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an everyday life

Tag Archives: True Self

Sweater Weather

17 Monday Nov 2014

Posted by Janell in Good Reads, Home Restoration, In the Garden, Life at Home, Prayer

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Aging, Bathroom Remodel, Dimensions of Prayer, Douglas V. Steere, Home Restoration, Oklahoma Gardening, Prayer, Sarah Richardson, Snow Storms, Soul Care, True Self

“Prayer demands that we act, and that–having acted in accordance with our leading in prayer–we bear the consequences of our acts, even when we cannot foresee all that they are to cost.”         — Douglas V. Steere, Dimensions of Prayer, p. 84
 
 
IMG_0581AT HOME, CURRENTLY READING: “The Paying Guests,” by Sarah Waters
 

After all the go-go goings defining this long season of Pentecost, I am relishing moments of holy leisure today, the guilt-free sort that arrive on wings of winter chill.

It’s no small miracle the difference a few days can make to one’s priorities and state of mind. Why all autumn long, prior to knowing that there was such a thing as an “ARCTIC BLAST” (“AB”), I’ve been cocooned in an Indian Summer insouciance, preparing the garden for future summers rather than getting ready for the certain reality of a winter that — let’s face it — could have happened anytime.

I put off decision-making on how best to winterize our fountain — whether to store it or keep it operating with a heater — in favor of reworking and expanding large sections of the garden. Rather than taking time to ensure I had paper tape to protect trees most susceptible to sun scald, I instead focused on editing plant material — adding, and relocating plants within my garden… passing along other plants that needed more spacious digs.

So to read how AB ended up catching me off guard could surprise no one… but maybe myself. The day after AB arrived, the fountain was still operating…without its needed heater.  Tree trunks of those normally wrapped were still bare.  And the most prolific tomato plant I’ve ever been privileged to nurture was loaded with hundreds of little green tomatoes… just waiting for someone to take note… and pick, pick, pick.

The gardener shapes the garden and vice versa, but both are shaped by seasonal changes.  Take this winter freeze, for instance.  Before this, I’d never considered how effective winter can be at making things happen.  When a freeze means do or die, it’s time to do.  Which in my garden meant that the fountain heater finally got installed.  The trees got taped.  And a few hours before temperatures dived below thirty-two degrees, my husband and I picked too-many-to-count little green tomatoes, fifty of which have already ripened.

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Winter makes things happen in other ways, too, though often, in less perceptible ways.  In an out of the garden, new growth occurs below the surface of life;  as roots develop for spring growth within the cold, dark soil, something analogous goes on in the life of this gardener, too, as I’m snuggled into some warm and light-infused spot of my lovely home. Like no other season of the year, winter invites me to settle in and get still, it offers me creative space to catch my breath, to rest my tired body and recharge my spirit, to ponder life and my response to life, often with the aid of a good novel or fine film in front of me.

It also gives me time to ponder future projects I may one day undertake.  Last January, my bathroom remodel was the stuff of wintertime day dreams.  I devoted time to study of the space. I took measurements. I made lists of features that I’d like to have in my new bathroom. I considered the ‘before’ and ‘after’ photos of many remodeled bathrooms that appealed to me. I probably overdosed on remodeled bathrooms designed by Sarah Richardson.  But only after pondering all of my wishes and restraints for a very long time did I begin to sketch out possible floor plans.  It took weeks to come up with one I was ready to develop further, to invest time needed to selecting materials and fixtures. Marble tile for the floor.  Ceramic for the tile wainscoting.  Shimmery glass mosaics for the upper half of the shower.  Calcutta Gold Quartzite for the countertop.  A large vessel tub.  Pendant lights.

Buy why bother with words when I can show you the ‘before’ and ‘after’ so easily with photos?

Before.

IMG_1680And after.

IMG_2699

 And a few more, for good measure.

18

  16Most see it as an amazing transformation.  But then, how could it be otherwise? It’s always seems to be a step in the right direction wherever light illumines space and whenever narrow views grow to be more opened.  What’s true for room design holds true for life in the garden and, most importantly, the life of this gardener, too.

Though, sometimes, I do wonder at all the changes that have taken place within me over the span of my adult life. Changes in attitude. Perspective. Philosophy. Changes that have occurred in my spiritual life and in religious affiliation.  My choice in films and novels. My preference in how I furnish my home and dress myself.  My taste in food.  How I once loved eating a McDonald’s cheeseburger…

Why, even the way I perceive myself has changed.  Six years ago, I would never have considered calling myself a gardener, though I did garden a fair amount. So who can say how and when it happened,… I only know that today, I refer to myself as a gardener.  And that life as a gardener shapes my view of the world.

These inward personal changes cannot be documented with the ease of ‘before’ and ‘after’ photos, though they live within me nevertheless…which reminds me that “To pray is to change.”  Like all the other changes that have slowly shaped my present identity, I cannot pinpoint where I first read…and absorbed…these words.  I only know that the saying feels true to my experience.

I pray.

I act.

My actions shape my prayers and my prayers, in turn, shape my actions… until the two blur to become one… and my prayer becomes my action.

