Gathering

Lately, I have been thinking about gathering around the table. Last week I attended a small off Broadway play called The Kitchen Table, starring a dear friend who I also happen to share a kitchen table with. A play by Erin Breznitsky and directed by Tamara Winters, The Kitchen Table was a series of vignettes that told the story of what happens around the kitchen table–those deep conversations that take place, the tough decisions, the laughs, the tears, and the heartache.

I left the theater thinking about the kitchen tables in my life. My childhood kitchen table had a wooden lip along the bottom that stuck out just enough to bruise my knee every time I forgot it was there. I have fond memories of sitting under that table with my yellow lab and looking at everyone’s shoes, tempted to untie all the shoelaces. My childhood kitchen table is where I spread out the glue and the glitter for crafting and creating. It’s the table where stories were written, writers gathered together to talk, parties were hosted. That table is where we had long soup dinners, where I filled out my college applications, where we talked about vacations, current events, shared ideas, laughed, cried, paid bills, threw New Yorker’s, spilled, read, worked, and relaxed. That table was always set with candles–it still is. My grandfather always sits on the far end, and my yellow lab can still be found under it.

My current kitchen table is long, it can accommodate anywhere from 1 to 20 people. It always has a current issue of The New York Times waiting for the morning coffee drinkers. Occasionally it is adorned with small white tea candles or fresh flowers from the farmer’s market. That table has a long history, holds stories long before my time, and has gathered together people from all walks of life, from all over the world.

Someday I want a farm table. I want to feel the grooves and the splinters. I want to gather an array of benches for friends and loved ones. I want to make memories that will last a lifetime. This table will seat over a dozen, with lots of leafs, heavy, and sturdy. This table will be one of a kind; will smell of cedar and pine.

And sometimes I dream about who I would invite to sit at my dream farm table. Here is the list:

Barack &Michelle Obama

Arch Bishop Desmond Tutu

Vera Wang

Dar Williams

Nelson Mandela

Frida Kahlo

Donna Karen

Lyle Lovett

Dali Lama

Jodi Williams

Maya Angelo

Christine Lagarde

Amartya Sen

Mary Oliver

Eleanor Roosevelt

Wangari Maathai

Georgia O’Keefe

Billy Collins

Joan Baez

Nora Ephron

…The list is still growing and I am still dreaming…

This cup is for Mel, who brought a kitchen table to life on stage, and who I am lucky enough to share a real kitchen table with here at home. 

Beneath the Layers

Fernweh: An ache for distant places, the craving for travel.

I have a case of fernweh multiple times a year. It starts as just a small itch, and then slowly takes over my entire body. There is no cure, except to pack and go. I can easily pack up my entire life into one carry-on bag. I love the feeling of take off, the anticipation, and the view from above–a feeling and a view that you can only understand if you have flown. Looking down through the clouds, I can’t help but imagine what is inside each little house, what is happening inside the world of others, of strangers who I do not know. I wonder if they are like me? I wonder if they (too) ever have a case of fernweh?

The last 2 months I have been thinking a lot about layers: Palimpsest. Today is the first day of August, my worst month of the year, and I can’t help but feel the layers of the past rise to the surface. Just last month I was in France, in a small studio mastering the process of Intaglio–a process of printmaking that involves a copper plate that is covered in a waxy ground. With an etching needle, you slowly sketch deep into the surface of the wax, and the exposed metal lines are then etched by dipping the plate into an acidic bath until the lines become deeper and deeper. This process is enhanced layer by layer. Each layer added a depth and a complexity to the new surface and no print was exactly the same as the last. With a simple mistake, there was no turning back, only layers to add, palimpsest.

