chopstick basket, part two

 

A friend on Facebook commented and asked about what it looked like, folded up. So, there it is. The chopstick basket folds up, and that's what it looks like when it does. So nifty! I love this basket more and more each day. And don't worry, Grandmaman, I have no intention whatsoever of painting this puppy.

***

Over on Kal Barteski's blog last week, people - mostly women - have been responding to Kal's request for "ugly beautiful truths." Kal started it off by admitting she writes thank-you cards but never mails them, she feels lots of pressure to keep up with the Internet's bloggers and crafters, and that she only washes the sheets once a month. It touched a chord in lots of her readers, and people felt compelled to leave their own ugly + beautiful truths. Some left their real names, some didn't. It's in the vein of "Post Secret", that website where people send in anonymous postcards with secrets. There is something very freeing about reading them, and also about writing your own. A release. 

It's gotten me thinking, certainly. Also this week, I started doing a writing exercise where I write for 10 to 15 minutes, just free writing, whatever comes to mind. Then at the end I rip up the page. Just rip it up so no-one can read it, or put it through the shredder. It's been really interesting - an exercise, literally, in letting go. I'm so used to writing in order to keep information, in order to be able to refer to it later. But with this, you really can't. You write it, then it's gone. No way to hold on to it. Even if you like the images, even if it would make a great poem, rip it up. Try it - it's really freeing.

Earlier this weekend I found myself in another town with a whole morning just to myself. No-one could reach me, I was on my own with a room (with an adjoining bathtub! So exciting for me, at home we only have a shower) and some time. So I took advantage of it. I did my daily writing exercise. As I was ripping it up, I liked the look of the random scraps, with little pieces of writing. Like mosaic shards. I arranged them. I took a picture to show you.

I also had the Globe and Mail, Saturday edition. Feeling a little guilty ("Oh, I'm ignoring world events!") but trying to let that feeling go, I only read the Style section. I came to a piece I really liked, about a designer who works with type and had made a table with her own letterforms etched in to it. I thought about keeping the page, and using it down the road in collage or somehow or other. But I decided instead to engage with it, then let it go. Here's what I did:

I didn't have any scissors. I just had my hands. So I ripped up the quote I wanted to save, and arranged it so I could fit it all in one photograph. Once I'd done that, well, there was nowhere else to go but into the recyclables. Rip up and squish the pretty, perfected plan. And then look - there's beauty there, too.

***

Then I got to writing. This past week was also International Women's Day. Some people question having such a day. "We don't need it anymore," they say. I feel like what happened on Kal's blog (what's still happening - have a look) dovetails with this holiday. Here's the free-writing I did that flowed from it.

The ugly beautiful truths

We are all here. We are imperfect. This is news? Yes, it is. Because: we live in an age of glossy magazines, of TVs that blare at us, we can't see for the glare of perfected images. Sexy and sexiness and giving in and giving it up for rewards - as women especially we are told to part our lips and make a low moaning sound. These roles can be fun but it is not all of it. It is not our every day reality.

The whole, the perfect product, comes after a lot of hard work. This is what the ugly beautiful truths is teaching me.

And I expect the opposite, I expect to just snap my fingers and have it be done. A great poem. A cake baked. A bed made. A relationship crafted and loved. A house dusted and vacuumed and kept that way. A body honed, toned. Babies raised and taught and helped to become good people. A world fair and just, with punishments for shitty deeds. A job where you feel competent and creative and conscious. A connection to the world around me, to the leaves and the trees. Actions made, having thought about them (instead of just posting crap out into the world, typing it out and hitting "post" or "send" without rereading, rethinking, letting time do its distillation of truth).

And reading these comments that women are leaving on Kal's website I see I am not the only one. We are all here, we are all imperfect. This is news? Yes, it's the daily news. It's breaking news, heart-breaking. And then, heart-making. (You've got to break things apart to make new things. Mosaics - sharp bits of ceramic.) We are all poems, we are all stories, we are all houses waiting to be dusted, we are each an equal and hearty part of a relationship in the middle of being crafted, loved. We are blood, we are feet and toes and hair and bellies, weight that stayed after making a baby, weight that came without warning, without reason, weight that won't go, weight that goes too fast, weight that just is without trying. We are hearts, minds, loves, hates, annoyed and convinced and contented and mild and strong and and and - all emotions and adjectives that men have too. We are the reason International Women's Day exists. Jill Scott asks "what would you do if I were gone?" I can't even believe the questions still exist, questioning that feminism has a need, a place.

But then again I can't believe all these amazing women have all these ugly, beautiful truths, and are ashamed of them,

and yet we do. I do.

I pick my nose.
I change my sheets three times a year, at best.
I am jealous of other women, who I should actually be supportive of.
I
I
I

I could keep going, for a long time. But I'm going to put that out there and use this exercise to get stronger. To get better at recognizing my own beauty. My own worth and inherent right to be here, imperfect as I am.

Halifax was...

...a destination for six women from Cape Breton, ever since February when they planned and bought their tickets to the concert. Two of these women are childless, but the other four are married with small kids, so the imagined respite was helpful during those long winter months.

...the place we were headed last Friday, in a new minivan with comfortable seats. Fortified with food from the Herring Choker deli - and if you are passing through the area on the Trans Canada, really, you must stop there, and I'm not just saying that because one of my best friends runs it, the food is really, really frigging good - we started laughing at ourselves almost immediately, at how eager we were to get away, at how long it had been since we'd been to the "big city". In fact, my stomach and cheek muscles were hurting only a half hour into the trip, from all the laughing. It's a good ache.

...welcoming as we drove over the bridge, having come up with enough quarters between us to make the toll. Beautiful in a late-May day, trees greening up. Fancy and sophisticated at the Lord Nelson hotel, where all the beautiful women in slim-fitting dresses and high heels with matching, rolling luggage made us feel a little bit like we were in a Lesley Crewe novel. (Since we were six loud, giggly women of various shapes and sizes in pajama pants, flip flops, carrying our luggage in an assortment of backpacks and beach bags.)

