Aromas, Taste ... and plain old Beauty

My kitchen is so wonderfully aromatic right now. I re-created an exquisite stew – an unlikely concoction of funky cool ingredients that you would never guess would come together to present such a flavor explosion in your mouth – and nose. I bummed the recipe from my dear friend, whose one and only luxury is quality groceries. She spends money on food, while living exceedingly simply otherwise. She fed me one evening – explaining the dubious ingredients in this amazing presentation of nutrition – and I’m forever spoiled by its pleasurable’ness. Seriously – the taste in my mouth walks me straight to the doorway of near ecstasy. Now I have those leftovers taunting me from my refrigerator. Oh my! I may become an Epicurean because of this food.

epicurean [ep-i-kyoo-ree-uhn] adjective: 1. fond of or adapted to luxury or indulgence in sensual pleasures; having luxurious tastes or habits, especially in eating and drinking.

Oops. I am already an Epicurean. Hee hee hee.

Pleasure is a wide and wonderful concept. Someone recently explained to me that those of us who live alone, i.e., who are currently without a mate, use food as a substitution for intimacy –- for touch. For sex. I laughed at her, but now I’m starting to reconsider the idea. She explained that anytime she was seeing someone, her appetite for food waned. Her appetite for food was replaced by a diet of companionship and, yes, sexuality (even in a wholesome way). The replacement had the positive side-effect of weight loss, thereby making her more appealing to her companion. Hmmmm. I’m really loving my food these days. A formidable church lady called me on this tonight. It was truly a telling moment! I'm still amused and bewildered by her insight (though she does read my blog).

But seriously – smell and taste are hugely linked to associations – to memories. I can still remember the smell of the cologne an old boyfriend wore. A waft of David’s fragrance can slam be back to 1986 and cause me to nearly swoon with new love and passion. Smell is not limited to romantic memories, of course. From time to time I dab-on some Chanel No. 5 and it gently spirals me back to 1969 – a kindergartner tentatively handling an eyelash curler and running my fingers over a jeweled brooch – then repositioning a small, stuffed leather elephant that stood guard on the corner of my mother’s dresser. Though I could not define it at the time, I knew that I was extending my hand into an area of intimacy -- and it was lovely -- like her knee as she drove the car, smooth and lovely in its nylon stocking. I understood the sensuality of my mother's leg from the viewpoint of a 4 year old girl. My own daughter has told me that she has experienced the same thing. That moved me -- to be thought of as beautiful by my daughter in the same obscure manner as I beheld my own mother.

My son simply says, "You're so pretty, Momma," out of the blue sometimes. That is equally as moving. To be considered beautiful is "soulfood" for anyone. Men and women alike. Beauty [byoo-tee] noun: 1. the quality present in a thing or person that gives intense pleasure or deep satisfaction to the mind, whether arising from sensory manifestations (as shape, color, sound, etc.), a meaningful design or pattern, or something else.

I would add to those sensory manifestations smell and taste! I think those senses are also hugely affecting in an individual's determination of beauty. Well, at least for me.

During one of my rehearsals this week, I smelled Estee Lauder. One of my grandmothers wore Estee's White Linen and sometimes Youth Dew. She had this lovely sterling -- or was it ivory? filigreed mini-flagon pendant that held her perfume. These are very distinctive memories and aromas and they are forever a part of me. I was swept away for even the briefest of moments into a comforting embrace of smell association. Taken to a place where I knew that I was loved -- cherished -- cared for. The smell of cigar smoke can do it to me, too. I don't LIKE the smell of cigar smoke, but it inevitably makes me remember my father and that is good. There is a smell in David's office when I enter through that closed door. It's not definable, really -- it's just the smell of his life. Our daughter claimed a bottle of his cologne so that she could dab it on her pillowcase. I know that smell all too well. It's beyond that. It's the combined smell of leather and paper ... and all the rest of his stuff! His clothes, his shoes ... and all sorts of other things. I become overcome with a myriad of sensations, of memories, and of emotions when I enter that room. I do what I need to accomplish and then I leave. Those are feelings that are difficult -- painful, but at the same time, I'm not ready to part with the feelings because they are of my marriage -- my husband. David was a beautiful man -- in so many ways. His face, his voice, his words, his heart, his smell -- And yet, somehow I need to deal with the stuff that's in that room.

But back to taste -- flavors -- pleasure. Is it true that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach? I know that my man loved my cooking! But, heck, I'm ready to say it's the way to anyone's heart. If you promise to feed me, I'll be there! I'm a good cook and I love to feed special people. Food isn't a substitute for intimacy, it's a vehicle for intimacy. My most beloved family events have been meals; the family dinner has always been sacred in my life -- with my parents and sisters and then with my own family -- my husband and children. So who's to say that we empty-nesters can't continue this sacrament? I now break bread with friends -- frequently! and am blessed greatly in doing so. I am definitely enjoying my food ... and drink :-) And I am exploring new avenues for relationship. I'm not afraid of it, though it's a little foreign. Moving from that exclusive marriage thing into a broader realm of friendship is fresh and gratifying, but it can sometimes make me sad. Of course it can. It's not what I planned. But it is my reality. And I do find beauty in my sisters and friends -- beauty in their souls, their hearts, their purring voices as they pray, their soft love-worn and pain-worn faces.

