Blue Buildings

On my first proper adventure around Seoul, my daughter and I hopped a bus, crossed the Hoh River that separates her neighborhood from the city center, walked around a bit, and did a bit of shopping. 

Marimo balls 

Macarons

Groceries for the holiday weekend.

Along the way, I saw two blue buildings that stole my heart. 

I hope I remember them forever. 

* * * * *

A full accounting of my trip to Seoul:

Morning In Seoul

Korean Barbecue

Blue Buildings

Shopping At Hara Cake

Sunday In Seoul

Sipping And Shopping In Sinsa

Happy Lunar New Year From Seoul

Our Bakery

In-N-Out

Cheongdam Square In Gangnam

Cheonggyecheon Stream At Night

Gracie's Snowmageddon

Seoul Food

Flying Away

Blue Buildings

Korean Colors

Lucky Marimo Balls

My latest obsession in the plant world came to me last fall fresh from my fourth-born's carry-on bag. 

During her visit to Seoul, she and her sister, my third-born, had found these algae balls in a trendy Common Ground shop and instantly knew I would love them.

My daughters were definitely right.

^ Those first two were tiny babies, about six months old when they came into my life, probably close to a year now. The third, larger and slightly older ball was a Christmas gift from my daughter's boyfriend. Although none of these fuzzy green children have shown much sign of growth, they are all happy and healthy as can be.

Caring for marimo, as they are called in Japan, is delightfully simple. Natives of deep cool northern lakes in Japan and Iceland, they ask for very little: just keep them out of direct sunlight and refresh them with ordinary tap water every two weeks. 

On my trip to Seoul this past January, I decided to treat myself to more marimo. Yes, I know that they are widely available in the U.S. but there's something special about buying these little cuties from their Asian homeland. Along with a few more youngsters, I indulged in a twenty-something marimo that charms me with its chubby spherical self.

I smile every time I walk past him.

But it was my fourth-born who walked past him this morning and said, "Hey, mom, your big moss ball is floating! Did you know that's good luck?"

What's this? I fled to the internet for some quick research on the phenomenon, and found a series of scientific articles about photosynthesis, air bubbles, and relative buoyancy.

Which is all well and good.

But I prefer my daughter's simpler approach. 

My marimo balls undoubtedly bring me good luck. Because they make me happy.

And, once again, my daughter is definitely right. 

Saint Patrick's Day Parade

"May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back. 

May the sun shine warm upon your face; 

the rains fall soft upon your fields 

and until we meet again, 

may God hold you in the palm of His hand."

-Traditional Gaelic blessing

Yesterday, Gracie and I marched in the Seattle Saint Patrick's Day parade. 

We joined a squad of fifteen Irish lads and lassies, along with their assorted humans. 

^ We worked a long time to get into perfect position for this group photo. And in the end, the photographer said that he had caught every single dog gazing at the camera. But the photo proves that at the last instant, Gracie swiveled her head around to look for me. 

This is why I love her. 

^ Gracie was in love with this event. Especially she adored the front-end waiting time, which allowed he ra long lovely time to meet and greet her canine people. And what a joyful sight for me to see her moving through that rolling sea of red wiggly pups, each one as happy and friendly and full of blarney as the next.

The Irish are a cheerful lot.

^ And this was my first celebration of Saint Patrick's Day knowing for sure that Irish blood runs through my veins. 

I am not necessarily a parade person. I much prefer a march, in which the issue of the day is the primary player in the spotlight, and I walk in a sea of many who come together to give voice to that cause. 

For me, a parade comes perilously close to a performance, and that is surely not my jam. 

But this year, I decided to try. 

I am definitely not one to dress up in costumes. But in light of my willingness to give this parade scene a go, as well as celebrating my newfound Irish heritage, I challenged myself to put on a headband with a pair of wiggly leprechaun hats. 

I stopped short of the "Kiss me, I'm Irish!" t-shirt. Maybe next year. 

