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.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you, but not from you...

Kahill Gibran

Have I conveyed to you how proud I am of my daughter?  Baby Girl was born an old soul, a child of God who has been around for eons. She's much more enlightened than I am.

Take for example this evening. I checked in with her as usual on my cell while driving home from work. (Before you jump to conclusions, let me just say that my cell conversations while driving are always "hands free.") I don't know what we did before the days of "family plan" calling contracts. Rarely a day goes by when the daughter figure and I don't reach out and touch each other via cell waves. Our daily conferences began years ago when she moved to the big city--sort of a soothing pacifier for mother/daughter separation anxiety. As the years fly by, the calls continue, although, I suspect, I am more dependent upon them than she. But I digress...

Anyway, Baby Girl proceeded to tell me about her week at work. She had scored a major victory in the office dynamics department with a boss who is beginning to value her opinions and suggestions. Did she do this by subterfuge and back-stabbing office politics? No. She quietly waited for her boss to seek her out and request her input. Then she gave her pragmatic observations on building a practice in a down economy and allowed her boss to digest and evaluate her ideas.

I signed off, thinking how lucky I am to know such a Zen master-in-the-making. I marvel at her wisdom and insight at such a young age. It occurs to me that she is just like her grandmother. My mother served for decades as a church secretary--the key word here is "served." Do you know what it's like to have 300 people who all think they're your boss? She became a master of diplomacy, a model of humility. Did those whom she served honor and value her? Absolutely.

The wonder of it all is that Baby Girl's grandmother died when BG was only twelve. In those twelve years, they were largely separated by 1400 miles. I have to deduce that the traits my daughter inherited from her grandmother are hard-wired into her genes. I'd like to take full credit for the amazing young woman my daughter has become, but...if the debate arises over whether Nature or Nurture most influenced her growth, Nature surely wins. Grandmother and granddaughter share the same intuitive grace and freedom from ego. I can claim little of the honor for Baby Girl's amazing growth. I merely stand in awe at what Nature so exquisitely designed.

And I ask you--how does your garden grow?

And Justice For All

It is in justice that the ordering of society is centered. 

Aristotle

It's hard to argue with someone who has the articulate staying power of Aristotle.  I get that. But when I am compelled to be part of the justice system, I'll be the first to confess that I drag my heals.  I'd much prefer to leave karma to take care of said justice.

For the past few years, as a student of Unity, I've worked very hard to control the ego-based urge to judge--other people, events, relationships. It's not easy, but I'm learning. This past week the Universe delivered a practical exam on the subject. 

First an incident ocurred where I was required to file a report with Animal Control over an attack by a neighbor's dog. I was torn about it. The dog certainly couldn't be blamed because the owners hadn't trained her well or assured that the gate was locked. But it was the second time the same dog had charged us as we walked down the street.  If I didn't take the initiative the dog might hurt a child.  No sooner had I made that call when the dog attacked a meter reader. Still...it was a curiously sick feeling that accompanied my interview with the AC officer.

Then, on Tuesday I was summoned for jury duty in district court. I'd never before been called to be a juror. I would be quite content to go the rest of my life without repeating the experience. It was...shall we say...a revealing exposure to some of the seedier elements of humanity and the flawed judicial process. Long story short, we, the jury were lead to convict a mother whose son threw her under the bus, even though he was as complicit in the crime as she. And his girlfriend also testified against her (although she was a worthless, whacked-out witness.) There were no innocents here. Deliberation took less than a half hour.

 Sounds pretty judgemental, doesn't it? That's what bothers me. It took one week of immersion in "judgedom" to awaken my inner Judge Judy. Errrrgghhhh. I felt...well...icky. Out of curiosity I polled the rest of the jury. "How did everyone sleep last night," I asked.

"I slept fine," stated several.

"I didn't sleep at all," related a few.

And I found myself appraising--judging each jury member by how they coped with their assignment, and how many of them felt sick like me. I had worked for two years at suppressing what some would say is a natural instinct--that ego based need to weigh, evaluate, appraise, and assess according to my own perceptions. In one short week, all my positive control had come unravelled like an old sweater. It will take weeks of prayer and meditation to repair it. Cue heavy sighing here.

Perhaps I'm being too hard on myself with these two incidents. Life is, after all, an on-the-job training course. I'm sure this won't be the last time I'm tested. Maybe that's why the Universe placed me on this path this past week--advanced life lesson learned. Check.