Looking for the familiar at the table and in nature, after and sometimes with, three cups of coffee a day.
“I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Greene Gables
Montgomery said it best, and there’s really nothing more to add: Octobers are the absolute best and the arrival of color in the NC High Country is almost beyond words. Yellows that are deeper than any palette of oils and fire reds that burst onto the horizon — if only fall could last all year. Trying today to hang onto these colors, and this feeling.
Last Friday in celebration of the National Day on Writing, I hosted one of three live/online workshops for my university’s first ever #whyIwrite event. Each workshop (creative nonfiction -me, poetry, environmental writing) was a flash: 30 minutes including guidance on what to write, writing, sharing.
For my session, students worked with the last photo on their phone to write as descriptively as possible the scene of the photo which could include background details that led to the photo as well as the scene unfolding in the photo. My own example below. Tip for students: this is a great exercise to break writer’s anxiety/block.
The air that was laden with humidity just days ago is finally crisp – it’s possible to move freely now outside without the weight of heat-filled water pressing down on my scalp. Today, my cheeks feel the tiny pricks of the wind that keep my face and head cool as I walk at a faster clip up the hill than I’ve been able to do in months. Darkened seed pods greet me on my approach that just days ago held the only wisp of summer flowers to grace this red mud hill. The wind carries the whistle of an oncoming train but I knew it was near before – the wind carries too the aging roasted and burnt tar of railroad ties before I turned this corner. The train rushes in on its way through town, blowing, as if those of us on the trail might leap down – the hawks, pigeons and waterlings scurry away in fright at the depth of the engines bluster and seemingly endless chugging, the humans not so much. We are unphased – the speed and dust kicked up by the engine’s pull cause these remaining seed pods to stir, but not drop, clinging to the best of seasons, for a little while to come.
When you wake up at the weather app says it’s only 59 degrees, it is a feeling of pure joy; just two weeks ago it was easily 89 with 100% humidity just after the sun rises. On this glorious day to come, it looks as if the sun may not ever peek through and after a blistering, sweltering summer it is absolute relief to be outside — in a raincoat — walking at a fast clip without streams of sweat rolling down our faces.
Just the day before we purchased new raincoats at REI (member sale weekend – wahoo!). The tag in these Rainier model coats, a coincidental prediction of weather to come boldly states, “Get outside like you’re from Seattle.” When we were standing in line to purchase these, we wondered aloud to each other — well, we are from Seattle originally, shouldn’t we get a extra discount? As a member my entire adult life, which I obtained at the original REI warehouse store on Seattle’s Capitol Hill, I do think I should probably be eligible for some sort of “extra” to celebrate my longevity and devotion. Those original wood plank floors and bins of wool hats and gloves with skis hanging from the rafters were an REI far from its look of today — the scrappiness is missing. Maybe I’m not scrappy anymore either, and maybe that should be okay (but it’s not, really).
There is great value in scrappy and grey — it is not the languish or morbidity of heat, nor the shock of freeze that can paralyze — scrappy and grey is movement. Movement toward something, away from something, into something — the breadth and depth of a fog that reveals, or a tidal bump that offers a nudge. Grey and scrappy is to set the mind free through an afternoon of sketching or reading; it is also the creative big that bites and leads to discovery.
Grey mist doesn’t slow one down, it just requires the right layers to move ahead: scrappy power.
The humidity snapped: we never think it will happen and then magically it does. Hoodies, sweaters, long sleeves and jeans all come popping out of the caverns these have been stuffed into. We walk outside and can actually breathe freely, not hesitatingly, not haltingly as we must through the exhaustion of constant heavy air — we can actually move in this air that does not wear us down and wear us out within minutes. The fall is when we begin to feel alive after the drudgery that is summer here: we can greet the day with some level of joy and yet still enjoy an iced coffee on the sidewalk (in our hoodies).
John Keats wrote “To Autumn” September 19, 1819 and the first stanza in particular speaks to all the glory that is this season — the best season.
To Autumn (first stanza here, link to complete poem)
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
February 4
These seagulls found the last remaining ice floating on the Tidal Basin for a rest and some fishing. It may be tough to see but one of our gull friends had just plucked a live catfish out for breakfast — only to find the gulls from each side of the iceberg jumping onto his part of the berg, casting the whole flotilla to begin drifting precariously toward the sea wall. While we didn’t wait for the crash, we did observe that these squawking friends appeared unconcerned even though their perch was about to slam into a decaying concrete wall. Their eyes only see the sky above, when their beaks are not pecking frenetically into their subdued prey. Within weeks, this scene will burst with a frenzy of pink blossoms; but grey washes out all color — grey sky, grey water, grey birds.