...our place to get away and be somewhere where we didn't know everyone walking down the street. Our place to look at all the people dressed so differently, different cultures and fancies and pursuits. So many different stories and lives just passing us on the sidewalk, stories and lives we'll never know.

...filled with music and love at the Metro Center. Royal Wood opened for David Gray and we sang our hearts out when he got us to sing along with him to "Ladies in White". A stranger sitting next to me (who later lent us her binoculars) told me, "You have a beautiful voice! You should be singing back-up for him!" Later David Gray took the stage and won our hearts over, all over again. His music is good on CD, yes, but live takes it to a whole new level. A few of us cried, a few of us got up and danced in the aisle, at least until the security guard told us we couldn't.

...sunny and amazing on Saturday morning. A charmed day - we ate breakfast at Cora's. Fruit and crepes and eggs and bacon and smoothies oh my!! Then went looking for Woozles, where we bought kids' books in French, toys and goodies for the little ones in our lives. Next door to this little independent bookstore was another indie gem - Love, Me Boutique. I pretty much fell in love the second I walked in the door. Scarves, pillows, art, glasses, jewelry, tee shirts, hats, felted birds, and tonnes more. Each of us picked out something and lined up at the counter, our little bit of indie, hand-made joy to take back to Cape Breton with us.

...a place to fill my sushi cravings! There isn't much sushi in Cape Breton, in fact there isn't any unless you make it yourself. And I happen to ADORE sushi. So when I go to Halifax, once a year or so (at this point - I want to make it more often than that), it's all about the sushi. This time around I tried out a place called I Love Sushi, and another called Hamachi House. Tempura sweet potato, spicy tuna, and so many more. I need to learn how to make this myself! That or get jetpacks so I can go to Halifax more often.

...a different kind of music and love on Saturday night, when I left the Cape Breton gang, who went home, and stayed another night with a dear friend. We went to a small birthday party and ended up staying up all night, fueled by pink champagne and Viva Puffs. (OK, the champagne was all me. The others made sensible choices like beer or wine. Whatever!) There was singing to old-school classics like "The Weight" and Johnny Cash, and songs that are classic to our generation like "Me and Mr. Jones" and some Blind Melon tunes.

...soothing even to my hungover head on Sunday morning, when the weather turned to rain and a few of us turned to a pub called Henry House for Eggs Benedict. I haven't had this blessed dish in f-ing years, and perhaps the last time I had it was in Halifax in 2003, before I went to Australia. Seriously, seven years is far too long. It was creamy and delicious and salty with smoked salmon and just... yeah. My brain wasn't working too well by that point but then it was the same with my companions, so it didn't matter too much. We made the kind of talk you make when all you want is coffee and orange juice and so much eggs and hash browns (and maybe sleep in another hour or so).

...getting sunny again as I got on the bus and left. I was so tired but I still stayed awake and read The Coast and watched out the window. Coming back home across the Causeway made me breathe deeply, the kind where you don't even realize you weren't breathing deeply. Like things settle inside, settle more firmly. Home again.

...good enough to form memories that will last no doubt for years. And now we're back home, back into our routines. I almost feel like there should be a glass slipper, sparkling, that I can set on the shelf and check out every now and again on my way past.

When was your last get-away?

monday musings

Hard to believe this was just a little over a week ago! I was at a beach over on the West Side. I took my boots off to cross a little brook, and kept them off to feel the sand on my toes. And now, there is something like one or two feet of snow on the ground.

This is a mid-week post, just because. Sometimes I find myself reading other blogs (like the daily Love Life blog of Winnipeg) and getting inspired to post each day. Of course, trying to actually keep up with that would probably drive me nuts - and, I'd soon run out of things to say, because I don't want to be as open about my life as she is. (And, I haven't got any babies to provide constant cute material.)

So instead I settle for random, in-between-Thursdays-posts.

My weekend was good. I got to see other parts of the island, and drive through snowy weather in a big truck that I actually felt safe in. On Sunday, after a huge snow dump (two feet literally fell overnight), and after some shovelling, I set out for a snowshoe through fresh powder. It was quite the workout for my legs, and it was also really good to get outside. Being outside by myself, for a long walk or a long snowshoe, is like taking all the furniture out of my brain, dusting it off, and putting it all back in, clean and with a new perspective.

I dropped in on some neighbours and we talked for a while. My sweat had cooled and I was getting chilly by the time I was going to set out again. So the wife of the two said, "I'll take you on the bike!" Meaning, the bright green Arctic Cat four-wheeler. This woman is an inspiration. She's tough as nails but you can see her heart melt when she talked about her grandkids. She goes hunting right along with her husband, has her own ATV and snowmobile, and talks rapturously about being out in the woods, cross-country-skiiing on a day with heavy snowfall. Being outside is her "bottle of pills," as she says. But when you meet her outside, she's also likely to have a fresh coat of lipstick, and her long nails painted pink. She's fierce and I'm glad she's on my "team."

We bungee-corded my snowshoes to the front, and I jumped up behind her. We whizzed along the dirt road - still unplowed after a whole day! - towards my house.

"Don't you wear a hat?" I leaned in close to her ear to yell this.

"I like to feel the wind!" she shouted back.

kate harding = awesome

Good goddamn, I love Kate Harding.

So much so that I'm breaking my self-imposed "only-on-Thursdays" rule and posting. On a Saturday night, no less! So I'm freely admitting that I really have nothing better (read: socially acceptable) to do on a Saturday night*** than sit and read Kate Harding's prolific archives over at Shapely Prose. And I really, really recommend you all go and take a look. (Although, if Facebook has shown us anything, it's that 350 million people are spending at least as much time online talking about socializing with real people, as they are actually socializing with real people. So why do I feel like I'm the only one "dorky" enough to be on her computer? We're all dorks, when it comes down to it.)

