Dream Coming True: Living Like A Japanese Tea House

"Life is an expression, our unconscious actions the constant betrayal of our innermost thoughts"

                                                                                                     `Okakura Kakuzo

Dreams Come True Parasols   by myself

There is something extraordinary about the process of dreaming. It means different things to different people and cultures...and yet there is an ethereal quality of a sense of possibility omnipresent within all the fluctuations of the dreaming process, I think.

Recently, in an earlier entry, I took back my girlhood dream of how I was going to live my life with a vision for a future that is long since already in the past; it was a dream that never came into fruition, though I was once on its threshold, perhaps.

Looking For Something by Julian Cocnran, circa 1903

Though I sat with the vacancy for some weeks, curiously that particular void allowed for the imagination to wander. This is something I have since learned is part of who I am and what I desire - making room for imagination that is.

So. I want to build an old fashioned, Japanese Tea House in the Eastern tradition. The early houses were modeled after Zen Monasteries, where monks would drink tea from a shared bowl, the tea working as an elixir to keep the monks from falling asleep during meditation. The tea house was simply yet beautifully constructed, representing an environment of contemplation and quiet, of reflection and of "being", a place of poetic beauty, with a touch of melancholy and yet balanced through the acceptance and appreciation of imperfection.

This recent dream of mine, the building of this teahouse, is metaphoric. I want to personally reflect the principles upon which the tea house came to be. I want my life to be clean, and yet offering space for the wind to blow in the pine needles that can stay upon the floor for a time. I can remind myself with their presence of the passing of time in anticipation of the oncoming winter, for example, that being the aging process.

Wouldn't a tea house be splendid in a Pine Forest? ~ by myself

I am, therefore, re-inventing my concept of home, which is an ephemeral and in my case, mercurial existence resembling more a river winding and bending, traveling some distance without any real purpose of place, though aesthetics of that place, where ever it is, has always been of paramount importance to me. It must incorporate a sense of beauty. Okakura Kakuzo, quoted in the opening of this entry, wrote in his exquisite treatise, The Book of Tea, that the kettle in a tea house would sit upon a brazier, boiling water. It contained some little scraps of iron inside so that the water would make a strange, eerie sound, referencing the sound of wind, or running water. This somewhat resembles myself, I thought with some delight, embracing my own futile existence for once.

One of my Favorite Books

It has taken a long road to reach this apex of ease in giving away a lifetime's acquisitions, mental as well as material. Once I was free of the original dream it was suddenly quite simple, yet the process was a complex one. I had to slowly find the courage to pull away layers of thoughtless consumption as well as an assumption about what life was supposed to be. Shedding slowly, as I have been ready, and with patience at times and impatience at others until an almost nothingness appeared in my mental horizon. It was a place uncluttered, yet filled with light and breeze. 

Geisha by Kasakabe Kimbei, circa 1880's

Something inexplicable has been pulling me towards a very different approach to living for nearly three decades. It feels like this: when I am in a connected place with the forces of what I call life, I can clearly see the futility of fighting against it. And fight I did, for a very long time, trying to will my life to be different to what it was. It all began when I was a young, single mother living like many other single mothers: in intolerable circumtances of interminable threat and fear. But then, in letting go the struggle and disbelief that this was truly my plight, and accepting this really was it, the struggle ended. As one lets fall layers upon layers of weight that one carries voluntarily and yet feels involuntarily, there is a passing moment of clarity and one can feel the smallness of oneself, a coagulation of particles in a vast expanse. That small moment is worth all the effort, as one settles briefly in newly created mental space. I think perhaps it is getting a bird's eye perspective of one's own existence. One can ride the wave for a fleeting moment, for one is that very wave, something that is gone in the fraction of a second, dissolved once again into the sea itself.

 Girl in Heavy Storm by Kasakabe Kimbei, circa 1880's



Fin

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beau•ty |ˈbyoōtē| noun ( pl. -ties)

1 a combination of qualities, such as shape, color, or form, that pleases the aesthetic senses, esp. the sight : I was struck by her beauty | an area of outstanding natural beauty.

