Squeaky shoes and new adventures!

As hard as it is for me to believe, it’s back-to-school time where we live.

It seems earlier than ever this year. Even the dogwood leaves are still green.

The streets in our neighborhood have been full of school bus drivers, practicing their skills at the essential art of blocking traffic.

The football stadium up the road is sporting a new coat of paint on the bleachers while last year’s crop of artificial turf waits expectantly and crows bob energetically in a fountain at Kudzu.

I’ll even bet that guy is skipping around the office supply place on TV, singing, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year!”

I used to think it really was the most wonderful time of the year. I loved going back to school.

And, even though I’m letting my hair grow at the moment and I wear shoes as rarely as possible, especially squeaky, slippery ones, there’s still part of my non-conscious calendar that has required a bit of reassurance that skipping those particular rituals will be okay.

(I had considerably less trouble talking myself out of the three little plaid dresses from Sears!)

I did, however, invest in some updated make-up, which actually has to do with the prospect of being out of school (again!) in the forseeable future and the need for some photographs.

And, frankly, I’ve kind of solved the whole back-to-school thing by just deciding to stay there and not really contemplating being “done,” at least in a big picture sort of way.

Yesterday, I had a conversation with a friend about learning.

Well, it started out having to do with covering chair cushions and moved on from there to the science of learning which, as it happens, I know a bit more about than actual upholstery.

I was reminded of my studies in Neuro-Linguistic Programming, also known as the psychology of excellence. It is, in many ways, learning about learning and it’s a really big subject.

A subject which involved a bit of book shelf excavation. I found what I was hunting for in a little volume called Principles of NLP. (Mine is the old, tattered, yellowed edition from 1996 but the link, above, is for a shiny, new, updated version in case you’re interested.)

In a section titled Behavior to Capability, authors Joseph O’Connor and Ian McDermott explore the question of how behaviors become skills.

The short answer is practice!!!

The slightly longer answer involves the four stages of learning a skill. I’m going to let our talented teachers take over in their own voices for a bit:

Learning a skill goes through four stages. Think of some intentional skill that you have acquired in the course of your life — driving, riding a bicycle or reading — and see how it fits into this scheme. You start from unconscious incompetence. In this state, not only can you not do it, you have never tried. You don’t even know that you don’t know.

Then you start to do it. At first, although it is part of your behaviour, you are not very skilled. This is the stage of conscious incompetence. You know enough to know you are not very good and it takes a lot of your conscious attention. This stage is uncomfortable, but it is also when you are learning the most.

Next you reach the stage of conscious competence. You can do it, you have reached the capability level, but it still takes a lot of your attention.

Lastly, if you persevere, you reach the stage of unconscious competence, when you do it easily without thinking. It has become streamlined and habitual, and is taken over by the unconscious part of your mind. Beyond this stage is mastery — but that is another book!

Here’s the big message for this moment in time… There are a lot of things I don’t know much about yet. My new Instant Pot. Adding darks and lights to faces! My new cell phone. Upholstery. Most of what Bill does at work, all day, every day.

I do know a lot about learning.

And knowing that — knowing what it looks like and feels like and what helps it to happen — is a big part of the reason that my friend has four chairs in her house that she’s excited about, even though we needed to do still more learning along the way.

It’s also what we should be teaching our kids. And all the folks around us.

Not the answers to the standardized tests but how to tap into the part of them that already knows how to learn.

How to have confidence in their ability to keep learning.

Once upon a time Sally, Dick & Jane was hard. There are moments when getting my paint brushes to cooperate is hard. I’m still trying to figure out the rosary thing. Let’s don’t even talk about head shots.

Except to say that learning is familiar even when what I’m learning is totally new.

If you have a story like this, tell it. The future is counting on you!

And one more word on new adventures from my friends at The West Wing.

Oh, and the crows… symbolic in some traditions of life magic and mysteries. Also intelligence, flexibility, and destiny!

 

 

 

Next??? Cable TV!

If Food Network and HGTV started a joint new show, it would kind of be my life this week!

A very jiggly batch of local, sustainably raised beef bone broth, courtesy of the Instant Pot electric pressure cooker, delivered to an ailing dog buddy yesterday, on the way to Michael’s for more paintbrushes.

Several requests for the scoop on last week’s dinner party which — Ooops! — I forgot to take pictures of. Fortunately, I needed lunch today so will include details, below.

A very vivid — read that painful — reminder of one of our old family stories on Sunday.

And a welcome hour or so in the company of the late Tony Bourdain while I waited for paint to dry last night.