But I digress. Back to Kate.

She's got three co-bloggers now, so it's not all Kate all the time, but for a couple of years it was, and if you start at the beginning (September 2005) and slowly make your way forward, there is a lot of Kate-tainment there, all free of freaking charge. The girl is sharp as tacks, people.

I first got into her blog because of the Fat Acceptance thing (and more on that in future posts, I promise) but have stayed because no matter what she's writing about, she's smart and funny and just so damn RIGHT ON THE MONEY. About boundaries, and boyfriends, and politics, and clothes, and books, popular culture, and... well, I've only made it two months into her archives. But I'd put good money on her being right on the money on most everything.

***Well, reality is that I could drag myself somewhere "socially acceptable for a Saturday night" like a party or a bar, but I'm tired, and I don't feel like being around other people, and I actually happen to think that relaxing at home with the cats and some awesome music IS about as good as it gets right now. When I stop and think about it, that is, instead of beating myself up for "being at home alone on a Saturday night." Like one does.

WHO makes up these freaking rules, anyway? And WHY do we follow them? Yeesh!

the busy

Another busy week. It's funny how "busy" is both a cross to bear and a badge of honor. We are busy women, therefore we have a right to be here. I am busy, hear me roar! I am so busy, busy busy busy. I am needed by all these projects, therefore I am needed, therefore I am worthy.

I'm not suggesting that we're making all this busy-ness up. I know that especially for those with kids, it's how life is and you just swim with the current and struggle to keep up with it all. I know for those of us without kids, it can still get pretty damn busy. Some of us are students, thrashing around with our theses, trying to pin them to the ground. Some of us have jobs that keep us challenged and running from one project to the next. Some of us, on top of our jobs or maybe until the next job comes, have other projects taking up our time.

I was sick last week. I got a cold - and I nipped it in its bud. I kept it at a low level by lying low, resting and drinking herb teas. Now I'm back to work. My throat is still tender and I still cough at the itch every few minutes. Part of the reason why I went back to work was that I was needed - but part of the reason was that I needed it. I didn't like being at home, half-able to do stuff and half not. My house is beautiful and my bed and couch are comfy - but - I like who I am when I'm dressed in "office casual" and at the library, doing one of my two jobs.

Waves come onto the shore in cycles. I learned this last summer when I visited friends who live literally right on the beach, their house a scanty twenty feet from the Atlantic Ocean. You have to know waves to surf them, and you have to know waves to be safe from them when the ocean is stormy. Apparently waves come in sets of six or so. Six little ones. Then six bigger ones. Then six little ones. Then six even bigger ones. And back and forth, going to really big and then back to really little. So if you see five little waves and you think, "Oh, this is safe, I can stand really close to these waves," be careful because the next set is apt to be a big one.

The reason for this rambling about waves is I've been thinking about lessons. How we learn lessons. We tend to think that we learn the same damn lessons over and over and over. But maybe each little lesson that we learn - each time - is just a wave in a bigger cycle. A little wave making up a bigger set, a longer pattern.

When I was sick last week, I learned (yet again) about slowing down. I learned, yet again, that you CAN slow down. That when you do stop something, when you do say "No, I can't work today," and stay home, the world keeps spinning on its axis. The sun still moves through the sky. People elsewhere still go about their own daily lives. Lots of nonsense and some good stuff still gets published on the Internet (whether you're there to read it or not). You breathe. In and out. You keep breathing. You rest.

Going back into it, into my schedule, into my "life" (as though my scheduled events are all that keep me together, are all that make ME), I'm trying to remember to breathe and take it all with a relaxed attitude. Yes, I could take the crammed book deposit box with all the books to be discharged as a stressful thing, along with the people who come in and need my attention, et cetera. Or, I could do the book discharging in as relaxed a way as possible, remembering to breathe, remembering to sit up straight, remembering to take a second here and there and zone out entirely. Because if I can't do the perfectly normal tasks of my job and my life in a relaxed way? I don't want to be doing them.

I learned, yet again, that it's not worth it to me to live in a rushed way. But what I realized a second after that is what's harder to put into practice. That: it is up to ME to then slow things down. To take those seconds to stare off into space, and not punish myself for it. To literally put brakes on myself - and apply them. Meaning - when I'm rushing from one thing to the next, I have to notice it, then pull at myself as you would at a wayward horse or a runaway car - put the brakes on. Slow it down.

Why run when you can walk?

hey, it's OK...

In Glamour magazine, there is a page called the "Hey, it's OK" page. I don't buy Glamour anymore, for reasons both economical and social, but I do still have a few of these pages, ripped from Glamour, tacked up on my wall. And I've added to them, too - in blue ballpoint pen I've written in my own things that it's OK to have, do or be.

I like the idea of a list like this. It runs in the same vein as the phrase "Just enough is plenty," which I wrote about a few weeks ago, and which my cousin Maile was inspired by. The idea these two phrases share is that you don't need to be Super You in order to have a healthy and happy life. "Just enough" of something is just that, enough. And therefore, plenty. All you need.

Where "hey, it's OK..." comes in is as a reminder, and as a list we can post on our actual walls, or just carry around in our heads. We then apply the phrase to whatever it is that's flying around us like a pesky horsefly, wanting to land and bite us with guilt. "You're not sexy enough! You're not thin enough! You don't have all of this [whatever your project might be] under control! Everything is chaotic! Why even start that when you know you won't finish it perfectly?" Et cetera, ad nauseum.

Here is the list I have posted on my wall. It's from the May 2008 Glamour. What I've added in blue pen to the real list, I've added here in blue too.

After you read it, tell me your additions to the list. They don't have to be witty, they just have to be true.



Hey, it's OK...

...to cancel things.

...to have a strict no-bed-making policy on weekends. And no socializing, if that's how you feel.

...if you've never quite figured out what to do with the back of your hair. Or the front!

