When Something Comes From Nothing

A few days before our private cooking class with the well known chef (and author) there had been a deeply unsettling disaster.  As he was transferring his starter, the basis for sourdough bread, it slipped down the drain.  The starter was at least a decade old, and he had been feeding it all those years.   So there we are, in my good friend’s kitchen, listening to his story and looking at the new starter he had more recently cultivated.   Because of the crisis, he didn’t have as much as usual.  But never mind, as a longtime artisanal baker, he knew how to make more.   By leaving grapes on the counter, and letting them collect the yeast floating around in the air…. well, I forget the rest.  But, I do remember this.   There we were, a bunch of us around the counter looking at the humble beginnings of bread, in the form of a puddle, at the bottom of his Tupperware.  And with us now, knowing his story, new found awareness of its treasure.  Not too soon after, our hands were in the dough.  I forget that year but I remember that day.

And then there was the time that I took a painting class.  Well, “class” would be an exaggeration.  There was the day I signed up for Family Camp’s arts and crafts workshop, a very low risk adventure in the scheme of things.  Armed with a fold up chair, some oil paint, a brush and brief instructions, we were told to find a spot and paint what we see.   So I did.  I painted in that unfolded chair, in the warm sun.  I painted the mountain in front of me, the shadows on the lake (which were trickier than I expected) and the tall pines.   I forget the whole of that vacation week, but I remember the warmth; the shadows; and the curve of the sand where water met the land.

More recently, I volunteered to make a poster for a non-profit organization.  I wanted it to look good.  So I called up my friend Karen and asked for her help.  We decided to start by sorting through her fabrics in the closet upstairs.  And the fabric that we find-- the one that is totally right- is made by an artist in Philly, she tells me.  We are cutting it with scissors and stapling it to the cardboard, and I am wondering how fabric is actually made.   We make some tea and more art, and I leave with something better than when I came; I leave with the experience of creating something with my hands; I leave with the memory of a morning with a generous friend.

So when I am walking down the bread aisle at the store I think about a lot of things; like the giant machines that are doing the work of the baker’s hands and the conventional yeast that takes the place of the grapes.  And when I look at the mass-produced signs of paintings with words of advice about how to live life, I think about my little canvas at camp.  There are lots of things to buy in the world, except for the experiences and the memories of creating your vision.   And when you have a chance to use your hands, to create something where nothing before existed, it is something you will never forget.

Not What I Expect

She was not what I expected.   Walking toward my car in her high heels and bleached blond hair, she motioned us to the garage in back.  I shouldn’t have been surprised at this point because just a few minutes before I had driven right past her house. I didn’t think the naked mannequin for sale by the side of the road with arms flailed out in odd contortions had much to do with our destination. Certainly, the Garmin was wrong. In my imagining mind, heirloom chickens were sold from a rustic barn on acres of land, with windmills and sheep dotting the landscape.  Furthermore, the woman who would sell the rare breeds would not dye her hair. 

But anyway, there we were.  Two hours away from home on a hot August day, staring at some chicks in South Jersey, when we find out we are in for another surprise.  She had forgotten to mention on the phone that these chicks had not been sexed.   (to clarify for the non chicken owning reader: chickens can only be sexed the first 24 hours of hatching.  If they are not sexed then, you have to wait for 6-8 months to confirm gender.)  She tries to be helpful by repeating, in three different ways, that I have a 50/50 chance of getting hens.  So probably as she had planned, I buy a few extra chicks to better my odds. I might as well be on the boardwalk.

We drive home and I suddenly recall every horrible, terrible story I have ever heard about roosters.  They have spurs on their hind legs that can injure you! A farmer lost his thumb from being pecked by one!  They will have endless sex with the poor hens, pulling off their back feathers, tormenting them daily!  

So, over the next few months I try to be proactive.  I call around a few places to find a home for the chick that has now grown bigger than all the rest.  And I find out that many places will take this rooster--for auction.   In a twist of unexpected events, my fear of the unknown has now merged with my conscience.  I cannot reconcile my image as a humanistic backyard chicken caretaker with one who sentences to death a creature whose only mistake thus far was being born the wrong gender.  So, to manage my anxiety, I do the usual.  I google.  I google  “positive traits of roosters.”   And I read about how they will protect the flock from predators -even sacrificing themselves! And they hunt out the best food sources, letting the hens eat first; and, finally, -this one got me--sometimes, if raised with human hands, they can be gentle. 

There is no clear answer, I think, as I go out and give them some treats.  Only time will tell.   He has gotten so big now, that he looks just like those roosters in the paintings and on the kitchen cloths.  Who knew there might be a dark side?  But no matter, my conscience will not let me give him up yet; fear of losing my thumbs will have to be pushed aside for another day. There exists the possibility that this rooster can be different.  I give him a little pat on the back.  He might not be what I expect.

Slow Time

There I am in a tiny basement apartment, in the middle of a big city, listening to her story of single motherhood.  She is trying to strike some balance with her emotions and her obligations, her frustration with her older husband who left for a different woman.  It’s over 25 years ago and I actually forget many of the details…except for one.  We were knitting socks.  In between the easier rows I listened to her snippets of raising a daughter on her own while juggling a teaching job; and a certain kind of nighttime loneliness that got stirred up when her three year old crawled into her bed and she wondered if she was making the right decision.   As her younger colleague I had no advice to offer.  I hadn’t even really lived any “life” as of yet.    So I kept knitting and instead listened to the voices around me-among them a much more seasoned grandmother who had been through more experiences than all of us combined.   She was busy dreaming about retirement, renting a camper and traveling the country.   She was anxious to be free.  And she knew that it didn’t really matter where the little girl slept.  It just mattered that they forged through this time with each other and swallowed up the dark until the morning light.