Later, I traveled to Wroclaw, Poland. As I explored the city, feeling the cobble stone streets beneath my feet, the buildings fractured and frayed from years of war and conflict, I couldn’t help but think of the special and temporal relations between conflict and security that countries such as Poland have faced, both the history and heartache, the palimpsest that builds up over time. The deep lines in my plate were no different than the scares that remain from years of war. Looking closely, the history of Poland’s atrocities bled through the surfaces of buildings throughout the city, as paint peeled to reveal a world that had once been taken over by someone else. While the city of Wroclaw was fully functioning with the usual hustle and bustle of a modern day city, I couldn’t help but feel the gray. I couldn’t help but sense the turmoil. While I didn’t experience it and couldn’t always see it, I knew it was there, hidden beneath the layers.

It is human nature to cover things up and move on. It is healing to have layers and we pride ourselves on thick skin. While history can at times repeat itself, it is like a print in that tomorrow will never be the same as today. And while the layers can hurt, they can also heal. The Palimpsest makes us who we are and gives us a deeper appreciation for just how fragile the landscape can be and just how resilient it is.

This cup is for August. 

An Open Door

"When you close one door, another door opens." 

This past week a door that had been closed for over 40 years reopened. When I think about doors opening and closing, rarely do I ever think of reaching back to an old door, but this past week proved old doors can open to new relationships, rekindle old connections, and foster long term friendships. An old door can also find itself in a new place. In this case, a 40 year old door that had last been opened in Palo Alto, CA, was now a set of French doors that opened to a French terrace, that sat on a French countryside, and opened to a new era, a new chapter, and a new view.

France is beautiful. It was a perfect week spent with wonderful people in a picture perfect setting. To be honest, this week didn't even feel real and I had to stop and pinch myself---I'm here! It was bliss. It will take me a few more cups to gather the rest of my thoughts.

This cup is for Nancy (so lucky to have found you) and Rick (for the best coffee on earth.)

And to Emily, Quinn and Z. for a fabulous dinner. And to Chris (wish you had been with us).

Explore? Check. Dream? Always. Discover? You bet.

Once a year, go somewhere you’ve never been before– Dalai Lama

I was recently in the camping store around the corner from my house and as I got lost in the backpacking section–dreaming of far away places–I overheard one of the employees say to another employee “If you really are a backpacker your bag is always packed. She said that it was going to take her a few days to figure out what to bring, but if you ask me, I am ready. I am always packed and ready to go. Tell me when we are leaving and I will grab my bag and be out the door.”

I am in the midst of packing. Everyone packs differently. Some people make long lists, packing weeks in advance, while others pack the day of and throw everything into whatever is near by. Some people bring outfits, while others bring only what they have on and are lucky if they remember a toothbrush. I know both kinds of packers and I have done both. This past weekend, in a desperate attempt to get out of the city, I grabbed a clean t-shirt, my swimsuit and a toothbrush and caught the first train out of town.

With the world whizzing by outside my window, I felt the change of scenery reflect off my face and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of freedom and open space that you can only feel from getting away. A friend recently told me that the best thing you can do is change your view–be it your mindset, or what is outside your window–for me–I needed both. My train took me to open sky, green space and good company.

This week I am packing for a much bigger adventure. I sit surrounded by stacks and piles of what may or may not come with me. I ponder my packing list, adding and tossing as I go and in some ways, I wish I could just throw my hair up, stuff a clean shirt in my pocket and head out the door. I envy the guy in the backpacking section and I almost wish he was here to help me realize I don’t need any of these things at all–just my journal and my head. 

Packing Essentials for an Adventure

Passport (complete with extra pages)

Sunscreen (healthy skin is in)

Earl Grey (kick start to the day and reminds me of home)

Hoodie (an airplane essential–never be afraid to layer)

Scarf (helps perk up an outfit, becomes a makeshift blanket)

Toothbrush (duh!)

Journal (for all the cards, watercolors, sketches, and treasures you collect along the way)

Pocket sized camera (say cheese!)

Comfy walking shoes (because blisters can wreck a perfectly good day)

A good book (to remind you to sit down and relax!)

Postcards (for friends and loved ones) and don’t forget addresses!