...to ask for whatever it is - an intern, an appliance, a third shot in your cappuccino - that helps you get the job done.

...if you're happy to have sex on the beach, provided it's actually on a bed in a room in a house that's on the beach.

...to buy $200 shoes but hoard Splenda packets from Starbucks.

...if you just don't get the appeal of techno and some indie music.

...to make your guy see the Sex and the City movie with you. Consider if payback for Rambo.

...if you're not especially interested in finding yourself. (Some days of the week.)

...TO SAY NO.





***

i heart art, part two

Here we are, ladies and jellyspoons: the art shots I couldn't upload last time!

What I ended up doing was taking new pictures of my collage, and then going through the usual process of uploading them to my computer, and then onto Blogger. I really do not know what small glitch of code somewhere in the bowels of the software made it so my other photos loaded sideways, and I've come to terms with the fact that I'll probably NEVER know. That's OK.

Above is the entire piece. In real life it's 24 inches by 18 inches, or 2 feet by 1 and 1/2 feet.

Below are some detail shots.







The images I used all came from magazines I had collected over the years: Glamour, Vogue, Chatelaine, and a copy of a magazine that I think is now defunct, Women's Sport and Fitness. I used acrylic paints and regular glue sticks. I want to use some sort of varnish to paint over the whole thing, so the glued-on pieces won't come off randomly. Does anyone know about art varnishes?

I think it's really important for people in general, but in this case women, to create images that represent us, and to put images out there that show what we WANT or NEED to see, images of strong women, of different bodies, of older women, of handicapped women. There are so many images in our society, most of them part of advertising, and for the most part those images represent a world view that hurts us, that makes us think of ourselves as less, and as not worthy of love and a place in the world.

It starts with us. It starts with glue sticks and cut-out images. It starts with art.

Also: these images, like everything else on my blog, is copyright (c) 2009, Leah Noble. However, I give permission for you to copy these images onto your computer or to print them out, and use them in a non-profit way. I also hereby give you permission to be inspired to make your own art!

i heart art

I seem to be having trouble uploading photographs, so you will have to sit tight on the picture front.

It's frustrating because I wanted to show a detail of a collage piece I made on the weekend. I don't know why Blogger is doing this, as other photos are loading fine, but photos in this one particular file on my computer are loading sideways. No matter what I do, whenever I load these photos, they come out rotated either to the left or right. Grr! I hate it when software has a strange little bug in it that I can't sort out, and not for lack of trying, either. You try a bunch of options, each time getting more annoyed, and you can't ask the bloody thing what's wrong, either. Bah!

Oh, well. I'll tell the story, anyway.

I didn't set out to make art for International Women's Day, but halfway through my afternoon of cloistering myself in my room in order to play with collage and paint, I remembered that it was, indeed, March 8th. Not only that, but the piece taking shape beneath my hands happened to be about women's bodies and about loving yourself, loving your strong body for what it can do. It seemed like a sweet little coincidence. I went with it.

I'd been collecting photos from magazines, photos of women's bodies that are different from the norm - those that are hefty, big, curvy, plump, muscular, short, et cetera. Any body other than the ubiquitous "tall and thin", in other words.

(And there's nothing wrong with being tall and thin if that's your body's true shape. But there IS something wrong with only one representation of the Ideal Woman's Body, and I'm sure all sensible tall and thin women would agree.)

As I'd been collecting the photos these past few months, an idea had been hibernating in my head, an idea to make a collage showing the variety and diversity of women's bodies, as an affirmation of the difference you can find when you look outside the magazines. (Ironically, the photos are all taken from magazines. Perhaps future versions can improve on that, by taking photos myself, or in some other way. Open to suggestions!)

I was having a grumpy-pants weekend, and feeling this definite need coming up out of myself, a need to be BY MYSELF and MAKE ART. So, I listened. I cancelled the plans I'd made to see a friend, and made sure I had all the art supplies I needed. I shut my bedroom door, and took out the big drawing paper pad. I sorted out all the images and words I already had, and started playing, laying them on the paper, moving them around, cutting out more. When I had it where I liked it, I started gluing pieces down.

(And, I wish I could show you a part of it. Let's all shake our fists at Blogger for being buggy!)

The next day, I took another few hours in the afternoon to paint onto the piece. I took out some bright acrylic paints and my paintbrushes, and got some water into a jar. I thought, "My god, it's been years and years since I've used these paintbrushes." I laid on bright pink, orange, blue, cherry red, purple, in the white spaces between the photos. The sight of the color on the white styrofoam tray made me really, really happy.

I realized how much I want to make more pieces like this. The subject matter, definitely: our bodies, our strengths. I want to make images that contradict the poisonous images in so many magazines and on TV. And also, I want to make more art pieces in general. Doing this one got me thinking about high school, when I took an art class each of my three years there, and got to paint or draw or sketch for an hour and fifteen minutes EVERY DAY. And art got made! That's what happens when you commit to your own art, your own craft. One day at a time, you make stuff. It's not perfect. But then, nothing is, AND then it's outside of you! You birthed it.

So here's to women, and to art. To the birthing process.

an accomplishment of apples

On a sunny day in September, two young women -- myself and a friend -- picked some Whitney Crab apples from a neighbour's orchard. It was a good time and we chatted as we worked the trees. My friend would climb up into the central boughs of a tree, and shake the branches, joking, "Feel my wrath!" Apples would tumble down, falling "plop plop plop plop!" all over the grass. After she'd shaken a good amount, I'd go around with a plastic bag picking them up. We talked and talked and shook branches and picked up apples, not realizing how many we were picking, until we'd run out of the bags I'd brought. It didn't seem like that much at the time, but then once I got them all home I realized what I'd set out for myself: something like 12 or 13 full-size plastic grocery bags filled with apples.

