Five Good Things

1. John of John might genuinely be one of the best books I've ever read. The writing, the internal dialogues, the story, the extraordinary sense of place...all of it felt perfect. These characters absolutely stole my heart.

And I especially love a book that makes my brain wander off into some completely unexpected corner of the world. This one sent me down an entire weekend-long internet rabbit hole about Harris tweed. That's one of my favorite things a book can do: make its world so real and interesting that I don't quite want to leave it when I close the cover.

2. The seasonal shift is upon us. I can’t believe I could anticipate Autumn even more than I typically do, but this summer has been disgustingly humid.

3. The Bands That Raised Me. I've decided that one of my projects for the next decade is to see one more time the bands I've loved for most of my life while and if they're still out there playing. I'd love to see the Cure, Tears for Fears, Depeche Mode, Echo and the Bunnymen, and others whose music has somehow followed me through all the different versions of myself. (I heard there was an amazing Smiths cover band in Mexico City, so I am all over that for our trip in November.)

It's hard to picture myself at 70, dancing in a crowd at a concert; although I'm absolutely not ruling it out. So there is something about this particular window of time that feels worth paying attention to.

I'm serious enough about it that I'm starting a little travel fund specifically for this purpose; the Fuck It, I’m Going Fund. If a final tour means getting on a plane to Estonia, I want to be able to say, Well, I guess I'm going to Estonia.

There are only so many chances to stand in a crowd and hear a song you've carried around for 40 years played by the beautiful humans who gave it to you. I don't want to miss them.

4. I saw a post recently that said, “I think I’m going to take a break from my healing journey and focus on being a bitch.” Amen sister, that resonates.

5. The garden, apparently, needed me to leave it the hell alone. After a summer of feeling guilty about how little time and attention I've given it, the garden has positively FLOURISHED with neglect. Which feels like a useful counterpoint to all the messaging about constant tending, nurturing, optimizing, healing, and growth.

Apparently we do not need to be endlessly coddled and cooed over to succeed. Sometimes we are perfectly capable of finding the sun, putting down roots, and getting on with it.

The garden and I may both be entering our bitch era.

 

tiny ghost stories

over here i am deep in the stories of my ancestors.

this personal history work feels urgent right now, so i am meeting that urgency and exploring my lineage.

i had no idea how a sense of curiosity, good research skills, a subscription to an online geneology service, and a dna test would bring together these pieces of me.  i've been consumed with uncovering the lives of those who came before me.  each new find opens a new (old) chapter and another piece that feels familiar and known and lived is clicked into place.

there are mysteries to be sure, and stories yet to unearth, but these are undeniably my people.  they are scots and quakers and apaches; immigrants and pioneers and mothers. they are warriors and english ladies, farmers and teachers; seekers of gold, seekers of survival.  there is love and adventure and murder and mad life skills. their trauma and their resilience live in my dna. i was shaped by each of them, biologically and spiritually.
i hope my life honors theirs.

here are a few tiny stories, in no particular order:

elizabeth, b.1731:  not to be out-badassed by her little brother (wilderness hero daniel boone) elizabeth was a courageous human in her own right.  her family lived within a fort deep in indian territory. they learned of an impending raid and wanted to give the natives the impression that they were unsuspecting, so daily fort life had to appear normal.  protected only by her wits and nerves of steel, elizabeth led a small group of brave girls from the safety of the fort to fetch water at a distant river, like they did every single day, with the knowledge that the indians were lying in wait, watching them.  this show of faux obliviousness boosted the confidence of the marauders and they attacked that night, and were met with a well-prepared and ultimately successful defense.

william, b.1725:  raised in the scottish highlands, william was a jacobite rebel, fought in and survived the battle of culloden.  he came to north america shortly after.

alzira, b.1830:  graced with dark exotic beauty and a foreign name, alzira made the covered wagon journey to san francisco during the gold rush with a months-old infant.  failing to strike gold, her young family settled on one thousand acres in sonoma county to work the golden land instead.  her husband died in california and she returned east to be with her family.  she had four husbands in her lifetime.