“Teach this poem” lands in my inbox early each morning thanks to Poets.org. As the cold bears down on us here in the East, and while the clock may indicate that day should break soon, clearly even the sun is desirous of hibernation. As I click on my sunlamp, I am yet surrounded by the sights and sounds of darkness. Joon’s poem, “Between Autumn Equinox and Winter Solstice, Today,” today’s “Teach” installment offers a new way to think of the cold — wear it. As I ponder which coat to wear on my afternoon trip North, I will think of the cold as something I wear — like the season — but unlike one character within the poem that says the cold has “broken his windows,” I will wear my cold with joy, for it is the season I love the most.
Between Autumn Equinox and Winter Solstice, Today
Emily Jungmin Yoon
I read a Korean poem
with the line “Today you are the youngest
you will ever be.” Today I am the oldest
I have been. Today we drink
buckwheat tea. Today I have heat
in my apartment. Today I think
about the word chada in Korean.
It means cold. It means to be filled with.
It means to kick. To wear. Today we’re worn.
Today you wear the cold. Your chilled skin.
My heart kicks on my skin. Someone said
winter has broken his windows. The heat inside
and the cold outside sent lightning across glass.
Today my heart wears you like curtains. Today
it fills with you. The window in my room
is full of leaves ready to fall. Chada, you say. It’s tea.
We drink. It is cold outside.
Thank you Poets.org for this winter discovery of Emily Jungmin Yoon.
Only Emily could describe the onset of winter so perfectly.
There’s a certain slant of light – Emily Dickinson
Winter never allows for much light — but here in the East, we’re lucky on most January days to reap what I call, “half-light” — a condition where the deciduous trees appear to let in more light and sound, but because of the sun’s position and earth’s rotation, we end up stuck with just a fraction of what we’d assume. Low-hanging cloud cover only further dilutes the weak power of our biggest and brightest star. For those of us that struggle through the gray with sun lamps, acupuncture, Vitamin D, bamboo socks and warm frothy drinks — half-light is one of the biggest blows to the psyche.
The in-between is the chasm — it’s as if, day didn’t quite care to break: day didn’t have the energy to combat the night, so it raised a limp arm with a not-so imperial wave of foggy fingers and simply cast a shadow over the hills — the poor valleys don’t stand a chance. But unlike fog with its eventual movement, half-light holds steady as a silent storm over the winter landscape — it holds no mystery, as it reveals nothing — again, unlike fog which often reveals the crispness of winter sun rays above. Half-light is the turtle of winter, yet it has no race to win…it exists only to plod and hold steady; it is the solstice equilibrium of partially day, partially not — the nowhere of in-between.
Emily Dickinson, one of my poetry idols, captured this feeling best. What is the meaning of this light? Is it the half-way mark between winter and spring? Life and death? Valley and peak? Love and despair?
There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons – That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes – Heavenly Hurt, it gives us – We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are – None may teach it – Any – ‘Tis the Seal Despair – An imperial affliction Sent us of the Air – When it comes, the Landscape listens – Shadows – hold their breath – When it goes, ‘tis like the Distance On the look of Death –
The first snow of the year is most certainly the best — and it looks like this one may not melt before the next one arrives. We are lucky enough to live near a network of trails, that are often highly used for commuting as well as general meandering. Yesterday’s journal to the trail, brought Robert Frost’s poem to mind, “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” as I had just taught this last fall — and it would’ve been so wonderful to do a reading live in the snow.
Snow is meant to give pause and as Frost notes, “He will not see me stopping here/ To watch his woods fill up with snow.” Those moments when no one is watching us take a breath – how delicious it truly can be, palatable, just a small break to savor beauty or silence or even chaos unfolding. Most often we believe the “snowy evening” to be ethereal when in fact it is really precisely, figure skater-like, chaos — from the careful landing of each flake to the swirling of miniature ground-touching wind, snow — while generally silent, makes its presence known in crevices we did not know existed just moments before. The jaggedy, often long cracks in the rock face often mirror that of the soul — where oh where, will the soft flakes land, and will we have eyes to see them?
Frost carefully notes, and repeats that his journey must continue — as every journey must. His horse has naturally, as a staid and true worker, questioned Frost’s pause to ponder and wonder — with the not so subtle reminder of his harness bells — harkening Frost back to the path ahead. “And miles to go before I sleep / And miles to go before I sleep.” The path, the promises — it’s all the same, and often feels never-ending. But the snow, glorious snow, offers those moments of reprise — the opportunity to observe peace and chaos existing side-by-side in simultaneous fashion and that loveliness exists within that chaos. Top the journey off with a short pour of Bailey’s after, and the day is near perfection.