So for now I'm going to continue to enjoy my cuisine. I will breathe-in the new aromas of new people -- of new foods and new situations. I'm going to continue to feel my way through this maze of singlehood. Did I really type that word? Ouch. Okay, let's go back to the more standard "empty nester" definition of the new me. Dang. That doesn't really cover it. I'm single. I'm single. My husband died. I am a widow. Breathe that in! I'm not sure that uncleaving is a realistic goal. I think I need to re-evaluate what I'm going to be able to accomplish here.

For now, perhaps a little winter squash stew over a whole wheat couscous will assuage my hunger for something else -- intimacy that really doesn't seem to be forthcoming at this juncture. That's okay. I'll embrace my daughter in three days -- then have both of my children in my presence in a week -- in our home, around our table for an amazing Thanksgiving meal. Life goes on. Love is tangible. Family is everlasting. Friends are precious. I'm going to be okay. In spite of everything ... I'm going to be okay. There is beauty in my life. Perhaps I'm not so much the object, but more the beholder these days, but that's okay.

The Meditations of My Heart

Prayer ... has always been my companion -- for as long as I can remember. I'm pretty much in prayer all the time -- in a continual conversation with my creator (David would appreciate that aliteration). But in the last several years, my intentional prayers have waned. That daily time set apart -- to pray for others, to give thanks, to ask for stuff, to confess my crookedness -- has not been a discipline practiced, intentionally, like it used to be. You know ... it takes effort -- intentional prayer. It takes energy. I guess I've been using my emotional and mental energy in other areas of my survival. However, that ongoing, unintentional, second-nature conversation with God has been my comfort and my friend.

Here's what I know. I know that God has been completely in-tune with what Leslie has been going through. I know He's been right beside me every painful step of my way. I know that He already knows the words of my lips and the meditations of my heart so truly that I haven't had to utter them. That knowledge -- that faith -- has kept me vertical. I love that it's okay that my prayer life has basically been, "Help me. Help me. Help me." (Thanks, Deb.) But I've also managed to muster-up several, "Comfort them. Bring them Peace." prayers -- for special people also struggling -- with sorrow, with loss, with broken hearts. I haven't been completely of myself!

Last night I went over to my little church for Sunday Evening Prayers. It's a new, organic gathering of just a very few souls -- special souls. We gather simply to pray. We pray alone, silently -- then we pray together. What a radical idea, right? We even touched each other. We held hands. We prayed for our church, for our children, for each other. And we were forever altered. There's nothing quite so intimate as praying together. Have you ever done it? Try to imagine being angry with someone when you're praying with them. It's nearly, if not entirely, impossible. Try to be jealous, boastful or rude. Nope. I don't think you can be (unless you're one of those hubris-filled pharisees showing off at the back of the temple). Prayer literally changes people. It changes me. It can change you. And it can effect change in others. It feels good to be praying with purpose again -- beyond my own survival.

Tonight a few things have been going on. Dear friends of mine lost their mother. She was old and had lived a long and wonderful life, but her death is still sorrowful. A mother lost. My heart is heavy and I pray for comfort and peace for my sweet friends and their children. Also, a friend of my daughter's shared that she was struggling with a bit of sadness. I don't know exactly what her family life is like, but I felt the mama-bear'ness roar and all I wanted to do was to hold her and stroke her hair and tell her everything was going to be alright. Across the miles, all I managed to do was to tell her that I loved her, but I think that was enough for now. I prayed love and care upon her. I hope she "knows" that blanket of care -- my small, but heartfelt attempt to bless her. Lord, this is a prayer for people who don't pray ... (who MAY not pray ...)

I have been the object of boatloads of prayer. It's been over two years since my husband's death and I still know there are people praying for me DAILY. Can you imagine a more humbling realization? Many, many years ago, I sat in front of the desk of the Dean of Women at my college -- a small, Presbyterian school. The beautiful, silver-haired woman of God who sat before me opened her checkbook and showed me my name and my sister's name amongst a myriad of scribbles in and around the three-year calendar. She let me in-on her powerful secret: She prayed for us DAILY. Our mother had died and that tugged at her heart and she was called -- commanded, really -- by our Lord and God to raise our names in prayer -- for COMFORT and PEACE. To this day, I love and cherish her beautiful faith -- lived-out right there in front of me. Nancy Paxton was a true role model for me. Thank you. You humble me.

David wrote a song about praying for people who don't pray ("Lord, This is a Prayer," Silent Conversation). After writing the song, he was humbled -- felt quite "put in his place," because the very soul about whom he wrote the song later said to his very face that he was praying for David! David never forgot that -- how he had assumed that this man had no prayer life -- that he had no faith, no belief system. David was sent to his knees in humility with that one -- and henceforth, introduced his song with the story of the young man from North Carolina. From a renewed view, he continued to pray for the downtrodden. Part of that was of gratitude for the blessings showered upon him in the form of prayers for him. Thousands of people actively prayed for David, especially during those last weeks of his life. I had to step back sometimes to take-in the enormity of that reality. THOUSANDS of people prayed for David -- for me, and for our children. Pause here. Consider this. Yeh. My husband had that broad an impact.