In other words, as I often like to say, my life is my prayer.  But unlike Douglas V. Steer, I do not know whether I believe that my prayer… or my life… can really tip the cosmic balance (p. 69 of Dimensions of Prayer) of what will occur without either my prayers or my life.

But who can say what impact our words or deeds might have on the lives of others?

Who can say whether or not that maybe we all tip the balance a little every day?

I only know that, today, I’ve settled into sweater weather.   And that at certain times in my life, I have felt the warmth of prayers spoken on my behalf as much as I do the warmth of this coral-colored, cotton sweater that, today, covers my arms and heart.

Sweater weather!  How grateful I am to be within your seasonal embrace.

Chicken Caesar Pasta Salad

04 Tuesday Feb 2014

Posted by Janell in In the Kitchen, Life at Home

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Chicken Caesar Pasta Salad, Parents, True Self, Writing

IMG_1574

AT HOME, CURRENTLY READING OLIVE KITTERIDGE, BY ELIZABETH STROUT

In tidying up piles of paperwork, I ran across a recipe that I intended to preserve to the blog last summer.  That it became my favorite summertime meal… should, I suppose, lead to shame in my not sharing it sooner.  Especially since my fondness for it grew out-of-bounds, in that I once served it for supper last autumn, too.

But it was during the season of spring that I first tasted something similar to it.  A warm spring day in Palacios, Texas, that carried with it a hint of coolness from the nearby ocean.  I was part of a group of women on spiritual retreat that day, being treated to a picnic lunch catered by a small but lovely Lake Jackson restaurant, called Cafe Annice.  The pasta salad, I remember, was served with slices of crusty French bread with pesto-flavored butter… and for dessert, a Texas-sized brownie.

That picnic reminds me of a packet of letters I feasted upon at the close of the retreat. Some came from friends, a few from co-workers, with most from family.  All of them, without fail, expressed gratitude or love for me, in one way or another.

Included in the packet were letters from my parents.  One from each.  A big deal, since neither was in the habit of writing… or comfortable in expressing love.  But write they did.  Dad recorded the way he felt on the day I was born, at the moment when I was first placed in his arms.  The way he expressed his thoughts on paper… the particular way he told that story… was so uniquely, Dad… that the letter itself helps preserve, for me, the sound of his gravely voice.

Funny how I don’t recall Mom’s message as clearly.  Though I do remember how she closed her short note by passing on some bit of by-the-way family or community news that she thought I’d be interested in knowing.  Mom avoided mushy.  She always said we knew how she felt about us.  And since her actions spoke in place in words, I suppose she was right.

I’ve thought about Mom off and on all day.  Partly because it snowed and Mom always enjoyed watching a pretty snowfall. But also, because it’s her birthday.  Had she lived, she would have been eighty.  Which seems impossible… about as impossible as the fact that I possess a letter from her at all, one that I’m fairly certain I was disappointed with because of its brevity when first opened.  But today I’m glad.  I’m glad that she kept her words short and to the point.  Had she done otherwise, that letter wouldn’t feel nearly so true to her spirit.

So tonight, I write in memory of Mom.  I write without shame in not sharing this recipe sooner. There is a time for everything… and a season for every activity under the heavens… so the Bible says.  In this spirit of wisdom, maybe last year just wasn’t my season for writing.  And maybe when my retreat sponsor contacted my mother on the eve of my long ago retreat, that single letter became her season to write one.

Some things, of course, are not bound by a season.  God.  Love. Wisdom.  Small things, too.  This simple pasta salad, for one.  Cause it may be winter, but it’s on tonight’s  menu.

IMG_0609

Chicken Caesar Pasta Salad

Serves 2
1.5 cups of grilled chicken breast, cut in bite-size chunks or strips (grill in advance (freeze and thaw) or purchased grilled chicken strips in freezer section of grocery store)
1.5 cups penne pasta, cooked al dente (about 3 ounces uncooked)
1 cup thinly sliced romaine lettuce
1/2 cup cherry tomatoes, bite-size — whole or halved
1/2 cup (or more!) red grapes, sliced in half
1/4 cup thinly sliced fresh basil
1/4 cup chopped green onions
1 small garlic clove, minced
1/4 cup (or more) of Caesar Dressing (I use Marie’s)
1/8 cup fresh parsley
1/4 cup of fresh Parmesan Cheese, grated
1/2 cup of home-made croûtons (see below)
Fresh grounded black pepper — to taste

Combined all ingredients in a large bowl — toss well to evenly coat.

*——*

Home-made Croutons:

2 slices of French bread, cubed
Approx. 2 Tbsp butter
garlic salt to taste

Sauté bread cubes in butter and garlic salt in a skillet over medium heat until toasted.

The Moviegoer

30 Friday Nov 2012

Posted by Janell in Life at Home

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

Books, Lent, The Moviegoer, True Self, Walker Percy, Writing

IMG_0416Had it not been for the controversy stirred up by that small panel of judges who decided the winner of the 1962 National Book Award for fiction, I would have devoted most of my November reading time to another novel.  Those now classics that were heavily favored to win — J.D. Salinger’s Franny & Zooey and Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 — were bested by an almost unknown novelist, Walker Percy, who received the award for his slim debut novel, The Moviegoer.