September and October, I'm realizing, is still full-on food production and processing time, in the Maritimes. I don't know where I got the idea from, but I had held the notion that things wound down in September. Nope! Our slow spring and summer mean that a lot of crops come to fruition in the Fall, not just the usual root crops like winter squash (including pumpkins), turnips, potatoes, carrots, and onions. There are also crops that in more Southern climates are all summer long, like tomatoes, zucchini and corn. And if you're into apples, as I am, increasingly, then Fall's the time to get busy!

So I looked at the grocery bags full of apples. I started to freak out a little. I said to myself, "It's OK if I only process some of them. Whatever I don't process can go into compost, or maybe I can even take them over to Murdoch's and give them to his horses."

When I did actually start processing them, I wrote down each day I worked and how many hours I was working. So now, I have the statistics, ready to present.

Over a period of nearly two weeks (September 27th to October 10th), one woman (that'd be me) worked a total of thirty-one and a half hours making and then either freezing or canning:

• 9 quarts of spiced applesauce
• 14 pints (7 quarts) plain applesauce
• (1 gallon of cider that went into making cider butter, which made)
• 8 half-pints of cider butter
• 5 and 1/2 Liters of cider (additional)
  

For the non-Imperial minded in you, a quart is equal to four cups of liquid measure. A pint is equal to two cups, and a half-pint is equal to one cup. Also, one Liter is equal to four cups, and one gallon is roughly equal to eight quarts, or eight Liters. So to convert my production to the cup measure, we have:

• 36 cups spiced applesauce
• 28 cups plain applesauce
• (32 cups cider that went into making cider butter, which made)
  
• 8 cups cider butter
• 22 cups cider (additional)
  

This is not including the apples which rotted along the way and had to be tossed out, which wasn't a large percentage, but did account for some. So that's between 31 and 32 hours of work, spread out over two weeks (because real life is still existing, with other, paid, jobs to do, as well as chores around the property and home, and oh yeah, down time), to process what took two women just two and a half hours to pick. That means about 12.5 hours of processing work for each hour of picking time.

And in the end, I actually did process nearly every single apple, even though along the way I kept telling myself, "If I don't process all of them, that's fine too!" It taught me that for a big project, one where you can't see the end after a day's work, it's best to keep your head down, looking at the part you can see for now, and pace yourself. That's really the only sensible way to get through it.

Now I think: imagine if I had to live, for the winter and early spring, off what I and my family could preserve in the summer and fall. And not just that, but imagine how it was when people around here did live off what they preserved. There'd be more than 9 quarts of applesauce going into the cold room, that's for sure!

It's all food for thought, while I learn how to preserve the real food.

falling for fall

This past weekend was Canadian Thanksgiving. At Monty's, I ate a plate of the traditional Thanksgiving meal: turkey, beans, potatoes, squash, gravy and of course stuffing and cranberry sauce. I took some photos of my meal and then Monty's snarky cousin, who shall not be named, but who sat in the corner, said something along the lines of, "Geez, look at her, taking pictures of her FOOD!" As if that was the craziest thing he'd ever seen.

Monty's snarky cousin and I usually trade banter back and forth, so I said,

"You won't be laughing when I'm a famous food photographer!"

He just chuckled.

"Actually, you probably WILL be laughing. You're always laughing, aren't you?"

"No, not all the time, girlie."

This is the way we interact. My banter with him is like a big arm keeping him a certain distance away from me. I'm sure he'd never hurt me; he's not creepy like that, but there are certain boundaries one must keep. At the same time, though, in a small place where everyone knows each other, you can't be icy to people. Hence, the banter.



Then, today, I met up with Janice and we had a very "fall in a small town" afternoon: lattes and cheesecake at a cafe, then walking along the streets, picking up the Sears catalogs for her Nanny, then taking in a quilt show. This photo above is some Virginia Creeper vine growing beside her Nanny's house. Each year when leaves turn red, yellow and orange, it takes us by surprise. That's part of the beauty.



Here is a detail from one of the quilts we saw. This was from a circular tablecloth that was done in shades of pink and shades of green. There is something so wonderful about quilts. The skill they take, as well as the time, not to mention the pleasing textures and contrasts of which they're made. Then there's the fact that they're practical as well as beautiful! Both Alice Munro and Whitney Otto, as well as Carol Shields, and no doubt many other people, have written about quilts, and all that they symbolize, so I won't add to that here. Suffice it to say, I think they're important.

Happy Thanksgiving! May your harvests come in plentiful.

women rock!

So International Women's Day is tomorrow, the 8th of March, and it's a good way to follow up my last post, which was about my grandmother, Isabel. Now, I don't think Granny ever self-identified as a feminist, but she was a strong woman, and stories about women doing well pleased her. Mind you, she was from a different generation, and her advice to me for possible careers often focussed on being a nurse or a teacher, but you do have to place this into context. Born in 1923, Granny was my age (23) in 1946, a totally different era than today.

As I'm a feminist and a general, all-around supporter of women, I've got a nice holiday goodie bag for you in this post! I'm going to tell you about my rise to "national radio superstardom", as well a book I read lately by and for fierce women, which should get you in the mood to celebrate.

First up: how Cosmo and "va-jay-jay" got me on a national radio show! Well, sort of.

I was listening to Q the other day, the national radio show in question. It's hosted by Jian Ghomeshi, who is a fabulous guy from what I can tell, and he's pretty cute to boot, so naturally I'm besotted with him. He hosts the show every weekday from 2 until 3:30, and covers arts, entertainment, culture and other interesting things.

On Tuesday, he was interviewing the playwright Eve Ensler, the woman behind "The Vagina Monologues", as well as V-Day, and I loved the whole interview. I mean, I love a lot of the interviews on Q, and when Jamie Oliver was being interviewed I even had to lie down on the couch because I was so taken by it, but this one, well, this one was right up my alley. Ensler talked about how women's bodies are a battle zone, how being able to say "vagina" in public has increased as a result of her momentous monologues, and spoke about her international work and the lessons she has learned about what war does to women. And then Jian Ghomeshi asked her about the latest Cosmo cover.

