Let's Do This One More Time

Here in the Pacific Northwest, today was a classic winter day: spitting rain, dark low clouds, foul temps and a world washed in tones of brown and grey.

In other words, a perfect day to visit the beach!

So this afternoon, my fourth-born and I jumped in the car, drove four and a half miles down the hill until we ran out of road, which landed us here. 

Ah, Mukilteo Beach. Dark clouds scudded along the horizon, coarse rocky sand crunched under our feet, a cold breeze rippled the water into black waves. We were in heaven.

Of course, Ranger came along too. Ranger is a huge fan of going to the beach. Just look at that happy wagging tail.

As we piled out of the car and faced the ruddy elements, we were accompanied by only one or two other human visitors, who seemed to take no notice of us. Only this brooding gull atop a sign post watched our progress toward the waterline. 

We got up close and personal with Mukilteo's two iconic treasures: our ferries and our lighthouse. While most shots of these highly photographed local sights feature blue skies and summer sunshine, these moody dark portraits capture them as we usually see them.

We found lovely treasures which we examined, marveled over, discussed, photographed, and then returned to their sandy, wet homes. I am always struck by a sense of awe and mystery at the beach, surrounded by so many mysterious creatures and objects that come from the depths of the sound.

And we even photographed each other, small and insignificant against the powerful backdrops of sky, land and sea.

All in all, it was a short but soul-satisfying trip to a beautiful wild place that all three of us love, especially on a blustery day like today.

* * * * *

Now, I don't want to spoil the mood of this rich and meaningful adventure.

But I need to share one more detail. 

As we were leaving the house, my daughter innocently intoned, "Let's go to the beach, each, Let's go get away."

And for the entirety of our poetic winter trip to the beach, this anthem was playing in my head:

 Kinda puts a different spin on things, doesn't it.

Lovely Winter Fruits

I stopped by Whole Foods Market today, and got waylaid in the produce section. Bountiful displays of winter fruits filled every corner, and I couldn't help but take some photos of these ripe, round, brightly colored seasonal beauties.

And then I came across this interesting display:

What in the world??!? Why would we want to say hello to spring on the fifth day of January? Winter has only just begun!

Why are we in such a rush to hurry on to the next season, the next holiday, the next phase of life, instead of enjoying the one we are in?

As much as I love daffodils, as much as I love spring, I am not ready for them.

Today, I choose to live in the present and bask in my lovely winter fruits. 

An Angel Food Birthday Cake

My birthday celebration was a few days late this year, but I didn't mind. As usual, I was treated to an angel food cake with a raspberry glaze frosting, and some vanilla ice cream. Ever since I was about twelve, I've chosen angel food cakes for my birthday. 

* * * * *

When I was a little girl, I admired their high, fluffy shape. My mother did not bake layer cakes, so this was the only way to get a tall cake at my house. In a life that was often dictated by the tastes and styles of my three rough-housing brothers, my angel food cakes felt like a dainty and feminine indulgence. 

I was also fascinated by the special pans in which angel food cakes are baked. There are actually two pieces - a round outer shell and a separate bottom piece with a tall funnel in the center - that fit together for baking. Once the cake has cooled properly, the outer shell slips easily away from the sides, and then a knife can be used to cut the edge of the cake from the bottom part of the pan. I marveled at the clever design, played with the two parts of the pan to my mother's distraction, and loved to help with any stage of the baking process that involved them.

On my eighteenth birthday, I moved away to college. We had celebrated my birthday the night before, and as we were leaving home, my mother handed me a leftover piece of cake, packed carefully into a small plastic bag. It got all squished during the move, and most of the frosting got stuck inside the bag, but that first evening in my dorm room, when I was horribly homesick, I ate it and felt comforted.

My first year out of college, my roommates didn't know of my angel food tradition, and they bought me an ice cream birthday cake instead. It was a very close runner-up. Still, from that year on, I made it a point to be at my mom's house for my birthday, so I could celebrate properly.

Eventually I moved to Seattle, far from my mother's kitchen, and my own family took on the responsibility for making my cakes. Every year, I have been pushed out of the kitchen on the afternoon of January 1 for a 'secret baking project,' though occasionally I have been called back in to consult on various steps in the process. Still, the cakes always turn out fine, and my dining table is surrounded by shining faces who are proud to have carried on the tradition for one more year.