^ Gracie and I were a picture of minimalist contrast to my friend, Kelly, and her girl, Nala. How do I even begin to describe the extravagant glory of Kelly's head-to-toe emerald green ensemble, or Nala's fluffy and bedazzled tutu? They were adorable and festive beyond words, and continually caught the eye and the admiration of the crowd.

But introverts too have a role to play in a parade. As Gracie and I patrolled along the edge of 4th Avenue, close to the onlookers, I kept my eye out for anyone showing signs of wanting to pet my Irish lady. We stopped dozens of times, Gracie and I, to let little hands and big hands alike smooth her fur, rub her ears, admire her gentle spirit. Quite a few children told me about dogs who were special to them; three told me about dogs they loved who had died. 

Among the chaos and celebration, we shared intimate moments with perfect strangers.

And it was beautiful.

We finished the parade and stopped for a well-deserved water break.

Blessed by our morning's adventure, Gracie and I made a silent pact to march again in next year's Saint Patrick's Day parade.

Photo credit to Kelly Woodworth for photos niumber 1, 3 and 4. Thanks, Kelly!

Gracie's Socks

"You can move back into your house on Friday," my floor guy told me. "But, for the next three days, until the sealer is completely cured,

no shoes, 

no furniture, 

no rugs,

and no dogs." 

 

Uh oh. This was going to be a major problem. 

But in a flash, I remembered.

A few months ago, Gracie had gone through a phase of crazy paw-licking. With feverish intensity, she had developed the habit of working over her feet, one at a time, several times a day. In the process, she was creating sizable pools of - dare I say it - muddy drool, which was simply not working for me. 

After stripping yet another set of slobbery sheets off my bed and cleaning up a puddle that had soaked all the way through to my mattress, I ranted my displeasure to my fourth-born. As she so often does, she quickly came up with a practical solution. 

"Let's put some socks on her feet."

Now, this was not my first paw-licking rodeo. For similar reasons, I'd tried to put socks on each of my three previous setters and each dog had pulled those socks off faster than I could wrestle them on. This experience had taught me that no self-respecting pup would ever tolerate footwear. But I was not about to crush my daughter's ingenuity.

So I said, "Sure. Let's try it."

My daughter immediately set to work sorting through a variety of human footwear and soon came up with some that she thought might work. A few minutes later, Gracie was sporting two pairs of adult-sized striped socks.

To my surprise, she didn't seem to hate them.

However, the socks did not fit her properly, and they quickly slid off her slender feet.

My daughter further analyzed the problem and mused, "You know what might fit better? Infant socks."

Now I would have never thought of that in a million years. But my daughter works at Baby Gap and is therefore an infant sock professional. 

And she was spot on.

The next day she brought home a two-pack of white infant triple-fold socks and they fit Gracie like a glove. All evening, our dog padded around in her new ensemble as if she'd worn socks her whole life. And all night long, she slept with her paws cozy and swaddled, apparently as happy as can be.

By the next morning, when we slipped them off for her trip out to the back yard and then slid them back on when she returned to the house, the precedent had been set. Gracie wore the socks nonstop for the next few days, and the incessant paw-licking ceased. 

After a week, the socks were retired and Gracie returned to her bare-paw ways.

Case closed. 

Back in the present moment, the solution to our no-dogs-on-the-fresh-hardwood-floors problem became blindingly clear. 

Out came the set of white baby socks, in went her paws, and softly, smoothly, silently, across the fragile floors Gracie padded.

That was two weeks ago. Gracie continues to happily wear her socks, standing patiently as we put them on her multiple times a day, carrying on with the rest of her life as if she'd been wearing socks all along. Not once have we seen her disturb them or make any attempt to take them off.

In fact she seems to like them so much that we've bought Gracie two more sets of socks.

There are the pink ones that she wore for this photo shoot. When Gracie was a newborn, she was identified as the pink pup of the litter, so these seemed a fitting choice.