I've since been given a copy of the March '08 Cosmo, which features the pop star Rihanna with a smug — or is that seductive? — look on her face, one hand hooked under the strap of her canary-yellow minidress as if to take it off, the other hand pulling the hem of her skirt up her thigh. The dress is already pretty revealing, with a low bustline, and all over the cover are tantalizing story titles like "Sex He Has Alone", "21 Naughty Sex Tips: Tonight, Treat Him To Some Boundary-Pushing Sex That Good Girls Only Dream Of", and the one that made it onto Q: "Your Va-Jay-Jay: Fascinating New Facts About Your Lovely Lady Parts."

It's the use of "Va-jay-jay" that Eve Ensler called "sad". I'm paraphrasing here, but her thoughts on the new buzzword are that it's a kiddie word, like "coochie", something a little kid says, the kind of euphemism that grown women have used for a long time because they were too ashamed or disempowered to stand tall and proud and use the proper term: vagina. Now, she added, if you're in the bedroom with your lover and you want to use that word, it's none of her business — as is anything people do during lovemaking in a safe situation. But using the word on the cover of a magazine, even though it's "hip" and Oprah says it, is like reverting to kiddie talk, and it teaches other women to be ashamed, as well.

Mind you, I don't find it at all surprising. I mean, Cosmo is not exactly the most feminist or empowered publication out there. But I do find it disturbing. This magazine has so much power, and so many women read it, especially young women and girls, that it's teaching a whole new generation that being strong and proud of the word "vagina" is not cool, not colorful and sexy, but "va-jay-jay", well, that's on the cover of a magazine. Sexuality is pushed in our faces on the cover of this magazine, but it's not an empowered sexuality, it's sexuality that can't quite say the right words, that regularly calls women "chicks" and emphasizes "your guy's needs."

Well, I didn't just sit there. I wrote Q a letter. It went like this:

Hello Jian,

Thanks so much for having Eve Ensler on the show Tuesday!

She's so thought-provoking, and I loved her analogy of New Orleans as the "vagina of America".

Her work is timely and necessary, and has deeply affected my growth both as a twenty-something feminist and as a proud owner of a vagina. However, this "new-fangled" feminism is up against a real cultural monolith, as evidenced by the Cosmo cover and everything it symbolizes. Yes, sexual freedom is part of feminism, but so is the strength to call one's "lady bits" by her proper name. Once more, everyone — say it with me: vagina!

I'm a big fan of the show, so please keep up the fantastic work.

Leah Noble
The wilds of Cape Breton

And then, the very next day, Jian Ghomeshi proclaimed my letter the letter-of-the-day. I was pretty dang thrilled hearing his honeyed voice reading my words, and even more so when friends from all over the country sent me messages and emails saying they'd heard the letter on air! Mind you, even though I'm a feminist, I'm also conditioned by my culture and I'm not completely comfortable going "vagina vagina vagina!" on national radio, but hey, I guess someone has to do it. And that someone might as well be me.

So that's the story of how I became a national radio superstar. And no, I don't do autographs.




In the spirit of Women's Day, here is a book I'd recommend racing to the nearest library or bookstore to collect.

"How to Live Alone and Like It", by Marjorie Hillis, was originally published in 1936, and re-bound and published in 2005 by Virago Press (a subsidiary of Time-Warner). This book bills itself as "The Classic Guide for the Single Woman", and when I first picked it up I didn't realize its vintage, and thought it was a modern book, written in the last five years or so. It's small, it looks slick, and I had no real reason to think otherwise. However, once I turned it over and saw "A 1936 Bestseller" written on the back, well, I was doubly intrigued.

In the preface, Lisa Hilton writes,

"Live Alone and Like It is a joyful reminder that feminism wasn't just about hunger strikes and bra burning... Demure though some of the advice might be, as in the chapter on affairs entitled "Will You Or Won't You?" (which concludes, rather darkly, that 'the woman always pays'). Live Alone is nevertheless suffused with a sense of exuberance at the thrilling possibilities then open to women for the first time."

Not to mention, Hillis is quite funny, though practical. Chapter 1, "Solitary Refinement", starts:

"This book is no brief in favor of living alone. Five out of ten of the people who do so can't help themselves, and at least three of the others are irritatingly selfish. But the chances are that at some time in your life, possibly only now and then between husbands, you will find yourself settling down to a solitary existence."

This solitary existence is what Hillis goes on to describe and ultimately, prescribes the methods which will add the most enjoyment to it. A single lady needs to make her own entertainment, needs to realistically visualize herself as happy rather than sad (otherwise other people will see her as gloomy, and then where will she be?), should have several passionate interests, even if on a shoestring, furnish her home to make herself comfortable (again, even if on a budget) and in general, be practical, but also indulge in her favorite pleasures, like a nice comfy bed.

"It is probably true that most people have more fun in bed than anywhere else, and we are not being vulgar. Even going to bed alone can be alluring. There are many times, in fact, when it's by far the most alluring way to go. Whether you agree with this or not, you have to go to bed at least once every twenty-four hours, and you will have to keep right on going as long as you live."

This is the kind of advice that makes perfect sense both in 1936 and in 2008, which is why this snappy little book is a must-read for anyone intending to live alone, or simply "between husbands".


And at the end of the day, even though feminists no longer identify themselves in the public eye by foregoing certain beauty habits, it gives me a certain kind of joy to see Julia Roberts flashing her hairy armpit. May we all see such images more often, and remember that it's normal.

And with that, I wish you a Happy International Women's Day!

Isabel Noble 1923—2008

A few years ago I asked my readers to list their five favorite things, with an emphasis on these being simple things, the kinds of things that are so small as to be almost overlooked.