• a combination of qualities that pleases the intellect or moral sense.

• [as adj. ] denoting something intended to make a woman more attractive : beauty products | beauty treatment.

2 a beautiful or pleasing thing or person, in particular

• a beautiful woman.

• an excellent specimen or example of something : the fish was a beauty, around 14 pounds.

• ( the beauties of) the pleasing or attractive features of something : the beauties of the Pennsylvania mountains.

• [in sing. ] the best feature or advantage of something : the beauty of keeping cats is that they don't tie you down.

PHRASES

beauty is in the eye of the beholder proverb beauty cannot be judged objectively, for what one person finds beautiful or admirable may not appeal to another.

beauty is only skin-deep proverb a pleasing appearance is not a guide to character.

ORIGIN Middle English : from Old French beaute, based on Latin bellus ‘beautiful, fine.’

                                                                                                                                      `Computer dictionary

The Anomaly of Memory

A book I love

Memory is so seductive, elusive, uncanny, frustrating, useful, amazing, deceptive, unreliable (and yet essential. We can't live without it). And then it haunts us when we sleep, so it is cautionary, foreboding, forthcoming and forecasting, suspicious, unavoidable, insistent, maddening, manipulative, imaginative, frightening and soothing, provocative, satisfying and so much more.

As a P
      T
       S
        D sufferer, (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), I can safely say I have a love hate relationship with my own memory. When PTSD kicks in its hard to tame not only the trigger memory but everything else of a challenging nature, a kind of tail spin mind racing at 100 mph. The flip side is that I am mostly extremely sensitive to others, a kind of hyper awareness that is generally helpful (and not always).

In a more general day to day existence, I've come to the conclusion that open-mindedness to my own error factor is useful. I think I have remembered something correctly but I haven't. Like... Here's a hypothetical example of something I am perfectly capable of: I left my keys on the table. They are no where to be found. I might have blamed someone I love for moving them (sorry Melissa). In the end, I discover I left them under a pile of laundry on an armchair. Some people have a very hard time accepting that memory has tricked them and they are wrong about facts they thought were correct. I used to be one of those people. But I've learned my lessons. I'm often wrong (and that's OK), though more often than wrong I am right (I think). I am toying with the idea of joining the tattoo circuit. Really its a fantasy. I want a wristwatch tattooed on my left wrist, so that I always know exactly what time it is.

My clock is always right

For a really comprehensive, fascinating exploration into the study of memory, The Art of Memory (photo at the top of this entry), is the book to read. It's nothing less than extraordinary. Frances Yates (1899-1981), spent her life researching esoteric history, teaching at the Warburg Institute in London. I discovered her through researching the life of the Renaissance philosopher, astrologer, mathematician and Dominican friar, Giordano Bruno and his incredible memory boxes. This is a fantastic book that will lead you on a never ending journey of discovery. Her equally brilliant sister was responsible for The Globe Theatre's eventual reconstruction.

Fin

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a•nom•a•ly |əˈnäməlē|

noun ( pl. -lies)

1 something that deviates from what is standard, normal, or expected : there are a number of anomalies in the present system | a legal anomaly | [with clause ] the apparent anomaly that those who produced the wealth were the poorest | the position abounds in anomaly.

2 Astronomy the angular distance of a planet or satellite from its last perihelion or perigee.

ORIGIN late 16th cent.: via Latin from Greek anōmalia, from anōmalos (see anomalous ).

mem•or•y |ˈmem(ə)rē|

noun ( pl. -ries)

1 a person's power to remember things : I've a great memory for faces | my grandmother is losing her memory.

• the power of the mind to remember things : the brain regions responsible for memory.

• the mind regarded as a store of things remembered : he searched his memory frantically for an answer.

• the capacity of a substance to return to a previous state or condition after having been altered or deformed. See also shape memory .

2 something remembered from the past; a recollection : one of my earliest memories is of sitting on his knee | the mind can bury all memory of traumatic abuse.

• the remembering or recollection of a dead person, esp. one who was popular or respected : clubs devoted to the memory of Sherlock Holmes.

