Creative Sanctuary

family time

Madeline on Our Mind

By Allison

Madeline ParisIn an old house in Paris that was covered with vines
lived twelve little girls in two straight lines

My four year-old niece Sylvie Rose is intrigued by the story of a little girl in Paris named Madeline. Her father bought the storybook for Sylvie before she was even born, and I imagine they have spent many hours reading and rereading about Miss Clavel’s sense that something was not right... about Madeline’s subsequent surgery…the crank on the hospital bed… the dollhouse from Papa…her friends’ hospital visit.

I suspect that some of Sylvie’s devotion to Madeline is due to the fact that she lives in Paris. Sylvie Rose knows that Aunt Allison is a French teacher who makes occasional visits to Paris. Her questions give me glimpses of her four-year old mind: Madeline is a real kid, right? Where is her house? And during my most recent trip to France she called to ask, Did you find her?

I love her intensity and admire her persistence in her search for Madeline. These FaceTime conversations strengthen my bond with my niece, but they have also served as a surprising throwback to my own childhood. When I was seven or eight, I was infatuated with Madeline. My little sister had a pop-up version of the book, and I loved it so! I think I found beauty in the order of the twelve little girls in two straight lines. In two straight lines they broke their bread, and brushed their teeth, and went to bed. These words are etched in my mind.

Madeline was probably my first exposure to Paris, or at least to the idea of Paris. Each monument pictured in the story is now familiar to me—Notre Dame, les Invalides, les Jardins de Luxembourg.  Paris is home to me.  As a little girl in Iowa, these places would have seemed otherworldly. I believe that I chose to study French, in part, thanks to my affinity for Madeline and my curiosity about the vision of France I discovered in her story.

Many years later, Sylvie Rose is weaving her own literary landscape, and Madeline is part of it.  Watching her, the story of the little girl in Paris reemerges, expands, and intersects with my niece’s quest.

 

Inspirations

Ludwig Bemelmans’ Madeline, published in 1939

Reading with kids

The joy of summer reading

 

Hygge for One

By Allison

Although there is much to be done in the coming days, I am taking a hygge day—choral Christmas music, ginger spice candle, fuzzy clothes, baking,and tea…

I realize that community is central to the Danish practice of hygge—coziness, togetherness, sharing, and reciprocity…  board games, comfort food, and mulled wine…

Seeing that my near future holds an abundance of family time, I am content to build a solo hygge experience right now.  Let’s hope that this cozy “me time” helps me to refrain from snapping at my family next week.  (Who are we kidding?  I will be short with them!)

Later today, I will prepare a savory pork roast.  I will roast vegetables.  I will sip lush red wine.  I will listen to podcasts, and I will write in my journal.  Maybe I will Netflix and chill.

But for now, I am indulging in freshly baked cookies:  David Lebovitz’s Buckwheat Chocolate Chip Cookies.  They’re earthy, sweet and robust.  I pair them with an appropriately cold-weather tea—Nilgiri Frost Oolong.  This rare tea—from India—develops its intense fruitiness during chilly winter months.  Its assertiveness stands up to the chocolate, buckwheat and walnut.  This cookie-tea pair is quintessential winter fare.

My solitary hygge day is not lonely—I deliver Buckwheat Chocolate Chip Cookies to a baker friend, I chat with my stylist about her holiday plans, and I text a sleepy friend in Europe.  My hygge mindset weaves a web of meaningful togetherness that will gently carry me into the chaos of the coming weeks.

 

Inspirations

The New York Times on Hygge

The New Yorker on Hygge

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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

 

 

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