with so much going on the year has started out
on an uneven path
my family in the States has had its fill
dark tragedy beyond measure
The words I recently read capture the depths
such painful loss such great love
no words just holding sorrow and praying
that time brings healing.
we are this world waiting
for the universal symbolic spring
where that which is
good
holy
pure
life-giving
comes into focus
reassuring us that love never ends.
——
my brother starts chemotherapy again after several painful weeks in the hospital.
The other news I cannot share but I trust you understand and I pray for you who are battling your own dark corners.
Posted at 02:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (26)
Posted at 11:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)
Yesterday was not a surprise
the match was lit years ago
with bragging words
fake power
and falsehoods of faith
in god, country, and people
slowly stirring a pot that had been smoldering
by those wearing Teflon
it was pitiful to watch unfold
shameful behavior
sadness to see how we have failed
if this were anywhere else
if ivory was ebony
if the truth stood bravely
if...
meanwhile in the same breath of time
-over 8000 Americans died of covid 19 in two days,
-the auctioning of the arctic to oil drilling companies
-the death penalty marches on
-the sun came up and burned across the sky
here we are facing the fire
let us be
please let us be
a Phoenix rising.
"Phoenix represents rebirth, renewal, safety, transformation, permanence, inventiveness, and the sacredness of life. No matter the setting the story of the Phoenix has a distinctive theme. It begins with lifting from darkness into light; this is a complete life cycle and also a symbol of our immortal soul." via google.
(Rarely, do I speak about politics though after the events that have happened I could not be silent.)
Posted at 11:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (44)
Yogurt Cake
Repost of a Favorite:
My niece Juliette was fourteen when she shared the French's most treasured secret cake recipe with me.
She told me that she was going to teach me a classic French cake recipe then asked if I had some yogurt.
Looking at her oddly I asked if we were making a French classic cake or had I misunderstood.
Misunderstanding for me in those days was as common as breathing.
Posted at 03:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)
Whole wheat (épeautre) bread using
flour milled at the farm up the road.
Have you ever been intrigued by a recipe? Before the internet age often my bedtime reading included reading recipes as it was up there with literature as it had artistic merit which generated my imagination beyond the table and chair and or bed which I sit licking my lips.
As the years have gone by I find myself watching cooking videos versus reading cookbooks a few days ago I came across "Jenny Can Cook" & her straightforward recipes, her humor, and a bread recipe that made me question my wildest memories of baking ... no kneading?
I had to give it a try.
My earliest bread making days were when I was in my early twenties living in a monastery. During the times when I wasn't praying or in meditation, or sleeping I was assigned to work in the kitchen with Jack the monk although he looked more like Jack the Giant with a full head of hair. Jack and I saw cooking on different levels, he was pragmatic and ran the kitchen like a business, I was a kid who was let into a candy shop but who was a strict vegetarian, with an Abbot who ate raw hamburger with an uncooked egg on top. I read recipes to be inspired but never followed them, and then prayed my strongest prayers that what I was making would turn out. It never occurred to me that if what I made flopped sixty-plus faithful people in my ability to cook might go hungry. The funny thing is when the Abbot asked me if I could cook I said yes, first non-truth told the second was when he asked who could cut hair and I raised my hand and was assigned as the monastery's hairdresser too. Monastic life is based on love and forgiveness, I certainly put that to the test.
Following Jenny’s No knead bread exactly.
One of my favorite things to do in the monastery's kitchen was to make was bread and cinnamon rolls while pretending in my head that I was Julia Childs in front of a TV camera, in the monastery we only watched the news in the evening, so this was my form of entertainment and yet I do not remember Julia ever praying to God that what she was making would turn out. I swear I would hear God say to me, "Corey, focus, write what you are doing so that the next time you bake your Hail Mary Bread you do not need to call on me."
How dare that upstairs person!
Nothing ever flopped, the bread rose, the cinnamon rolls made mouths water and I miraculously stayed out of trouble serving tofu.
Anyway, Jenny Can Cook’s homemade bread is an answer to anyone who finds making bread daunting no matter how many prayers or glasses of wine one needs to consume.
Jenny’s no knead bread is flawless
s i m p l e
to make is
is an understatement.
A gluten-free bread made with chestnut, quinoa, and buckwheat tastes very earthy.
I used Jenny's recipe only I used one teaspoon of yeast since the flour on both of these was heavier.
Jenny Can Cook recipe and videos below.
No Dutch Oven? Didn't Turn Out? Other Questions? Click here.
Want It Faster? Click here for my 2-HOUR No-Knead Bread.
Aerating and Sifting is Not The Same: Click here to learn more.
Thank you Jenny!
PS Do not ask me for the recipe of the Hail Mary Bread/ cinnamon rolls as it is one of the sacred mysteries that remains buried within me bringing me faith when I am in doubt. How did I ever dare to bake cinnamon rolls for breakfast for a retreat of over a hundred people? I am not even a morning person... and I lived in a monastery that woke up with bells calling us to prayer.
Posted at 02:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)
Thank you for your comments and emails the other day,
that affirmed what I have been thinking
that international travel most likely will not happen until possibly this
fall or probably later... and even if the borders open to international travel the possible
restrictions such as curfews, masks, and or limits to how many in a restaurant is not
a pleasant carefree journey to hope for.