uncle cy, b.1903:  the "turkey king of oklahoma".  enough said.

wyatt, b.1856:  wyatt was a cattle rancher in indian territory.  he was killed in a saloon shootout and his case was the first murder trial held in indian territory.

mollie, b.1860:  mollie was accidentally shot by wyatt and carried a bullet in her shoulder the rest of her long life.

john, b.1578:  schooled at oxford and cambridge, john had a "reputation for learning" and spent some time in "the clink" in london for pesky "independent thought".  he migrated to north america in 1634 aboard the griffin, his only recorded luggage:  "his books".

sarah, b.1646:  lived to age eighty, which was an accomplishment in the 18th century, and was noted in historical publications as "never had an aching bone or decayed tooth."

sea deliverance, b.1744:  she only lived one year, but pretty much has the best name ever.

_____

also:  where i'm from

tiny memoir: best of my love

a boy and a girl, too young to be married, much less parents, sit in the parked car around three in the morning following one of his shows. both are exhausted from the endless arguing and disappointments. he is smoking a cigarette. she is desperately trying to figure out what to say next, what to do to lift them from this suffocating place. the familiar acoustic strums of best of my love drift from the radio. the song, already over ten years old, isn't a favorite of either, but they both know all the words by heart. because eagles music softly accompanied the raising of kids in southern california in the 70s. she leans her face against the window and stares up at the night sky, his gaze falls straight ahead and they begin to sing along. there is a moment of lightness, the magnetic pull of a shared story, but as the music fades out, they both know that singing that song is the last thing they will do together.

sunday grace: where i'm from

i am from strong women
who are not afraid of dirt
or silence

i am from neon purple sea anemones
whose tentacles sway ethereally in the tide pool
and softly embrace the finger of a curious girl

i am from the dust bowl
and the apaches
and the journey west

i am from scorching sidewalks
and mexican paletas
and bare feet cooled in sprinkler runoff

i am from swimming lessons
and tennis lessons
and piano lessons and ballet

i am from the turkey king of oklahoma
and the twist king of california
(no prom queens though)

i am from hee-haw
the bradys, mr. french
and wild kingdom

i am from the fury of the misnamed pacific
the hot santa anas
nights that smell like jasmine and alfalfa

i am from backbends
and banana seats
and clover flower necklaces

i am from afternoon naps
the doves cooing and the gardenia scenting
outside my window

i am from sam and daisy
nikki and patches
and all the lost dogs who found their way to the house on castro lane

i am from teachers
and drill sargents
and photographers and poets

i am from women's lib
and kitchen dancing
and grilled abalone for dinner

i am from skateland
and disneyland
earthquakes and earth shoes

i am from a thousand books
a few broken hearts
summer skin that smells of chlorine and coconut

i am from the tule fog
always there for the girl
who wants to be invisible

i am from mrs. agan
and my fifth grade summer camp counselor
whose name i have forgotten
who saw me
and painted my portrait on a slice of california redwood

{a spontaneous version of where i'm from}

tiny memoir: the littlest birds

i was a girl who believed that hundreds of little birds flocked to the mission on the same day each year.   by magic.

it was a miracle i saw with my own eyes.

the mission bells heralded their arrival with deafening discordant clangs.  i stood there holding on to my dad's belt loop with one hand, covering one ear with the other. i wished for a third to shield my eyes from the blinding white california sun as we watched the birds swarm in. one after another, they floated through the arches and settled in tiny mud nests under the eaves.  the friar said a blessing.  we bought tacos from the little mexican push-cart whose tiny brass bells were kinder with their song.

tiny memoir: san francisco 1994

the layers of heat and smoke in the room mock the layers of cold and fog out on the street.

with each step my boots stick and softly rip away from the floor as i make my way through the sea of bodies to the little table against the wall.

on the stage, the man she loves is giving voice and rhythm to his poetry, gentle and fierce, full of joy.

the music and the crowd drown out our voices, but lifetimes speaking the secret language of girl friendship allow us to understand every word we say to each other.

later, homeward bound, we cross the bridge and slow the car to look back at the city.

like our young selves, it’s lit up in the distance, golden and complicated and spectacular and one-of-a-kind.

sunday grace

{the backyard at gypsy hill}

where i'm from
by george ella lyon

i am from clothespins,

from clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.

i am from the dirt under the back porch.