* * * * *

I have been treated to a long and lovely succession of angel food birthday cakes, and I enjoy the constancy they bring to my celebration. Each year, as I see my candles atop the pink glazed circle and anticipate the sharp, sweet taste of the pure white cake, I feel the strong rhythm of memories in my life that leads me back to the beginning and helps me see how far I have come.

* * * * *

For more stories about birthdays, read:

Happy Birthday And Happy Birth Day
Happy Birthday, Ranger

A Happy Birthday Cake

My Birthday Party

Golden Years
Project Birthday Banner
New Year's Resolutions And A Birthday Cake
Birthday Greetings
Root Beer Birthday Redux

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Let's be honest. Holidays are all about the food. Read here for more stories about what I serve on special days.

Happy Chinese New Year

Happy Groundhog's Day! Happy Candlemas!

Easter Eats

Easter Dinner

Cinco De Mayo + 1

A Happy Birthday Cake

Happy Halloween: Enjoying The Tricks And Treats

My Annual Indulgence

My Thanksgiving Feast

Danger And Fear

Another glorious day of winter beauty at Stevens Pass yesterday.

Yet as I skied around this bright and pristine wonderland, my thoughts focused on two dark topics:

Danger and fear.

Despite the cheerful bluebird skies and sweetly absurd Dr. Seuss trees, this mountain resort is alive with danger. A moment's indecision or an instant of bad judgement can land me buried under the snow in a tree well, face-planted into a tree trunk, or sliding swiftly and uncontrollably down an icy cliff. Ouch. Cringe. It's difficult to face those truths, but wild places always bear the risk of harm or injury.

Fear is something entirely different from danger. Fear is an emotional response to a real or imagined danger. As with any emotion, I cannot control my initial experience of fear; if I peer over the top of a steep slope and feel an overpowering desire to retreat, I can't pretend I didn't feel it. But it's how I choose to respond to that onrush of fear that matters to me. I can either give in to it, or put it out of my mind and carry on.

This is one of the most powerful lessons of the mountain.  As a skier, I've learned to push past my fears and to take on those dangers that I think I can handle. With every run that I take, I practice this lesson over and over and over. And as the years go by, I can see how this discipline of working through my fears has rewarded me not only with incredible joys and growth as a skier, but in all areas of my life.

Danger is real. But fear is just an emotion. Don't let it hold you back.

* * * * *

Wanna read about the twists and turns of my ill-fated 2012-2013 ski season? Check these out:

Patience Really Is A Virtue

Learning Through Pain

Coming To My Senses

Redeemed

Lessons From LEGOs And A Lounging Lad

Today, I went to the LEGO store and waited while my fourth-born wandered the store, deciding how to spend her Christmas money. 

It took a long, long time. My daughter is very particular about her LEGO sets.

After I browsed with her for fifteen minutes or so, and realized I would be waiting for quite a while longer, I decided to take a seat at one of the workstations in the store.

When I sat down on the round yellow stool, in front of me on the table was a grey LEGO base plate  filled with a towering and complex creation, built presumably by a previous shopper. Or more likely, a series of shoppers...it looked as if one person after another had seated themselves before this creation, added 20 or 30 bricks, then moved on. It was beautiful, in a complicated and crazy way, and I admired it for several minutes.

Then I felt my own creative impulses stir; I wanted to add to the structure.  But as I pondered exactly what to add and where to add it, I realized that it was already such a complex amalgamation of  ideas and strategies that it was hard to come up with a sensible plan for adding on.

So in an instant of certainty, I did a bold thing. With no regrets, I tore down the entire thing. Every block went back into the bin in the center of the table and I was left with an empty base plate staring up at me.

Where before no new thing had seemed possible, I now felt the burden of unlimited freedom and potential. Ridiculously, I felt a wave of panic rise up in me. For heaven's sake, I was playing with LEGOs, not changing the world.