• the length of time over which people continue to remember a person or event : the worst slump in recent memory.

3 the part of a computer in which data or program instructions can be stored for retrieval.

• capacity for storing information in this way : the module provides 16Mb of memory.

PHRASES

from memory without reading or referring to notes : each child was required to recite a verse from memory.

in memory of intended to remind people of, esp. to honor a dead person.

take a trip (or walk) down memory lane deliberately recall pleasant or sentimental memories.

ORIGIN Middle English : from Old French memorie, from Latin memoria, from memor ‘mindful, remembering.’

Post Card From New Hampshire On Resting: Living a Halcyon Summer's Day

Making hay while the sun shines

Learning to take care of oneself is a life time of work. When things feel intense and time feels as though there is not enough of it, the thing I love to do most is to come up to see my friends who live in the New Hampshire countryside. I cut these flowers in the garden and started to build a bouquet. Note the blueberries on the left hand side. I have mixed feelings about cut flowers, but none the less, here I am, enjoying them. 

Back to the grind soon enough, but I need this break. So I'm playing with my friend's five year old grandson, Torrin, and doing things like this:

Gone fishing, see you soon!


Fin

hal • cy • on |ˈhalsēən|

adjective

denoting a period of time in the past that was idyllically happy and peaceful : the halcyon days of the summer when my grandmother made scones and we sat under the shaded tree by the stream in Dorset. See note at calm .

noun

1 a tropical Asian and African kingfisher with brightly colored plumage. • Genus Halcyon, family Alcedinidae: many species.

2 a mythical bird said by ancient writers to breed in a nest floating at sea at the winter solstice, charming the wind and waves into calm.

ORIGIN late Middle English (in the mythological sense): via Latin from Greek alkuōn ‘kingfisher’ (also halkuōn, by association with hals ‘sea’ and kuōn ‘conceiving’ ).

                                                                                               ~ On line Computer Dictionary with some imaginative help

Letting Go: On Being and Becoming

A Private Feather Collection

I remember being a young girl, dreaming of the house that would one day be mine. It was by the sea (of course), was small, white,had a fireplace and outside there were flower laden window boxes, a small garden and in it I was happy.

I started collecting things for that house when I was about seventeen. But the house has not yet materialized and I am far from young. It dawned on me not that long ago that that house was in all likelihood never going to materialize and that I had carted books, trinkets and piles of art made by friends across continents and countries that for decades have been packed tightly in boxes. They would never see the light of day until after my own demise. This realization woke me up.

Over my lifetime I have lived the full gamut. I have slept on African dirt with palm fronds, I have slept in a brothel for want of anywhere else that would take me and my Japanese lover on a 1972 pilgrimage to Charleville in the Ardennes of Belgium, to the birthplace of the poet Arthur Rimbaud; I have slept on train station benches, and under the stars and when I was married I lived in an historic castle in France where quite frankly I was not very happy at all. I need a place to lay my head of course and I would love to live in peace, without worry of such basic matters such as where exactly that head will lie next, the subject being of quite alarming and dubious question. The long and short of it is that I am lucky to have what I have, not in the material sense, but the lack of the need for much of anything at all and the knowledge that things always work out one way or another. Letting go of the need for things to be different was a huge relief. 

I have let go of the material world collected for that imaginary little cottage. I realized what I want in my house now is quite different to what I envisioned earlier in my life. The house is me, really being me where ever I am, and what I love having by my side is that which I find in the natural world. What could be more beautiful than this:

A broken winged cicada skeleton

In all the letting go, one might well ask, what do I want to keep or what am I taking with me on this journey? It is so simple. I am first and foremost taking with me an important life lesson that I learned from the English Romantic poet, John Keats.

His life haunts mine. One cannot pick up a handful of his poems and understand who he really was, and without an understanding of Romanticism they will mean little. One has to delve quite deeply to find his real treasure. 

No writer has affected me as profoundly as John Keats. He's played a pivotal role in my own letting go, for his letters guided me towards understanding what was really important in life. Aside from living it as acutely and sensitively as possible it was his dying wish that has brought me to my knees.