Thank you, God, for choosing me to be your instrument. Hmmm. God, WHY did you make me an instrument in this??? A fiercely independent woman with strong ideas, opinions, intellect and her own talents -- in the humble position of the undergirding, supportive wife of this "prophet with a guitar?" ... a woman who had already known great loss -- the death of her mother -- her father -- her grandparents. What the heck!? Gratitude? That's a tough one. I turned my face away. I stopped praying intentionally. I knew that God understood, but we were at odds with one another ... Still, I knew the truth. God is and was and always will be. God was already there.

Thank you, merciful, loving, grace-filled God. You know me and love me. Phew.

Please shower your love and comfort upon my dear friends as you welcome their beloved mother at your table. Blanket my daughter's precious friend with your unrelenting love. Protect my children with your powerful and fierce mercy. Carry me upon your velvety wing into tomorrow as I, again and again, attempt to glorify you. I'm so tired. Thank you for your amazing, saving grace.

Already, david m. bailey
from the top of the ladder to the end of the rope, in the fullness of joy, in the absence of hope, when you're lost in the crowd, when you feel all alone, when you're close to the fire, when you're far from your home; wherever you are, whatever your care, God is already there. when the river is dry, when the sun doesn't shine, when the shadows are long, when you're all outta' time, when the people you love you cannot comprehend, when you want to be real but can only pretend; wherever you are, whatever your care, God is already there. when the road makes a turn, when the detour is long, when the war has begun, when the border is drawn, when you're dying to sing but you can't hear the song, when your left becomes right and your right becomes wrong, when you feel you've arrived but not sure you belong, when you're true when you're blue, when you're weak when you're strong; wherever you are, whatever your care. God is already there.

Sunshine and Shadows

Just when I think I'm doing better, something strikes me. I'll call it a shadow -- and all of a sudden, I'm not so okay. I'm weepy. I'm broken. I feel like I did a year ago ... caught in a shadow. Today, I couldn't get a jar lid off by myself and it almost made me cry. Good grief -- I was feeling sorry for myself because I don't have a really big and really strong man at my beck and call to exhibit his manliness by coming to my rescue. Neither, of course, to sit down beside me to share a much-appreciated meal of homemade soup that I labored to create. One thing leads to another. Stubborn jar lid --> Nobody here with whom to share my lunch --> Sorrow. Shadow. (And I worked up a sweat and strained my wrist getting that lid off, too. Ridiculous.)

It is true that I spend more and more time in the light than the dark these days. I laugh more than I did just a few months ago. I have a litte more energy for things that I used to enjoy from time to time -- or at least enough to consider doing things that I used to do. That's an improvement from total dismissal of the idea of pulling a weed or washing a pair of dusty curtains. Last winter I was tired of the extra weight I had put on, so I started running -- employing an enormous store of mental will. After losing absolutely no weight and with the progression of spring into a very hot summer, I quit running. Though I do walk with a few friends here and there, yesterday I decided to grab my iPod with my hip playlists and go out for a walk -- and some running -- all alone. It was an extraordinary day -- lots of sunshine, a sweet breeze, and an abundance of dancing shadows. I was born in the autumn and it really is my favorite time of year. I feel like new life is breathed into me when the temperatures drop and the blue of the sky deepens when unhindered by the hazy filter of summer heat. I can smell the fragrance of pine and harvest -- fresh and clean. And there are no pesky insects buzzing around me or cuffing me in the face when I'm running. It's so freeing.

A song by Switchfoot came on in my earbuds -- "Sunshine, won't you be my mother? Sunshine, come and help me sing. My heart is darker than these oceans. My heart is frozen underneath." I looked up at that brilliant sun -- and knew I had no mama. My heart has been dark lots of times in my life. I stopped and prayed that it wasn't frozen deep down inside of me. I wonder if it really is. Is my heart frozen? The song went on ... "We are crooked souls trying to stay up straight, dry eyes in the pouring rain. The shadow proves the sunshine." Hmmmm. Crooked souls? I think that means we're human -- not divine. I make so many mistakes as a human, I guess I could playfully consider myself to be crooked. Actually, I kind of like that.

The dry eyes part I really get. At some point I pretty much stopped crying altogether. I don't mean momentary, occasional tears -- of frustration in a futile attempt to remove a jar lid -- when singing the last phrase to "What Wonderous Love is This?" -- or when a harrowing memory comes crashing into my present. I mean really crying. Yeh ... I don't do that anymore. David wrote about tears -- and having no time for them.