Then I realized that I was staring down at a perfect metaphor of my life. The old towering structures of hands-on mother, full-time parent, homeschooling teacher have been torn down, and since my youngest graduated last June, I've been looking down at an empty grey base plate of opportunity, wondering on earth I should do next.

* * * * *

Well, the jury is still out on my real-life transformation, but I can tell you how I handled my LEGO crisis. Without thinking, I grabbed a handful of loose blocks, chose the first four or five that caught my eye, and attached them to the upper left corner of the plate. Glancing down at them, I quickly assessed the most pleasing aspects of that impromptu design and repeated it with the next handful of bricks. I kept up that approach - taking advantage of whatever bricks were in my hand to create a cohesive pattern - until I filled in the whole board. Then I sat back and looked at what I had made. 

I like it. And I like what this exercise showed me about building on the empty base plate of my life:

Take advantage of what is available.
Don't overthink.
Look for patterns.
Build on my strengths.

These LEGOs taught me some important lessons.

* * * * *

In other colorful news today, Ranger took a nap in the sunshine, lying on the striped rug in my bedroom.

Thank you, Ranger, for reminding me of another valuable life lesson: warm naps are always good. 

* * * * *

Lessons can be learned in the most unlikely places; here are a few that have caught my eye:

Lessons From A Malay Hipster

Lessons Learned From Baseboards And Paint Chips

Lessons From Xeera

Lessons From A Lettuce Wrap

Mother Nature 0 - 1 Me

An icy, frigid day on the mountain, and me in my stylin' 80s frames. I really wish I could have worn my goggles to keep my poor face warm, but they just won't fit over my pink spectacles. What's a girl to do?

I'll tell you what I did. I sucked it up, used two sets of hand warmers, and took photos of the beautiful frosted landscape until my phone froze over. I skied till long after dark, went back inside every hour to thaw out my poor toes, drank hot chocolate, and had a fabulous time in spite of the bitter cold.

A Little Birdy Told Me So

First, a little back story.

For the past few years, I have had a small metal painted bird that hangs on a wooden post in my front yard. It's about 12 inches long...not big but certainly not that small either. Every day, as Ranger and I have returned home from our daily walk, I've developed the habit of glancing up at this bird on his perch and giving him a little greeting.

About six weeks ago, I noticed the bird had gone missing. I searched through all the garden beds in the area, among the dormant plants and under the fallen leaves, first at night with a flashlight and then again in the daylight. But it was no use. I couldn't find him anywhere. Although he isn't valuable in the least, I have really missed seeing that little bird, and every day as I pass by where he used to be, I feel a pang of sadness and loss.

A few days ago, while returning from a walk after dark, I once again passed by this empty place and felt the same little wave of sorrow wash over me. And then, a few steps into the open yard just beyond the bird's former post, I felt a lightweight object gently twist itself around my ankles as I walked, and I heard the unmistakable twang of metal being jostled about.

Yes. It was my bird. Safe and sound, inexplicably lying out in the middle of the grass. There is no explanation of how this happened, but it did, and I am glad for it.

* * * * *

Now, on to today. January 1. Not only is today New Year's Day but also my birthday, so it's a day that marks a double turn on the odometer of my life. Almost always, I greet this day with enthusiasm for making a fresh start. Like most people, I enjoy the process of making resolutions for myself. I try to set goals that are concrete, realistic, positive and fun - like posting an Instagram every day, or baking a homemade dessert every weekend. I have a pretty good success rate with keeping my resolutions and find that they bring a lot of positive energy into my life.

However, resolutions are only useful for changing specific habits. When I honestly and thoughtfully explore what I want for my life in the new year, I want to do much more than simply change my habits:

I want to love more deeply.
I want to see the world with fresh eyes.
I want to better understand what I can give to make the world a better place.
I want to make a positive difference in the lives of everyone around me.

As I thought about this today, I realized that simply changing a few habits is not enough. I want my life to be transformed.

But unlike resolutions, transformation is something that you just can't plan for, or resolve to find.

Transformation is like a metal bird that falls from its post and disappears. You can search by day and night, turning over every leaf in the garden, but you might not find it. And then, when you have all but given up, and the loss of that dream feels like a pain in your heart, you may just stumble across exactly what you have been looking for all along.