The Rev

Okay, lovers.

I'm sending this straight to you on a mission of urgency and beautiful music.

So go grab yourself a foamy cup of hot coffee and some rainclouds, sit back and be moved.


Hugs, kisses and chocolate chips.
<3

Pivoting

'The time has come', the walrus said,
'To talk of many things:
Of  shoes- and ships- and sealing-wax-
Of cabbages- and kings-
And why the sea is boiling hot-
And whether pigs have wings.'
-Lewis Carroll


The time has indeed come to talk of wondrous things.  Things of heartache, and melancholy.  Things of decisions, and ambiguity.  Things that cannot be comprehended without the power of words behind them.

Words are wondrous things.  They are weighty, and come with heavy responsibility.  They can transform and heal, they can dissect and destroy.  Who are we to understand them?

And yet, we do.

I've put some new quotes on the fridge  today.


A quote for acceptance:

"How 'bout me not blaming you for everything.
How 'bout me enjoying the moment for once.
How 'bout how good it feels to finally forgive you.
How 'bout grieving it all one at a time.
Thank you, India.
Thank you, Terror.
Thank you, Disillusionment.
Thank you, Frailty.
Thank you, Consequence.
Thank you, thank you, Silence."
-Thank U- Alanis Morissette


A quote for grace:

"If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be.  Now put the foundations under them."
-Henry David Thoreau


A quote for healing.  A quote  that made me cry when I first saw it at a Craft Warehouse a few days ago.  A quote that made my mother cry as she also looked at it for the first time, and we hugged our sorrow and indignation out in that aisle, surrounded by family quotes and all-too-fresh remembrances of what we've recently lost.  Which ultimately, is a story for another time.

"Nobody can drive you crazy unless you give them the keys."
-Anonymous


And last of all, a quote for encouragement.  A quote that has meant the world to me time and time again.

"Keep on beginning and failing.  Each time you fail, start all over again, and you will grow stronger until you have accomplished a purpose- not the one you began with, perhaps, but one you'll be glad to remember."
-Anne Sullivan

Pivotal moments are what each of these quotes represent to me.  Pivotal moments that have changed  life as I knew it.  Signals, flashing red and yellow lights.  Obstacles, signs,  visionary moments of reveal.
"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be, let it be."

I knew I needed to change the quotes on the fridge today because not only did I feel it was time to start the cycle again, but because I knew it was time to pivot.  It was time to be overwhelmed by the end of life as I know it right now.

This morning I made myself breakfast as I listened to a playlist particularly ripe with memories. I didn't think anything of it as I fried the turkey bacon and sipped my hot, strong cup of coffee.  I didn't even have to think about what I was doing, I never really do when I'm making food.  Everything just goes together,  it always has.

Before I knew it, a completely assembled open-faced breakfast sandwich was sitting before me on the counter. Ezekiel bread, sharp cheddar cheese, two overeasy eggs, turkey bacon, sliced tomatoes.
Dido on the iPod dock behind me;  and I realized that as I stood with a cup of coffee in my hand and a hot plate of warm breakfast in front of me, I felt like the ruler of the world.

When I cook, when I make food,  I feel like a goddess.  Nothing can touch me.

Writing is something that I love more than life itself, when I think of how much I yearn for it, and how much I would sacrifice and give for it, I want to cry. Tears well up behind my eyes because nothing I do can free me quite like writing can.  But it comes at a very high price.  For every feeling of happiness, euphoria and relief that it brings, there is twofold of pain.  No matter what it is that I write, a huge part of me is taken away once the words hit the paper.  Writing is something that I have to give myself to over and over and over again. I sacrifice a part of me for everything I write, and it never gets easier, it never gets less painful or less exhausting.

Am I complaining?  Never.  I've been given a gift.  I have a way with words and I would never exchange that for anything less harmful.

But cooking doesn't hurt me.  It doesn't split me into a thousand tiny pieces and it doesn't make me sad.  Writing is what I'm good at, it's who I am.  But cooking is what heals me.

And I think that's why I'm going back to it, all of the sudden.

There's a 12 week course at an infamous cooking school in Ireland called Ballymaloe, and I think that's where I'm going after bible school.  The only way I'm going to be able to travel and meet people, have life-changing  experiences and eat amazing food is if I'm writing about the food that I'm eating.