I like this story behind the story.  I like it very much, in fact, since surprise keeps us on our toes and helps us not sleepwalk through life.  The latter, in fact, is one of the central themes of the book.  But in spite of the wake-up call offered between its covers, reading Walker Percy’s story sometimes left me limp with sadness.  I don’t know why; but the fault may lie with the lurking villains of despair and malaise that cast long shadows upon the story.  So with that, I’ll confess that it helps to read the novel on sunny days.  And too, that it can’t hurt to linger on that epigraph, from Søren Kierkegaard, rather than rush past it as I did the first time:

“….the specific character of despair is precisely this:  it is unaware of being despair.”

The back cover summarizes the story as a “portrait of a boyish New Orleans stockbroker wavering between ennui and the longing for redemption… on the eve of his thirtieth birthday.”  Inside the covers lies Percy’s beautiful prose and the deep thoughts he serves up like some trifle.  There are too many to share.  So I’ll move on by saying how I like that the story was a time capsule of the early sixties South.  It was interesting to contrast life then and now, and ponder places where we’ve changed and where we have not.  But it was meeting the unforgettable protagonist, Jack “Binx” Bollings, who narrates the tale in a colorful first-person voice, that hooked me from the first paragraph:

“This morning I got a note from my aunt asking me to come for lunch.  I know what this means.  Since I go there every Sunday for dinner and today is Wednesday, it can mean only one thing:  she wants to have one of her serious talks.  It will be extremely grave, either a piece of bad news about her stepdaughter Kate or else a serious talk about me, about the future and what I ought to do.  It is enough to scare the wits out of anyone, yet I confess I do not find the prospect altogether unpleasant.”

I’ve read that Percy admired Tolstoy.  He mentions War and Peace in the text.  And like Tolstoy, Percy possesses the courage and willingness to touch upon weighty matters affecting the human spirit.  Over and over, I learned of some loved one Jack had lost.  His brother on page one or two.  His father, a few more pages in.  Others, later on.   But physical death aside, Percy touches upon the illusory curing power of money and sex and drugs and religion and even war.   And since this story is set in the sixties South,  there was plenty of discrimination to bump up against:  Women and racial and not just between blacks and whites.  Sometimes, Binx stepped on my toes with his truth.  In one passage, it happened to my particular truth du jour:

“Once I thought of going into law or medicine or even pure science.  I even dreamed of doing something great.  But there is much to be said for giving up such grand ambitions and living the most ordinary life imaginable, a life without the old longings; selling stocks and bonds and mutual funds; quitting work at five o’clock like everyone else…”

I’ve been thinking a lot on how sweet life would be if I were not trying to realize that dream of fictionalizing my father’s story, who coincidentally, also happened to be a moviegoer by the name of Jack.  It would be easy to coast through days if my biggest challenge turned on the decision of what to fix for dinner.  How easy and lovely to while away hours in the garden or painting the exterior of my house or my dining room for the fifth time.  What joy to simply feast upon the artistic endeavors of others …while enjoying the taste of a few bonbons on my tongue.

Too bad the The Moviegoer is not a bonbon eating sort of book.  Instead, it’s the sort some keep company with every Lent.  Its existential subject is made for mulling over.  And its New Orleans setting into time makes it perfect for Lent, since the story takes place the week leading up to Mardi Gras.  But writing this hits me hard, since Lent is not about feasting and bonbons at all — and more about fasting in the wilderness and facing up to personal demons — for forty days and nights — which biblically speaking, translates to a helluva lot of time.

So do forgive me… if I leave those ends a little loose, to keep the noose from growing tight, in order to travel down a different line of thought.  Having spent a lot of time with this cagey old novel, I know that good ‘ole Binx would agree that it’s easier to be a spectator than a doer.  It’s much more enjoyable to read (or see) a good story than to try and write one.  And if my year boils down to any thoughts on writing, it’s that it takes a lot of desire and hard work to write fiction.  And that I’ve learned I lack what it takes in both departments.  Which is not all bad, since this year spent working on my father’s story has shattered whatever false illusions I once had about story-making.

I part ways with The Moviegoer with a lot to wonder over.  For one, if I can’t imagine writing at a publishable quality, how difficult was it for the newly published author Walker Percy to think his writing ‘good enough’ for some prestigious award.  His own publisher didn’t support his nomination; it came by unconventional channels, which a surprised Percy didn’t learn of until a few days after the ceremony.

I also wonder over those other ten finalists who lost that year.  How did they feel after coming so close — after all that hard work — with all those expectations of taking the prize?

I’d like to think that maybe a few of them pick up The Moviegoer to see what Percy had to say.  It’s not a bad notion to think upon… for some sunny day…or over forty days of some upcoming Lent.  If the idea grows to reality in my life, it would make my third time to read it.  I don’t mind saying that there’s something holy and complete about that number three that I’ve always found difficult to resist.  Much harder than a mere box of bonbons.

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-- Thornton Wilder, "Our Town"

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