Therefore due to Covid 19 the events for French la Vie 2021
April through August, all six wonderfully inspiring groups are canceled.
Disappointing as it was to accept this reality
the goal is to stay safe and to have you visit Provence without worry.
Also not to make arrangements or preparations for the
French la Vie
only to have them postponed again.
Possibly I will set dates for October 2021 in May
if it appears that international travel resumes and if it is safe without worry,
to travel as we did in 2019.
There will hopefully be two French la Vie Journeys
in October 2021.
Though with that said I seriously have doubts this will happen,
I will make a decision in May 2021 regarding the fall.
Spaces are limited as guests who had reservations postponed in 2020
have the first choice.
If you are interested in knowing more please contact me at
coreyamaro@aol.com
Fingers crossed that healing will come steadily, equally, and for all.
Posted at 12:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)
Posted at 10:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)
This year
this extraordinary
Unfathomable
year
were days passed
with a tempo
not accustomed
to our daily rhythmic
beat
where
a deeper
mindful
longing
beckoned
us to look at
the stark changes
that creeped upon us
which cracked open
what was essential
on what matters
of how we depend and need one another
the janitor
the nurse
the factory worker
the farmer
the teacher
the essences of all things
big and small
This year
this slow moving
year
where many died
alone
to an illness that many
did not and still don’t believe
and countries rich and poor
and in between
locked down to
give space
to humanity
This year
the unexpected gift
that gave me
five months alone
with my loved mother
a blessing
that made this
year
holy
even in its darkness
even at the hand
dealt to my brother
who wrestles cancer bravely
in this f-cling hellish year.
This year
as it
bleeds into the next
I pray that
the universal
metronome
can
set us in pace with one another
indefinitely
lovingly
with grace
compassion
and courage
to see the world as one.
this year may harmony
strike a cord.
Posted at 02:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)
The internal debate goes on and on will I be able to conduct
French la Vie retreats in 2021?
I need to make a decision as soon as possible for Spring.
To either go ahead and project the future outings and details of a week retreat or
to postpone the French la Vie until September.
I would like to believe that I am wrong in thinking that it won't happen.
That Covid will have us still restricted.
Even with vaccination at hand, I do not think we will
be ready to travel. The idea of planning and have guests sign up
only to have to cancel the trip is not something I want to do.
Hopes dashed.
What do you think? Will safe travel happen by April 2021?
by May? ...
And if the borders opened would you feel safe?
Posted at 03:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (28)
was the main topic on the world’s stage
and we approached the unknown depth
of reality, we were facing
I decided to post daily a photo
of a flower 🌸 on my
Facebook page to
symbolize hope and to share
a bit of beauty in the uncertainty.
As of today, I have posted
282
photos of flowers
💐
My Facebook page looks
like a florist shop
and not a brocanteur.
who knew I had so many flower photos
in my archives?
This is not to say
"oh look at me"
But to say
Stay safe, find peace, look for beauty,
share faith and cry if need be.
The journey towards healing takes a village
we are in this together
All people all nations
one world.
Let us help one another heal.
Posted at 08:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (15)
walking with a toddler
did I just refer to Gabriel as a toddler?
oh, no baby.
walking with Gabriel on a Sunday afternoon
one step forward
twenty minutes sitting on the ground
playing with rocks
meanwhile the view.
Two steps forward
thirty-three minutes picking up pine cones
then trying to put them on the
"Christmas tree"
which
led to singing
"up on the housetop..."
Three steps forward
then we stood until the sun almost set-
we rubbed our hands with
rosemary
thyme
Lavender
and pine
breathing in the Mediterranean
with the
Provençal boy
as he ran giggling
Da da da
A very chilly Sunday afternoon
when going for a walk with a toddler
you must put your expectations
on the word
toddler
and not on a walk.
A few steps,
a couple of tumbles,
sitting on the ground
strong backs
uneven steps
repetition of words and sounds
most of all admiration and delight
watching a little person discover
the world at large.
Plus you might want to bring a van of supplies
the parents had a backpack well equipped.
Several steps later
we came to the port in Cassis
He saw boats
delightful exclamations could be heard
Bateau
Bateau
Bateau.
we stayed there for a while
letting admiration take over.
Posted at 10:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (11)
I was born with brown hair. As the years went by my hair went utterly gray
as if a thunderstorm landed on my head which happened
after experiencing ovarian cancer with chemotherapy
cocktails. I was rendered menopause at thirty-five, I never took HRT.
I started dying my hair when I was in my forties, every three weeks
as my hair grows fast and my skunk line wasn't attractive.
When I thought about transitioning
from dyed hair to my natural color. I could see that my skunk line was truly white which
made me think that it wouldn't look that different.
Though it did.
So in August 2019, I did not dye my hair instead I had some highlights added to
break the defined line. I did that two more times.
Going from dyed blonde to my natural color wasn't that shocking.
BUT
At times I wanted to dye it back to blond.
but Covid came, lockdown happened, I was in the States, and the ball
was rolling towards white hair.