And then the lyrics that clinched it all: "Oh Lord, why did you forsake me? Oh Lord, don't be far away away. Storm clouds gathering beside me. Please Lord, don't look the other way." Though I try not to think or feel like this, sometimes it's simply inevitable -- again, human. Another David cried these same words -- and Jesus quoted them on the cross (Psalm 22). When we feel separated from the loving mercy of God, it really does feel like He's forsaken us -- like He's looking away -- not counting the hairs on our heads. Of course, I think my own sorrow causes ME to be the one to look away. For some souls, tragedy -- sorrow and loss -- can be enough to cause them to completely reject God. They become trapped in the mire of the shadows and miss-out on the breathtaking awareness that if there were no shadows, the sunlight would be a gift never fully realized. The shadow proves the sunshine. When we come out the other side of darkness into the radiance of surviving that very long night, we are renewed creatures. We are the objects of illuminating mercy, love and healing that can only be of God. So why, then, do we sometimes abandon God?

So as I caught a glimpse of my image cast as a shadow on a quiet country road, I understood that my moments in the shadows, though they are less and less frequent, allow me to welcome the lovliness of the sunlight -- the brighter days that I have been living the last few months. I actually embrace those dark moments. I allow myself to really attend to whatever sorrow or regret that enters my consciousness because it's all part of the process. All of my life's experiences make-up who I am -- through the perpetual forming and reforming of me. I hope I am becoming a little less crooked and a little more holy. I mean, that's the goal, right? Sanctification ... "Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all."  Perhaps my heart is not "frozen beneath dark oceans." "Shine on me!"

If I've learning nothing else through the wisdom and faith of my husband, another writer of Psalms of sorts, I've learned to love this life that is mine -- right here and right now. He wrote a lot about the plethora of more fruitful things to do in our borrowed time here than to bemoan our time spent in the shadows. And he truly lived each moment of each day in a state of heightened awareness of the gift of time and breath -- but he never knew the loss that I have known. Because of that, sometimes I eschew his words. I wonder if the tables had been turned -- if it had been me instead of him -- would his words have taken on a different imperative? I hope he would have grieved my death at least a little more than what he suggested ... In fact, I think I disagree with him on this one. I've had a lot of experience with such stuff and I've come to peace with my responses. I think I'm doing okay ... though it may be time for a good, cleansing cry.

No Time for Tears, david m. bailey
well of course it is a sad thing when a parent outlives a child
when a child loses a father because the sickness has gone wild
the pain can be relentless in the shadow of our fear
as the hours become more golden, we got no time for tears

we got time for making music, time for making love
time to think about all the things you're dreaming of
time for mending fences with friends both far and near
but baby this time around, we got no time for tears

well of course it is a sad thing
to think about your death
no one can imagine taking their last breath
so as the dark surrounds you, one thing must be clear
with every passing moment, we got no time for tears

Meetings of Beautiful Minds, Souls & Voices

Tonight I had my third evening meeting of the week. Two out of these three were choral rehearsals, which are pleasurable -- a good mix of music and fellowship. Tonight was a church committee meeting and it was a good one. I came out feeling energized and positive -- like the Holy Spirit was moderating. That's not always the case.

I am a complicated mix of social and introverted. I love my downtime -- enjoy solitary activities like knitting, reading and blogging (and Netflix) -- but also need time with my family and friends. I'm currently blessed with lots of friends and am a little lean on the family, though my son unexpectedly called me this morning. It was delightful to catch up with him for a few minutes before he had to leave for class. He gets to meet with other guitarists, other Spanish speakers, and other singers from time to time throughout the week, too. He's both an introvert and a people person. I think my whole little family is this strange mix.

David transformed from an introvert to an extrovert on the stage. Though sometimes he appeared to be reticent, if you really listened, he was putting it all out there. He often showed his very dry and sometimes hilarious sense of humor. He "moderated" those meetings with a bunch of strangers in a dark room by giving glimpses of the very depths of his heart, mind and soul -- very effectively evoking a response from his fellow conveners. But get him in a room with even friends and acquaintances, and he pretty quickly moved to the kitchen to graze on the food offerings. He tended to withdraw unless he found himself involved in an engaging conversation. Even in those preferred intimate social settings, he could tire from the socializing and long to depart -- to go home and descend into his favorite reading chair -- and I was expected to follow. This withdrawal tended to cause some conflict with us. I loved time spent with our friends in social settings, but really disliked being wifey in large groups of strangers following a concert. Of course, I was never able to attend that many of his concerts -- and he wasn't home often enough to attend many social events on weekends with me here at home. I'm depressing myself.

I guess life isn't all that different for me now. I'm still on my own attending social functions unless I can get my daughter to be my date, which she will be from time to time. I'm really blessed that not only does she seem to like spending time with me, but that she also enjoys all of my friends (consider this high praise, sweet friends). Nice, huh? My widow sister and I have even agreed to be each other's 'husband' for a couple events -- including our cousin's wedding. We were pretty much the only women there without spouses.

You know what I miss more than anything else about all of this social stuff? There's nobody to have my back -- to watch out for and watch over me. I have no champion right there in my corner -- one person for whom I am the very most important person in this whole wide world. Nobody to catch my eye from across a crowded room just to make sure that I'm okay. That person who will take my side no matter what -- but then love me enough to point out my [small] flaws and mistakes. Someone who always gives me the benefit of the doubt because he knows my true heart and my true nature. That one person who knows every single thing about me -- all my quirky idiosyncrasies (I guess that's a little redundant and repetitive ...) and also the noble and wonderful things about me. David could really pull all of that out and say it in a freaking song! His beautiful words could paint me as the most amazing girl in the world. That's how his love cast a light on me -- as exquisite and worthy of his adoration and affection. I am bereft without his love right here and right now.

