The Ordinary Details of Life

Today I invite you to take everything you know to be true about yourself—and let it go. Let it go and see what happens. When you give yourself enough distance to see things from a new perspective, you change the way you see yourself. Reclaim your positive truths; re-write the not-so positive ones. Go on, take an honest look... I let go of this belief about myself long enough for it to come around again, to stay for keeps this time: I am a writer. If the truth were to be told, in letting go, in stopping writing, I discovered that this is who I am. I write. I cannot help but write. I have begun again and now I can’t seem to stop. I don’t want to stop. Other beliefs I let go of seem to have gone for good—I am unworthy; I am unpretty; I am alone; I hate baking—and have made space for new beliefs. Better ones. If someone had told me, as recently as six weeks ago, that I would not only fall in love with baking, but be quite good at it, I would have completely dismissed thi

It’s a chilly Monday morning in August. Sixty-two degrees and the sun is coming up over the trees. This is my favorite time of year, these days in late summer that foretell the coming of autumn. “Autumn,” by the way, is one of my favorite words and always has been.                   The leaves are still very much green, but I’ve begun to see vibrantly orange-colored ones dotting the lawn. Yesterday afternoon at the picnic table, a maple leaf let loose and floated down, landing in a bowl sitting next to me at the table. Fall… My beau finds this time of year melancholy. The ending of another summer, he says. In conversation on this subject, however, I am presented with my own realization that I have always seen autumn as a time for beginnings. The start of school, the joy of new pens, pencils, three-ring binders… sweater season —and my birthday, marking the beginning of the journey of another year. I wax introspective. This year I have come to terms with an aspect of my

I just had a conversation about this new project I’m working on. It’s so engaging , I said. The hours fly by, I said. I’m so focused … Yes, well. That was then. Fast-forward to the next day:   my power animal shows up in the form of Curious George. Hopped up on a cocktail of mind-altering drugs. I can’t sit still for two minutes. OK, maybe two, but that’s it. Here. Take a peek inside my monkey mind… Got up, wrote in my journal—which, thank God(dess), I do every day. Then I made coffee and wrote a blog about it while my coffee got cold. Heated up cold coffee and decided I needed a photo to go with the blog. Got my camera, tried three different mugs, took the photo while my coffee got cold. Heated up cold coffee and posted my blog, which I accidentally deleted and had to re-post while my coffee got cold. Drank cold coffee. Ravenously hungry. Retrieved cold roasted potatoes from the fridge and ate while standing up. Not a good practice—I don’t recommend it. Most

Here is one of the most annoying things about me. I’m reluctant to say that, actually, because I don’t really consider myself to be all that annoying. Then again, who does really? It rarely occurs to us that the things we take for granted about ourselves might drive someone else to distraction. Also, I don’t believe in engaging in negative self-talk. So… I am quirky and I tend to wander off a bit. In a good way. Here’s what I’m talking about… I love to cook and I love to write about it—and recently, I’ve gotten into the habit of photographing my food. This can be inconvenient if I happen to be really hungry since I take the time to try to make my meal look good on a plate. I’ve been known to change plates half-way through. Better photo op.                 Then there’s the angle and the lighting and the conversation that takes place between my growling stomach and my right-side brain. STOMACH:     Come on, already! BRAIN:            Just one more shot.

I have a confession to make. I only know how to make coffee one way—in a French press. I haven’t used an automatic drip machine in so many years that I would have to read directions—water to coffee proportion, anyway—to get it going. And percolators? I’ve never figured them out. I have to ask my SE (spousal equivalent) every time, running the risk of getting that raised-brow, you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me look. So, French press it is                 I am perfectly content with this morning ritual. Heat the water, two heaping scoops of coarsely ground coffee beans (yes, I do prefer to grind my own), fill the pot and give it a quick stir with my favorite wooden spoon and place the press part on the tempered glass pot. Four minutes later, I push the plunger and voila! Perfect coffee. Funny that I should find the preparation of a known stimulant so relaxing. I think it’s the comfort of knowing that if you do the same thing in the same way time after time you will get the same