First, the reason I won’t laugh at an old Dave story anymore.

Dave was 10 when we moved to Tennessee. We lived in the middle of nowhere, between Fayetteville, TN and Huntsville, AL. It was a bit of a change from Atlanta.

No pizza delivery. Minimal grocery stores. A 45 minute round trip to the KFC.

And no stove for the first 4 months we lived there.

We spent a fair amount of time hanging out at TGI Fridays and Red Lobster in Huntsville.

Other than being raised by a foodie dad, this may be one of the big factors in my journey to local food fanatic.

Anyway, one night we went to Red Lobster. I can’t remember what my junior sea food conniseur ordered but he asked for horseradish with it.

Expecting the creamy horseradish sauce he was used to at Fridays, he took an enthusiastic bite.

You’ll have an accurate grasp of what happened next if you recall the old Bill Cosby routine about belly buttons and the kid that flew around the room backwards and landed on the floor, flat as a piece of paper, with “nuthin’ but his ole eyes buggin’ out!”

Straight up, grated horseradish was clearly not what Dave was expecting.

So, Sunday, when the miracle happened and we left the dogs home while we went out to lunch, I ordered sushi at Noodle (Decatur) which is one of my favorite hang outs. Knowing that Bill wouldn’t be home for dinner, I ordered with leftovers in mind.

All was well with the world. About half a Scorpion King roll (which has a lot to do with shrimp and crab and nothing to do with scorpions) with a bit of pickled ginger, plus a hard-boiled egg * and a chopped avocado tossed with capers and trout roe**  plus a pair of chopsticks from our personal stash and I was ready for a feast.

Until a bit of that lovely, organic avocado turned out to be about a pea-sized chunk of straight wasabi.

Dave and Bill Cosby had nothing on me. I literally thought the top of my head would come off. Hence my oath not to laugh about Dave again! (Well, not about the horseradish!!!)

Last night, an awesome pot of soup with beef and pork broth plus some local artisanal sausage from our friends at Pine Street Market and leftover roasted brussels sprouts, cauliflower, and tiny potatoes. With more stashed in the fridge for feeding the Friday lunch crowd.

In the meantime, some staging help  for a friend with a charming house on the market in a great area of town. Some chair seats to recover and art to swap out. Another round of de-personalizing. And some spare linens with a relaxing, Caribbean sort of feel to them.

But, back to my favorite things from the tapas party last week.

We started with assorted French olives and some half-sour pickles from the Farmers Market. A bit of crab broth made of Florida stone crab claws, with a small scoop of rice, some asparagus and bunapi mushrooms, and a bit of trout roe**.

Little canoe shaped endive leaves stuffed with really good, Spanish, Ortiz Bonito del Norte tuna courtesy of our friends at Zingerman’s. You dress yours the way you like it. I do mine with some of the excellent olive oil it’s packed in, fresh lemon juice, finely chopped parsley stems and freshly crushed peppercorns.

And hard-boiled eggs, which I’ve finally figured out how to get right in the Instant Pot! *

Here’s how I do it, in our 8 quart Duo pot:

Add 1 c. water to the inner pot. Place one of those cool egg trivet gizmos, with 7 eggs, into the pot. We use more or less large sized, pasture raised, very fresh local eggs.

Secure the lid and set the pressure release knob to “sealing”.

Set unit to pressure cook on medium pressure for 3 minutes, with the “keep warm” feature turned off.

When it sings the little song that lets you know it’s done cooking, set the timer for 5 minutes of “natural” pressure releasing.

Prepare a bowl of ice water.

After the pressure releases for 5 minutes, switch the valve to “venting” and cover with a kitchen towel. When the little pop-up thing goes down, which will take about 3 – 5 minutes more, open the lid and transfer the eggs to the ice bath with tongs.

I’ll admit, I had to practice a while. I read lots of directions and played with the time. This is the process that leaves me with perfectly done, easy to peel eggs and time to sneak in a bit of painting between steps.

Peel eggs just before serving. I drizzled mine with garlic infused olive oil, added a tiny scoop of the trout roe** and sprinkled with crushed red pepper flakes and a bit of flaky Maldon finishing salt.

Round out your feast with some local, artisanal charcuterie, in this case copa, and crackers, as desired for your guests. I used Georgia Sourdough crackers with sea salt, thanks, again, to Pine Street Market. The gluten-free crackers with seeds work, too.