Uncleaving ... I'm really bad at it.

So, for now, I guess, I keep going to my meetings. I offer my voice to a group to create beauty in sound, I offer my mind and my faith to the work of the church, I continue to spend time with dear friends and share my spirit and heart with them and find beauty in those relationships. And I continue to be, perhaps, that most important person in the world to my kids for the very brief remaining time until they find their own lifemates.

Actually, I want to be a singer in a band -- you know, like the Decemberists or something -- singing great songs in amazing harmony. One can dream ...

She's Got Style, david m. bailey

She’s pretty as a princess.  She’s careful as a cat.
She’s stronger than Gibraltar, but she’ll never tell you that.
She’s simple as a raindrop, but there’s mystery in her smile.
In a thousand different ways … she’s got style.

She can heal you when you’re wounded, but she can also break your heart.
She’s got a head for science, but she’s got an eye for art.
She never runs a red light, but she’ll go the extra mile.
In more ways I can count, she’s got style.  She’s got style.

Me, I’m clumsy as they come.  I dance with two left feet.
My shirt is always wrinkled.  I’m slow and bittersweet.
So I don’t know why she loves me or why she walked me up the aisle.
But don’t let that mislead you ‘cause she’s got style.  She’s got style.

She’ll dazzle you in denim.  She has no need for silk.
She’s the life of every party, even though she’s drinking milk.
She’s gentle as a snowflake, but she’ll beat you in a trial.
She’s more than I deserve.   She’s got style.  Yeh, she’s got style.

http://www.davidmbailey.com/audio/DAVID_M_BAILEY-Shes_Got_Styl_hifi.m3u

Changing My Pajamas

I fear I may have lost my favorite pajamas. Saturday morning I came downstairs without slipping on my robe. That's sort of uncommon for me because I keep the house pretty cold in the winter, but downstairs I went. At one point, it occurred to me that if the doorbell were to ring (I slept-in a good bit -- most people were probably properly dressed by that time), I'd be in real trouble. I would be unable to sneak past the window by the door. Hmmm. At least I was wearing underwear! because these PJ's are officially improper. They may not make it through another washing. They are so soft and so comfortable -- but the fabric is giving and tearing. There are holes in the shoulder and in the bottoms! They're nearly sheer when held up to the light. Who says flannel isn't sexy?!

Deep down in my true nature, I don't like change. I've experienced so much BIG change in my life, that any change rather traumatizes me from time to time. The winter that my dad suffered a stroke, David and I were involved in a very serious car accident. We both landed in the hospital (actually, different hospitals because we were on a county line). Though I remember nothing of the rescue efforts, evidently they used the jaws of life to cut us out of the car. I have a vague memory of them cutting my jeans. In actuality, they cut ALL of my clothes off of me: my very lovingly broken-in unwashed Levis 505's, a beautiful lambswool Aigner cable sweater -- and my beloved Woolrich parka. All destroyed. My sweet dad -- knowing me very well -- did his very best to replace everything for me to help ease the trauma from the whole event, which, of course, was huge. I ended up with a fractured pelvis -- an extremely painful injury, and a long recovery. I still have the replacement parka. It's now a little too small, but I continue wear it. That was nearly 26 years ago. Change and Leslie don't jive very well.

So how in the world did I fare through all the subsequent BIG change in my short life? Well, of course my final answer is the Grace of God. But that grace worked through me, too -- so though I don't LIKE change, I have experienced a good bit of it myself. Following the death of my mother, I developed hospital phobia. I was able to avoid entering a hospital for about five or six years until my Dad underwent open-heart surgery. That, of course, was exceedingly harrowing for me -- for all of us -- because that's what killed my mother. But there I was, in another hospital with another parent undergoing another heart surgery. My dad survived and so did I. I had to enter another hospital when my grandmother was dying. And then, just about 3 years later, there I was in the emergency room with my husband -- a tender toddler on my hip -- making the decision about where I would direct the life-flight helicopter for David's emergency brain surgery. I guess there's no great mystery why I avoid both hospitals AND change -- as, again, my life changed hugely in that moment.

I had a wonderful robe -- another gift from my father. It was an amazing full-length chamois cloth LL Bean robe in dusty rose (a very popular color in the late 80's and early 90's). If you've never had a chamois shirt or anything, it's important to know that chamois cloth improves with wear -- with washing. It gets thinner and thinner and softer and softer, not unlike my wonderful flannel pajamas. Several years ago, with the belt of my precious robe in ribbons and the collar barely hanging on, I very reluctantly said farewell. That robe made an appearance in decades of Christmas morning videos and was what I wore every morning for many years, up early with babies and sending David off to work at 5:00 am. I decided not to permanently part with it. I methodically cut it into about 12" squares for dusting cloths and set-aside a couple pieces for my kids' memory boxes. Replacing that robe was an ordeal. LL Bean no longer makes the ladies' robe. What?! So I got a men's small -- on sale. It's blue and it's not full-length to keep my ankles warm -- but it's chamois. The adjustment period was extensive.