John Keats died from tuberculosis when he was barely twenty-five years of age. When Keats lay dying in Rome and had really and truly let go himself, in the deepest sense, he asked his friend, Joseph Severn, to have an epitaph written on his tombstone. And it is these last and most beautiful of all his words that both haunts and guides me:

Here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ In Water.

by myself, inspired by his requiem

Fin

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A sampling of some of the better bibliographical references about John Keats or 

the European Romantic Movement pertaining to him that I have read and loved, 

Sidney Colvin and Susan Wolfson the best:

Auerbach, Erich. Introduction to Romance Languages and Literature. NYC, 1961

Breckman, Warren. European romanticism, A Brief History with Documents. Boston,

2008

Colvin, Sidney. John Keats, His Life and Poetry, His Friends, Critics and After-Fame.

1917. http://englishhistory.net/keats/colvinkeats.html. No other information available

Eberle-Sinatra, Michael. Leigh Hunt and The London Literary Scene: A Reception

History of his Major Works, 1805-1828 (Routledge Studies in Romanticism)

Farmer, Alan. Hampstead Heath. Hong Kong, 1984

Hirsch, Edward. Complete Poems and Selected Letters of John Keats, NYC, 2001

Kandl, John. Private Lyrics in the Public Sphere: Leigh Hunt’s “Examiner” and the

Construction of a public “John Keats”, Keats Shelley Journal, Vol. 44, pp. 84-101

(article 18 pages) Keats-Shelley Association of America, Inc. Stable URL:

http;www.jstor.org/stable/30212994, 1995

Keats, John. The Complete Poetical Works and Letters of John Keats, Cambridge, MA,

1899. No other information available

Rodriguez, Andres. Book of the Heart, the Poetics, Letters, and Life of John Keats,

Hudson, NY, 1993

Rosetti, William Michael. Life of John Keats. Memphis, 2010

Vaughan, William. Romantic Art, Oxford, 1978

Wolfson, Susan J. The Cambridge Companion to Keats, Cambridge, UK, 2001

The National Gallery. “The Enchanted Castle.”

http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/claude-the-enchanted-castle. No date

Cuny College. “John Keats.”

http://academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/english/melani/cs6/keats.html. September 21, 2010

The Poetic Ekphrasis of Trees

Study no 1

The Archetypal Forest (Point Lobos, California)

There are things in nature that captivate my imagination with such a sense of wonderment that I can feel in a state of enchantment, so much so that my mind becomes quite still and I feel transported into the realm of nature's core. It is the same place I do believe, where myths come from. 

Ekphrasis is a word I had been unfamiliar with until I did an in depth investigation into the Romantic poet, John Keats, who lived a fascinating, but very short life. More will be said on Keats at a later time, for I hold great tenderness towards him and he continually gives me much to contemplate. 

I was very interested in discovering the roots of this curious word. Ekphrasis stems from the Greek ekphrazein.  It is generally an elaborately detailed description of an object, real or imagined. Ek translates as "out" and phrassein means "to speak". In classical Greek rhetoric this word became associated with the words fantasia as well as enargeia, another rhetorical term for a visually powerful description recreating an entitity, object or a person.  With such acute vividness the description can be so successful as to cause it to become alive in the mind of the reader or viewer. It is also a word that is linked to "sister arts", a rivalry between the visual and the verbal art forms tracing back to the Roman poet, Horace (65-8 BC), who stated that poetry is a speaking picture while painting is silent poetry. Jean Hagstrum writes that ekphrasis "gives voice and language to the otherwise mute object" (Hagstrum, Sister Arts: The Tradition of Literary Pictorialism and English Poetry from Dryden to Gray, 18 note).

Point Lobos

What I find so fascinating about the mysterious tree is its own ability to evoke an ethereal* lyricism in which an inner voice leads me by the hand to a place of allegory that is mythical, feminine, dark, brooding, dangerous, ecstatic, beautiful and archetypal**. 

Homage to John Keats: The Winking Owl Tree

Fin.

