bare, brown horizon
give me ugly days, the way
to see through forests
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
gifts we made
Between two handmade shows (which I completely failed to photograph) and a slew of handmade gifts, my Bernina saw a lot of thread this holiday. Although I scheme and cut and piece weeks in advance, I never seem to be able to sit down at my machine until midnight before the item is needed. But somehow it all gets done and, hmmm, now I guess I know why I slept almost the entire Christmas Day. Here's what I've been doing in the wee hours of the morning:
:: A couple of days before Christmas Eve, when we planned to exchange stocking gifts with my siblings, I saw this modern take on the coaster and pulled out my stash of felt. Each sister received a custom color palette and, for perhaps the first time in my handmade career, I kept a set for myself.
:: Homemade bread is a familiar smell in this home, particularly when gifts are in order. Our everyday oatmeal bread sees the oven most often, and flies out of here. I have a hard time deviating. This month I've been flattening out the dough after the first rise, spreading it with cinnamon, brown sugar and raisins, and rolling it back up. The cinnamon-raisin trick would probably work great with our flax seed bread, too.
:: Over the last two months, I have made more than two dozen sweater texting gloves and sold and gifted nearly all of them. So, if you wonder who is snatching up all the wool and cashmere sweaters at Goodwill, now you know. And if you want a pair, let me know. I'm working on a new stash.
:: What does a girl do with all the leftover thrifted wool and cashmere sweaters? Why, make a fabulous sweater blanket, of course. Piecing 12" squares, this two-sided upcycled blanket became a gift for my brother and his wife. It was kind of hard to part with, but since I sewed the blanket together 12 hours before I gave it to them, I didn't have a lot of time to covet it. Plus, I think they liked it.
:: Finally, to satisfy my desire to be a bootlegger, I concocted a little limoncello. I warn anyone who receives this potent beverage, it goes down easy. Take it like medicine: Do not drink (other) alcohol. Do not operate heavy machinery. It may cause extreme drowsiness or personality changes. Hopefully good ones.
We also made a lot of these Chocolate Peppermint Bark Cookies, which were delicious, and Chewy Chocolate Gingerbread Cookies. And although I'd love to make the Chocolate Nutella Cookies my cousin posted about this week, I may have to wait until next December. Quite frankly, I am cookied out.
If you made any gifts this Christmas, please share. New ideas always welcome.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
a merry christmas
:: a house decked with a beloved grandma's favorite Christmas things
:: the magical train beneath the magical tree (from the 4 year old's perspective, at least)
:: cousins on Christmas eve (minus one cute little napper)
:: elaborate notes to Santa (he still believes)
:: Christmas morning at 5 a.m. (from the blurry-eyed mom's point of view)
:: the one and only family photo our camera captured in 2011
Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
deliberate acts of kindness
This Advent season, more than any other, I have been awed by the stories I've heard of people giving gifts to strangers.
A friend from church mobilized her co-workers at a local restaurant to adopt a family of illegal immigrants (a mom and five kids) for Christmas. She collected $460. The money came from people who are struggling to make ends meet, making the generosity all the more amazing.
And then there's this incredible story I read last night of people paying off strangers' Kmart layaways and a family who lost a young daughter to cancer asking for kindnesses to be done in her honor this week. Not only are people giving in beautiful ways this season, they are motivating others to follow suit.
Last night I was able to participate in one of these breathtaking acts of generosity. I will never forget it.
A woman who practices Tae Kwon Do with my husband gave Andrew two sealed envelopes a couple weeks ago. She told him that she likes to practice random acts of kindness over the holidays. She didn't know a lot of people in need but she thought we might be able to give the envelopes to people at our church's next free community supper. Andrew mentioned to me that the envelopes each had a gift card inside.
So last night I took the envelopes with me to the Third Tuesday Supper. I had the envelopes in my apron pocket and forgot about them until halfway through the dinner when I saw a young couple with five little kids under the age of six who come to the supper every month. Although they don't look destitute, I know from brief conversations that they live on the edge and greatly appreciate the free monthly meal. I immediately thought to give them one of the gifts in my pocket.
I gave the envelope to the dad and explained that it came from a friend and I didn't know what was in it exactly, probably not much, but I'm sure with five little ones every bit counts. He was very appreciative.