So imagine ... if retiring an adored robe or a favored pair of pj's can send me into a tailspin, how in the world did I navigate brain cancer!? Again, only by the Grace of God. And some experience, I guess. Ultimately, the ONLY sense I made of my mother's untimely and tragic death was that, perhaps, it prepared me for the immense and intense upheaval and change that I would experience during the years that I was married to David. Still ... after almost 30 years ... that is the ONLY purpose that I can squeak-out of losing my mother. I know, I know ... it's not for me to know. But who doesn't want/need to understand such things!? especially when we're taught that "all things work together for good for those who love God"? I want to know. Shame on me.

All I wanted was to live a nice, long life with my husband -- side by side -- raising our children -- in good health and deep joy. Ha ha ha. I do believe in free will and I don't believe I'm a puppet in God's hands ... and do believe that there's a big plan, but I have to say out loud: I don't like this plan. When I look at other families who have apparently normal lives -- that is, two parents living in a cozy home with their happy and healthy children who gaily gather for holidays -- I am so envious! I actually feel physical pain, right in the heart area. And then I feel badly. I "should" be happy for those who are happy, right? And I do ... but, hey. Dang.

For a girl who hates change, I'm sometimes amazed that I'm still standing. My cursed (blessed) resilence has kicked-in repeatedly, I suppose. That amazing grace ... whatever. In the last several years I've lost my husband, sent my daughter to college, then sent her to the southern hemisphere and my son to college -- finding myself all alone here in a big house with a snooty dog (that is, one who rebuffs me when I have had to spend hours away from her edifying proximity). In addition to my solitary'ness, I have no grandparents and no parents! I think I'm somewhat unique in my situation. I know of only a very few others who share my forlorn existence. Good grief. This is not what I planned-on.

So what now? I mean, I can't have been David's soulmate and have it all end here, right? Right. Here's what I know: I will wear a different pair of pajamas -- one with a bit more nap remaining. I will pray for my daughter and I will pray for my son. I will look forward to our time together at Thanksgiving, which rapidly approaches. I will wear that blue chamois robe and be thankful for its warmth as I attempt to leave a smaller environmental footprint and incur a lower electric bill (though with cold ankles ...) -- and I will forgive the RBD for her snubbing me when I get home from a long day and, instead, scratch her ears and let her lick my face. I am not alone. I have a home. I have food and I have beloved family and friends. I'm okay. But I'm really hoping for my remaining flannels to hang in there for awhile. I can only handle so much change (loss) at a time. Okay?

The Heart of the Home

Today was pretty much a perfect day. Right now, the fading sunlight is coming-in through the blinds with that golden glow -- what my brother-in-law called "the light." I always think of him when this happens and that's somewhat often here in central Virginia as a perfect autumn day begins to wind-down. Today, the temperature didn't get above 55. The sky was deep blue with only a scant cloud. It was windy. I spent a bit of time with two dear friends and ate some good food. I even went for a long walk. It was a nearly perfect day. I think it's almost time to light the fire.

I lit my first fire last night. This is always an important day! It has to be cold enough to draft and I need a reason to spend time in the cozy back room of my home -- where the kitchen is -- to keep my eye on it. It's a great place to sit and visit or sit and read -- or sit and knit, especially when young girlies assemble -- all chatty and excited about creating something. I usually light candles, too, so it's really cozy. I love a fire. I love my hearth -- the heart of my home.

We have had a fireplace in every house we've lived. When we moved into this house, there was an alcove where a gas stove might reside -- but no fireplace. It troubled us! We slid our entertainment center back into that alcove for the first few years we lived here. Then we finished the garage into a family room -- so were finally free to build the requisite fireplace! When we lit our first fire in this house, we breathed a huge sigh of contentment. It finally felt like a real home.

David was a good firemeister. Though his favorite place to sit and read after a long day was in the new family room, during the cold months, he usually remained here in the back of the house. We never did figure out what to call this room. In reality, it's the kitchen -- but it was actually the family room, too -- I thought, maybe, parlor -- but that's just too stuffy for us. The reading room? Maybe ... the fire room? That doesn't flow off the tongue easily. It remains, simply, and non-poetically, the back room. Nonetheless ... the firemeister was as crucial to Bailey life as the dishes-doer. This back room gets very cold overnight from November through March. It's not easy to abandon those warm covers to descend to the dark, coldness of a midwinter kitchen to prepare breakfasts and lunches for schoolgoers. It's much more easily accomplished when you know that there is a roaring fire just waiting to welcome you into the day, announced with a delivered cup of good, strong coffee. The firemeister provided both of these delights. I miss those mornings.

So I just lit the fire. I'm pausing to glance over to see if the one match was sufficient. That's very important, don't you know -- a one match fire. Alas, it is burning well. David would be pleased. Heck, I am pleased. I have plenty of wood brought up to the back door from my hurricane preparations, so that will hold me for a while. I have some reading to do, so I'll just hang out in this room tonight. My feet are already getting hot. I may have to remove these handknit socks of mine.