I had my long hair cut above my shoulders three times to eliminate the blonde.
The process from dyed hair to my natural hair color took sixteen months.
Posted at 07:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (38)
O come, O come, Immanuel,
and ransom captive Israel
that mourns in lonely exile here
until the Son of God appears.
Refrain:
Rejoice! Rejoice! Immanuel
shall come to you, O Israel.
O come, O Wisdom from on high,
who ordered all things mightily;
to us the path of knowledge show
and teach us in its ways to go. Refrain
O come, O come, great Lord of might,
who to your tribes on Sinai's height
in ancient times did give the law
in cloud and majesty and awe. Refrain
O come, O Branch of Jesse's stem,
unto your own and rescue them!
From depths of hell your people save
and give them victory o'er the grave. Refrain
O come, O Key of David, come
and open wide our heavenly home.
Make safe for us the heavenward road
and bar the way to death's abode. Refrain
O come, O Bright and Morning Star,
and bring us comfort from afar!
Dispel the shadows of the night
and turn our darkness into light. Refrain
O come, O King of nations, bind
In one, the hearts of all mankind.
Bid all our sad divisions cease
and be yourself our King of Peace. Refrain
Psalter Hymnal (Gray)
Do you have a favorite?
Another one of mine, a favorite from when Chelsea and Sacha were children:
On Christmas Morning
Posted at 09:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)
"...and a little child shall lead them."
Isaiah 11:6
When I was fourteen my Mother had her fifth and last child,
a boy that my Father named Zane.
My other three brothers and I were excited to tell our baby brother about Baby Jesus.
We repeatedly told him the Christmas story,
telling him that on Christmas morning he would be the one to put the "baby Jesus" in the manger.
Of course on Christmas morning we jumped out of bed bright and early,
what child doesn't believe in Santa?
Zane seemed to be a bit lackadaisical about the whole thing,
and that struck us as odd. But hey he was only a little tot
so we figured maybe he didn't really get it yet.
My brothers and I raced into the kitchen,
each one of us wanted to be the first one to give baby Jesus to our baby brother Zane.
But to our surprise, we could not find it.
We searched and searched for baby Jesus.
Where had he gone? What happened?
Hadn't we put him in the kitchen junk drawer?
Who saw him last?
After what seemed an eternity looking for the main nativity character,
we noticed Zane crying.
Gee, maybe he did get it after all.
We felt bad for him, poor little guy.
We told him not to cry that Jesus lives in our hearts
and that the missing plastic baby Jesus was not the real thing,
and that Christmas would go on.
Zane looked up to us with his big brown eyes and said,
"I threw the baby Jesus in the fire.
He was getting too much attention."
We were dumbfounded.
We have never let Zane forget his Jesus toss.
Do you have a favorite Christmas tale to tell?
Posted at 09:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (14)
“I have been finding treasures in places
I did not want to search.
I have been hearing wisdom from tongues
I did not want to listen.
I have been finding beauty where I did not want to look.
And I have learned so much from journeys
I did not want to take.
Forgive me, O Gracious One;
for I have been closing my ears and eyes for too long.
I have learned that miracles are only called miracles
because they are often witnessed by only those who
can see through all of life's illusions.
I am ready to see what really exists on the other side,
what exists behind the blinds,
and taste all the ugly fruit
instead of all that looks right, plump and ripe.”
― Suzy Kassem
A child was born in a stable
Posted at 08:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)
Hi, Everyone.
My name is Barbara
I am happy to introduce myself to you
and show you a few of the projects I enjoy.
One of the rare pics of myself
and my eldest granddaughter Luna.
I feel that I am a less likely guest poster since I have read and been impressed by many of your grand adventures and unique lives. I have loved my life enjoyed it immensely, but it is far from glamourous. It is to me however interesting and quirky.
I grew up in very poor circumstances in numerous small and large towns in Texas. I learned to make my own entertainment by drawing and sewing, taught by incredibly talented and resourceful women of the family. I earned scholarships for college but opted for the hippie vagabond life.
It was the sixties after all.
Met my husband, Curt, in San Francisco and we just recently celebrated our fiftieth anniversary.
I’m the short one in the center, with friend Jennifer, and my husband Curt in Long Beach, WA.
We have four wonderful sons, six treasured grandchildren-
Luna, Josephine, Marion, Elam, Eamon, and Maggie...
scattered between Oregon, Nevada, Connecticut, and New Hampshire.
We look so forward to seeing them all again post-Covid.
I have done a variety of jobs mingled within the years of rearing our four sons.
I’ve been a school custodian, sewing factory laborer, and finally a health unit coordinator in a neonatal unit.
I returned to college when I was fifty and working full-time night shift at the hospital.
I received my degree in psych/neuroscience to demonstrate to the sons that it could be done by me,
therefore easily by them. And to finish something I had begun many years before. We have lived too many places to list here, from Venezuela to Alaska, but recently relocated to New Hampshire after 30 years in Portland, Oregon and are becoming accustomed to the retired, rural life in the snow.
The surprise outside our windows this morning.