About 30 minutes later I saw the mom packing up to leave and I told her the same thing.
"It could just be a $5 Starbucks card," I said apologetically.
She looked at me, her eyes awash in tears and whispered, "It had a $100 bill in it."
I sat down next to her, stunned and teary.
"You have no idea how much we needed that," she said. "It could not have come on a better day."
I told her I was so happy but I really didn't have anything to do with it. The gift was from my husband's incredibly generous friend.
She looked at me wide-eyed and said with a crack in her voice, "But you chose us."
This Christmas season when we have so little material wealth to share, we have had a couple of opportunities to pass on monetary gifts that have come to us through other sources. Both times we could have kept the gifts for ourselves (oh, yes, I was momentarily tempted to open the envelopes myself) and, really, no one would blame us. (A fellow Redbud writer has had a similar experience this holiday.)
Instead, we chose to be the vessel. And simply passed on the gift.
Because the less we have, the more we're seeing what really matters: to be an instrument of God's love and be able to witness the awesome impact a gift has on someone who is desperate for a miracle.
As a result, we are not only celebrating the incarnation of love this Christmas, we are sharing in the incarnation of love this Christmas. Nothing beats it. Nothing.
A friend from church mobilized her co-workers at a local restaurant to adopt a family of illegal immigrants (a mom and five kids) for Christmas. She collected $460. The money came from people who are struggling to make ends meet, making the generosity all the more amazing.
And then there's this incredible story I read last night of people paying off strangers' Kmart layaways and a family who lost a young daughter to cancer asking for kindnesses to be done in her honor this week. Not only are people giving in beautiful ways this season, they are motivating others to follow suit.
Last night I was able to participate in one of these breathtaking acts of generosity. I will never forget it.
A woman who practices Tae Kwon Do with my husband gave Andrew two sealed envelopes a couple weeks ago. She told him that she likes to practice random acts of kindness over the holidays. She didn't know a lot of people in need but she thought we might be able to give the envelopes to people at our church's next free community supper. Andrew mentioned to me that the envelopes each had a gift card inside.
So last night I took the envelopes with me to the Third Tuesday Supper. I had the envelopes in my apron pocket and forgot about them until halfway through the dinner when I saw a young couple with five little kids under the age of six who come to the supper every month. Although they don't look destitute, I know from brief conversations that they live on the edge and greatly appreciate the free monthly meal. I immediately thought to give them one of the gifts in my pocket.
I gave the envelope to the dad and explained that it came from a friend and I didn't know what was in it exactly, probably not much, but I'm sure with five little ones every bit counts. He was very appreciative.
About 30 minutes later I saw the mom packing up to leave and I told her the same thing.
"It could just be a $5 Starbucks card," I said apologetically.
She looked at me, her eyes awash in tears and whispered, "It had a $100 bill in it."
I sat down next to her, stunned and teary.
"You have no idea how much we needed that," she said. "It could not have come on a better day."
I told her I was so happy but I really didn't have anything to do with it. The gift was from my husband's incredibly generous friend.
She looked at me wide-eyed and said with a crack in her voice, "But you chose us."
This Christmas season when we have so little material wealth to share, we have had a couple of opportunities to pass on monetary gifts that have come to us through other sources. Both times we could have kept the gifts for ourselves (oh, yes, I was momentarily tempted to open the envelopes myself) and, really, no one would blame us. (A fellow Redbud writer has had a similar experience this holiday.)
Instead, we chose to be the vessel. And simply passed on the gift.
Because the less we have, the more we're seeing what really matters: to be an instrument of God's love and be able to witness the awesome impact a gift has on someone who is desperate for a miracle.
As a result, we are not only celebrating the incarnation of love this Christmas, we are sharing in the incarnation of love this Christmas. Nothing beats it. Nothing.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
why we should be talking about George Whitman
Two literary icons died this week and the Internet is all abuzz. But just about one.
Although he was brilliant man, much discussed and debated, Christopher Hitchens won't be the focus of this post. The social media and news outlets have his legacy covered today. And, quite frankly, I'm tired of the smug and pitying comments. There has to be more to a great man's life.
And so this post is about the other icon, the unassuming one. The one whose death should be stealing bandwidth. The one whose name you probably won't recognize.