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ek•phra•sis (ˈekfrəsɪs)

noun

(rhetoric) a description of a visual work of art

~ Collins on line Dictionary


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e•the• re• al |iˈθi(ə)rēəl|

adjective

1 extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for this world : her ethereal beauty | a singer who has a weirdly ethereal voice.

• heavenly or spiritual : ethereal, otherworldly visions.

2 Chemistry (of a solution) having diethyl ether as a solvent.

~ On line Computer Dictionary

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ar•ch•etype |ˈärk(i)ˌtīp|

noun

a very typical example of a certain person or thing : the book is a perfect archetype of the genre.

• an original that has been imitated : the archetype of faith is Abraham.

• a recurrent symbol or motif in literature, art, or mythology : mythological archetypes of good and evil.

• Psychoanalysis (in Jungian psychology) a primitive mental image inherited from the earliest human ancestors, and supposed to be present in the collective unconscious.

~ On line Computer Dictionary

The Deer Lay Down Their Bones

"Every portion of the Universe appears to be a mirror, in which the whole creation is represented" 

- Madame de Staël

Walking with Mary, June 2014

I was named after the daughter-in-law of the American poet, Robinson Jeffers. The Jeffers family were all friends of my parents, and the daughter-in-law of course, was named Lee* (see definition at the end of this entry). My mother loved this name, and I love it too. I can look back on my childhood and say I spent countless days and sleepovers at Tor House. Lee's daughter, Una, was the same age as as myself and our mothers, who were pregnant with us both simultaneously, were close friends as were Una and me to become during our youth. Robinson's son, Donnan, his wife Lee and their two children all lived together in the stone house after the death of Robinson's wife, from whom the younger Una took her name.

I have memories of running up the stone tower, where Robinson Jeffers wrote; he would be cross with us for disturbing his peace and we would dash down the stairs making a raucous more from a sense of terror than anything. It was a house that felt like an enchanted castle, set amongst a glen of tall pines and cypress. Robinson built the house himself, from stones that he carried up from the beach. I no longer remember how he did it and everyone is now long gone to tell me, though I have seen some early photographs.

My landscape 

What I do know is, that along with my other close friend in childhood, Jana Weston, who is the granddaughter of the photographer Edward Weston, I lived an astonishing childhood in an extraordinary time, in an environment of artistic genius that was the firm foundation from which my own understanding of life and nature were nurtured. There was a certain wildness about our bohemian childhoods and in some ways I was feral enough to feel remarkably connected to the natural elements in which I spent so much of my time, not only reveling in but believing that the wildlife, the trees and stones were talking to me in whispering languages I could fully understand. I seem to have remembered those languages.

Here then is Robinson Jeffer's beautiful, heart breaking poem,that mentions Una and my name in a meaning separate from me yet connected none-the-less.   

The Deer Lay Down Their Bones

I followed the narrow cliffside trail halfway up the mountain

Above the deep river-canyon. There was a little cataract crossed the path,

   flinging itself

Over tree roots and rocks, shaking the jewelled fern-fronds, bright bubbling 

   water

Pure from the mountain, but a bad smell came up. Wondering at it I

   clambered down the steep stream

Some forty feet, and found in the midst of the bush-oak and laurel,

Hung like a birds nest on the precipice brink a small hidden clearing,

Grass and a shallow pool. But all about there were bones hidden in the grass,

   clean bones and stinking bones,

Antlers and bones: I understood that the place was a refuge for wounded

   deer; there are so many

Hurt ones escape the hunters and limp away to lie hidden; here they have 

   water for the awful thirst

And peace to die in; dense green laurel and grim cliff

Make sanctuary, and a sweet wind blows upward from the gorge. -I

   wish my bones were hidden with theirs.

