Creative Sanctuary

Meditation

Luxurious Boredom

By Allison

Citrus Tea Cup and SaucerTea and citrus got me through my week with influenza.  When I got sick, I immediately cut myself off from the world and settled in for a week of quiet recuperation.  I didn’t have much of an appetite during my bout with the flu, but fluids perked me up.  Warm lemon water with honey soothed my throat, sparkling water quenched my thirst, and hot tea gave me warmth and comfort.

Being sick and alone is boring.  I hadn’t experienced boredom in years, and so it was odd to get reacquainted with this sensation that I knew so well as a child.  I binge-watched The Crown—a welcome distraction.  But my mind was too cloudy to read, my voice too shaky to call friends.  I spent most of the week wrapped in blankets and scarves, sipping tea.

I’ve long understood that silence is productive, and I now see that boredom is too.  Expansive, quiet minutes slid into hours and days.  I stumbled upon empty corners of my mind that didn’t house thought.  My internal chatter slowed, my anxious mind relaxed, and for a time, I stopped thinking.  Spacious boredom replaced my drive to achieve.

The flu drained me, yet my week of isolation revived me.  Tea and water were life-giving and clearing, and so too was boredom’s hollow loneliness.

Snowy Day Breakfast Salad

By Allison

snowy day breakfast saladHere at the hermitage, in deep snow, everything is ordinary and silent.
—Thomas Merton, 1963

Last week, snow slowed me down.  After many busy weeks, I welcomed a few quiet, snowy mornings.  I moved slowly and intentionally.  Minutes and hours seemed to expand.  These mornings were ordinary and uneventful.  I gave more time to waking up and more time to breakfast.

My “breakfast salad” is so simple that it doesn’t require a recipe.  But it does have a few components and is not for busy work mornings.

Here’s how to pull it together:

“Jammy” Eggs

Bring saucepan of water to a gentle boil.  As water is coming up to temperature, prepare an ice water bath in a large bowl.  Place on counter, next to burner.  Once water boils, use a large spoon to ease eggs into the bowl, one by one.  Boil gently, for 6.5 minutes.  (7 minutes if you want a more solid yolk.)  Use spoon to move eggs from saucepan to ice water bath, to stop cooking.  When they’re cool enough to handle, remove peels under running water.  Set peeled eggs aside.

Bread

Prepare toast and set aside.  I made pita toast last week.  Use whatever bread you have on hand.  No need for butter.

Salad

Chop English cucumber, tomatoes, and radishes in to bite-sized pieces.  Place in a small bowl.  Toss with a little extra virgin olive oil, lemon juice, salt, and pepper.  If you don’t mind onion in the morning, add a little red or green onion.  Set aside.

Yogurt Base

For each serving, scoop 3-4 generous tablespoons of whole milk or Greek yogurt into another small bowl.  Squeeze juice of ½ lemon into yogurt, more if you’re preparing multiple servings.  Add a pinch of salt and stir.  Spread onto breakfast plate(s).  Set aside.

Assembly

Gently place salad on yogurt.  Slice eggs(s) the long way and nestle into the yogurt.  Drizzle a little extra virgin olive oil, squeeze a little lemon juice, and sprinkle with salt and pepper (Piment d’Espelette, if you have it.)  Serve with toast.

Revel in your slow morning.

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.

Shape

By Allison

Without darkness, nothing comes to birth.
As with light, nothing flowers.
-May Sarton

Early morning stillness…  the Earth rests.  I flutter in and out of a last dream.  What time is it? Still dark.
I roll on my side.  Push myself up.  Feet dangle over the carpet.  Gentle movements.  Deep breath.  My feet touch the floor.  Warm socks, cozy wrap.

Time to shuffle downstairs.  What shall I drink?

Cool water in the kettle.  Tea tins in the cupboard.

Black tea?  Yes.

How about a Ceylon?  Smooth, elegant.  Just right.

The water trembles.  Shy light filters through the blinds.  A couple of teaspoons of dry leaves slipped into the teapot. The water begins to bubble…  Just a little longer.

Ritual gives shape to our days.  I await the first sip, and the events of today take root in my mind’s eye.  As the day unfolds, they will push through the surface.  Now, though, I focus on the breath running through me.

Beauty in Grief

By Allison

 

“Beauty, in a way, justifies our existence.”
–François Cheng, Oeil ouvert et coeur battant

My cousin Robb and I grew up amongst lawyers.  Drawn to the arts, we both forged paths that were atypical in our family.  Robb became a painter, and I studied literature.  We were both teachers.

Last week, Robb died unexpectedly.  I feel the pain of this loss in my bones.  And memories arise.  When we were little, large family gatherings at Grandma and Grandpa’s farm were a wall of noise—wild children waiting for the Easter egg hunt to begin, or, in December, demanding to know when Santa Claus would arrive.  We existed in a joyful, buzzing mass of cousins.

Happily, Robb and I got to know one another as adults.  Once we met at Caribou Coffee and spent a few hours talking about our favorite museums and gossiping about our siblings.  A few years back, I attended one of his shows—in a parking ramp!  It was brilliant!  The curvy, cavernous, concrete space allowed me to see the genius of his bright and bold paintings.  To no one’s surprise, our cool cousin Robb put on a cool show.  It is the most cosmopolitan Des Moines, Iowa has ever felt to me.

That evening, my brother and his wife purchased their first Robert Spellman piece, detail of which I share in this post.  It hangs in their front hallway, and my eyes fall on it each time I enter their home.  Robb left the painting untitled, explaining to my sister-in-law, “this started as a woman and morphed into so much more.”  I see echoes of the organized chaos that defined the Spellman get-togethers of our childhood.  In Robb’s energetic swirls, I see us charging through Grandma’s house, fueled by sugar and time with cousins.  I sense the members of a family gathering around tables.  In the center, I see Oneness.

My cousin experienced beauty and created beauty.  There is also beauty in our grief.  We loved Robb.  He graced us with his attention, his presence, and his art.  His life was beautiful, and he leaves beauty in his wake.

 

Inspiration

Robert Spellman Studio

 

 

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