And then, because what dog doesn't need a set of bulldozer socks, there are these:

* * * * *

Follow every step of my floor restoration and home reinvention journey:

Patience Is A Virtue

Fresh Experience
Gracie's Socks

Fresh Experience

"Your [adult] child's life will be filled with fresh experiences. It's good if yours is as well." 

-Dr. Margaret Rutherford

I am beginning to understand why many parents, once their nest has emptied, choose to move to a new house. 

Beyond the practical need to downsize, there is a natural sense of newness to this period of life. 

An awareness of change. 

A desire to make life fresh, 

to roll with the changes, 

to begin again. 

Now personally, I have zero desire to move to a new house. 

But I do feel the need to reinvent this place I call home, and honestly, after a lifetime of raising kids and wrestling pets, the joint could use some work.

So this past month, our floors have undergone some much-needed repair. 

Which means we had to literally move out of the first floor.

New mini desks to replace the big ol' tables that we bought back in the day when we had four desktops in here for our essay-writing daughters. The art remains the same, though I rearranged the white polka dots on the wall from a random orientation to a grid. And that rag rug has since been removed. 

I've found it an interesting experiment to empty my house of every stick of furniture, every lock, stock and barrel of artwork, greenery, throw pillows, and knick-knackery, and see it once again as a completely blank slate.

And now, with my floors finally finished, I have begun the equally interesting process of bringing things back in. 

After the initial adrenaline rush of actually having a place to sit down to eat, I realized that I was in no rush at all. 

Still love this corner of my dining room with a tiny painting, a tinier plant, a chair with an attitude, and my triangle walls. This establishes the light and airy vibe I want for the entire room and that may mean a big change. 

So I've been slowly, slowly bringing my house back to life, re-examining  re-assessing and re-inventing as I go. 

I find that I want less. 

A lot less.

And yes, that means some KonMari karate chops and a lot of tough love as I let go of things I have loved in the past. 

No matter what, the couch stays. As well as the Stockholm pillows, the Ofelia throw, 

and the cute little dog in socks. 

But that's okay. Because life is more interesting when I invite the winds of change into my life, and allow them to literally blow around the furniture. I'm ready for a fresh experience.

* * * * *

Follow every step of my floor restoration and home reinvention journey:

Patience Is A Virtue

Fresh Experience
Gracie's Socks

March Snow

The sky filled with low heavy clouds.

Temperatures dropped toward freezing.

Snow fell softly to the ground.

My dog and I went walking.

White lay thin on roofs and trees.

I knew this wouldn't last long.

March snow is fleeting.

I love it just the same. 

Stories Of My People

A family of German violinists and pianists farm for a living but live for their music. 

Red-headed and freckle-faced Irishmen bury their noses in poetry books and live with their heads in the clouds.

English folk cherish their simple ways and countryside life.

French Canadian prim and proper Catholics enjoy never-ending broods of children and an affinity for genteel ways.

These are the stories I’ve been told about my ancestors. Probably my imagination has embellished the bare facts but over the years quite an colorful portrait of my family has taken shape in my mind, and I’ve wondered exactly how many of these stories of my people are true.

Today, I learned that the answer is probably quite a few. I got the results of my 23 and Me genetic testing and the findings are spot on

++

38% German, strongly affiliated with the region of Bavaria.

37% United Kingdom and Irish, with UK genotypes sprinkles around d England and Scotland, and a dollop of the Irish Counties Limerick and Cork

17% general northwest Europe, which probably reflects the French and Welsh bloodlines that wandered through Canada for several generations.

And here comes a lovely surprise:

2% Swedish. Which explains my passion for snow, forests, and flat box furniture.

++

So now I know that the stories of my people are told in the strains of blood that course through my veins. And while I don’t think that any ancestral heritage or cultural background is better than any other, I am fiercely proud that these stories are mine.