different shape, a different flavor, a very different age. But always surprising, and if I use the right eyes, always beautiful.

Easter Baskets

Last weekend was full of sunshine, candles, Easter eggs, and family. And I had one of those moments where a 21 month old reminded me what was true and right--what I, as one of those silly adults had completely forgotten.

I set up an Easter egg hunt in the backyard for little Maddie--which meant it wasn't so much as an egg hunt as an egg collection. But she immediately started picking up the eggs, and didn't want to put them down. For a while, she had a marshmallow peep in one little hand and a pink egg in the other little hand and couldn't figure out how to then pick up another. Thanks to the 6 adults, her basket was soon full of plastic eggs.

Once we had settled onto the porch in the sunshine, Maddie and I started a game. She would choose an egg, and I would open it, revealing either a marshmallow Peep or an empty inside. With each reveal, we would say PEEP! or EMPTY! I should mention that there were about 5 Peeps hidden among 35 plastic eggs. So most of the time I was saying, EMPTY! But here's the thing: Maddie got so crazy excited about the empty eggs. As soon as I popped the plastic apart and said EMPTY! She would giggle and bounce like a jellybean, like I had just showed her the best thing she'd seen all day. Over and over and over again. EMPTY!

And why shouldn't she be excited?! Why shouldn't we all be? I think as we grow up and as life becomes full of choices and responsibilities and schedules, we somehow learn that the quiet moments, the unscheduled time, the gift of a quiet mind--the EMPTY--is second-best, not as important. We are trained and required to be busy and productive, and, more often than not, are doing fourteen things at once.

During the winter of 2008-2009, I usually couldn't sleep at night due to a nerve disorder. Pain would wake me up and lying in bed was so frustrating that I would just get out of bed and come down to my quiet living room to sit on the couch. I would read, or even just lie in the silver early-morning light, thinking about all of those difficult things that chronic pain forces you to face every day. And every time, when the first pinks and yellows began to hit the ceiling, the birds would arrive. They would find their breakfast in the bush outside our living room window, snap the berries off the branches and twitter at each other as if it were funny. I loved watching them, I loved how they arrived together, enjoyed each other, entertained me. I loved how, watching them, I could forget the pain for a few minutes, and truly lose myself in the stillness, in the moment, in the commonplace and ordinary act of the birds going about their morning. Many times it was being able to watch those birds that then gave me the strength to face the day.

I'm not sure I ever would have made my birdie friends if I hadn't been forced to find them, downstairs, in the quiet light of morning. Those moments, they were EMPTY. I wasn't working on the computer, I wasn't researching Neurosurgeons, I wasn't watching TV, or cleaning, or worrying about the future. I was just sitting, just breathing, just watching. I was sitting in the empty. And it's sad that it took pain to lead me there. But it's also a blessing, because, like Maddie and her eggs, I began to love those empty moments. And I actually began to need them.I never want to forget how important it is to appreciate the empty as much as the full. I never want to forget how sometimes it is the empty that fills you the most.

Horse Cookies

I've always wanted to write about the ponies who live at the Barn where I ride. They are amazingly patient and kind and so full of personality. And most of them are rescued ponies, coming from sad, unknown, and better left unknown situations. I've yet to find the perfect story, but in honor of just sitting down and writing, in honor of making sure I'm writing something, here is something about the ponies.


Pickle and The Mighty Hercules

Rainy days at Ocean View Farm were quieter than normal. On rainy days the barn was gray and dark enough to keep the lights on. It was hard to tell what time it was, and to keep warm, everyone drank lots of warm coffee. But the air smelled wet and green and full, and the mist outside sat on the tops of the trees, like a sugar frosting. On rainy days the leaves looked shiny and silver, the puppies played in the puddles, panting, and the horses settled in their stalls, munching on their hay and rustling in the shavings, peeking outside every once in awhile, looking for the sun.

The day the ponies came was a rainy day. The silver trailer rattled up the stony driveway pulled by an ancient red pickup truck, rust decorating its edges. It rolled up to the blue barn doors and stopped. The man who stepped out looked just as ancient as his truck, except that deep wrinkles instead of rust rimmed his smile and his eyes. His hands were rough, and he wore overalls that had worn to the color of dirty.

He greeted us with a nod, and said “I have the littlin’s for ya.”

We stepped out into the drizzle to watch him pull down the ramp of the trailer. He walked up, and led two ponies out of the dark inside. One pony was black, the other a grayish roan: speckled, like someone shook cocoa and flour all over him. The black pony was bigger, with a kind eye and a shaggy coat, and the speckled pony was tiny and so scared that he looked like he would dig a hole and hide, if he could.

Holly went and put her hand out toward both ponies. The black one stood her ground and stared, but the little one jumped, startled. His head stayed high and his eye followed Holly as she ran her hand down his back. Both ponies looked like they hadn’t been brushed in weeks—they had little scars and nicks that seemed to speak of scary chases and snarling dogs, or barbed wire. Holly sighed, and said, “Looks like you’ve been in a pickle or two.”

And that night she named the black pony Pickle Lilly; Pickle in honor of the life she used to have, and Lilly in anticipation of her new life. But naming the tiny, scared pony was harder. She was just going to have to get to know him better.

The ponies spent that night and every night after that together, in a big stall heaped with cedar shavings and a few flakes of sweet hay. They smelled the wet, full air, took deep drinks from their fresh water, and munched on hay, peeking out the window every once and awhile, looking for the sun.

Peanut Butter Pine Cones

Remember putting peanut butter on pine cones and rolling them in birdseed and hanging them in the trees for the birds? I wonder if the birds must see those and just squeal: dessert time!! I also wonder how much bird seed is ingested by children while making peanut butter pine cones and licking their sticky fingers.

I didn't post last week and the little gnome inside my head is bashing me with a guilt stick. But just like I told the little gnome, I'm working on something BIG! And I was away for the weekend! And violence is never the answer!

But I did want to post something very small that just made my morning glow. While I was eating breakfast, looking out the window at the powdered-sugar layer of snow on the grass, I noticed three or four birds hanging out in a very bare shrub, pecking and twittering and hopping.

A minute later, a cardinal joined them, regal and striking; and not a minute after the cardinal took off, a blue jay took his place. My heart did a little dance after that, because SPRING is coming! It really really is! I know because the birdies told me so.