Face wipes (to clear the airplane/street grime from your face)

A zip lock baggie filled with NYC (to remind me of what I am missing)

A zip lock baggie filled with Portland (to remind me of home)

This cup is for Eli & Dave–Don’t worry about what to pack, just be sure to make memories that will last a lifetime... and to the (pre)travel butterflies...I feel you. 

Scattered Memories

I am reaching deep for words–for a train of thought–for the perfect thing to say–except I can’t find it. All I can say is that I will always remember. I will remember sitting in the sun, taking in the summer sea breeze, and eating a grilled Panini at Heather’s Café. I will remember when I was little, catching your eye, shyly waving as I made my way through stacks of books, dodging authors and shuffling through the crowd. I will remember dressing up and coming to your art show, taking in the vast detail of tiny cities and intricate features that made your gourds unique and beautiful–one of a kind. I will remember your enthusiasm, your character, your grace. I will think of all the support and guidance that you gave along the way, your encouragement, and most of all your friendship. Sharing stories, sharing food, sharing art will be just a few of the many things that I will miss. And no matter how long I stay in New York City, I will always have your apple to remind me of this chapter, to remind me of the true meaning of beauty and craftsmanship, and to remind me of you.

This cup is for Klaus. 

Happiness

I am currently reading a book called The Geography of Bliss and it has started to make me think a whole lot more about happiness. Most days I go about my world finding little ways to make it happy, be it a fresh pot of coffee, good people, great conversation, old friends, new friends, a yummy dinner, a long run, sleeping in, starting a new painting, finishing a good book–having a productive day. I can recognize the pings of happiness that I feel when a friend picks up on the other end of the phone, when I receive mail in my mailbox, when the cookies turn out just right (not burned on the bottom), when I hear my parents voice on the other end of the line, when I have logged the mileage that ends on a runners high, receiving the acceptance letter, hearing good news–an engagement, a birth, an invite, an adventure.

I felt the ping of happiness when my plane landed in Portland. As the raindrops pelted the window and fogged up my view of the runway, I knew I was home, and I felt the happiness deep in my gut.

When I got home, dumping my junk in the hall, my yellow lab practically knocked me over with happiness, her excitement extending from tongue to tail. Paws barely touching the floor, circling me over and over in a flurry of utter shock and delight she couldn’t believe (or remember) that I was finally home. I felt the happiness encircle us as I grabbed her into a hug, squeezing her tight to my chest, taking in her salty dog breath.

Thinking about it now, Lottie is always happy. It doesn’t matter if it is 5am or 10pm she is happy. It doesn’t matter if it is raining and sleet or sunny and dry, everyday she happily waits eagerly by the door for someone to let her outside. On days when the rest of the house can’t seem to get a break (be it a bad day or the blues) Lottie will happily wag her tail your direction. On days when we can’t stop laughing, Lottie can feel the energy in the room (somehow signaling to her that it would be a good idea to chase her tail or jump up and down). I have never woken up to an unhappy lab, and I have never ended the night with one.

This is the best part about having a dog–they seem to always stay in one state of mind–happiness. For a dog, their memory falls short of a second, so they don’t remember the last time they were (un) happy and so they focus on the present–which to them must mean only one thing–happiness.

While I am happy most any place, I am happiest in Portland. In Portland I feel better than anywhere else–and so today I am sad to leave. But I know that more happiness is just around the corner and when I hit a low point, I will think of Lottie and her tail happily waging to the beat of her happy heart.

This cup is for Emma: Who knows the exact coordinates of my happiest destination, for all the dogs out there–most of all mine and to Portland–obviously. 

Brewing Announcement!

What has been brewing? Drum roll please...hold your breath for the anticipation...put your mug down and get ready to cheer....announcing...My NEW Tumblr Site!

http://cupofcosmos.tumblr.com/

Just one more reason to brew up another cup, sit back, relax and enjoy.

This cup is for: Everyone.