My grandmother, Isabel, wrote these:

1. The smell of Coffee in the morning.
2. A piece of toast with blackberry jam to go with the coffee.
3. Your dear husband of 59 years sitting across the breakfast table [my grandpa].
4. Looking out the window at the spring blooms or the fall colors or a newly fresh snow.
5. Being fortunate to have lived 82 years and to have enjoyed so many pleasures.

My Granny loved the simple things in life, the little things, and this list came as no surprise to me at the time. After all, these were things about which she often wrote to me, and I to her. We would both exclaim about how wonderful the smell of Autumn was, and how the snow looked so pretty, and how uplifting it was to see the signs of spring, at last. But now, looking at her list of five things, it is like talking with her again. It is a comfort to think of her drinking coffee, eating toast with blackberry jam, sitting with my Grandpa in their New Jersey apartment. And these five simple things again take on new meaning as they are now a fragment of my Granny, now that she's gone.


*


My Granny passed away last week, last Saturday, after spending a month in and out of hospital fighting respiratory failure. She had smoked during her whole life, pretty much, and even though she quit in her 80's, the smoke caught up with her. The last few years found her never far from her oxygen machine or her nebulizer, and she was finding it hard to breathe and needing to sleep more and more. But even though things were rough, Granny always seemed to see the positive, urging her grandchildren to live "one day at a time", and finding joy in visits with loved ones, as well as watching old musicals from her youth, keeping up with entertainment news, doing the crossword on Sundays, and of course writing emails.

I must admit that writing this is quite odd. It has been a week since she was alive, and to me, her death hasn't really become reality yet. To write about someone in past tense when your brain still believes them to be as alive as they were a month ago, well, it's an odd sensation. I feel like I could still send her an email and she would receive it, and write back with her gracious, yet peppy style.

It's like my aunt said: "We're all feeling a real void in our lives now."


*


My Granny, to those of you who have read this blog over the years, was a familiar name in the comments box. She was computer savvy and loved reading my blog, and writing comments. Although she took umbrage with some of the swear words we "young people" use, she still kept reading, and encouraging me to write. When I came home last year to take some time off, she called me up one day, and said,

"Now that you have all this time, you should start writing a novel!" Although I knew that writing a novel was one of the last things I needed to do right then, I smiled and said, "Yes, maybe, Granny!" And no doubt I tempered it by saying, "Well, if I do write a novel one day, I'm definitely going to dedicate it to you!" This was an exchange we had more than once over the years.

The next day she called back. "You know, I was thinking, and I don't want you to feel pressured to write a novel, just because I said to."

"Oh, well, thanks, Granny... I didn't really feel pressure, but... thanks for thinking about me!"

"Well, I just thought, you're home to rest, you should do whatever makes you happy, you know? No pressure."

Both Granny and Grandpa have been such wonderful patrons of mine over the years, telling me with grandparental pride how much my writing impressed them, and how certain they were that I will one day be a published author. And who knows? Perhaps one day I will be. When I am, I know to whom I'll be dedicating my first book!

"To Isabel Noble, who always said I should write this novel."

*

Granny, I'm going to miss you so much. Huminbean won't be the same without you—thank you for being part of it.

haircut: a story

(Note: this photo is compliments of the excellent movie-stills blog, Movie Screenshots. It features the wonderful Shirley MacLaine as Ouiser Boudreau, and Daryl Hannah as Annelle Dupuy Desoto, and the color coral.)

The other day Mum and I both scheduled appointments at a member club of the inner sanctum for women's beauty: the hair salon. It's the one my mother's been going to ever since she cut her long, thick curly hair, 20 years ago, from halfway down her back to a smart pixie-like cut. I've gotten haircuts myself from Debbie, starting when I had to sit in a booster seat added onto the normal adult chair. One Halloween when I was maybe 5 or 6, we went to Debbie's and I got my hair poofed right up with hairspray, and then colored green, red, yellow and probably some other colors. I looked like a punk rocker! We took lots of pictures of me in a rock-star-crossed-with-a-feral-cat pose. How I loved that look, and wished I could have it every day.

When I started living in other places besides Cape Breton, from the age of 18, I realized that going to Debbie's -- and other Cape Breton hair stylists -- had sheltered me from the harsh truth of major cities around the world: haircuts are increasingly dang expensive! From Whistler, BC to Sydney, Australia, I routinely paid from $50 to $80 for a good cut. But I liked what I got and I didn't mind paying for it. I never had a great relationship with a hairdresser, like the friendly banter we could have with Debbie, but I figured that was par for the course, the salons I visited being big-city and chic (read: snobby).

Until I moved to Fredericton, and had a hair emergency. I had gotten my hair dyed bright red, at Debbie's, and I guess the dye didn't take in my bleached-out head of hair, because two weeks later Crazy Crimson or whatever it was called had faded to a dull, nasty orange, tinged with light brown. (The one time Debbie let me down!) This coincided with my first week of university in a new town, and I decided I did NOT want to meet new people with a head that literally looked like a pumpkin. So I went to a swanky-looking spa downtown, where I gave the stylist, Melene, a look that said it all: my old shade back, please! She did the job, I was able to relax about my look, and believe it or not, I actually made friends. All through my three years in Fredericton, I kept going back to Sue Lawrence Hair and Spa for Melene's stellar cuts. She seemed to be able to make any growing-out stage look good, and somehow knew how to make my hair (which has the thickness and slight wave from my mother's side, and a bit of straightness from my father's side, but which can easily look like an overgrown, frizzy hedge if not cut right) peaceful. I remember thinking, "Wow, my hair doesn't have to be frizzy, coarse, or bend in weird places when I least want it to?" I know this is a service for which I will be forever grateful.