(black, glistening,

it tasted like beets.)

i am from the forsythia bush

the dutch elm

whose long-gone limbs i remember

as if they were my own.

i'm from fudge and eyeglasses,

          from imogene and alafair.

i'm from the know-it-alls

          and the pass-it-ons,

from perk up! and pipe down!

i'm from he restoreth my soul

          with a cottonball lamb

          and ten verses I can say myself.

i'm from artemus and billie's branch,

fried corn and strong coffee.

from the finger my grandfather lost

          to the auger,

the eye my father shut to keep his sight.

under my bed was a dress box

spilling old pictures,

a sift of lost faces

to drift beneath my dreams.

i am from those moments--

snapped before i budded --

leaf-fall from the family tree.

___

last year at the creative joy retreat, jen louden read this poem to us and then instructed us to write our own "where i'm from".  this was such an amazing exercise.  even as the memories of those october retreat days grow hazy, the voices of women reading the words they strung together around this theme echo clearly in my mind and heart.  as each sixty second poem was read, i learned more about each of them than if we had spent hours or days or weeks becoming acquainted the regular old ways.

my own, which includes a daughter of apache warriors, pacific tidepools, backyard dinners (a tradition that continues), a roller-skating grandpa, avocado groves, flying dumbos and the smell of my eight-year-old summer skin (chlorine, heat, dove soap and watermelon paleta drips), is treated as a work in progress, a place i go when i need clarity.  and respite.

click here to read some other ideas on how to explore this personal history writing exercise on your own.

when we can gather up and dust off our childhoods and family histories and gaze upon them with the relative objectivity of distance, time and adult perspective; when we can hold them with curiosity, gratitude and possibly forgiveness; when we can claim, write about and share those things that made us and sit with who we are and where we come from, that is grace.

tiny memoir: summer reading

the summer of 1973 was the first summer both my parents worked and i was able to stay home alone.

each morning i would wake to the scent of the gardenia blooming outside my open window, the sound of a dove softly humming in the distance and the click-click-click of the neighbor's sprinkler.  summers in central california meant it's already warm (if not hot) by 8am.  i would lie awake and listen for the front door to close and lock and the cars to start up in the driveway before crawling out of bed.

there was a list of daily chores and i would complete half before i pulled on some shorts and a halter top, drank a glass of grapefruit juice and ate a bowl of life.

i was signed up for the library's summer reading program just like every summer; a quiet and safe activity that i'm certain made my parents feel somewhat comforted as they imagined how my day would go without their supervision.  the library supplied a mimeographed chart on which i meticulously recorded the author and title of each book i finished with a no.2 pencil.  the usefulness of the list was greatly enhanced by my own star rating system added to each line.

each tuesday and friday, i would pile my borrowed books into the wire basket on my red huffy and pedal the quiet streets to the wilson road branch of the beale memorial library.  i parked my bike in the rack, grabbed my books and my little wallet from mexico with the tooled leather image of a senorita on one side and a giant flower on the other.  inside the wallet were a few quarters and my only piece of official identification:  my library card.  my signature on the back was neat and precise, signed with great ceremony two summers before with my dad's fountain pen.

the walkway to the huge glass library doors was made of aggregated pebbles and it felt smooth and warm on my bare feet.  inside, the librarian gave my chart the once-over before applying a tiny star to each newly completed line and accepting my books for return.  we chatted briefly about each one and i felt very important because she really seemed interested in my opinion about the story and characters.  i then retreated to the children's room for an hour of browsing and the careful selection of my next round of books.

once my business at the library was complete, i walked my bike around the corner to the thrify drug store and purchased a single-scoop cone of rainbow sherbet for 5¢.  i sat on the bench outside the store and ate my ice cream as i watched people come and go, slightly intoxicated on my own independence.