As for Tony Bourdain, he was in the Dominican Republic enjoying what reminded me of the island version of Chopinno, named for the tradition of everybody chipping in what they had. In this case, somebody had some veg and somebody had some bones and so on. It’s a really good way to eat!

For now, though, back to painting the cosmos. And, probably, me!

 

 

Re-membering

Last night I spent about three hours gathered around a picnic table (Which is also known as the dining/art table at our house!) sharing food and wine and stories with a dear friend.

A friend who has been out making some new stories recently, having to do with shiny jewelry and some interesting travels. A subject, I might add, she and I will be returning to later!

You will be delighted to hear that the beasties were excellent hosts and laid quietly under the table hoping, no doubt, that if we were going to drop things on the floor they’d be paper-thin slices of copa, or even tiny leaves of endive stuffed with tuna, as opposed to, well, roasted brussels sprouts.

We re-membered ourselves through several knee surgeries and a couple of romantic break-ups and a passel of dogs and way too many episodes involving dry needles on her part and four-letter words on mine.

It felt, rather surprisingly, like summer camp.

Perhaps it was the picnic table. Or the weather. Or the moon.

Then there’s the fact that I’ve been on a bit of a camp nostalgia tour lately.

You see, long before I was the chair of the camp committee or the camp nurse, I was a camper. And a counselor in training and a counselor and program staff.

And, as I’ve mentioned, it was always my job to remember all the words to all the songs from one summer to the next.

Today, I remembered some more words. You see, I went to camp in the 1970’s. And some of the songs we sang came from the Broadway musical, Jesus Christ, Superstar. (Which turns out to be a bit more complicated than I expected, as well.)

Oddly, I am, in this moment, in the midst of painting projects having to do with both Mary Magdalene and the Holy Mother or, in a more inclusive sense, Bella Mama.

I got more than a bit behind today. It had to do with the technical challenges of live streaming and the need for a nap after last night’s lovely dinner.

Honestly, I’m not quite sure yet where all of this is headed. And I’m way okay with that. I do know that painting the elements of creation dripped (literally) with stories of camp and with more than a few tears, which we add to the paint.

The camp I grew up in had a very ecological orientation. It was also strongly oriented in what we might call the archetype of the Divine Feminine, though I had no notion of those words in those days.

I had no idea then that when we picked the trash and the odd pickle out of the dust pan on our turn to sweep the dining hall, so that we could return the earth to the earth, we weren’t simply being neat.

We were, in a very real sense, becoming people who would, one day, vote.

When we sat under the full moon, filtered through the branches of ancient long leaf pine and turkey oak trees, and called circles around the fire, we were doing as women had done from the beginning of time and calling it good.

While, at the risk of being redundant, becoming people who would, one day, vote.

And some of us, at least, have undoubtedly become grandmothers, making marks on canvas saying, “I am here,” and teaching our grandchildren that they are here, too, in the midst of a world that needs us all.

So many things to re-member.

A word which, in Hebrew, also means to re-mind.

Which is, when you think about it, not a bad day’s work.

Even if I am a bit behind on the actual paint thing.

 

Freddy is Fine! (Again!)

You know how every family has its own peculiar language?

Every tribe?

Every profession?

The vocabularies are different. Words that are meant to be verbs inexplicably become nouns. And vice-versa.

Try proof reading a techy resume if you’re not sure where this is heading.

Scrubby brush takes on a communal meaning you didn’t know you didn’t know until you did.

Then there’s the secret code for labeling the bone broth in the freezer.

I’ve had one of those experiences over the last 48 hours or so.

First, a story.

I spent many summers as the Camp Nurse.

It’s an interesting job. Everything from helping a young woman who is breaking your budget because she has a severe case of cramps, and is going through a bottle of children’s Tylenol liquid a day, and doesn’t believe she can swallow a pill, to coating a kid head to toe in Calamine lotion so he can spend one extra day working up the courage to take the swim test… it’s an adventure.

For the uninitiated, M&M’s are the way to go for kids who “can’t” swallow a pill.

And, in case you wondered, you leave the bar-b-que fork in the kid’s leg on the way to the ER instead of pulling it out somewhere in the middle of a national forest with no 911 service.

But, all of that aside, here’s the first thing you need to know, just in case you ever want to be  a camp nurse. Or a school nurse. Or perhaps even a grandmother.

The first words out of your mouth, when you have to call a parent, are, “Freddy is fine!”

Then you ask which ER they prefer for a CT scan. Or whether Freddy has a history of broken bones.

Let me say, again, Freddy is fine.

I, however, am exhausted in the post stress crisis sort of way.