Students at Ballymaloe have gone on into various fields including restauranteering, becoming private chefs on yachts, and food journalism.  Food writing.  Travel writing.

I've been sitting tight on this for a week, now, but it's not the first time I've encountered this school, or this thought process.  I researched it fairly extensively a year and a half ago, but ruled it out when I ruled out Le Cordon Bleu and the Art Institute culinary programs.  I didn't want them, even after multiple interviews, so I figured I wouldn't want Ballymaloe either.

And then by chance last week at my doctor's office, I came across an article about the school in one of the magazines.  And so I ran the numbers, and I told my mom.

I'm not making any plans because my plans have never worked out in the past.  But I'm feeling happy about it.  I'm feeling peaceful.  And that to me is more important that figuring everything out right now, anyways.

Who knows where it could take me?

Maybe someday after that, I'll go to bartender's school.  Maybe I don't need a four-year college degree.  Maybe I just want to learn a little about a lot, instead of a lot about a little.

Pivotal moments.  The end of life as I know it.

Work Stories

The decision has been made at work that we're required to dress up tomorrow night, in honor of it being the Saturday-Before-Halloween.  Apparently we're all going to be pirates.  Needless to say, I'm not exactly thrilled about donning a scarf and boots just to seat people so they can eat their pizza and laugh at us, but whatever.  I get that we're just trying to spread some cheer.  Or something.

A few of us were talking about it last night, and trying to figure out how on earth to dress up without actually having to dress up, when I jokingly told my coworker that he should put a fake parrot on his shoulder.  This led him to confess that at one time in his life, he owned 72 birds.  Among which were 5 cockateels and 1 parrot.

72 birds.

As the evening wore on, and conversations had run amok as they usually do, it had been unofficially decided we were switching from pirates to hippies.  Unofficial meaning by the time I left, everyone was so muddled and unsure, that the term "Hippy Pirate" was coined to describe our costume guidelines.  I guess I'll find out tonight exactly what that means.


I was busing one of the booths last night and I couldn't help but overhear a phrase uttered by a customer in the adjoining booth.  "I didn't get your inside joke to Darci."  A thousand questions immediately poured into my thoughts.  I carefully observed the situation.  A wife, a husband, and their tweenage daughter. Judging by the length of time it took for the husband to respond to his wife's unsettling question, I jumped to the ultimate conclusion that he was having a lurid affair.

Who else could Darci be?  Maybe Darci was a coworker.  An old flame.  An old friend who was really much more than that.  Where had they been that the wife was in the same surroundings as Darci?  A work party?  A soccer game?  Was Darci the babysitter?

I looked for a moment at the young girl's face.  I looked away and left the table shiny and wet behind me.

Stolen

S.

I want you to know that I will always love you.  In some way, with some strange magic and practical disaster,  you still own the place where my thoughts go to hide, to play in secret.  The place where my thoughts dapple in the world of What If and Where Are You Now.

I was a child and you were a child, although the moments were anything but childlike.  I remember them all, still, as vividly as if they had happened yesterday.  But that time was eons ago.

I've been thinking about you a lot lately, and that's not a good thing.  I thought I was at the place where I could look back on all the memories and regard them simply as memories and nothing more, but I can't.  You are a Pandora's Box of mistakes and all-too familiar feelings, and even though in every Pandora's Box there's a touch of hope mixed with all the hurt and sorrow, I can't hold on to that little whisper of hope at the bottom of the box anymore.

I have to let go.  I have to let you go.  Trust me,  I'm shocked to find out I haven't already yet, too.

I was unwise to think that I had let it all fall behind me.  Wishful thinking, I suppose.

I know this couldn't mean anything to you now, but I know that it would mean something to the 14 year old you.  You cared much more than you let on, and I saw through to that.  Tender soul.  I do miss you, still.

The time for missing is over, though.  I need to prepare for the changes ahead of me, changes that do not in any way involve you or the memories of you floating around in that corner of my mind labeled "Stolen."