back at home, i completed my afternoon chores of watering the garden and lawn.  then i pulled out a book and curled up with my dogs in the window nook in the den to begin reading.

and there i would stay; sometimes until i heard my mom's car pulling up in the drive.  i read over thirty books that summer.  the form only had room for ten so i had to have multiple copies, each carrying the soft scent of mimeograph ink and meticulously completed in no.2 pencil.

i've not traveled so far or so well since.

tiny memoir: flowers i have known

• my dad used to buy orchid wrist corsages for my mother and i every easter to wear to church.  i used to love to sneak into the dark kitchen the night before, open the refrigerator and see them lit up in their glasslike boxes.  the contrast they provided sitting next to the jar of best foods and leftover tuna casserole was one of my first lessons in the power of beautiful things.
• also:  the power of being fancy wearing orchid corsage.
• there was a very large gardenia bush on the side of my childhood house on castro lane.  it was right under my window and i used to love to open my window on hot summer nights and let it scent the air in my room while i slept.  that deep sweet headiness permeated my dreams so often that even my current dreams sometime smell like gardenia.
• it is also the scent of my first broken heart and any other personal turmoil that kept me awake at night.
• camillias.
• one night my friend and i snuck out of the house and smoked clove cigarettes under the stars in a neighbor's dark backyard.  the yard was surrounded by a fence completely clothed in blooming jasmine.  a thousand tiny white flowers caught the glow of the moon and made a theatre scrim of starlight.  it was a night of whispering secrets and trust and laughter tinged with danger.  to this day wild abandon smells like jasmine and clove and stars.
• i got lost once on a family hike.  i became a bit melodramatic in my panic and feared dying in the woods or my parents grounding me for the rest of my life for veering off the trail.  after an hour, i turned to the south and came upon a valley of california wildflowers. i don't know if you've ever seen california wildflowers, but it looked something like this.  in an instant, i knew and loved and trusted being alone and independent.  i learned that a curious spirit is rewarded.   and i thought, yes, i could die here.

tiny memoir: camillias

when the camillias bloom, i think about my grandma dee.  her back garden in california was filled with avocado, lemon and pomegranate trees and bordered with the most glorious camillias in the world.  worn out from playing, i would lie on the grass and fall asleep in the sun.  when dusk arrived, grandma would bring me in the little house, feed me dinner and we'd sit on the floor in front of the television, singing along to the porter wagoner show (my shoes pay homage).  she would let me brush her long black hair for hours.  sometimes she'd give me coffee with milk and sugar.  my mother would have had a fit.  first of all, coffee.  and secondly, right before bedtime?  yet i would slumber sound in the big bed, buried under handmade quilts, loved completely.

tiny memoir: my good soul

in my twenties, i was a single mom struggling to make a decent life in a little house in a not-so-great neighborhood bordered by the city of bakersfield, california to the north and acres of farmland to the south.  i didn't have a lot of money and had no car for several years. 

on sunday afternoons, i put mia in her stroller with the wonky wheel and we walked on a little stretch of highway 58 to a funky makeshift cafe in a converted liquor store next to a 7-11.  it was run by a beautiful woman from bangladesh who had moved to california and joined the pentecostal church.  during the week, she served typical american food.  but on sundays, she made the most amazing hot and spicy chicken soup for two dollars a bowl.  i can still remember her standing at the stove with her thick black hair in one solid braid that reached past her hips, dressed in a long flowery prairie dress, singing hymns in bengali. 

i can't remember the bengali name for the soup.  she translated it for me once, writing out "my good soul" on a napkin.  i think she was trying to write "my good soup" but her english was shaky.  she placed her hand on her heart when i spoke the name out loud. 

indeed, this is where the soup worked its magic.  after each delicious spoonful, the warmth would slowly bloom around our hearts.  i had no health insurance at the time and i swear this soup, with its garlic and ginger and spinach and chili peppers, saved us.  in those days, neither one of us ever experienced illness that required medical care.