But that's a foolish thing to confess, and a little cowardly. We know that life

Is on the whole quite equally good and bad, mostly gray neutral, and can be

   endured

To the dim end, no matter what magic of grass, water and precipice, and 

   pain of wounds,

Makes death look dear. We have been given life and have used it - not a 

   great gift perhaps - but in honesty

should use it at all. Mine's empty since my love died - Empty? The

   flame-haired grandchild with great blue eyes

That look like hers? - What can I do for the child? I gaze at her and

   wonder what sort of man

In the fall of the world...I am growing old, that is the trouble. My

   children and little grandchildren

Will find their way, and why should I wait ten years yet, having lived

   sixty-seven, ten years more or less,

Before I crawl out on the ledge of rock and die snapping, like a wolf

Who has lost his mate? - I am bound by my own thirty-year-old decision:

   who drinks the wine

Should take the dregs; even in the bitter lees and sediment

New discovery may lie. The deer in that beautiful place lay down their 

   bones: I must wear mine.

Fin

*lee

noun

the lee of the wall shelter, protection, cover, refuge, safety, security

&

lee |lē|

noun

shelter from wind or weather given by a neighboring object, esp. nearby land : we pitch our tents in the lee of a rock.

• (also lee side) the sheltered side; the side away from the wind : ducks were taking shelter on the lee of the island. Contrasted with weather .

-On-line computer Dictionary

June's Full Moon or: An Intimate Summer Solstice Tea Party

Minutes after the wee small hour of midnight last night, the moon was at its fullest, as well as being the lowest full moon in the sky all year. I read that the Algonquin Indian tribe knew it was the time of year to gather strawberries and thus the name Strawberry Moon, as the June moon is commonly known. It was a bright night and I went a walking.....

The idea of celebrating summer solstice* this year in an intimate setting came to me when my gaze fell upon a magenta glass vase full of peonies against the verdant forest background at the house of my friend, Mary. I asked her if she was up for a gathering with me providing, so here is a dress rehearsal with some ideas to share and plenty of time to spare, should you like to do something too and enjoy the afternoon as the moon climbs in the sky.

Thank you Mary!

A simple tea was decided upon for a very small group of women appreciative of the pagan rites of this glorious marking of summer's longest day. I immediately think of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, with Puck sauntering among the fairies, or a crazy all-nighter in 1970 at Stonehenge when you could wander, climb boulders, dance in the circle with Hippie druids fulfilling their fantasies from myths and legends, the Bacchanalian* nights of lusty hearty delight, or the star gazers of Babylon, calculating the constellations of the heavens. One of the loveliest things that comes to mind is a scene from Dodie Smith's novel, turned into an enchanting film, I Capture the Castle, when Cassandra Mortmain, played by Ramola Garai, dances around a summer's solstice fire she has built shouting to the treetops and flames. 

I made quintessential scones (of course), a highly seductive Orange Genoese cake (recipe follows at the end) and an unusual banana bread with coconut and chocolate chips that my daughter ameliorated from a standard recipe. Tea to start but when twilight wanes, as occasions like this are want to do, I suggest pulling out a bottle of chilled Chateau de Mirambeau's dry white Bordeaux with essence of bewitchery. Light the fire, take off your shoes and Dance to the Music of Time***.

Fin.


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* sum•mer sol•stice

noun

the solstice that marks the onset of summer, at the time of the longest day, about June 21 in the northern hemisphere and December 22 in the southern hemisphere.

• Astronomy the solstice in June. - on line Mac dictionary

** bac•cha•na•li•an |ˌbäkəˈnālyən; -ˈnālēən; ˌbakə-|

adjective

characterized by or given to drunken revelry; riotously drunken : a bacchanalian orgy.

- on line Mac dictionary

*** A Dance to the Music Of Time was originally a painting by Nicolas Pousiin (1634-1636), now at the Wallace Collection, later the title was adapted as a series of novels well worth reading, set In mid-century Britain by Anthony Powell.

Recipe:

Orange Genoese Sponge 
from Konditor and Cook, in London, England 

with notes or modifications by myself

6 Medium eggs, separated

pinch of salt

¾ Cup superfine sugar (you can cuisinart it if need be)

grated zest of 2 oranges (or lemons)

1 Cup flour, then sifted, plus extra for dusting

1 Teaspoon baking powder

6 Tablespoons salted butter melted and cooled

Base-line a 10” greased cake pan with parchment paper. Grease with butter and dust with flour

Put the egg whites and salt in a large clean bowl. (wipe with a little lemon juice or vinegar) I find just making sure it is clean is fine.