A dear friend told me today that closure comes in many forms.  Sometimes the most from private reflection.  Closure is something people seek as a decoy; it's an excuse to keep winding their thoughts around and around whatever they're trying to close.  I've been lying to myself for awhile now, telling myself things would be better if I only had closure.  Closure of what?  Any closure I received would only open everything right back up again.  Any closure I received would act as a black hole.

And so this is a final goodbye, gentle heart.

This is the goodbye that needed to happen all along, but never did because I was holding so tightly onto that faded, weak glimmer of hope, that I was blind to the world of hope and possibilities outside of the box. Outside of you.

Promise me one thing, before this all settles into dust and infinity.  Promise me that you will never change who you are.  Promise me that you will never stop smiling, and absolutely, under-no-circumstances-ever, will you stop giving out those incredible, life-changing hugs.

Cheers to the moon and back, and always wishing you all the love and sugar-coated-cereal in the world,

Xx,
Hannah


 

Status

Do you ever get the idea for a particularly enticing Facebook status, but you don't post it out of courtesy to some of your friends that might take offense?

I do it all the time.  I'm not okay with it, either.  Should I have to feel guilty or apologetic for my own personal, private 140 characters?  Should I really censor my thoughts just because someone who I haven't seen in 5 years might be offended on the off chance that they should see my post, and actually care about it?

That's ridiculous.  I'm serious.  I've thought several times about deleting my entire Facebook, starting over from scratch and only accepting friends who I can have these sorts of conversations with, just so I don't have to give myself grief over whether or not X will think I'm a scarlet woman.

Like why on earth should I feel guilty for wanting to post a quote with the word "bastard" in it?

Here's what I don't understand about Facebook, and Social Networks in general:

There's a formal adding/accepting of friends that you can choose to either ignore, or allow, depending on how close you feel your relationship to that person is.  That's it.  No strings attached.  If you want to be friends, sure, click the accept button.  If not, hide the post.  Whatever.

Okay.  So where does the moral issue come into play?  Why does it suddenly turn into a freaky mindgame of guilt, shame, and horrendous fear over whether or not the other person will accept or deny you or hate you forever if you deny or accept them?

Some of us who started Facebook when we were sadly young and immature, got caught up in the "Oh I Know This Person I've Met Them A Few Times I Will Add Them On Facebook" syndrome, and are, thus far, stuck with gads and scores of people that we don't actually want to be Facebook Friends with.

What do I do now?

 I am a firm believer that deleting people off of your Facebook is a really petty thing to do.  Or, at least I was.  Now I'm not so sure.  Now I'm wondering why on earth I have an obligation to remain "friends" with people who have no honest business knowing anything about my life?  People who, if I ever do see them again, won't ask me how I'm doing, or engage me in conversation, but who will probably exchange snide remarks if they see a Facebook post of mine that they don't agree with.

Or what about those awkward people in your past who you knew at one time,  because you were mutual friends with another person, who you eventually grew apart from, and now there's this awkward elephant in the room of "I know you, but I don't really know you, but I don't want you to think I don't like you because of what happened, so I'm just going to stay friends with you, but really I could care less about what happens in your life?"

Or on the flipside, what about those extremely annoying people who actually get into heated arguments and debates on someone else's random Facebook post, and you're left absolutely bewildered, wondering, "Why does this generation have so much unearthly time on their hands?"

Since when did the need for Social Networking seriously start taking over all of our lives?  I feel like more and more I get into a constant state of stress worrying about whether or not people will chastise or take offense at something I've posted on Facebook,  or over whether or not I've posted an update in the past three hours, or, God forbid,  I miss a friend's crucially funny or important update and am suddenly left, lurching, out of the loop and out in the cold, wet, fog of mystery and good-old-fashioned 1950s house-wife-to-house-wife perception.

And yet, in the midst of all this ranting and raving about what other people think,  I'm left considering whether or not anybody really cares.  Who honestly gives a damn?

Who are these conniving, contrived, conceited people I have made up in my head, waiting like sharks to brutally attack and tear apart any snippet of controversial flesh and status update I throw into the water?

It's Facebook, Hannah.  Nobody really cares what you think.  Nobody really cares what you say.

