Creative Sanctuary

Finds

Last night I dreamt of Manderley…

By Allison

rebecca daphne du maurierI was lucky to have a grandmother who always made it a priority to read what her grandchildren read, as a way to connect to them.  For my cousins, she trudged through Harry Potter, even though she did not enjoy fantasy and magic.  Grandma also dutifully read the Left Behind series along with my middle school brother.  She worried that he was becoming a religious fanatic, but that’s a story for another day.

As a young girl, I took it for granted that Grandma and I could always talk about books.  I was a hungry, speedy reader who was able to read “grown up” books a little early.  I was surprised when, one day, Grandma handed me her copy of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, paraphrasing the first line:  “Last night I dreamt of Manderley…”  She thought I might enjoy reading it.

In a flash, our relationship expanded.  She no longer had to shift to my level and interests.  Now I could go toward her beloved texts.  She sensed I was ready.

I remember reading the book feverishly—there was romance, evil, and even a ghost, if memory serves.  I must have been in 6th grade.  Today, flipping through Grandma’s 1967 Pocket Cardinal Edition, I realize that 419 pages would have been a formidable, appropriate challenge for me.  She would not abide vulgar language or sex in novels read by her grandchildren, so my innocence was surely preserved in reading Rebecca.

Now that Grandma is gone and I am grown, I smile to think that my traditional yet fiery grandmother carried Rebecca with her for so many years.  From time to time, we’d talk about the novel, and she never failed, hand to chest, to evoke that memorable first line.  “Last night I dreamt of Manderley…”

I admit that I have allowed the details of Rebecca to become fuzzy.  There was a first wife, a second wife, and a fire.  I don’t remember much more.  I’m not ready to reread the novel right now.  For me, Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca isn’t about plot or strong female characters.  It’s about a shared text, a passion for reading, and an enduring intergenerational friendship.

 

Inspirations

Parul Sehgal’s In Praise of Daphne du Maurier

More reads on Creative Sanctuary

Holiday Minimalism

By Allison

I have some minor hoarding tendencies, mostly involving excessive amounts of books and clothes.  But when it comes to decorating for the holidays, I prefer a clean, streamlined, and muted look.  A few strands of twinkling white lights, some live greenery, and a dozen or so ornaments compose my Christmas décor most years.

This hand-painted ornament is always a sentimental and aesthetic favorite.  Quimper faïence (hand-painted pottery) comes from Brittany in Western France.  The art dates to the early 18th century, and it is emblematic of Brittany.  Each piece is signed.  Motifs include traditional dress and florals, like the one I feature in this post.

My thoughtful aunt Susie gifted this treasure to me years ago, and each time I slip it from its velvety pouch, my mind returns to our visits in France, Italy, and the Midwest.  Cool and heavy in my hand, this art piece also connects me to the artist who carries on this Breton tradition, as well as to friends from Brittany who have passed through my life over the years.

I admire minimalists for their empty closets and the clean looks they create in their homes.  I am not ready to significantly shorten my book stacks, nor am I prepared to thin out my extensive scarf collection.  Yet I emulate their restraint through my commitment to holiday minimalism.  My light touch keeps me from feeling bogged down by Christmas “stuff.” Each of my ornaments holds a story, which allows me to enjoy the season all the more.

Rooibos Season

By Allison

My former student and friend Maggie Heine of Louisville, Kentucky kindly agreed to contribute to Creative Sanctuary this month.   Her thoughtful piece celebrates autumn, rooibos, and wanderlust.  Thank you, sweet Maggie!

If you ever find yourself in southernmost South Africa, pay attention to its strange, shrubby fields. You may happen to see an odd little plant with needle-like leaves, covered with tiny golden flowers. Aspalathus linearis. You won’t find this bush, somewhat unremarkable at first glance, growing anywhere else in the world—farmers ranging from China to the U.S. have tried to harvest it in their home countries and failed. That’s because of the wonderfully strange ecology of South Africa’s Cape region: our planet is composed of six floristic kingdoms, or geographic areas with relatively similar plant species. If you’re reading this, chances are that you’re in the gigantic Holarctic kingdom, which comprises the vast majority of North America, Europe, and Asia. The Cape kingdom, on the other hand, is miniscule, containing only the very southernmost tip of the African continent. Despite its small size, it’s extraordinarily rich, and the majority of plants that call this kingdom home can only be found in that dot on the tip of South Africa.