Flashbacks are definitely involved.

Last September, when lots of us were on the pilgrimage road with the Black Madonna, many of you prayed along with me for a critically ill friend in the midst of hurricane Irma and I am grateful, still.

Last night, my nice new cell phone had what another friend of mine would refer to as a come apart.

Everything beeping and ringing at once.

My friend, it seemed, was being taken, alone, by ambulance to an unspecified hospital somewhere in the northeast part of Georgia with symptoms frighteningly similar to her adventure last year.

Let me say it again. Freddy is fine.

Her “tribe” went into action. We found her. I did, as is part of my designated role, the phone calls to the moms. Three generations of women scattered around Georgia and Florida, making it better.

The miracle-working neurosurgeon from last fall was located, much to his amazement. And hugely helpful. (I’ve had some practice!)

I began to feel better when I got the text pic of her in the ER with her own clothes on. Things are a bit more critical when they start cutting them off with bandage scissors.

And even better, still, when I talked to her while she was on her way home last night. My friend. The same one I’ve known forever.

She slept a lot today.

I did, too. And had weird dreams. And ate potato chips. (Non-GMO in avocado oil!)

My loss box is rumbling again.

I’m behind on everything. (At least the things my Intentional Creativity sisters believe in being behind on!)

I need to paint but all I want to do are prayer dots. So, one of my work-in-progress canvases (the one known as Apothecary) is getting a new coat of black gesso. Then come the dots. Dip. Dots. Pray. Repeat.

For today, last year’s prayer dots.

Freddy is fine. (And has a follow-up appointment scheduled!)

Freddy’s tribe of beloveds are fine, too. If a tiny bit worse for the wear.

Blessed be.

 

 

 

Magic Wands

Over the years, I’ve developed quite a collection of magic wands.

The sparkly, beaded one found me in a tiny shop in Black Mountain, NC somewhere around the year 2000. It’s been a handy teaching metaphor for counseling clients through the years though, sadly, it didn’t come with an owner’s manual.

Then there’s the paintbrush which, as it turns out, is quite a bit more useful for making magic than the pretty, moon shaped one.

And then there’s our third magic wand for today.

You guessed it! It is, in fact, a meat thermometer of the old-fashioned, non-digital, actually working sort. Perfectly designed for telling when my fabulous roast chicken is crispy and juicy and exactly done.

Bill and I made two of those chickens on Sunday which, around here, is step one of the magic known as bone broth.

Actually, it might be step two. Step one happens on local farms where my sustainable farmer friends raise chickens like, well, chickens which follow us home from Pine Street Market.

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Anyway, the carcasses of those chickens, along with some miscellaneous turkey bones from the freezer, and a whole bunch of onions, garlic, and herbs, disappear into an enormous vat of water and appear, about 16 hours later, as a nourishing, healing elixir of comfort. (Which leaves lots of time for art!!!)

 

Several of you have asked, recently, for the roast chicken recipe. I’m delighted to oblige!

Click here! 

Fix. Enjoy. Freeze the bones. The broth recipe will be along shortly.

It really is magic. (Especially for breakfast!)

For more soup magic, check out my book:  Let’s Boil Bones… Grammy’s guide to bone broth and other yummy things!

 

 

 

Grammy does math class!

I spent a big chunk of today at the phone store. Not, just between us, my idea of fun but nothing has blown up yet so we’re claiming a win on that.

I spent much of the week thinking about math.

This, if you’d known me for 40 or 50 years, would be something of a surprise.

We moved around a lot when I was a kid and it seemed like every state we lived in had a different “new math” system. I was pretty confused.

The guidance counselors told my mom that, by the time I got to middle school, it would start to make more sense.

Not so much.

My math teacher in 7th grade was a nice guy who had long yellow finger nails, reeked of smoke, and responded, “Figure it out,” to just about every question.

In 8th grade, I took algebra I, ahead of schedule.

In 9th grade, I took it again. My teacher was the freshman football coach and the sponsor of the chess team. You guessed it! We drew football plays on the chalk board and played chess.

My 10th grade geometry teacher was a retired military pilot. We told war stories and made paper airplanes. I survived by drawing very neat proofs.

In 11th grade, something bizarre happened. My teacher wanted to do math! Sadly, she responded to every question with chapter and verse version from the Algebra one text, seemingly not realizing that I’d spent that year on football plays and chess.

By some major miracle, I survived enough Calculus and Statistics to wind up with a whole lot of alphabet soup after my name.