Since childhood, I have loved drawing and sketching and nothing boosts my mood like a fresh sketchbook and new art supplies. I enjoy painting, sewing, and crafting of various kinds too, at least for long enough to master a new project. Then I tend to give away the results and go on to something new.
But sketching is always there waiting to be enjoyed again.
During this pandemic, I had begun sketching my favorite bloggers and decided to email the sketches to them.
One sketch I did was for Corey of Chelsea
and her beautiful son Gabriel.
Corey and several other bloggers chose to
feature the sketches in their posts,
making me grateful and happy. Here are a few of them:
Years ago, when I began to travel with my friend Renelle,
I also started to keep a daily journal for each trip.
At first, I mostly wrote and inserted a few shy sketches.
Over time, these became more like sketch journals.
I love browsing through these so much; it is like living the joy all over again.
Photos from the same vacations do not compare in triggering memories.
I deconstructed each journal and made bound copies to be able to lend them
out to friends and they’ve become lovingly worn.
Another use for my sketchbooks has been to sketch the authors of books
I read and enjoy, as well as meals, grandkids, pets, and all manner of things.
If nothing else inspires, I’ve been known to sketch my own feet.
A few years ago I became interested in shoemaking and attended a shoemaking school in Ashland, Oregon.
Made some very ugly shoes and boots,
a few nice sandals, and then fancies inspired by on-line examples-of crepe paper shoes.
And I painted some clogs, which I found oddly meditative.
The most successful sandals for daughter-in-law Noriko.
I have always needed “something to do” and tried painting with acrylics, and for a while supplied many friends
with tote bags and purses, dolls, and recently I’ve been making little Altoid can shrines.
And finally, here is the first sketch I ever had the nerve to
send to anyone, and still one of my favorites.
It’s been so nice sharing with you all,
and this has helped me settle on my next learning project:
I need to learn to format a document and enclose photos without mass spaces between!
That should keep me busy the rest of this snowy New Hampshire winter.
Stay warm, and stay safe. Barb
Posted at 09:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (17)
Posted at 12:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)
Thank you for your messages! I appreciate your loving support.
My family is grateful, especially my brother Marty
who is suffering.
Thank you so much I wish I could respond to each of you individually
please know that I am thankful.
Patricia, from my blog, wrote me an email this yesterday,
(like many of you do and)
which I found so beautiful and helpful I want to share it with you.
Posted at 10:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (15)
This is courage. This is faith. This is love.
This is my mom.
To continue being true to life even when
it isn't what you wish were true.
My mother's example never fails.
God, how did I get so lucky to
have this woman as my mother?
How did I not understand her gift when I was young?
How does a mother watch her child suffer
and still
celebrate faith, love, life, and show up?
I am in awe of her, utter awe.
Posted at 09:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)
In January my brother Marty discovered he had stage four
pancreatic cancer that has metastasized to his liver.
Since then has endured the severity of his illness.
How does one hold the unbearable weight of such a prognosis?
How does one maneuver their days with cancer or
with a life-threatening illness waving in front of them?
The gift of suffering can be the song of solemn awareness that comes to our lips,
hearts, touch, sight, perspective.
Though, understandably it is not a gift we desire nor seek
Suffering peels back a layer offering us away
to be present to one another that most things do not.
When someone is ill, I tend to pray more for them,
if near them touch them, feel/see them differently,
as if our time together is not caught up in what we are doing,
but of who we are.
Suffering has a way of breaking us to the core of realness.
that I find beautiful, even if painful.
It is a gift to tend to the ill, the weak
and not run away from it.
Beautiful as it brings the rawness the fragility of life
to the center stage.
If only I could stand on that stage without the
the reality of pain and suffering.
To be deeply aware of life
present to its calling.
And yet my brother like so many of your loved ones is suffering.
Is in need of healing.
Being far away is a lesson we are facing during Covid.
Suffering is the pits in its hardcore slap of reality.
In the destruction, the change, the unknown path...
There are often two sides to the truth even, suffering.
How I wish this were not true.
I often imagine the *prayers being sent, imagining them floating
above my brother waiting to be placed on the area where he needs the most healing.
Believing that to be true I hear myself saying at times,
"May the prayers being said today bring healing peace to my Marty's cancer."
Then I sense the prayers streaming in towards his body.
Thank you for your prayers, love, concern, and good thoughts.
My brother is in need of a miracle, he is back in the hospital.
xxx
Posted at 08:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (36)
In training to be my antique business partner.
So far waking up early and being outside
are checked off on the positive side.
Vocabulary is missing but I trust that will
come with age.
He is an asset when it comes to négociations...
charming every time.
Has time to learn about carrying things ... he
tends to drop things or walk away.
Overall I think we are going to be great together!
Posted at 07:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)
Hanging above the old buffet in the dining room,
was an oval frame with a black and white photo
of a lovely young woman.
When I asked who she was French Husband's Uncle told me it was his mother.
"You mean Yann's grandmother?" I asked with embarrassment
as I had never seen a photo of his grandmother before.
And with that French Husband's Uncle told me the story of his mother...
his gentle, sweet, loving mother
he was one of seven children, his mother was an artist.
