Under a Red Roof

Lessons in Taxidermy

September 14, 2011 in Reading, Remembering, Spotlighting by Colleen | 1 comment

Dazzling and terrifying. These are the words that echo over and over again in response to both the text and its author, Bee Lavender. Goll-ee. I remember seeing this book somewhere, maybe at Powell’s after it first came out in 2005, and being really intrigued by the cover, especially that shade of blue ink. It reminds me of the mimeographs of elementary school and our secretary, I’m pretty sure she was called Mrs. Price (tall {or maybe just to a child under age eleven}, thin, and perfectly coiffed every day of my entire Thomson Elementary career, a variation on what Jackie O. would have looked like if she took the job), turning the crank on that blue barrel shaped machine, and making the most positively pleasant sound. Then there was the paper immediately after, cool, slightly damp and smelling, in the most heavenly way, of whatever chemical rendered it all possible. I’m sure it was all quite toxic and part of the reason I am the nutter butter I am today. That said, I still loved it.

And this gem of a book, to which I am returning. I didn’t read it then and specifically remember not wanting to. Knee deep in the throes of endometriosis (my condition is not even a word in my lousy dictionary/spell checker {I did NOT mean endomorphism!} – that so many women suffer from such a horrible disease and it doesn’t even register as a “real” word is beyond annoying), the thought of taking on someone else’s physical pain, even via a book, was out of the question.

Were it not for Facebook, I probably wouldn’t have given it another thought. Then Byron, a friend from my elementary school days (I’ll bet he remembers Mrs. Price, too), found me and, as I discovered from a link posted on his wall, just so happens to be married to the author. So there you go, a message from the universe that I might enjoy what his wife has to say.

Boy, did I ever. Bee Lavender writes about life, growing up in the outskirts of society in a place at once tender and violent, and her body being riddled by cancer after cancer, illness after illness, tragedy after tragedy, from the ripe age of twelve.

Her life is a steady succession of shocks, and though there is ample reason to feel pity for her, a teen mother, a body that will never be cancer-free, more surgeries and procedures than I can even fathom, it is certainly not her aim. Quite to the contrary, she is the type of woman who has taken her lot, for better or worse, and seen it as greater than the sum of its parts, far, far greater. She understands the repetition of life, the ceaseless cycles, and is ever more keenly aware of death and our proximity to it, at any given moment.

Yet, she’s hardly been afraid to live or exert her power. She travels, dances, and drives the countryside. She is fun and funny. She cannot be contained. She speaks her mind. She shares wholeheartedly. Dazzling and terrifying and absolutely worth reading. In a single sitting– I nearly forgot to mention that. I couldn’t put it down.

Big and Small

June 21, 2011 in Being, Reading, Thinking by Colleen | 3 comments

Hi everyone –

A few happy items to start: it is the summer solstice! The peonies are still blooming! It is actually warm outside! Happy, happy, happy Tuesday.

So this morning I was outside reading, as per my routine, and Pema (gosh, I know, I’m writing {and talking} about her a lot, but that’s just where I am right now, so feel free to come back later) was talking about this experience she had where a group of people vacillated between treating her as no big deal and a very big deal. It became painful for her because just as she was settled into a groove of feeling one way or the other, it would change. Finally, she spoke her frustrations aloud and was told, “You have to learn to be big and small at the same time.” I kind of took it in and thought, “Oh that’s very wise,” but didn’t really digest it. The birds were chirping and Milo was on my lap, and my attention wandered to the peonies, and what else I had yet to do, and the gorgeous quality of light.

Then I was raking up some debris out front and this Mortimer (Pema’s name for an “enemy”) that’s acted pretty hateful toward me for some time came along and said, “Good morning Colleen!” It was in a nice voice, too, not at all like the Jerry and Newman exchange, that I’m barely tolerating you mister, so keep your distance kind of tone. I said hello back, a bit shocked and confused, and continued my raking. Then Mortimer started talking again, complimenting my yard and garden and expressing distaste at the fact that it is supposed to be eighty degrees today. We chatted, very friendly, before parting with a good day salutation and me feeling a little weak in the knees at the conversation. What just happened? I thought Mortimer hated me!

Suddenly my mind went back to my reading. I knew exactly what Pema was talking about. Those times when Mortimer acts like a best pal. Those times when a good friend is a total bitch. Those times when someone who is normally chatty and boisterous crosses the street to avoid conversation. Those crap-shoot moody people – nice one time, mean the next.

Holy smokes! This is what it means to be big and small at the same time, to be open, to breathe in whatever is offered, and breathe it out just the same. I can do this! Well, at least today, at this moment, because that’s all I’ve got.

