The Kitchen Garden Novice: Doing Time in Purgatory

When I was in college, the platitude became popular that "If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours; if it doesn't, then it was never really yours to begin with." Something sappy like that. The adage appeared for years on dormitory posters, bumper stickers, and novelty items. Having spent the better part of last week hosting a garage sale, I truly hope this philosophy doesn't come back to bite me in the butt.

"What are you selling on your garage sale?" an acquaintance asked me during a break.

"Oh just stuff," I replied. "You know, years of  'things' I've acquired because I couldn't live without them--and now I've realized, I can."

"Oh!  You're purging!" she exclaimed.

Purging. What a provocative word.  My mind wandered to bodily functions like prepping for a colonoscopy...sweating out a cheeseburger and fries on the treadmill. Purging, huh?

I entered the word "purging" into my go-to reference resource, Thesaurus.com. The list of synonyms generated was staggering--words like expel, exorcise, discard, disencumber--lots of "ex" and "dis" words. I discovered the word comes from the same root as "purify." Don't you just love word forensics? When I followed other words derived from the same root, my path lead directly to...purgatory.

Ah yes, Purgatory, that all-souls' waiting room for heaven. The concept of Purgatory, popularly attributed to the Roman Catholic Church, actually germinated centuries before in Judaism and ancient Greece. The philosophy developed that the deceased could not enter the hereafter without an atonement for their many worldly sins, a shackle to this worldly plane. Purgatory was the holding cell for those souls in need of a bit of a makeover. What a bunch of bologna!

And yet...hadn't I been embracing the same philosophy? I had spent weeks, preparing, clearing out the clutter, unlocking my shackle to "things," all in the attempt to simplify. At first it was hard to part with stuff. Each item placed on the sale tables left me feeling bereft, a bit like that scene in Cast Away where Tom Hanks watches Wilson float away with the waves. But then I started to notice an unexpected release. I turned downright ruthless in my selection of discards. As each piece of junk treasure left my garage last weekend, I felt one ounce lighter. I was floating toward enlightenment, one step closer to my true divinity. (Yeah, right.)

We cleared a garage full of clutter out in three short days, in exchange for three month's grocery cash. As tight as money has been this past year, the total earnings represented a tremendous cushion. Saturday as we closed the doors and kicked our feet up to relax we congratulated ourselves on our success. And then, we turned on the television. The screen filled with images from the tsunami ravaged villages of Japan. Stories of families with no earthly possessions but the clothes on their backs left us silent, pensive. The Universe was whispering to us.

"I want to help those people," I murmured. "It just makes me so ashamed that I'm hesitant out of fear for our own needs." 

"Maybe we can't send the entire bankroll," said hubby. "But I think we can at least send part of it."

And so we tithed the proceeds from our tag sale to The Red Cross for disaster relief to Japan. Hardly the widow's last mite, but it was a start.  Purgatory?  Oh yes, I've been spending time there. It's not such a bad place. There's room to grow there, and the door is always open. Now, if I can just keep from visiting my neighbors' garage sales and a prolonged stay in heaven's waiting room, all will be well.

The Kitchen Garden Novice Shares the Love

I will be the first to admit that I am a bit of a procrastinator under the best of conditions. Throw in a few valid obstacles and I can elevate procrastination to an Olympic caliber event. This past week produced its fair share of delays, crises, and stumbling blocks. A flirting dalliance with a head cold mixed with a frantic work schedule were producing the perfect storm of last-minute lunacy on the horizon.  So it was that on my one day off I found myself scrambling to get valentines in the mail to the kids in time for the big day.

I spent the morning putting the finishing touches on puzzle-cards for my granddaughters, cutting an envelope for my daughter's card, and crafting a rather lame valentine for my son. Since I planned to mail a few things to the girls with their puzzles, I placed the valentines in a mailing box, along with a roll of  packing tape to seal it at the post office and my address book. I spent a full hour wandering around K-Mart in a fog, looking for Valentine's Day chocolates, books, and stuffed critters. It might have proven a whole lot easier to make up my mind had I not been dealing with a massive Nyquil hangover. But, in my fuzzy-muzzled stupor, choosing two beanie babies for two sisters became a judgment to stump Solomon.

I finally made my choices and headed for the parking lot. Retrieving the mailing box from the back seat, I threw the candy and plush toys into the carton. I ran the packing tape over the edges, thoroughly sealing all opened ends. All that remained was to address the box for the post office. Now where did I put my address book?

It dawned on me. The address book was in the bottom of the mailing box. So...I pulled the tape back off the cardboard and found my address book. Once again, I taped the mailing carton shut and used a marker to post the box to my son's home. Wait a minute...wasn't there something else I was taking to the post office? Right--my daughter's valentine!  What had become of it? I retraced my movements, backtracking right to the moment when I had placed baby girl's card...in the box, with the rest of the valentines.  Erghhh!!!