On the top of French Husband's Uncle's armoire
was a demi-John that was used to hold wine
it had large beautifully full red poppies
that his Grandmother had painted.
She was sixteen.
Self-taught, a natural.
French Husband did not know that his grandmother
had painted it.
Seeing the demi-John, and knowing her needlework
(I have a set of two-bed linens that she made,
not for me, but for Yann's mother for her trousseau)
made me wish more than ever
that our children and I could have met her.
French Husband's grandmother also painted
this oil painting when she was sixteen years old.
A winter's day along the river.
Her signature.
I asked to take a photo to pass on to our children.
An artist. A gentle sweet grandmother.
A link to my husband's past.
Above the fireplace, I saw a charcoal portrait,
I teasingly asked, "Is he a family relation too?"
French Husband didn't know.
His Uncle smiled shyly, "Yes, it is your Great Grandfather."
The stories continued...
French Husband's Great Grandfather was an architect.
I looked at my husband as if for the first time...
one never knows everything about anyone.
French Huband's Uncle had plenty of stories to tell.
One of the differences between my French Husband
and me is that I ask questions.
Not nosey but curious, interested, a desire to know.
French Husband was pleased.
Posted at 03:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)
Christmas time in Provence under a
perfect blue sky and chill to the bone morning.
The neighboring town flooded its square
with Christmas trees adorned with
red and gold ornaments.
We took Gabriel anticipating his reaction.
Christmas through the eyes of a baby.
Enchanting and so sweet.
Wonder and awe.
Gabriel loved the "balls" touching nearly every one of them
and some of them he kissed.
The ornaments were well attached
chubby little hands could not
dislodge them
no matter how hard he tried.
Posted at 08:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (12)
Years ago I bought this enormous crown molding.
I did not have a place for it.
But it was just too beautiful to pass by.
French Husband agreed, we rented a van and drove an hour and a half to pick it up.
Did I write about this years ago? Didn't I share a photo of it hanging
precariously in the back of a van, literally had to rope parts of it in midair to have the four
pieces fit and not crowd each other.
Yes, it was a feat for Hercules to bring it home only to sit in our garage.
We are moving things around in our dining room/living room area.
The family has convinced me, worn me down, no not really,
to buy two soft comfortable sofas but to not change the atmosphere
A small feat I thought.
But two comfortable sofas take up major floor space.
I have been moving, or I should say they have been moving pieces
around and I have been laying out plans on the floor:
"You see the sofa will not fit here if that piece is there."
Literally, they want sofas the size of dump trucks!
I keep reminding them that you have to be able to walk around the coffee table
not walk over it.
Goal: Aim smaller.
Think Car, not Dump Truck.
The Biscuit is just fine on our present sofa.
He and I have a thing going on... I am convinced
he is going to love antiques.
See his enthusiasm!
He is thrilled with THIS sofa.
Why buy another?
If only he could vote!
Disarray at Christmas.
At least the tree is up no photo but it is there.
Gabriel and I spend hours sitting up close to the Christmas
tree talking about the ornaments.
He is very gentle with the tree that is full of fragile ornaments -
the Christmas tree is pleased.
I believe he loves the tree with the twinkling lights
like a best friend.
The rest of the room is a disaster zone but he doesn't notice it.
That little guy knows how to keep me focused on what is important.
Food, changing diapers, naps, and cuddles under the tree.
Posted at 09:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)
painted red
made in cement.
The paint on this frog is old,
though maybe not as old as the frog.
I never thought about it until now
but why is it painted red? Maybe that
is why it is frowning?
When I bought the frog at a brocante as usual
I didn't think about how far away I had parked.
Walking to my car was not a HOP SKIP and a JUMP.
Had I thought about the distance the frog
might not have come home with me that day.
Over the years it seems as if the red frog is getting heavier
though how can that be it never eats?
I have noticed that about myself
things seem heavier and I seem less flexible.
Moving furniture around was a past time
of mine, now I entertain that thought
for less than a second.
How many dining room tables did I sell
before not wanting to carry another one into the house?
The frog is heavier... that is all.
Have you noticed this phenomenon in your home?
------
Please if you are considering doing a Guest Post for
me I hope you will soon! I have a few more to post
and hope to have more. Thank you to all the readers
who contributed so far I have loved getting to know
you more and I can see that my dear readers have
enjoyed knowing each other too. xxx
Posted at 11:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)
My sister Jan, and me wearing my favorite necklace. 2007
Treasures from France
My adventures in France began around 2007
when my sister Jan was sent to Paris four separate times for her job.
I eagerly offered to join her for a few days after her May trip.
The rainiest days did not match my fantasy of Paris,
but we made the best of it
and saw most of the main sights which included
climbing to the top of Notre Dame.
What a treat to see the gargoyle’s up close.
Armed with Wandering Paris by Jill Butler (Amazon) and
Rick Steve’s Paris guidebook,
we took in the sights and found the shops.
It was on this trip I learned to “buy it when you see it”.
The first evening we passed a tiny boutique
on the way to a boat ride on the Seine.
In the window was a beautiful necklace made up of
brightly colored mother of pearl buttons.
Luckily, I bought it even though I’d just arrived and was jet-lagged.