These boots are size 10 Keens — purchased at REI several years ago when we still lived in the often damp Pacific Northwest. At the time I was trying to replace nearly 20 year old hiking boots that I’d purchased in the Northwest, hiked parts of the Pacific Crest Trail in, taken these same boots east and hiked parts of the Appalachian Trail in. But those old boots, just could never be replaced and when the sales staff that day in REI told me these new Keens were so stylish I could wear them downtown, all I could wonder is, where on earth are these boots downtown appropriate? While these Keens fit well and seemed to fill a rain/snow need (at the same time making my feet look monstrously huge), in no way were these “downtown” much the same as my aged hikers were not “downtown” — I’m no slave to fashion, but I do have my boundaries.
It’s odd what can be wrapped up in footwear, aside from feet and socks. For me, shoes are m go-to purchase for a seratonin rush that covers all sorts of ailments — from the need for beauty in my life, to the times when current clothing styles and my body don’t match — I can always find shoes. While my style has changed over the years (walking in heels on escalators isn’t happening in 2018 or beyond), my shoes are where my memories rest. So the thought of wearing rugged, somewhat nondescript Keen black boots downtown — unless there is a major snowstorm — was unfathomable. Downtown is lights, work, ready, look great — not slothic, cumbersome (albeit lightweight) and clunky. Even in bad weather, it took awhile for me to transition to these Keens from my sportier (and prettier) hikers of yore. I went so far as to purchase high quality insoles for those oldsters, and hot glue them into the shoe bed (not recommended) to somehow extend their life. Hot glue and socks don’t mix, just an FYI.
But now during Bombogenesis, cyclonic snowstorm of the decade, I have a new appreciation for my Keens — hours in low digit temps combined with bamboo socks and I’m nothing but toasty. Keens are the workhorse of boots — these boots will not let you down, will not leak, will not allow you to suffer when you are the sole shoveler of snow in your household because your working-at-home husband is on a day-long conference call. You can sweep off those cars, sprinkle that snow-melt and tromp to the open coffee shop for hot chocolates with your kiddo, no problem. Downtown these boots will never be, and these shall never replace my old hikers, but they are the future…the workboots for work I didn’t anticipate.
Those old hikers? Yes, I’ve moved them again. And I want to build a shadowbox for them — my love for these laces, swoops and divits will never die. Five cross country moves, and counting…
I called my dad yesterday to let him know the Governor had declared a state of emergency in advance of the pending Bombogenesis — to which he naturally asked, “What on earth is that? Is it similar to snowmageddon? Snowpocalypse? Why is there a bomb in it?” All good questions, for which I had no answers — but the real thrill of it is…my dad and I both love to completely succumb to the Weather Channel, when the big ones are coming. He neglected to mention that in our home state, multiple earthquakes around Mt. St Helens and a rapidly shifting ridge to the east of the mountain should be equal cause for concern.
Defined: a bongenesis = a cyclonic snowstorm, where Arctic air (that generally builds the more famous Nor’Easter) meets topicla air like a brick wall, the air swirls in a centrifugal manner (severe) and creates the “bomb” effect of blasting everything in its path..leaving strong, possibly hurricane force winds and plunging temperatures in its wake. The upside: schools are delayed or cancelled well ahead of mother nature’s fury leaving folks some time to plan ahead — since I work from home, this also allows time to do some early morning meal pondering (pondering is better than planning) and a little daydreaming — what about baked potatoes — for lunch! Fresh banana bread with chocolate (thank you Molly from Orangette, I’ve never been able to make regular banana bread since your first book) for breakfast! Almond butter cookies (trying this one today, three ingredients – sounds simply perfect) by mid-afternoon! And dinner — no one will need dinner, though there is a bag-o-salad from last week’s Trader Joe’s pilgrimmage in the fridge. But, who eats salad in a snowstorm?
Snow’s meditative and silencing qualities are my buoys of comfort — many adults hate the white stuff, and I’ll admit I am no fan of the ice storm so should our “bomb” friend turn that direction, our loving relationship is officially cancelled. Snow is candles, wool socks and a chance to stay inside — willingly (I am not usually a fan of the indoors or staying at home and all its laundry implications). While snow allows the mind to rest and the gaze to settle evenly — is also energizing in all its light reflective gloriousness. The peace that snow provides as it coats the landscape, allows new ideas to sprout — snow is the incubation that is needed by the soul and the heart. My yoga instructor says each time our class teeters in tree-pose that there is always movement in balance. So it goes with the snowfall — in peace, there is always endeavor.