Facebook is a double-edged sword.  It's a great way to keep up with people you haven't seen in years, or a great way to reinforce a quick "I Love You" to someone you've been too busy to call.  But it's the single, easiest way to thrust yourself pell-mell into a world of self-centered, nosy, self-righteous and absolutely disgusting mockery.  And I'm starting to get quite sick of it.

"A Dream Made to Order, South of the Border..."

I like cream in my coffee, I like to sleep late on Sunday, nobody knows me like my baby.
and I like eggs over-easy, and flour tortillas, and nobody knows me like my baby.
Nobody holds me, and nobody knows me, nobody knows me like my baby."


Last night I stayed up late watching P.S. I Love You with Becca over Skype.  I didn't cry so much this time.  Either it's loosing its effect on me because I've seen it so many times,  or I was too distracted by the dizziness of my head and the pocket of phlegm stuck at the back of my throat.  Sickness has struck again.

Still, there is one scene in the movie that always gets to me.  Towards the end, when Daniel reads the final letter that Gerry sent to Holly, in the middle of Yankee Stadium.

"You made me a man by loving me, Holly... Promise me that whenever you're sad, or unsure, or you lose complete faith, that you'll try to see yourself through my eyes.  Thank you for the honor of being my wife.  I'm a man with no regrets, how lucky am I."

I know that it's just a movie,  but I can't help but feeling as though great love stories like these really happen.
Love stories of epic proportion.  The kind that are full of tragedy and impossibilities and....  magic.

 I may be what you consider a hopeless romantic,  but I don't really think that's what it comes down to.
It's not a matter of whether or not I believe in love at first sight, or romantic candle-lit dinners, or following your heart, or any other of that Disney, Rom-Com cheesy Hollywood garbage.

It's more or less that I believe in love,  and fate,  and the power of "it could happen."


But it was a dream made to order, south of the border, and nobody knows me like my baby.
And she cried, man, how could you do it, and I swore that there weren't nothing to it.
But nobody knows me like my baby. And nobody holds me, and nobody knows me. 
Nobody knows me like my baby.



I also believe that it's the people who determine the greatness of their own love stories.  There are people who are destined for greatness in whatever form.  Greatness in their lifestyles, their careers, their characters, their experiences, and then there are those who are destined for greatness in love.

Neither of these people are greater than the other, I honestly believe that.  It's not my intention to put one on a pedestal over the other, because there are people in my life that could fit any of these categories, and not a single one is "best."

But I do wonder what it takes to make the kind of person destined for great love?

I think it must take a little bit of bravery, and a great deal of stubbornness.  I imagine it takes a large desire for adventure,  and a dash of fragility,  a sprinkle of insanity, a dusting of chaos.  The need for interaction,  the craving to be understood, the will to fight, and also the ability to stand alone.

One must have the incorruptible faith that everything will always turn out in the end.

So, I guess now the question is, do I have what it takes?

Because that is the area in life where I want to be great.  I want to be capable of the greatest kind of love story; that is the legacy I want to leave behind me.  Not in careers, not in lifestyles,  but in love.

And I like cream in my coffee, I hate to be alone on Sunday, and nobody knows me like my baby.




Xx,
Hannah


P.S. " Nobody Knows Me"-  Lyle Lovett

October 14th

October has hit the Northwest full-throttle.  The leaves have started turning, the sky is a constant shade of stormy blue-grey, and the rainstorms are magnificent.  On the days when the sun comes out, a beautiful fog seems to rest over the valley and the trees and houses shine with all glory.
I think Fall must be God's favorite season.  He's made it so beautiful, so much more beautiful than any other season.  Then again, I may be a little bit biased, having grown up in the most beautiful part of the country.  I can't help it.  Oregon is, in my fairly well-traveled opinion, unrivaled.

The month of October always makes me want to get up earlier, I want to catch the first rays of the Autumn sun as it peeks frail and golden over the roofs of the houses and distant mountains.  I want to cuddle up with a cup of tea as the day's first spell of rain comes rolling through.  I want to take a walk and breathe deeply in the crisp, cinnamon air and observe the first leaves that begin to fall from their treetop homes.  I want to spend the majority of my days reading, thinking, writing, and surviving solely on cups of tea and pieces of toast.  Candles are meant to be lit all day long during the month of October, they start in the morning and don't stop until late at night.  The music plays soft and soothing.  Nat King Cole and Linda Ronstadt make up my Autumn playlist, and Gillian Welch Pandora.