We passed that store twice a day the rest of the trip and it was never open again.
I get compliments on that necklace every time I wear it.
Around the same time, I discovered “Tongue in Cheek”,
a wonderful blog is written by Corey Amaro about her life
in France with her handsome FH and darling children.
I was instantly drawn in by her beautiful photography and
engaging storytelling.
One of my friends couldn’t understand why anyone would want
to read about the life of someone you don’t even know
and would never meet.
After reading Corey’s daily posts for several years,
I did get to meet her at Round Top Antique Fair in Texas.
She spent over an hour visiting with my friend Stephanie and I.
She was so kind and generous to us.
By then I had discovered other artists and Francophiles
and began making almost yearly trips to France.
The highlight besides the wonderful people and picturesque countryside
is always the brocantes/flea markets
where unbelievable treasures are to be found.
I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Corey and her beautiful home
several more times over the years.
I’m still impressed with her incredible photography and interesting stories and posts.
(Sidenote Sue was a finalist for Top Shelf! Check out this link.)
Fast forward to June 2018.
After 30+ years of designing closets in the Chicago area,
it was time to hang up the measuring tape and move to Tennesee.
On my first visit to Tennesee years before,
I knew I could live there.
It’s beautiful, not that far from family in the midwest
and the weather is a lot better than Chicago -
especially in the winter.
I bought a 3 bedroom home in a brand new over 55 community
40 minutes south of Nashville.
I had time to tie up loose ends with my career and say
goodbye to many friends and family while the home was being built.
I loved my job and realized I could help my new neighbors
(most people downsizing) make the most of their space here.
We outfitted all my closets so I can use my home as a model before I even moved in,
I had a client. Closet Works South was born.
I found an awesome installer and we’ve been helping neighbors ever since.
I wanted 3 bedrooms so I could have plenty of room for guests.
I had visitors regularly and had fun showing them the sights,
enjoying Music City/Nashville.
That all came to a screeching halt in March 2020.
No visitors, no travel to exotic locals,
we were all stuck at home like the rest of the world.
My sister Jane lives in my neighborhood and we decided to make masks.
We weren’t sure if they would be needed but we wanted something to do.
We set up the sewing machines on my dining room table
and started making masks.
My sister Nancy who is a nurse-midwife in a large Chicago hospital asked
us if we could make her some.
They were hard to find even for frontline people who really needed them.
We quickly sent her some and realized there was a need-
we were on the right track.
We recruited some kind neighbors to help us we formed
a step by step assembly line so that we
were able to make them much quicker.
There were steps for sewers and non-sewers
eventually, we had about 80 people in our development helping in one way or another.
Since all the fabric and elastic was donated,
we asked for a $5.00 donation per mask.
We had “pop up” shops and mailed out masks all over the country.
Yay for the USPS, they never lost a mask!
“Mask” Production raised over $22,000
and sold and donated at least 5,000 masks.
(if you click on the link above you will learn more about our
mask production it is on page 8.)
(Click here to see the mask pattern we used)
The money went to local worthy causes including tornado relief,
food banks, Boys and Girls Club, Senior dog rescue,
police and fire departments, and many other local charities.
We still have lots of masks available and continue to raise money.
Real Men Wear Colorful Masks!!
When “Mask” Production was asked to make masks for
one of our neighbor's sons deployed in Afghanistan,
we gladly got to work.
They were sent about a month ago and we recently received this photo
featuring Real Men from the US Navy, US Army as well
as the Italian, Czech, Polish, and Romanian Armies.
We were honored to send these masks to them and
appreciate the awesome photo modeling the masks
My latest venture is hosting art classes in my garage/SheShed.
I met a fantastic local artist, Laura Rhinehart
she has been teaching a Painting Florals class for the last few weeks.
Luckily the weather has been about perfect and we are able to be in the fresh air.
Her technique brings out the “Monet” in everybody and it has been fun.
Hoping to be able to resume life as it was
but making the best of life as it is.
Thanks, Corey for asking me to contribute to your blog I’m honored.
Posted at 11:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)
My son in law, in French they say Beau Fils which literally translates as:
Beautiful Son,
often bundles Gabriel up for a bicycle ride.
As we live at the base of an
the extraordinary mountain which is known as Saint Baume
where there are miles of unending trials
through wild nature, lavender, rosemany, big skies, ruins, and grapevines
Gabriel benefits a feast for his senses.
My Beautiful Son Martin packs a picnic, extra supplies and heads out for hours
they take breaks, naps, explore and come home.
As soon as Gabriel wakes up in the morning
he lets everyone know he wants to go for a bike ride.
He grabs our hand and takes us to the glass door and points
to the bicycle, then runs for his helmet.
He loves riding, the longer the ride, and I mean hours long,
th better
he is the happiest camper.
I would love to give Gabriel a ride on the bicycle
but the bike is too high for me
even with the seat lowered nearly to the ground
my feet barely reach the pedals
that is one of the setbacks living with giants.
And guess what?
Gabriel is nearly as tall as I am.
He will be able to pedal me
around by the time he is two.
Look at the delicious little biscuit!
He is our grounding source
our roots go deep
and the horizon seems brighter.