I need to buy some more wooden kitchen matches. I have one box of the strike-anywhere matches left, but don't want to squander them. They were hard to find! and, it seems, that Ohio Blue Tips are no longer made. A few Christmases ago, I got David some neat stuff to go along with our new fireplace. I got him a really handy leather wood carrier that settles perfectly into the hoop log holder that we have. I also got him a cast iron match holder into which you slide a whole box of kitchen (or strike anywhere) matches and they are dispensed out the bottom. It's really cool -- and is the same functional design as the old cat match box that my mother brought from her family home which held residence above our old gas stove in that New Hampshire kitchen. Sadly, we never managed to get the proper mortar drill bits to mount this new one onto the bricks under the mantle. I need to do that sometime! Of course, we also have a popcorn popper and a flue pull -- all in wrought or cast iron. But now it's just me using these things. I just felt a little sad in this moment. Thankfully, I'm handy with a fire.

I just got up to stir my stew. The kitchen smells wonderful -- a heady blend of fire and savory broth. It's nearly intoxicating. However, tonight, the heart of my home is rather quiet -- just me and the RBD (really bad dog). The cold winds outside my door promise coming activity here, though -- the homecoming of my kids for Thanksgiving. I am starting to count the days. For is a home really a home with just one? I just don't know.

A friend told me about someone she knew -- a woman who had been widowed -- but who had found love again. That alone is unremarkable -- but there's more. The wonderful man who now loves her had the diamond from her first engagement ring made into a new ring that symbolized this new loving commitment for each other that embraced the love she would always have for her first husband. Read that again. It's a beautiful thing. I look around my home and see countless pictures of David -- with me, with the kids, by himself -- and so many things that were his -- or were ours together. I can't imagine just getting rid of them because of a new relationship. This makes deep sense to me. I don't think I will ever be able to empty my heart, my soul or my home of David. Any man would expect me to do so would surely be a man who neither knows me nor loves me well. That sounds rather unyielding, but I think it's very true. If a dead man can scare a guy off, that's no guy for me. Most importantly, David is part of the heart of our home -- he's a part of my children and he's a part of me. For me to remove him from my heart would injure my children -- and myself. Our home would no longer be whole.

I pieced a quilt top a long time ago -- but never finished the quilt. I will one day, I hope -- because it's really quite special. One of the center blocks is called "Log Cabin." It has a hearth -- the center block -- which is usually some hue of red because it symbolizes the heart around which the cabin is constructed. Of course in these modern times where we don't rely on our hearths for our very subsistence, it becomes more symbolic. But in this home, we do gather around the hearth as it is in our kitchen. Though we could get a bigger Christmas tree if we put it in the front window, every year its place remains by the hearth because that's where we want to be. It is where all of our hearts come together. I love that.

Oooohhh -- I'm seeing purple and green flames now. I tossed in a couple of those color-changing pinecones, also an old Christmas present. Now my fire is flashy as well as hot. And my stew is ready. I'm out of wine, sadly ... so I'll have to settle for milk. But that's okay. It will go better with the experimental cookie I'm going to nibble for dessert. Then I'll move closer to the hearth to settle-in for a nice, warm read.

Baking Cookies

I baked cookies last night. These days, that's a rare thing. It used to be a norm for me. What got into me? No kids here to eat them ... and what with trying not to eat sweets ... It was because I got some new materials.

After hearing about the possibility of whole wheat not being as good a friend to me as I always thought, I decided to branch-out a little. I've been looking for spelt spaghetti because I've eaten it and it was pretty good! So far, none of the stores that I have visited have had it for sale. I'm going to have to drive a little further and shop a little "higher." But I did find some brown rice spaghetti and rice flour at a local Mennonite grocer. I thought I'd blend oat flour and rice flour to make my cookies. My recipe is already a little out-there. I formulated it a few years ago. It makes a pretty tasty cookie with no butter or shortening and no white flour or sugar. I don't tell and even the neighbor kids eat them. That makes me smile. Anyway -- trying new ingredients really requires a return to the laboratory. And tonight, I failed to measure and take notes. Mistake! (And poor scientific method ...)

The first cookie sheet was more of a cookie bar -- but I cut them up and they taste pretty good. They don't look like cookies. The second batch was the closest -- they spread a lot -- were thin, not unlike my Grandma's chewy, gooey chocolate chip cookies, but they were still not quite right. Then I added too much flour, so the last couple dozen were pale, cake-like and dry. I need to split the difference next time.

David had quite a reputation as a cookie connoisseur. In addition to coffee, his affinity for baked sweets was a well-known thing. Sometimes concert hosts would provide gift baskets for him in his hotel room -- Starbucks coffee and chocolate chip cookies. He could be found shamelessly scouring and sampling the goodie table at any given event -- especially BEFORE church fellowship hour. When I met him back in college, he had this red tin that actually said, "David's Cookies" on it. A nearby aunt would lovingly bake-up batches for him and deliver them to school. He loved that! When he graduated, she gave him the tin to keep. I have it in my tin cabinet -- lots of containers for sweet things contained ...