And, mostly, math in my day-to-day world has meant recipes and fabric yardage for quilts and the proper ratios for raw dog food.

All that changed this week!

Frankly, I’m not entirely sure whether what I was learning was math or science, wonders of the world or philosophy.

It did have numbers.

This week I learned the Fibonacci sequence!

And, suddenly, I’m a fan of math.

The cosmic pattern for nautilus shells and star galaxies and sunflowers and fiddlehead ferns and a whole lot of ancient buildings that are still standing, the photo above is my first attempt at a Fibonacci spiral.

I am, surprisingly, moved by this ancient wonder.

I am moved by the sensation of making the swirls over and over.

I am thrilled by my painting, rudimentary though it may be.

And covered over as it already is.

Some things just wonder me.

Here’s the best part…

The Fibonacci sequence has to do with building things on a secure base, be they buildings, or family relationships, or social structures.

We North Americans didn’t do so well with that when we built a world that essentially ignored the important base of the indigenous peoples who lived here already.

I’d even go so far as to say that we’re not doing such a good job of building on a solid base in these days.

I’m clinging, though, to the possibility that there’s still time to learn. To start again with the ancient truths of harmony and relationship.

So be it. Amen.

 

 

Help from all manner of sources…

Dearest friends,

The last few days have been a bit of a blur.

A welcome, if unexpected, visit from my sister who found herself stranded in the Atlanta airport with all her worldly goods on the way to Louisiana while she was trying to get to Indiana. (A story which I suspect will get funnier over time!)

This on top of a visit to the eye doctor to get my glasses prescription tuned up a bit. The new glasses are indeed in the works. And the need for another appointment as, in this moment, it seems likely that I have glaucoma in my left eye.

Between calendar issues and insurance issues, this is a development that’s eating up more time than I have!

Progress on some fronts.

Backsliding on others.

More than the usual amount of free-floating anxiety about some not-quite-resolved shifting career issues in our family and the sudden realization of how much I, who have never considered myself a very visual person, really value my vision.

Both the intuitive, alchemical kind and the eyesight kind!

Help has appeared from all manner of sources.

Dinner out at The Corner Pub which is our little version of Cheers! where everybody does know our names. They’re also graciously willing to accommodate my tendency to revise their menu! (If you’re in the neighborhood, the new roasted broccoli is fabulous.) And they do the dishes.

The presence of Red Thread sisters in my life who are “hugging and tugging” for me even now.

The stack of what Bill refers to as my “thumb-sucking books” which, in this case, has me back in the midst of the magnificent UNTIE THE STRONG WOMAN  by Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes. (Which is, in my experience, sustenance for pretty much everything.)

And some new input in my process.

As I mentioned recently, I’ve become part of a Facebook group created to help send rosaries to refugees on the US/Mexican border and, as the group has evolved, to praying novenas for the families living through the tragedy of separation and for drastic changes in US immigration policies.

Now, before I go on, let me say two pretty important things.

Prayer beads were decidedly not a part of my education in a Presbyterian seminary. I learned lots of wondrous and useful things there. Rosaries were not among them. “Always being Reformed” was, however, among them and this is me, doing that.

And, you are welcome and valued here, whatever faith tradition/s you may identify with, even if that’s none at all. Whatever our varied beliefs and chosen myths, whatever our metaphors and practices, we’re all really just trying to help move the world closer to a place of kindness and justice. A place of fierce compassion. (Well, most of us!)

So, with all that rumbling in my head, and with thanks to lots of teachers along the way, the Anglican Rosary pictured above appeared in my mailbox on Saturday. Amazon, eBay, and Etsy are all sources for similar items.

Then came the issue of what to do with it. There are lots of suggestions and directions out there if you google something like Praying the Rosary.

All of that, combined with Dr. Estes’ Prayer for Traveling the Mother Road, in UNTIE THE STRONG WOMAN, brought “my” version of words to pray in bringing my beads to life.

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If it fits for you, I’m thrilled to share. (And you can share this post as well, even if getting it here was a major tech-y challenge for me!)

If it inspires you, in any way that feels true… to pray, meditate, help your kids and grandkids learn, work, vote, or whatever you do, toward that place of kindness and justice, I’m honored.

And if you need more information, just click on any of the pretty colored links, above, for some good starts. Or, reply below, message me on Facebook… Sue Boardman Author, email me, etc. and I’ll come as close as I’m able to shining some light.

For now, I hear a big canvas and a lot of orange paint calling my name. There’s a lot of hope in that, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[https://www.facebook.com/groups/2143874129190005/] Rosary group