Last year the New Yorker named 2016 as the year of hygge — the Danish tradition of “getting cozy” during the winter months; for those of us with Danish and other Nordic roots, hygge — and open faced sandwiches are routine parts of the winter holidays and that the New Yorker, is sort of way behind. Candles and wool socks, warm rice pudding and pea soup are not a new things, and in fact, many of us grew up this way — along with grandparents with accents from all of the Scandinavian countries (hygge is not limited to Denmark). The idea of hygge is one of comfort — in both the environment around us, and in our own skin — which sometimes craves wool, snowflakes and soup. Hygge is not a fad, but an emphasis on the beauty of the soul and our relationship to nature; there is never bad weather, but there can be the wrong outerwear.
So to kick the hygge season off, here are a few of my favorite things:
Danish Sandwiches or Smorrebrod : during cozy times, it’s important to eat well — sandwiches offer creativity, variety and fresh flavors — and the opportunity to gather friends and family to partake in preparation. More on sandwiches from Serious Eats for further ideas on how to concoct delicious creations. Of note: if you’re looking for an excellent, and easier-than-roasting-a-20-pound-bird Thanksgiving, consider smorrebrod with a turky-ish and cranberry flair. We went this route this year, and a total success — amongst our variety we included a turkey (chicken works well) salad with dried cranberries, walnuts, honey and mustard resting atop a rustic sourdough cranberry bread, lightly toasted, with plenty of Finlandia butter as a base. Always open-faced, always use a knife and fork.
Juleharter = Danish woven hearts: a quick tutorial and template from the site Bits of Ivory. Red and white are the traditional color scheme, but going a little rogue is okay. Scandinavian holiday decorations lean towards the natural with use of materials such as wood, wheat, wool and of course these hearts which may adorn trees filled with treats or as a simple exchange with a friend. Legend has it that Hans Christian Andersen invented this simple woven treasure — like Santa, this is a legend I think is worth embracing.
Aebelskiver – round, ball-like pancakey donuts: a little trickier than sandwiches and a special pan is needed to create these treats, or a weeknight dinner or brunch in the winter months depending on how you choose to fill them. This recipe is excellent, but I simply use pancake mix and modify — whether with jam filling, ricotta, bacon or really any ingredient that is choppable and droppable into the batter in the aebelskiver pan. Tip: us a wooden skewer (kabob) stick to turn the sometimes wiley rounds of batter — this will take practice, and is totally worthwhile once you’ve conquered the pan and there is no smoke simmering from your stove. Do not use any cooking spray on this pan, unless a black tinge is something you crave with pancakes.
Bokaflod or Julebokaflod: book flood i.e. buy books and read books for the holiday season. This is an Icelandic tradition and most publishers there issue all their new releases in November to get folks ready to celebrate; and if you’re going to pursue hygge — a stash of books purchased for or during the holiday season, then you’re half-way to sandwich making. Think — a mug of strong coffee, a few butter (spritz) cookies, a few candles (pine or balsam scent) your brand new woolen socks and perhaps a high-performance fleece — a fire and now your stack of reading material. You’ve now achieved hygge nirvana.
As the solstice approaches — remember the outerwear — get yourself outside and enjoy the natural world, as there is no better way to begin to understand the majesty and wonder that abounds when darkness merges to light.
Happy Hygge!
p.s. don’t forget to post a few gnomes!
I was an early Etsy adopter, at least I think I was — as a new mom I was looking for ways to still take a few photos, and maybe even sell a few. Yes, photography is inherently difficult to sell; but it also provided a little time away, outside, as I figured out my new professional life and what that even meant. The challenge with Etsy, okay one challenge for me, was finding a way to market items and keep a stock of photos that were printed, matted, and ready-to-ship or sell at local shows — the investment alone was daunting. It became clear at my last craft show, when a lady with homemade pickles was selling more than I, that maybe this whole deal was not for me — a Property Brothers moment of realism with the sunshine rays radiating out from my head. I needed a plan, a direction, a different market than competing with the pickle lady (make no mistake, I do genuinely enjoy pickles).
Fast forward nearly seven years — still no real plan. But, Etsy has evolved like most technologies and today offers the option to sell digital downloads — yet another aha moment when I discovered this glory. After a chunk of time away, I’m back — and hopeful. The market for photography of any kind is brimming over with talented photographers — my few photos are just a blip on the screen. But this option, the digital world option, streamlines my own process — and that’s all I will be focused on; yes, there are more talented photographers, much the same as there are writers whose skills and talents surpass mine when it comes to both prose and teaching. My plan has evolved from trying to learn how to produce a supply chain, albeit sporadically which doesn’t lend itself to success, tp focusing simply on the photos I love myself and sharing them on the Etsy platform. If I simply brighten someone’s day with my colorful posts – super; if someone is moved to puchase and download a photo to keep that feeling alive, double super.
My shop name remains Northwest Flora as I lived in the Pacific Northwest when I began this photo journey in 2010. Visit me: northwestflora.etsy.com for a dose of color in the coming days as we head to the darker part of the year.
3 Coffees A Day 