the last time i went home to bakersfied (seven years ago now), i drove out highway 58 toward pumpkin center to find the cafe torn down; replaced by a car lot.   i couldn't remember the name of the cafe.  actually, i don't think it had a name. 

for years i've tried to recreate the soup.  it has taken much trial and error.  for the longest time, i thought the little black seeds in the soup were poppy seeds.  i recently discovered they are nigella sativa seeds.  i've come pretty close to matching the taste and the healing effect.  the soup is a lovely mix of south asian magic and american practicality.  just like its original creator. 

my good soul makes you feel instantly better when you are unwell or off kilter in your body or spirit.  i try and use only organic ingredients.  you can probably use mushrooms and vegetable broth in lieu of the chicken to make it vegan.  this makes a nice big pot.

my good soul
three chicken breasts, poached and shredded
olive oil
nigella sativa seeds, about one tbsp.
mustard seeds, one tsp.
one onion, chopped
two celery stalks, chopped
two carrots, chopped
one head garlic, chopped (about twelve cloves)
two tbsp. chili pepper paste in the tube
two tbsp. ginger paste in the tube
chicken broth
two cans great northern beans, rinsed
baby spinach leaves
pumpkin seeds

use bone-in chicken breast with skin for the best taste.  poach the chicken by simmering it in just enough water to cover, salt, pepper, chili flakes, rosemary and a bay leaf for about thirty minutes.  set aside to cool before shredding the meat.  reserve the cooking liquid; it's about three cups.

cover the bottom of a large pot with olive oil and heat until a seed dropped in pops.  add the seeds and cook for about thirty seconds.  reduce heat to medium high and add onion, celery and carrots.  cook for about five minutes, until tender.  add the garlic and cook a few minutes.  add the chili and ginger pastes and stir well. 

add about one-half cup of your poaching liquid and deglaze the pan.  add the beans and your shredded chicken.  add the rest of your poaching liquid and extra broth (or water) if you need it to fill the pot to two inches below the brim.  bring to a boil.  reduce to low, cover and simmer for twenty minutes.

add the spinach and stir in to wilt.

garnish with pumpkin seeds.

eat. 

feel better.

*

p.s.  it's difficult for me to get my recipes exact because i play when i cook.  i encourage you to do the same.  use all six of your senses when you make a meal.  i use a le creuset pot, which gets pretty hot, so you may need to leave some wiggle room for cooking times.   adjust the heat to your taste, this recipe is quite spicy.  the nigella sativa seeds are pretty important here.  if you live in a large city, you can probably find them at an indian food store or maybe whole foods.  i ordered mine online, so if you're local to me and want to make the soup, i've got close to a lifetime supply and i'm happy to share.

tiny memoir: dance hall days

she wears a crinoline, found at a thrift store for three dollars, a black cardigan and six long strands of faux pearls.  her heels fall on concrete that yields from the heat earlier in the day and produce a cushioned beat that is more bass, less drum.  her gait quickens in anticipation as she turns the dark corner and sees them at the front chatting with the doorman under the soft illumination of blue neon. 

inside the music is loud, talk and laughter flow freely, the boys are sweet and naughty and so uncomplicated.  everyone knows or is about to know everyone else.  this floor is not for partners, everyone dances with everyone else.  it is for belonging and forgetting.  it is unrestrained yet safe.  delicious, wild and instinctive.

years later she will wear the skirt as part of a halloween costume and see the tender smile of a boy in her mind.  she can't remember his name, just that he talked of culinary school and moving north to napa and that they casually kissed goodbye over a crowded noisy table.  those nights are so distant, the freedom so foreign, that she is in third person.

dance hall days love.

tiny memoir: letter to 14-year old me

(that's me in the middle)

first of all, can i just say that i admire you for smiling even though you were always in a state of growing out some hair experiment (bad perm, trying to lighten your dark hair with sun-in, "temporary" blue dye, etc.)?  your adventurous spirit is inspiring.