Posted at 08:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (18)
Today is a day to be thankful and to celebrate
the love in our lives.
My love affair with my husband Frank began in 1998 –
our marriage in 1999 brought two families
with four grown children together
and we now share six almost grown grandchildren
who all still live nearby in Portland, Oregon.
Our love affair with France began in 2000 with our honeymoon trip.
We have returned 21 times now to explore, traveling by car
with a trusty atlas to allow us to change our routing at a moment’s notice.
One of our favorite surprises was the wine-bottle fountain
in the church courtyard in St Nicola de Bourgueil,
which introduced us to a delightful wine.
"It just looks impossible..."
The amazing Millau bridge in the Midi-Pyrenees.
Driving over this bridge you are impressed by how solid it is.
This view, from the visitor center, makes it look flimsy.
It is as awe-inspiring as structures get.
Pont du Gard must have inspired the Gallo-Romans
in the first century, this bridge does to
the people of the 21st century.
This is a pigeon house on a farm near Agen, France.
We saw hundreds of these, some falling apart, some in use.
This is a pigeoniere, or pigeon house in Lautrec, France.
We saw variations on this theme all over southern France.
This one is in the yard of a school. It has been preserved as archetypical.
Watch that first step!
LaRoque-Gageac, Aquitania,France
We wander the back roads checking out the markets
and all things historical.
A Gallo-Romain aqueduct cuts through hard rock.
This would have been done with hand tools.
The Sep’t Ecluse.
A disused staircase lock in France.
Vaux-le-Vicomte has gardens designed by the same man who did Versailles.
When he was done, Louis had him imprisoned
on trumped up charges (sound familiar)
so he could not create another garden for anyone else!
Alsace, France, for a week at the Christmas Markets.
We stopped into Mulhouse to pick up some of the
annual fabric designed for the event.
Frank loves to photograph the Neolithic dolmens
and the lavoirs (ancient laundries).
In many towns, they are decorated and last year
we found one in use in the small village of Le Val in the Var.
This year would have taken us to the Basque country in October
and then to back to Alsace for our third visit to the Christmas markets,
a magical adventure that we will definitely repeat when travel is safe again.
We have had the pleasure to meet Corey and Yann several times,
seeing their treasure-filled home in St. Zacharie and
their fascinating Fisherman house in Cassis.
We just happened to be with Corey
the day that she had learned
that her dream of owning a home along
the harbor in Cassis had come true!
Thank you Corey for all that you do
to lift our spirits on a daily basis with your words and pictures.
Posted at 08:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (11)
I’ve been a huge fan of Corey’s “Tongue in Cheek” for so long,
I can’t even remember when we first connected.
But I’m so happy that we did.
From learning about how Corey first met her French Husband,
getting acquainted with her California family
and her children, and now a beautiful grandchild (!)
to the enchanting images of the vintage,
old and luxurious brocante treasures-to die for,
seeing life through Corey’s eyes has been a joy.
Much needed, especially now in these challenging times.
I’m so attached to Corey’s point of view because it reflects
the vision I bring to my own work.
I’m an artist, living on a small island,
not far from Seattle.
Although growing up, my family lived on
both coasts of the US,
in Europe and South America,
I find great peace and joy
in our little wooded neighborhood,
where connections to nature abound:
beach walks and the discovery of ornately
patterned shards of Blue Willow china from long ago
washed and tumbled by the sea;
long rain misted hikes through the island’s
towering firs and cedars,
the ground usually damp from the grey drizzle
that keeps us “green”;
the wild (and terribly invasive) blackberries
that are so sweet plucked
warm off the vine in the short, warm summer months.
We even welcome the rose-eating deer to our yard-this year,
being homebound because of Covid,
it was a very special treat that our resident doe,
(that we named “Doe”),
brought twins (!) to our lives, all spotty and freckled.
(We named them “Dipple” and “Dapple”
even though we couldn’t tell them apart,
but it was always fun to say, “Oh look! There are Dipple, Dapple
and Doe outside!).
We live in an old island home,
created from beach rock and grey shingles
with the dark wood (and scuffed)
floors and beamed ceilings that were born
from our island’s plentiful woods,
more than a hundred years ago.
It’s where I work and paint and although,
over the many years, I have created a wide variety of art
and loved volunteering in every art project
and auction creation while our children were small.
I’ve found my passion now is depicting the beauty of time passing,
the vintage, the loveliness in the faded
and decay and adding strong swipes of bold
color to the mix, for an unexpected spot of modernity.
I describe my paintings as being influenced by
“The romance of vintage floral French wallpapers
and Chinoiserie with a modern twist”.
So my work features birds and botanicals,
leaves and vines, and lots of
pattern and color.
Lately, I’ve started adding gold leaf to my art stories,
softened and distressed, worn and softly gleaming.
I imagine, as I work, that my paintings are
just a part of the picture as if they were included in a large,
ancient, and darkened mural of a grand chateau that
has been cut away, so that imagery often fades off the side,
only revealing a bit of the intended narrative.
I hope the viewer will make up a new story for themselves.