And then, many years later, knitting a little brown hat, I am witness to the unexpected realization of a friend who is fearlessly and quite accidently journaling her way out of a marriage -though she doesn’t know it yet.  She just knows that she ran into an old “love” quite unexpectedly and it stirred her in some deep undeniable way; bits of clarity exposed about where she is meant to be at this time in her life.  The entries were hidden in her glove compartment and in a second of doubt she burned them in her fireplace that night.  But the nagging was still there (some things are hard to burn away)—not to reconnect with her old flame, rather to embrace the change on the horizon and find the place that she was actually meant to be-to answer the restlessness that was keeping her awake at night.

It takes time to sort through a lot of this stuff.   The fact that LOVE thrusts you in places you never expected to go.    Whether it be love of our children, parents, companions, or friends; or love of adventure, risk or safety. There are too many “knitting stories” to count, so many instructive life stories that connected the fears, dreams and pain of living daily life.  And the stories of these people have stayed with me; they are woven into my being. 

And in very sharp contrast, I have forgotten the viral videos I watched yesterday.  They were quick, fast and that is all—I had no real connection to them.  Though it is so easy to press play on my computer; on my phone; to feel momentarily connected while pushing back time for one more minute, and then another, until I am filled with pictures and stories of people I don’t even know.   Suddenly, a sense of isolation has crept into my life and I realize that something deep and important is missing.

Slow knitting, the antithesis to the speed of the current world, connected me in a deep and powerful way to the authentic stories of the people I was with in real time.   Time that often feels agonizingly slow when you pondering a life choice, when nothing feels clear or right; when things just feel hard.   Virtual worlds leave me longing to find my way back to my slower one, the one rich with real people struggling over daily decisions just like me.   Where the current technology keeps me abreast of the news and the weather, it does not fill that deep reservoir of my spirit, my soul, of my need to connect with people.   Knitting gives me a reason to do that.  To slow down the speed of life, to tap into the wide world of questions without answers; to feel the slowness of change in relationships, the shifts of perspective, the opening up of pain and the pleasure of friendships.  This all takes time.   Knitting time.

A Mystery Revealed.

My relationship with the car is definitely changing.  Although it might have something to do with the heated seat (I often find myself stalling when it is time to actually get out on a cold winter’s day) there is some bigger issue evolving that has taken me by surprise.

This is how I know.  Two days ago I jumped at the opportunity to pick up Will from college, a little over three hours away.  A long car ride felt like just what I needed.  Of course I listened to NPR until it got static-y- and then flipped the stations from Christmas carols to odd country stations you can really only find on the borders of NY State and the early mountains of Vermont.  (And there was no one else in the car to complain.) 

The odd part?  I distinctly remember a time in my life where a day of six hours in the car felt like an eternity.  The miles went by so slowly, the time never seemed to move.   But now—I look out the window and am completely absorbed by the changing scenery; absorbed in the solitude where I can think about anything or think about nothing.   In the car, Reality is suspended and things are on hold.  There isn’t any list to complete.  The rules are straightforward,  it is a simple formula.  Drive there.  Come home. And there in the car,  I realize I feel complete freedom from the complexities of life.  Suddenly, in the midst of the journey, I realize that I am actually enjoying the journey.  That it is the journey that I wanted, it was the journey that I needed.   And as for those  "Sunday Drivers" that always mystified me as a kid while sitting in the back of the the station wagon--itching to get out, to get there, to Arrive.   Why would anyone want to just drive around on a Sunday?   Now I know. 

The Pain and Pleasure of Expansion and Contraction

A long time ago, when I had many kids under the age of eight, there was no particular pattern.  Each day there was an equal possibility that one would need a spontaneous nap, trip to the pediatrician, or new shoes.  All time was essentially spent executing a day that included equal amounts of activity, food, diversions and negotiations, with four boys that each had their own agendas.  In fact, there was a moment in time when life was so busy that one of my friends, Kathleen, suggested we should all be keeping a running list of things to do when we finally had time free from what we then considered a form of bondage.   I was sure at that moment I would never need such a list.  As soon as these boys were on their way, I would remember exactly what it is I wanted to do.   All I had to do was look around.  There were free people everywhere! —Going to work! Reading their own books! Showering alone! Sleeping late!   They even had room in their shopping carts for food, instead of kids balanced inside and out.  Imagine.  

Well, freedom has arrived.  Now, moments have been replaced with expanses of time that feel unfamiliar.   But how ironic!  Thinking back, it was equally unfamiliar when I was suddenly including children in activities that were previously spent alone.   Along the way, however, and unnoticed by its insidiousness, my children inextricably became part of “it” all.  Now, my grocery cart only has food in it.  No kids, no complaining, no tipping, no arguing, no excitement.  The empty cart, in retrospect, makes me realize it was sort of interesting winning those tactical psychological battles without bribery; to have to rush through shopping without considering the many options for dinner; to feel that powerful feeling after cooking dinner with a baby on my back and one at my feet.  Gradually and suddenly, I am nostalgic for that moment by moment –my existence totally matters- feeling.  Now, instead, when dinner is done, the kids go up and do their homework.  And there I am in the kitchen—in this new “space”- pondering what this extra time should be used for.  What was on that list?  The sudden choice brings with it the responsibility to make the time count. The instinct to remain engaged at that super charged level consumes me; seeking to make existence matter in the way it did while washing their hair without getting soap in their eyes.  Freedom, it turns out, is a very weighty issue.