George Whitman, an American journalist, veteran and traveler, moved to Paris in 1948 and opened a little bookstore on the left bank. Packed floor to ceiling with books, Shakespeare & Company quickly became a haven for roaming writers and book lovers and a literary landmark in La Ville-Lumière.
As a study-abroad student, massively infatuated with my new home away from home, I frequented Whitman's famous bookstore and spent hours grazing the stacks, curled up in cushioned corners and practicing my broken French on Whitman himself. To this day, I can smell the musty pages, hear the creaking floorboards and remember the warm welcome. Even before I discovered the significance of the place, I knew there was something special about that store and the man who owned it.
According to the Shakespeare & Company website, before Whitman moved to Paris, he traveled to an isolated part of the Yucatan, fell ill and was nursed back to health by a remote Mayan tribe. He was so impressed by the generosity and friendliness of these people who lived in such extreme poverty, their philosophy of "give what you can, take what you need" shaped his life forever.
Living in a little apartment above the store until he died this week at 98, Whitman managed to create a home for the homesick and be a friend to the friendless. It was simply his way of doing business.
He didn't write controversial books. He didn't try to unlock the secrets of the universe or debate the meaning (or meaninglessness) of life. He never went on a talk show or wrote an op ed piece for The New York Times. But to thousands of people, many lonely, many lost, he was a brilliant man.
Whitman showed his greatness by welcoming strangers. He left his door unlocked - all the time - so anyone who needed a place to sleep could come in and do so. He shared great books. He shared meals. He shared ideas. He shared love.
He was a beloved man in a city that doesn't really care for Americans. His bright mind, his big heart and his eccentric little shop were known among authors, readers and vagabonds around the world.
On the wall of Shakespeare & Company, these words from Yeats are penned, "Be not inhospitable to strangers / Lest they be angels in disguise."
We would all be wise to stop filling our social media spaces with pitying comments about the dead and fill them instead with Whitman's philosophy. We would then be brilliant to live by it.
Although he was brilliant man, much discussed and debated, Christopher Hitchens won't be the focus of this post. The social media and news outlets have his legacy covered today. And, quite frankly, I'm tired of the smug and pitying comments. There has to be more to a great man's life.
And so this post is about the other icon, the unassuming one. The one whose death should be stealing bandwidth. The one whose name you probably won't recognize.
George Whitman, an American journalist, veteran and traveler, moved to Paris in 1948 and opened a little bookstore on the left bank. Packed floor to ceiling with books, Shakespeare & Company quickly became a haven for roaming writers and book lovers and a literary landmark in La Ville-Lumière.
As a study-abroad student, massively infatuated with my new home away from home, I frequented Whitman's famous bookstore and spent hours grazing the stacks, curled up in cushioned corners and practicing my broken French on Whitman himself. To this day, I can smell the musty pages, hear the creaking floorboards and remember the warm welcome. Even before I discovered the significance of the place, I knew there was something special about that store and the man who owned it.
According to the Shakespeare & Company website, before Whitman moved to Paris, he traveled to an isolated part of the Yucatan, fell ill and was nursed back to health by a remote Mayan tribe. He was so impressed by the generosity and friendliness of these people who lived in such extreme poverty, their philosophy of "give what you can, take what you need" shaped his life forever.
Living in a little apartment above the store until he died this week at 98, Whitman managed to create a home for the homesick and be a friend to the friendless. It was simply his way of doing business.
He didn't write controversial books. He didn't try to unlock the secrets of the universe or debate the meaning (or meaninglessness) of life. He never went on a talk show or wrote an op ed piece for The New York Times. But to thousands of people, many lonely, many lost, he was a brilliant man.
Whitman showed his greatness by welcoming strangers. He left his door unlocked - all the time - so anyone who needed a place to sleep could come in and do so. He shared great books. He shared meals. He shared ideas. He shared love.
He was a beloved man in a city that doesn't really care for Americans. His bright mind, his big heart and his eccentric little shop were known among authors, readers and vagabonds around the world.
On the wall of Shakespeare & Company, these words from Yeats are penned, "Be not inhospitable to strangers / Lest they be angels in disguise."
We would all be wise to stop filling our social media spaces with pitying comments about the dead and fill them instead with Whitman's philosophy. We would then be brilliant to live by it.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
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