I gingerly pulled the packing tape off, taking care not to disturb the address I'd marked on the top flap. Sifting to the bottom of the box's contents, I unearthed the daughter's card, then resealed the edges. Done! Finished! To the post office! Now where were my car keys. Dig as I might to the bottom of my vastly cavernous hobo bag they were not to be found. I checked the back seat. I checked the door panel. I checked the back seat...again. My gaze wandered over to the dreaded box. No!  It couldn't be!

This time, I rippppppped the tape off the top of the box and wadded it into a spiteful blob. I rummaged in a zombie-driven quest through the contents of that wretched carton and found...nothing! Nada!  No keys! I pounded the steering wheel with the heel of my hand and heard...a familiar rattle. There, hanging from the ignition, were those cursed keys.

And that, my friends, is what happens when you don't think outside of the box.

The Kitchen Garden Novice Scraps Happy

So I've started my New Year's project to craft/scrap/stamp cards for Operation Write Home.  This was to be my outlet for creative flow this year. But...I've discovered something in the process. (Surprise, surprise.) It seems that I'm better at creating if I have a target recipient. I've been so accustomed to crafting each card with a specific individual in mind, that I found myself...well... stuck. What kind of greeting card would connect with a service man/woman deployed overseas enough for him/her to send to loved ones back home? What sort of individual might choose one of my little pieces of scrap art to keep in touch with friends and family? 

See what I mean about stuck? I was so seriously hung up on "who" I couldn't even begin to move on to "what."  We're talking serious creative constipation here. And that lead to even more introspective angst. Who was I to even presume that my little tokens of glib greeting card garbage might resonate with a soldier, a sailor, an airman, a marine?

Then I thought of the three kids I know who are serving in active duty. I thought of one of my daughter's friends, a marine in Afghanistan.  I thought of my nephew who is anticipating his first deployment in May.  And then I thought of my nephew, Nick, a lifer, in the Army Air Force. His specialty is training helicopter pilots. That's when my creative juice started bubbling spontaneously. It percolated as I rummaged through my stash to find long forgotten "flight" themed dazzles. It came to a full boil as I remembered the "just flying by" stamp I'd purchased ages ago. It simmered as I chose papers and complementary punch. And just that simply, my mojo was back. I was cookin'.

Will my next foray into card construction be as angst riddled? Probably. But I'll trust the Universe and my military models to motivate and guide me through.

The Kitchen Garden Novice Goes to Seed

Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.

Robert Louis Stevenson

I awoke at 4:45 am this morning with my brain firing like a pyrotechnic star burst. Maybe that's the wrong analogy. That makes it sound awe-inspiring. Not so much. The Universe had reprogrammed my brain during the night to "random shuffle." I hate it when that happens. I have so many ideas streaming through my consciousness; I don't know where to focus my attention.

Sleep? Forget it. I finally gave up at 6:00 and resigned myself to a scattered, albeit tired day ahead. Two cups of coffee later, my mind was still flitting from one project or intent to another. Should I start that new card for Operation Write Home? Or maybe begin a page in my heritage scrapbook?  I haven't touched it in months.  And I've been meaning to experiment with nutritional yeast to see if I can concoct a passable (and palatable) vegan cheese substitute.  So many ideas...such a short day. Maybe a walk with the dog would help to clear my mind.

Puppy and I set out on a marathon stroll. I began to softly sing as I wandered; Karen Drucker's soulful mantra became mine. "I am so blessed... I am so blessed... I am so grateful for all that I have..."

One hour later, as I unlocked the front door and dropped the keys on the kitchen table, my eye caught sight of the basil plant I have been tending and harvesting for the past year. All that remains of 2010's new years kitchen garden is one lonely stalk of basil. I reaped the rest for pesto and pasta dishes. Yet,  that one brave little stem stood tall with what appeared to be new growth. I looked closer. To my delight I realized the fragrant jewel was starting to flower. A year had passed, and this living creation had grown to maturity. She was ready to bear seed.

At that moment, a peculiar comfort struck me. It occurred to me I am a bit like that basil plant--gone to seed. I am blessed...to bear lots of seed, as evidenced by the stream of ideas and projects that called to me this morning. Yet unlike my brave little herb, I worry and stress over what to do with that seed. For the basil it is enough to create the seeds. She leaves their destiny to Mother Nature. It seems I could learn a few things from my sweet basil.

It matters not what seeds of creativity I choose to cultivate today; indeed, it matters not if I choose to cultivate any seeds at all. Should I die tomorrow, all of "my" creative energy would return to the Source, the Creator from which it was born. Nothing is lost. And that, my friends, is a life lesson from one living creature to another.

Anyone can cut an apple open and count the number of seeds.

But, who can look at a single seed and count the trees and apples?

Dottie Walters

The Kitchen Garden Novice Shops

Ah, New Year's Eve, that day of paradox. We look forward to a new year, and we reflect on the one past. We glut ourselves on party food, knowing full well our conscience will dictate tomorrow's fast.
"Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we diet."  We enjoy the last day of holiday decorations, reluctant to give up that tinsel and glitter for a whole year. Yet we concede that New Years Day, those decorations become a bit like half deflated balloons the day after a celebration. Post-party depression sets in.