My hands smell like burnt matches.  God, I love this season.

October is also a good month for learning things.  I learned last week that witnessing one person's good deed can change your entire perspective on how your day has been.  I know, I know.  Story time.
I was at work one night, after a long day of feeling lowly and alone, miserable and so far from my dreams, that I could hardly even distract myself with the busy hustle and bustle at work.  I'm getting better at dealing with business on auto-pilot.
It was drawing near to the end of my shift, the rush had settled and there I was, standing at the counter, dappling in self-pity and contemplation.  I noticed a homeless man, or, I assumed he was homeless,  digging through the garbage can outside of the restaurant.  I felt some pity for the man, for whatever had driven him to such desperate ends.  I continued rolling my silverware.  I noticed out of the corner of my eye that my boss, Travis, was staring at the assumed-homeless man, too.  He looked like he was weighing something heavily on his mind.
Wordlessly, he turned around and grabbed a to-go bowl and filled it to the brim with fresh, hot soup.  After taking a lid, a napkin, and a plastic soup spoon with him, he ventured outside and handed it to the man.

I've never seen one act of such single, solitary kindness before in my life.  And I always thought I was a kind person, or that I've been surrounded by kind people.  I have, this is still true,  but I've still never seen such concentrated kindness in another person before.  I realized as I was going home that night, what I had witnessed completely changed my day.  It had become one of the best days I've ever lived, because my faith in the goodness of everyday people was restored.  I've always been an idealist, and I look for the good in people, and that day, I found it.  Or, it found me.   That was on October 2nd.

Amongst other things that I've been meaning to blog about but haven't really pinned down, Becca came into town this past weekend for her birthday.  She brought me a typewriter.  Becca is a sort of Garage Sale Goddess, and picked up a circa 1960 Olympia typewriter for fifteen bucks, because she knew about my lifelong desire to own one.  What a gal!  I've named my pretty new pet Athena, because she is the Olympian Goddess of Wisdom, and I like to think that wisdom and inspiration are pretty close to the same thing.  I've since cleaned, and scrubbed, and oiled Athena to the best of my typewriter-ignorant abilities, and she turned out to be a beautiful shade of aqua, instead of the seafoam-y green we thought she was.  Years of dirt and weathering in a barn will do that, I guess.  Still, she runs like a machine, and has hardly any signs of extreme wear and tear, which is impressive considering how old she is.  However, just to be sure,  I plan on taking her to a typewriter expert sometime soon, so he can look her over, give me the general history, model type, and cleaning and care information.   The ribbon she came with, who knows how old it is, works amazingly well, though, and I've already gotten a good hour and a half's worth of typing out of her.

Antiquity has an extreme sort of power over inspiration, I'm discovering.  I've been suffering from an unfortunate case of writer's block on my fairytale I started about a year ago, and as soon as I sat down to my typewriter, shut off my laptop and my music,  I pounded out a good 3 pages in an hour.  I was pretty excited about that.

A friend told me yesterday that she heard a story on the news about a young girl, who faked being pregnant for a high school project, is now in possession of a book deal, and a movie in the works on Lifetime.  I would just like to take the time right now and say: WHERE IS MY BOOK DEAL?? 
I did the same thing for my psychology case study project in high school two years ago.  I'd put money down on the fact that she's not half the writer I am, either, and I'm not a betting woman.  (Which is exactly what my friend said, too.  Although she's more of a betting woman than I am.)   I analyze risk too much.
One day, one of us will be recognized for our talents,  I'm sure of it.  And one day,  I told her,  Kate Winslet will play me on Broadway.

I've been attempting my second journey into Jane Austen, lately.  Sense and Sensibility, to be exact.  Everytime I venture into the realm of Austen, the desire to use words like 'rudimentary' and 'implicit' and 'asenine' in everyday conversation consumes me.  I think in a 19th century English accent.

