Thursday, January 17, 2013
I intended this Banana Bread to be a recipe that I rushed through, haphazardly mashing and mixing and eagerly waiting on the other side of the oven door, watching the timer slowly tick down the seconds, so I could shove the first slice of it into my mouth before the pan was cool enough to touch. But when I woke up that morning, I knew that the world had been turned upside down. Something was off and I walked into the kitchen prepared to hear what I thought it might be.
The strangest part about putting your dog to sleep is leaving them lying there. Like they're just sleeping. And a part of you, the part that doesn't understand, the inner child that thinks everything lives forever, she cries out because to her, it feels like you're just abandoning the pet you've loved for so long. But the older, wiser part of you knows that there is nothing else you can do, that she't not sleeping. That she's gone. That she was sick and miserable and suffering. And that you loved her enough to let her go.
So when I returned home that day, I could have stared off into space, lying motionless on my bed. I could have cried for another couple hours adding to the puffiness that had already encircled my eyes. But it's too hard to think. Too painful to sit in silence. It's good to let those things sink in, to acknowledge them, and accept them, to come to terms with them, and make peace with them. But it's also wise to distract yourself and to give yourself a break from the grief.
And so this banana bread wasn't something I rushed through, caring only of the beautiful end product. It became something to do with my hands. The whir of the mixer acted like a meditative drone and the precise measuring gave me something to focus on. It gave me something to do and helped me take a break from thinking about the sweet little dog I had just lost.
Monday, January 14, 2013
It's January at Point Lobos. Everything is green and bright orange from the lichen growing on the trees. And although deer are a common occurrence, ones that don't skid off as soon as you get too close are not. These deer didn't care and, undeterred by our presence, continued their munching and only looked up for a moment as if to say, "What? What do YOU want?" Either that or, "Come join the lovely green salad party we're having in celebration of the New Year." I think I prefer the second.
Friday, January 11, 2013
So when I said I made felt animals. I meant it. Don't judge me for naming them. They had such strong personalities that they needed names! Meet Wallace, Melody, Orel, Julip, Dot, and Zig. Wallace, Julip, and Dot are for sale on my etsy. Feel free to check it out! Just click the "My Shop" link in the top menu. Or click HERE.
I wish my life were an indie movie. Where all the girls wear glasses with turned up frames and wear yellow polka dot dresses with boots and the boys wear suspenders and court you with flowers with unique names. Where the girl has commitment issues and the boy has mother issues but they listen to the soundtrack from Moonrise Kingdom and have matching fox broaches and everything is alright because they have each other. Where even if they are in a long distance relationship they send each other long romantic handwritten letters sealed with wax and draw each other comics of them hanging out together. Where everything is quirky and beautiful for being tragically messed up and somehow that makes it hurt less.
But I think the truth is that you can add all the little whimsical elements. I can sew felt animals with button eyes and bake saccharinely fluffy treats with rainbow sprinkles, and wear bow ties and pretend I live in a pastel colored fantasy land.
But those messed up parts? Where your ex boyfriend who you were together with for 6 years and then fell out of love with for no reason. He asks for you back. And it hurts because you want him to be happy because it's your fault that he's so messed up but you can't give him what he wants. Where you finish college with the most impractical degree imaginable and you don't know how to start being an adult and everyone is expecting you to do great things. Where you finished school earlier than all your friends and moved home to a place where no one lives anymore. Isolating yourself from the people you need in your life in order to stop feeling lonely, stop feeling useless, stop feeling like you have something or someone to look forward to.
Those messed up parts. Those don't stop hurting just because you're wearing purple tights or because you baked banana bread. They continue to hurt and eat you alive because there isn't any easy way to fix them in your little pastel fantasy land where your mind prefers to be. Seriously, life is a bitch. She doesn't give you the easy button to push and she doesn't make your ex boyfriend stop loving you so you can break up with him without the pain or hurt stinging you. She doesn't let you like someone who is nearby. Oh no, she makes you get boy crazy over a guy who is literally on the OTHER SIDE OF THE COUNTRY.
So. No. Those messed up parts. They can't be fixed by frilly skirts and handmade felt animals. But if I stop doing those things. If I stop giving myself reasons that life is whimsical and weird. If I stop laughing at stupid sexual puns and calling my mom my drinking buddy. If I stop writing songs on mandolin and baking german chocolate cakes. Then those messed up parts will. actually. eat. me. alive. And we can't have that. So I'm going to pretend that my life is an indie movie. Because it's all I can do to keep moving forward towards whatever it is I'm moving forward towards. I'll find out someday I guess because the life I'm living can't not change. She does like to throw little surprises at you. And time heals all wounds, right?