Using an electric mixer, beat at slow speed to break up egg whites, change gradually to a higher setting, adding 2 Tablespoons of the sugar. Continue beating and adding sugar until 2/3 of the sugar is used. At this stage the egg white should have good volume and hold stiff peaks (very stiff).

Add remaining sugar, egg yolks and orange zest. Using large metal spoon, gently fold in the flour and baking powder in 3 batches, moving the spoon through he middle to combine any pockets of flour that remain unmixed.

Slowly pour the butter over the surface of the mixture and gently fold in, cutting though the mixture with a large metal spoon to retain as much air as possible. Spoon the sponge mixture into the baking pan, bake on the middle rack of a preheated oven at 350 for about 25 minutes. The center is cooked if the surface springs back when lightly pressed. To double check, insert a skewer and make sure it comes up clean or with a few crumbs attached. Let cool, then turn out onto a cooling rack.

I whip cream and sugar fruit, such as raspberries, strawberries, blackberries and blueberries. To sugar fruit, whip egg white with a little salt, set aside. Put some super fine sugar on a plate. Have a baking sheet ready with a piece of parchment paper on it. Gently roll clean and dried fruit firstly in egg whites and then in sugar and place on parchment paper to dry well, several hours. The fruit becomes crusty on the outside, retaining the juice within. This makes for a lovely decoration on whipped cream. I add mint leaves from the garden and in summer in lieu of berries, edible flowers makes a lovely décor. 

Yum!

The Gift of Nature

This is my first entry, so bear with me while I figure this whole new world of blogging (to Bluebell that is). 

Bluebell and the Fox is a whimsical, nature loving shop on Etsy that opened in 2012: www.etsy.com/shop/BluebellandtheFox . You can find tea cozies, children's dresses, men's pocket scarves, photo cards, photographs, and other bibelots * (for a definition of bibelot see the end of this entry).  I grew up in the wild landscape of the California Coast around Big Sur, so I have always felt very close to nature in all its many mysteries. This latest venture of Bluebell and the Fox will reflect my aesthetic approach to living and offer my ideas to inspire its readers. 

I have a tricky friend to give a gift to tomorrow, and decided on parting with one of my prized possessions: a beautiful bird's nest that literally fell from the treetop into my lap. I wanted to make an offering of surprise and beauty that was as far away from the world of commerce as possible and as close to the primeval beginning of life "when women were birds" -Terry Tempest Williams' title of a book I love. Giving is a thoughtful action for me that takes some reflection about who that receiving person is and consideration as to why I am giving whatever it is. There must be meaning.

After deciding on the nest, I proceeded to think about how to wrap it - a critical aspect to gift giving. This was somewhat problematical. After searching here and there I ended up at the Paper Source in Porter Square, Cambridge, MA (www.paper-source.com) where I bought a beautiful buff colored box (sku 436700), soft sea green tissue (sage) and an interesting natural ribbon with red running through it (red double stripe). Here I am standing on a chair to show you what I bought, thanks to the shop lady named Margaret, who loved my idea and enthusiastically directed me exactly where I needed to be. So thank you Margaret!

Next, I carefully inserted two sheets of tissue into the box and with the greatest of care fit the birds nest inside. All my friend has to do is lift the tissue out and with it the nest, all safe and snug, nested in a nest.

Finally, I put the lid on, tied the ribbon, snipped the ends and thought, hmm, needs something else, so I looked in my nature collection and selected the perfect feather found in the woods. That gives a hint, but I do not think he will ever guess the contents of this box! Voilà, the perfect Gift of Nature!

Fin

* bibelot |ˈbib(ə)ˌlō|

noun

a small, decorative ornament or trinket.

ORIGIN late 19th cent.: from French, fanciful formation based on bel ‘beautiful.’     
-from the online Mac dictionary