Halloween is vastly approaching.  And once again,  I have no idea what I'm supposed to dress up as.  I've been invited to a Halloween Harvest Party thing, and even though I am really excited to go, my spirits dropped a little bit when I saw the "COSTUMES ARE REQUIRED" sign on the FB event.  Great.  Halloween is a fine enough Holiday to me,  I don't really mind it,  it's not my favorite,  but it doesn't really bother me either.  Except for this whole adults dressing up thing.  Let's leave it for the kids, shall we?   I mean, really.  So I've been trying to think of costume ideas that will take little or no effort on my part to contrive, and this is what I've come up with:

• A Lit Major-  this involves khakis, a button up blouse paired with argyle sweater, and TOMS.
• Barefoot and Pregnant- This is more involving than I'd like it to be.
• "Hopeless"- this involves my Star Wars shirt,  a pair of acid wash jeans from the nearest Goodwill, and if possible, a Mickey Mouse watch.  And probably tennishoes. 

Feeble and unstimulating, I know, but that is as far as my creative genius will go in order to match with my willingness of cooperation. 

Did you know that Esther had to wait one whole year before going before King Xerxes as a Queenly Prospect?

One whole year in complete and utter suspension.  I am amazed and inspired by her strength of character. 

Wishing you all the love, Fall Weather and chocolate chips in the world,

Hannah,

Xx

Beauty

I've been spending the last two hours reading, pajama-clad, in an armchair with multiple cups of tea, and I just came across a passage that must be shared.

A Year In Provence, "February."- Peter Mayle.
________________________________________________

An old man had emerged from the kitchen and was peering at us, screwing up his eyes against the light coming through the door.  We told him we'd made a reservation for lunch.
            "Sit down, then.  You can't eat standing up."  He waved airily at the empty tables.  We sat down obediently, and waited while he came slowly over with two menus.  He sat down with us.
             "American? German?"
              English.
              "Good," he said, "I was with the English in the war."
              We felt that we had passed the first test.  One more correct answer and we might be allowed to see the menus which the old man was keeping to himself.  I asked him what he would recommend.
              "Everything," he said. "My wife cooks everything well."
               He dealt the menus out and left us to greet another couple, and we dithered enjoyable between lamb stuffed with herbs, daube, veal with truffles, and an unexplained dish called the fantaisie du chef.  The old man came back and sat down, listened to the order, and nodded.
              "It's always the same," he said.  "It's the men who like the fantaisie."
I asked for a half bottle of white wine to go with the first course, and some red to follow.
              "No," he said, "you're wrong." He told us what to drink, and it was a red Cotes du Rhone from Visan.  Good wine and good women came from Visan, he said.  He got up and fetched a bottle from a vast, dark cupboard.
              "There. You'll like that."  (Later, we noticed that everybody had the same wine on their table.)
              He went off to the kitchen, the oldest head waiter in the world, to pass our order to perhaps the oldest practicing chef in France.  We thought we heard a third voice from the kitchen, but there were no other waiters, and we wondered how two people with a combined age of over 160 managed to cope with the long hours and hard work.  And yet, as the restaurant became busier, there were no delays, no neglected tables.  In his unhurried and stately way, the old man made his rounds, sitting down from time to time for a chat with his clients.  When an order was ready,  Madame would clang a bell in the kitchen and her husband would raise his eyebrows in pretend irritation.  If he continued talking, the bell would clang again, more insistently, and off he would go, muttering, "j'arrive, j'arrive."
               The food was everything the Gault-Millau guide had promised, and the old man had been right about the wine.  We did like it.  And by the time he served the tiny rounds of goat's cheese marinated in herbs and olive oil, we had finished it.  I asked for another half bottle, and he looked at me disapprovingly.
               "Who's driving?"
               "My wife."
                He went again to the dark cupboard.  "There are no half-bottles," he said,  "You can drink as far as here." He drew an imaginary line with his finger halfway down the new bottle.
              The kitchen bell had stopped clanging and Madame came out, smiling and rosy faced from the heat of the ovens, to ask us if we had eaten well.   She looked like a woman of sixty, not eighty.  The two of them stood together, his hand on her shoulder, while she talked about the antique furniture, which had been her dowry, and he interrupted.  They were happy with each other and they loved their work, and we left the restaurant feeling that old age might not be so bad after all.
________________________________________________

I could cry.