A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless unless she chooses to come forward and name herself, is doing her Master's thesis on the Sociology of women's beauty practices, and especially on what goes on in beauty salons. There is so much to talk about on this subject that I'm convinced one day my friend could write a whole book on it, if she so chooses. I would definitely buy and then actually read that book, as the subject is rather intriguing: a place where women go freely and happily, at least in the best case scenario, to be modified and beautified, a place which supplies us with ritual, gossip, and some of the best counseling I've ever had, including that of professional counselors! Yet, in the worst case scenario, the ideals of beauty can feel rigid, strict, imposed upon us. Also, a visit to the salon can be stressful, not fun, if the hairstylist is demanding, insulting, a bad listener, or downright incompetent. You can easily get to wondering, how much of our beauty rituals is free choice and how much is indoctrination? How much is pleasurable and how much is harmful?

I certainly don't have answers to those questions, but I think asking the questions is an important step. Deducing the exact ratio of these components can be left to the social scientists, like my friend, but talking about the issues, maybe even while you're in the salon chair, makes you aware that there are issues, and that our everyday actions are just the front for the amazing complexity of our motivations. Also, being aware of these complex motivations allows me, as a feminist, to enjoy the time I spend in the salon, knowing that my enjoyment is just as valid as are my qualms about the beauty industry as a whole, and that going in for a trim and a gab may even do a little good for the soul.

If any of you have seen Steel Magnolias, you'll know what the ideal of the beauty salon is: that perfect, if a little frumpy, room at the back where Dolly Parton gabs while she poofs Julia Roberts' hair, where problems find solutions, where anger gets vented, where mothers and daughters can bond over nail polish shades, where neighbors, no matter how "mad hatter", are taken in and given a good hairstyle. Beauty with humility. Even though the movie is filled to the brim with terrible, 80's style dresses covered with giant floral patterns, I love it anyway, because Dolly Parton's hair salon actually does exist in so many places. It may not be recognizable, because it's had a glamour treatment, and calls itself a "spa", complete with trendy mirrors, artwork and workers with asymmetrical swaths of hair dyed literal rainbows, but don't be fooled. If the workers can gossip with you, laugh at their own mistakes and with each other, and turn you out on the street looking fabulous, it's the real thing.

I went back to Debbie's the other day, now that I'm living on Cape Breton again. We all gabbed, vented, laughed at ourselves and our mistakes, swore just a little, and talked about hair. I got my hair washed by a professional (there's something so pleasant about that), cut with the layers re-shaped, rubbed with a bit of shining polish and mousse, then dried and straightened. Mum got her "usual", and we both left looking fabulous, and feeling just a little bit better. I think this relationship just might be the real thing.

after the storm

Wow. Well. Here I am, after a full month of not posting. It feels surprisingly good to fire up the ol' Blogger again, to click on "New Post", to put tentative feelers out into the blogworld --and the world in general-- again.

I can't believe, in some ways, that it has been a month. Each week has brought a fresh batch of challenges, a fresh batch of decisions to make, and feelings to sort through. The "grubby details", as Marlo called them, belong to me and a few close friends, but the truth is simple: I've been sick, am still sick, and am taking time off from school in order to rest and get my strength back. I burnt myself out, more or less, and have had to deal with the consequences, which have been more than I bargained for.

My life has changed since I posted last. The things that remained the same are physical location (Fredericton, New Brunswick, the East Coast of Canada), and the dear friends and family who support this old bean. It's really funny, surreal actually, to stand at the center of your life and watch it change around you, watch yourself stop doing things because you can't do them anymore, and mourn your losses. It's like traveling to a foreign country, not knowing the language or the currency before you get there: you see what happens one day at a time, sometimes one hour or minute at a time, even one breath at a time.

This makes for a more intense experience, for better and for worse. I have certainly become "hyper-aware", as one person put it, of my self, my feelings, my needs and my desires. Having this awareness does not make it any easier to put such needs into practice, but it helps. It also influences what I have to talk about, necessarily! I can't wait for the day when I have a conversation with someone that doesn't include my own issues. But in time, that will come, and I know that having been there for a number of the people who are holding on to the corners of my "safety net" right now means they do, actually, want to be here for me. I'm not a burden as much as I'm just taking my turn at leaning.

What I'm doing right now (along with the physical acts of resting and no longer attending classes, taking a break) is what Clarissa Pinkola Estés calls "homing" or "returning to oneself". She writes about the necessity of this in her bestselling "Women Who Run With The Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype" (New York: Ballantine Books, 1995):

What is homing? It is the instinct to return, to go to the place we remember. It is the ability to find, whether in dark or in daylight, one's home place. We all know how to return home. No matter how long it's been, we find our way. [...]

For some, home is the taking up of an endeavor of some sort. Women begin to sing again after years of finding reason not to. They commit themselves to learn something they've been heartfelt about for a long time. They seek out the lost people and things in their lives. They take back their voices and write. They rest. They make some corner of the world their own. They execute immense or intense decisions. They do something that leaves footprints.

For some, home is a forest, a desert, a sea. In truth, home is holographic. It is carried at full power in even a single tree, a solitary cactus in a plant shop window, a pool of still water. It is also at full potency in a yellow leaf lying on the asphalt, a red clay pot waiting for a root bundle, a drop of water on the skin. When you focus with soul-eyes, you will see home in many, many places. (pp. 283-6).

So I'm homing. I've come through a storm, and now I'm sorting out the mess it left. I'm resting, I'm making good food for myself, I'm taking up things I haven't done in too, too long (writing for myself, drawing with charcoals, pencils, pens, inks, reading a book that isn't for class). I'm mourning the losses, and trusting in something --faith? life? the way things tend to go?-- that the voids will be filled. I'm seeing that indeed they are, one breath, one moment, one day at a time.

Oh and, the picture was taken by Marlo. I like using her photographs to illustrate my writing, because they tend to be of subjects in my immediate environment (since we're room-mates and fellow Fredericton residents and explorers), and she takes such thoughtful and striking photographs. At least, I think so. I also thought that this one, called "iceplants", is both fragile and strong, the kind of strength that comes from remaining, and therefore pertinent. I also really love the colors.

What do you do to go home? What are the endeavors, actions, creations and thoughts that bring you back to yourself? Have you done them lately?