Morning

June 1, 2011 in Practicing, Reading by Colleen | 1 comment

For a while now, I’ve been getting up early, without an alarm, between 5:30 and 6:00. If it’s a weekday, sometimes it’s with the hubster. On weekends, I smell his cheek (mmm…), give him a kiss, and rise on my own. I get dressed, feed the cats and the birds, grab a bottle of kombucha (eight ounces a day, my elixir of life?), and a thoughtful book. Lately it’s been the Pema Chodron, Start Where You Are, I found at the library (I bought my own copy). I sit on the bench on the back porch, wrapped up in a scarf and blanket and one cat or another on my lap.

First, I sip my kombucha slowly, listening and watching all that is happening. At this hour, it is pretty quiet. The birds chirp and eat (see the crow?), a few cars pass, but not too many. Though I like being out when it is sunny, so I don’t feel so cold, the rain is nice, too. It falls so sweetly onto the metal roof over my head.

Once I’ve finished the kombucha, I read, but just a little bit. I don’t want to crowd my mind with too many ideas. It’s a busy place already. Then I sit and think about what I’ve read. Today, it was, “Rest in the nature of alaya, the essence.” Watch whatever comes up in the mind, the rising and falling of thoughts. There’s no need to despair about the quality or content. They’re just thoughts. “No big deal,” Pema says.

I like the freedom this gives me. Permission. I have very dark thoughts sometimes. Heavy. Unkind. Cruel. They’re no big deal when I give them the space to be thoughts. They lose their potency and dissipate, though not always. Some are more stubborn and sticky, preferring to linger longer, but I’m finding more lightness around them, too. Maybe it’s just being outside in a place that I love, that I’ve worked hard to create. I’ve chosen every piece of furniture, every ornament, every plant with care. I’ve cleaned, weeded, cut, and fed everything here. I feel safe, safe to let my thoughts rise and fall like the plants themselves: sprouts, leaves, flowers, and seed, before starting over again.

Tags: Books, cats, Reading

Winter’s Bone

January 14, 2011 in Reading, Spotlighting by Colleen | 2 comments

I stayed up well past bed time finishing this book, it so engrossed me. It’s the kind of story that takes the reader to the precipice and holds them in trepidation, page after page, at what ghastly occurrence is surely just beyond.

The story is set in the Ozarks, a hardscrabble land of immense beauty and sheer violence, the people living very near the precipice themselves, getting by in ways lawful and otherwise, mostly the latter. It’s a place where blood and names matter, determining histories and futures, yet aren’t nearly enough when times get desperate. The main character is Ree, a tough as nails seventeen year old who wears thin cotton skirts with combat boots in the dead of winter. She’s a high school dropout, but not for wanting more for herself. She aspires to a military life far, far from this existence, but, for now, this is where she finds herself, caring for her younger brothers and a mother lost to mental illness. Her father, Jessup Dolly, possibly the best crank cooker in the vicinity has disappeared, left the family without anything, and worse.

Ree gets a visit from the local sheriff warning her that Jessup’s court date is one week hence, and if he doesn’t show, they will lose the house and land that have been in the family for generations. Even more, she will lose any opportunity to flee this life, to make something for herself, for how can her brothers and mother get on without her and a place to stay. Despondent, she sets out to find him, walking through hill and dale to pay visits to some pretty scary characters, anyone who might lead her to him. No one will talk, save to deliver dire warnings of impending doom if she doesn’t quit, though she never does, even when she reaches the end of her rope.

It’s a thrilling, page turning story that took me to the back of beyond and home again, though travel weary. I highly recommend it. It’s also, as they say, a “major motion picture.” Put it in the queue.

Tags: Books

Tradition

December 10, 2010 in Making, Reading, Remembering, Spotlighting by Colleen | 2 comments

It’s baking time Under a Red Roof: spritz cookies, pumpkin bars, mint sandwich cookies, sandies, and walnut fudge, yum, yum! It’s a lot of work, but like the jazz on the hi-fi during it all, there is a certain pleasure and flow in the mixing, rolling, tasting (just a little), and packaging. It is endlessly satisfying, especially when I think about someone I care about enjoying bite after bite.

It also reminds me of one of my favorite holiday pastimes, reading Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory aloud with the hubster. It is a magical time when I am transported, via the power of the word, to a place I have never been but know as intimately as my own home. Buddy and his cousin are there, rolling the wicker buggy with Queenie trotting along side. We dream, explore, hide our money in a coin purse under the floor boards, and make fruitcakes and high flying kites. It is the purest form of love.

Just as much as I love the story, I love the act and rhythm of the reading. The hubster and I sit on the sofa, impossibly close, and I begin, my voice as clear as the sky on that first morning, until it isn’t, and the tears come. He smiles and wordlessly takes the book from me, taking up where I left off, continuing until the tickles in his throat signal it is my turn again, beginning the cycle over: clear words, tears, exchange, clear words, tears, exchange. Then it is over, and I marvel at the distance traveled in twenty-nine pages.