second, it makes me a bit sad when i see you here and know that you felt you were fat.  i think this was the one-meal-a-day of chicken broth and plain baked potato period.  thank you for eventually learning to love good food and treating your body with respect.

i love that you carry a trapper-keeper.  its presence here forecasts your talent for organization.  there will be many a binder in your future.

you have good friends who share a history with you.  you will swear to be best friends forever and sit up nights making grand plans to attend university together, have a double wedding and play tennis on the weekends after you have children.  what you do not know yet is that you will move on to different friends with different plans and another type of swearing.  you do not know that you will not see or speak to some of these friends for decades or longer.  and a few of them won't make it to university or their own weddings, let alone the tennis courts.  thank you for being loyal and listening and having a laugh with them.  thank you for seeing them and accepting them.  thank you for being their student and their teacher, for honoring each relationship for what it offered at the time.  and for knowing when to move on before the friendship was ruined.

your smile is engaging.  everybody says so.  you and i know that it hides secrets and hurt and deeds that you think are unforgivable.  or even worse, unremarkable.

i love that you went to a green high school with octagonal buildings.

a few bumpy decades lie ahead of you.  you will do some dangerous things.  you will become a mother much too early.  your heart will be broken not once, but twice.  you will become practiced with that smile.  you will learn not to trust.  and then slowly learn to trust again.

here's something remarkable:  one day you will look back and honor all the mistakes, misteps and misadventures.  turns out they make for a pretty interesting life.  i'm really happy you came through, not entirely unscathed but certainly unbroken.  strong.  and soft.

i can't think of anything to warn you about or advise against.  you will take risks and have a lot of fun and pay a price.  sometimes you will be too careful with your heart.  other times you will be too careless.  you will love people and then think they didn't deserve your love, but they did.  you will throw yourself into experiences with wild abandon, then quietly tiptoe away before the party is over.  you will read many good books and dance away many nights.  you will embarrass yourself time and time again with your wit and your loud mouth.  you will save an acquaintance from suicide but not know how to soothe a crying baby.  you will always be comforted by sitting with a dog.  each time you watch the sunset, your breath will catch in awe.

i can tell you to be authentic (and that you really don't like tennis), but the process of life...experience, editing, observation, reflection, awareness...will show you how.  i can tell you to be patient but this may be the thing you never learn.  i can tell you to love wide open, but you can't help this and do it even against your better judgement. 

you will really enjoy this journey to fullness. 

i'm really proud to know you.  to be you.

love,
me

tiny memoir: paletas de sandía y menta

little handcarts were pushed by mexican men down the hot streets of the california town where i grew up.  bells hung from the handle and heralded their arrival.  it was a super-low-tech version of the ice cream truck.  inside were mexican ice pops, or paletas, frozen bars of fruit, nuts and sometimes milk.  the la rosa man!  for fifty cents, i could choose one of my favorite flavors:  tamarind, coconut or watermelon.  and it would make me so very happy.  i have a very vivid sensory memory of sitting on a hot concrete curb with my bare feet in the gutter cooling off in a neighbor's sprinkler run-off enjoying the sweet stickiness of a la rosa bar.

paletas are not that available in the east, so i learned to make my own.  they are so simple.  nothing beats the heat like their icy goodness (awesome after a hot bikram class) and the sweet childhood memory that comes with each one is an added summer bonus for me.

for my version:  chop up about 1/4 of a large watermelon (you can leave in the seeds, but i'm not finding any watermelon lately with the black seeds, which look so pretty in the paleta) or about four cups of fruit.  mix together a half cup of water and a half cup of splenda or sugar; if using sugar, you'll need to heat it.  blend it up with a squeeze of lime juice.  i added a few leaves of mint to this batch.  pour into molds and freeze for two hours, insert sticks and freeze another two hours before yum time.

tiny memoir: odd duck

when I was seven, I went to disneyland with my girl scout troop. everyone wanted matching mickey ears. at the last minute, I got the donald duck hat with the giant squeaky orange duckbill. and I had them embroider a fake name on the back.  god i wish i had a copy of the group photo.