The entire area is beautiful beyond comprehension, nearly extraterrestrial with its mountains that jut up against the sea, its preponderance of baboons and ostriches, its wide blue skies that become enveloped in clouds in an instant. Now that fall has finally arrived, I find myself thinking about that remote speck and all of its ecological strangeness regularly. I’ve been to South Africa twice, once in the southern hemisphere’s winter, and once in its early spring. During these trips, about six weeks in total, I was rarely without a cup of tea clasped between my hands. This brings us back to Aspalathus linearis, or as it’s commonly known, rooibos. When its leaves are plucked, dried, and steeped, they create an infusion that’s smooth, nutty, and the slightest bit sweet. It’s sold en masse in South Africa like we sell our Lipton green tea—clearly, it’s nothing fancy,  but it’s my constant companion when the weather turns chilly. I love the drink for its flavor, but it’s also more than that. For me, rooibos is the feeling of bundling up at daybreak to search for zebras and lions from an open-sided Jeep; it’s looking out over the expanse of the ocean from 4,000 feet up a mountainside; it’s falling asleep to the sound of rain on an old tin roof. It’s South Africa, in all its botanically bizarre wonder.

Embroidery II

By Allison

Two threads of opaque light

At One with

Invisible needles,

Moving in and out of silent space

Embroidering,

Creating colors unseen

A work of art,

Felt in the Heart

 

This post was created in collaboration with the lovely Shelley Richardson.

 

Inspiration

Embroidery

Our Imperative

By Allison

During my last visit to Paris, I spied a few of these messages of love, all sprayed by the same hand.  They delighted me.  Moving about Paris can be stressful, especially given the security measures of recent years—more soldiers, more police vehicles, more security checks.  In short, more fear.

The unexpected love signs were an antidote to the tensions.  They brought a pause, a smile, and a reminder of loving kindness.  This week, in the wake of mind-numbing violence in my own country, people are grasping for words.  I have not pieced together my own thoughts, and I don’t know that I will.  Yet the Paris love graffiti wells up in me.  Its clear, direct message resonates.  Love is an imperative.  Love is our duty, our privilege, and our pleasure.  And this week, it is our balm.

Embroidery

By Allison

Flea markets are therapeutic.  My eyes do the initial sifting as I make my way down the aisles and through the booths.  When I am drawn to an object—a hand-painted tray, a copper planter, a Limoges teacup—I approach for a closer look.  Where was it made?  What is its story?  Can I make space for this object in my little house?

The visual and tactile experience of an overflowing flea market allows me to move beyond my internal, distracting chatter.  Yesterday, in the company of a friend, this dainty needlepoint purse found me.  The handwork is intricate—much care and concentration went into this old-fashioned piece.  I wonder who made it and who carried it…

Embroidery has long been a form of feminine expression.  My self-taught needlework is precise but sporadic.  Usually, I choose to embroider through language.  Both written and spoken, words form my stitches.  Clean, fumbling, or elegant they lend texture to my creative work.  Pauses are perhaps more important than words.  Spaces of silence, they allow my chains of words to function as thoughts.  At the flea market, I sometimes find myself existing in the spaces between the stitches of everyday life.  The precious pause leads me to small treasures, sharpens my curiosity about their pasts, and inspires me to imagine new places and purposes for them.

Cicada Song

By Allison

Then each one of us, […] will move back out on the pitch-black porch and let the body heat of the day leech from the house and our own bodies out onto the night, its billion singers—tree frogs, cicadas, the deathless crickets, the high whine of bats–” Renyolds Price, Outdoor on the Porch

This bean has recently fallen under the spell of cicada music.  As the day’s last light falls, she wanders from Grandma’s porch into the front yard to explore the emerging sights and sounds of twilight…  she seems most intrigued by cicadas, which the Bean Girl sometimes refers to as bicadies.

She hears their song—verging on deafening—but she doesn’t see them.  Perplexed, she returns to the porch, peppering Uncle Jack and Aunt Allison with questions.  What are cicadas/bicadies? Where are they? Why do they make that noise?