At the other end of his life, in Hospice, his sweet tooth was encouraged and doled-upon. Beloved from our church made certain that he had a continuous stock of cookies. I remember him sitting up, craning his neck to get a good view of the offerings of the day -- pointing up to the mantle above his fireplace, trying to decide which cookie he wanted at that moment. I'd uncover a plate or open a tin and he'd peek in -- maybe take a cookie/maybe gesture toward another one. It was really pretty amusing. He did hone-in on one specific cookie more often than not. I will never forget the evening our congregation held a small, private memorial service for David. Saints freely shared their David stories -- and there were a lot of them! This special cookie baker expressed heartfelt gratitude for his declaration that her cookies were his favorite. And they were. Her cookies were also delivered in an old, battered tin, (one which now gets passed back and forth between that baker and this baker as packages of care for each other). I just looked down at the stool under my desk where I typically stow our tin while I contemplate what to fill it with for its return (I was taught never to return a dish empty, so that's how this all got started) ... but it's not here! She has it! She'll no doubt leave it in my seat at church some Sunday -- blessing me again. Her cookies lightened David's heart and his love for those cookies brightened hers. Sweetness (pun intended).

But back to baking. For me it's both an art and a science. (And I can experience some hubris from time to time -- like when someone tastes my Colonial Brown Bread and an expression of euphoria transforms their face. hee hee.) I love the way the ingredients work together -- the chemical reactions. When should I use baking powder instead of baking soda? Do I need an acidic ingredient to make that work? What, exactly, does a fat do? How much of that do I really need? Stuff like that. Back when my kids were still in Middle School, I used to bake our bread. I mean all of it. I fiddled with a few different recipes until I came up with one that had the ingredients that I wanted, made a soft bread that they would eat (like potato bread) and was sliceable for the sandwiches I put in their lunches every day. After a good bit of experimenting -- and that's what it was -- I finalized my whole wheat potato bread recipe. It took several hours about every ten days or so to make two perfect loaves. Batch after batch -- each loaf was perfect. That was a successful formula -- I mean recipe.

In and about my research on ingredients, I came across writings from other bread bakers. They're a pretty unique subset. Many find the act of kneading the dough to be therapeutic. I don't mean for arthritis! I mean mentally and emotionally healing. A few recipes that I considered in my quest for the perfect sandwich bread had you kneading for ten minutes! That's a long, long time -- I didn't incorporate those in my final result. Anyway, the next time I made my bread, I considered the idea of therapeutic kneading. Nah. For me, it was just function. I only had to knead for, say, 3-5 minutes. I wasn't necessarily impatient with the kneading, but mostly just wanted to finish and get the dough rising -- where the real science is exhibited. (I'm sure I'm a disappointment in the minds and hearts of some purist bread creators.) But I do miss the me who baked bread, so maybe there was something spiritual to it after all.

Who was that person in contrast to who I am now -- a tragically imperfect cookie baker? I certainly am different. Back then, life was pretty content. David was healthy, though travelling. The kids were well-adjusted and happy. I had the time and the mental energy to tend to flowers and a large vegetable garden -- and do a lot of baking. I don't remember being burdened with such an overwhelming stack of paperwork all of the time or being worried about money. Was I just more organized and maintained a productive daily routine? Yes, I think I was. I did have more time because I hadn't returned to work yet. And I didn't squander time like I fear I do now. I've forgiven myself for this, of course, in light of the events of the past few years, but I really think I need to address it. Do I need to focus on swinging my habits, my energies, my personality back to being more on top of stuff? I think I do. Or do I?

Change. Yes, I'm different. But did the core of who Leslie is change? Did I undergo my own chemical reaction? That's the big question, right? Can people change? Do people change? I think yes. But in what ways? I think our hearts soften when our hearts are broken. I also think sometimes are hearts are hardened when our hearts are broken. Softened or hardened (like butter in a recipe ...) does that only slightly alter our core being? or actually change it?

Thinking back to my younger days, I was always very busy doing something. Usually creating something, whether it be music or food or some kind of handcraft. I liked to sew and did quite a bit of that. I quilted. I made baskets. Of course I knitted and did some crocheting. I also had a pretty clean house and kept up with my paperwork. I had lots of friends and spent a lot of time with them, too. I was moving. I didn't do so much resting. I think that's sort of the bottom line for me. I have been resting for so long that I'm out practice with keeping up with life. It's not a easy swing, but I think I am moving in that direction. Now, of course, this writing business keeps me sitting for hours each week that I could be up doing other things. I'm not ready to give this up, though --

I think I'll make sure that I work on this new cookie recipe sooner than later. I need to do a little research on the measuring standards and qualities of different flours and how recipes may need to be tweaked when using them. Perhaps they react to leavening agents differently than gluten flours. Who knows, but the act of looking into it -- and then applying what I discover -- will feel more like me. Sure, it would be nice if my reliable taste-testers were here -- David (a really valuable food critic -- and he liked those whole wheat cookies!) and my kids, of course. But they are not here. My life is different now. Maybe I'll seek-out fresh opinions on some new-fangled experients. Any volunteers?