If you're like me, the after Christmas sales are more than overstock clearance--they're a tradition! I have always eagerly participated in this rite of consumer bone-picking. And so, this past week, funded by a bit of Christmas bonus, I perused the aisles for after holiday mark-downs, too good to pass up.

Only a funny thing happened. I didn't buy a thing. Nothing. Zip. Nada. It's not that I'd received so much for Christmas. Our gift-giving this year was limited to grandchildren and a very low dollar limit on the adults. But for some reason, as I browsed the clearance racks, I couldn't find a thing I needed. What's worse, I couldn't find a thing I wanted. Huh. Who'da thunk it? Could it be that all of my postcon-sumerism indoctrination has finally sunk in? Naw. I doubt it.

I came home to reflect. If I couldn't find anything I wanted to purchase, why was I still feeling unfulfilled? An empty nagging hole remained. Perhaps meditation would help. I visualized the "hole in my soul," a cavernous ravine near the pit of my stomach. What could fill this gnawing chasm? What was it I really, really wanted?

Softly, slowly it came to me. I wanted--dare I say even needed--an outlet for my creativity. And where does one look for such a commodity? I thought of all the things I love to tangibly create. I'm happiest when I'm writing or scrapping. There's something about the tactile sensation of paper textures, the scent of inks and glues, the splash of colors and text that ignites that creative spark in me. Yet, simply creating has not been enough it seems. I have always crafted scrap pieces and cards for friends and family. And what has been my reward? Probably the gratification that someone appreciates my work. Hardly a purely altruistic motivation. No, simply creating was not enough. I needed to give that gift to someone, a stranger, without the certain knowledge of appreciation.

So I desired an outlet for anonymous, creative giving. Now I ask you--is that a tall order or what? Turns out--not so much. I googled "card making" and "donating" and one of the first sites to pop up on my search list was an organization called Operation Write Home. This is a grass roots group that crafts homemade, blank greeting cards and distributes them to service men and women to keep in touch with their families while they are deployed. Score!

Isn't it funny the way the God comes through for you when you simply ask? And isn't it lucky that this postconsumer convert still knows where to shop?

So, my friends, I'm off to craft my first batch of cards for the worthiest of strangers. Now if that Christmas tree would only take itself down. Sigh...

Season's Greetings

It's official. I am a season's greetings slacker. That's right. I have unabashedly exited the postal list off-ramp and merged onto the cyber on-ramp. Every Thanksgiving I start out with good intentions: to write personal Christmas notes, to craft individual cards. And then by the second week of December I have fallen hopelessly behind schedule. By the week of Christmas I'm so snowed under, a Troy-bilt Blower couldn't dig me out.

So I admit defeat, and I resort to emailing my holiday missives. Sigh...

And I've actually reached the age where I send those obnoxious pictures...not of my kids...not even of my grandkids...but of...well...my dog. I know it's insufferable, but...she's just so darn cute! Okay so we had to take the pictures fast and the hat only lasted as long as the chew stick did. But you've got to admit she's very photogenic.

So here in no particular order is a list of CoCo's Canine Christmas Carols:

 

"Up On The Woof Top"

"Happy Howlidays!"

                        

"Bark the Herald

       Angels Sing"

                      

"Fleas Navidad"   

"I Saw Mommy Lickin' Santa's Paws"  

and:   (drumroll please)

"I'll Have a Blue Christmas Without Chew"

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

CoCo Chanel

 



The Kitchen Garden Novice Decks the Halls

Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.

Buddha



My nephew posted this quote to his FB page recently. Seems like a sound aspiration. (And something to which I try to adhere.) But Christmas is one of those times of year when staying in the present becomes a quest of Quixotic proportions. Take for instance yesterday morning, when I decided to decorate the Christmas tree. Immersed in holiday happiness, I pulled the first ornament from the bin. In the blink of St. Nick's eye, I was transported back in time.

I know what you're thinking: rosy cheeked cherubs, carols, nativity scenes, and holidays past. But that's at somebody else's house. That's not how we roll. For years, hubby and I choose to find Christmas ornaments on each of our summer vacation trips to here and yon. We don't buy T-shirts, hats, or teaspoons. We buy Christmas ornaments. And so, at Christmas time we remember those far-away ports of call.

As I decorated. I reminisced. There was the bulb we picked up at hubby's pilgrimage to Graceland, a visit I almost ruined for him with my snooty, snarky attitude. (I was not very enlightened then.)

       I unwrapped the little mouse

       with the wine rack

       we'd picked up in

       California wine country.

       (She was, I confess,

        accompanied home

        by several bottles of

        Pinot and Chardonnay.)

There was the hand-painted

sand dollar we picked up

at a boutique in

Myrtle Beach on a trip
when we pulled into town

in the wake of

Hurricane Charlie.