We dig deep to share what we remember about the insect.  In the winter, they live underground.  After many years, they are ready to come up and spend time in the trees.  Cicadas have wings.  When Uncle Jack gets technical, Bean Girl makes her way back to the yard, swatting at oak and hickory trees with sticks.  She hopes to lay her eyes on a cicada.

Her precocious exploration sparks my own inquiry.  What do cicadas teach us?  I recall that they are a beloved symbol of Provence.  They spend years underground before seeking the sunlight.  19th century poet Frédéric Mistral even granted cicadas their own motto:  the sunlight makes me sing.

That light is slipping through our fingers.  The evening air is heavy, but we feel autumn coolness pushing up against these last days of summer.  As Bean Girl searches the yard, we settle deeper into our spots on the porch and sip the last of the rosé, engulfed in cicada song.

 

Inspirations

Out on The Porch

The Song of the Cicada

 

Impromptu Porch Party

By Allison

The beginning of August was gloriously cool and breezy—not Iowa State Fair weather by any stretch of the imagination.  Mom’s cozy front porch is underused, so one day I welcomed her home from work with a mini porch party.  It was a snap to organize this tiny gathering:

–I mixed up a pitcher of Aperol Spritz—a refreshing and slightly bitter Italian apéritif we drank during our trip to Florence a few years back.  Happy memories of relaxed, buoyant terrace restaurants!

–I picked up some nibbles at the local grocery—pitted olives, bocconcini (bite-sized mozzarella) marinated in olive oil, parsley, and red pepper flakes, roasted and salted pistachios.

–I pulled out Mom’s most colorful glassware, which are works of art in themselves.

Our porch party required a little thought but not much action.  It came together quickly and allowed us to have a relaxed, lighthearted moment together, enjoying the flowers and the late summer light.

…

Read More

Between, Within, Beneath

By Allison

<img class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-768" src="https://www.creativesanctuary.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/collioure-succulents-water-300x300.jpg" alt="Collioure Succulents Water" width="300" height="300" />Life is lush in this Mediterranean village.  Located in the south of France mere miles from Spain, Catalan culture pervades Collioure.  Tapas, espadrilles, sunshiny wine…  People glide between French, Spanish, and Catalan.  Vivacious and expressive, they draw me in.

I initially came to Collioure to spend a few days on the water.  I discovered the light that moved Matisse, making way for Fauvism.  I ate fresh, briny anchovies.  I watched the sun rise over the medieval lighthouse-church sitting at the edge of the water.  This bright village of 3,000 gave me both solitude and company.  I made friends at every turn—at the hotel reception, walking along the jagged inlets, sipping Banyuls wine at a waterside café.

I also experienced the grace of stillness.  In “Song of the Reed,” mystic poet Rumi counsels,

Stay where you are
inside such a pure, hollow note 

I practiced inhabiting that hollowness.  Allowing my mind to settle beneath the buzz of the village, I connected to the minute elements of its landscape.  From that still, internal space, my attention moved to the generous succulents that dot the village, to the smooth, flat stones that make up the beach, and to the laundry artfully hung outside the windows of pink, yellow, and blue homes.  Inside my hollow note, the surrounding hills and massive château lost their grandeur.  The vividness of Collioure made its way to me through the secrets hidden within the notes of overlapping voices and juxtaposed colors.

 

Inspiration

Rumi’s “Song of the Reed”

Cloisonné

By Allison

I eyed the vintage chopsticks for months…  two sets lovingly displayed in narrow, silken boxes.  I figured the local antique shop wouldn’t sell them right away, so I hemmed and hawed.  They definitely weren’t ivory—maybe resin?  The floral cloisonné was dainty and delicate.  I liked the weight of them in my hands. I slid them back in their case.

One day, much to my delight, a friend bought them for me.  More than once, she had seen me gravitate to them.

I come home and waste no time in putting them to use—a Buddha bowl is called for—what can I rummage up in the kitchen?  Kale-soba noodles-apple-sesame seeds-Korean red pepper paste-scallions-soy sauce-garlic.  With NPR in the background, I set to preparing the dish that will baptize my “new” chopsticks—a concoction of flavorful noodles and vegetables.  My dinner is easy on the eyes and happy in the tummy—spicy, sweet, and green.

…

Read More