In 2017, I was invited by the Japanese owned cosmetic company,
Shiseido to collaborate with the Creative Director of Cle De Peau Cosmetics,
Lucia Pieroni, to create original artworks for their limited edition,
Holiday 2017 Collection, “Nuit De Chine’.
It was an honor and a thrill to work with the
special and amazingly talented Cle De Peau Team!
My work appeared in all Cle De Peau’s global markets-Russia,
Asia, the US, Canada-and one of my favorite memories of this
experience was huddling around a small table in New York with Lucia,
the Team, the translators, and all of us collaborating
on ideas and directions and color, mood, and feel.
(My work appeared on all packaging: makeup coffret,
nail lacquers, eye crayons, skincare,
and banners, website banners, even tablecloths
and photo backdrops for Cle De Peau events
to introduce the new collection.)
My work is shown in a variety of galleries,
along with my silk scarf collection,
based on my paintings, my silk and
linen pillow collection and greeting cards.
It was a thrill, just recently, to send my cards to London
to be used as invites for a wedding there!
And my first book cover with my art will arrive next year,
published by Little/Brown, London.
The world is such a wonderful place.
Corey’s blog reminds me of all the beauty that is still “out there”
as we remain at home. I am grateful for that.
Aside from my art, Corey’s life resonates with me because many years ago,
I moved to France to learn the language without speaking a word.
I did know Spanish, and that helped a little.
But it was those first months of listening
to catch a recognized word or to speak a phrase
that someone understood that remains with me
as such a challenge and thrill.
I wonder how Corey felt when she first moved there?
I remember being invited to my first French dinner party
by a couple who were renovating a small old chateau.
Everything in shambles except for the kitchen,
the little dining room, and the parlor.
The long table was packed with friends and food
and it was the loneliest feeling ever-not understanding
what was being said and not being able to join in.
But later, when we all gathered to dance after dinner,
a very charming French tradition I learned,
Cat Steven’s album came on and it was delicious to hear English!!
How kind was the French people to welcome me so warmly,
in spite of not being able to speak “un mot”.
(Much later, when I started dreaming in French and
understanding all the jokes in the Asterisk and Obelisk comics,
I felt a lot more comfortable being chatty.)
So that’s my introduction. Merci mille fois for the
kind opportunity to meet your many, many readers.
It has been a delight to read about your followers’ stories.
Corey’s Daily Doses of beauty-those wonderfully, exquisite and
magical vignettes of lovely inspirational imagery
are so very welcome to see and be inspired by every single day.
Merci Corey for this gift.
kf_paintings
and Kathe's blog.
Posted at 10:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)
Each of us has a story to tell.
I have so appreciated and
enjoyed each story being shared.
Here is my story.
As a young girl, I dreamt of being a fashion designer.
I would design clothes from scraps of cloth for my dolls.
My family didn’t understand that desire to be a creative soul,
so after a while, my dream left me,
but it must have really just been tucked away
in a corner of my heart.
As I was approaching forty years old
I began evaluating my life.
Where had I gone?
I had married at 21 and had two children by the time I was 30.
I was a mom and a wife,
but that little tickle in my heart was still there.
Finally, I put a voice to this dream
and went back to school gaining
a degree in apparel design.
I didn’t become a famous designer,
but I had a 25-year career as an apparel
pattern maker and technical designer
for several well-known companies
in the Portland, Oregon area.
I was proud of what I had accomplished
and I think my family was too.
I retired from Nike at 65 years old.
While I was at Nike
I began coming across blogging.
Corey’s beautiful blog was
the first one I discovered.
Whenever I needed a few moments
to break at work
I headed to her blog and
took a mental holiday.
It brought me so much joy.
After I retired I decided to write a blog,
With my last bonus check from Nike,
I invested in a “big girl” camera.
Well I didn’t even know-how
to turn the camera on,
but with blogging, forced me to learn.
Blogging and taking pictures
gives me an outlet to share
and still have a creative outlet.
While I was working at Nike
I realized I had one more dream.
It was to have my own business.
After making a list of the things
I loved I realized I loved drinking tea.
Simple isn’t it?
Just sit and drink tea all day I thought.
Do I open a tearoom?
No, that is a restaurant.
Being involved with product development
I would love making products
for other tearooms.
I developed a line of jams and jellies
made with tea and sold them wholesale to tearooms for 9 years.
Now I sell on Etsy "Marmaladys",
a line of tea-related sewing patterns.
See the connection?
I was a pattern-maker
that now has incorporated tea
into the picture.
Friendships and connections
always touch my heart.
The people I have met through
pursuing my joys has delighted me.
How I would still love to meet Corey,
but when I travel the I-5 corridor
from Oregon to California
I make a stop in Willows
and have met Corey’s mom a couple of times.
Yes, connections and friendships
are my total joy.
Always curious and learning,
it keeps my heart young
and puts a smile on my face.
You can also find me on
or on Facebook
where I share quotes, tea pictures,
pictures from nature and my garden.
Occasionally my grandson pops in there too.
At 69 years old I became
a first-time grandma and
I love having my
8-year-old grandson by my side.H
Posted at 09:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (12)
Since I could not decide on my story,
so I am giving you vignettes of my 69 years.
Annya and her son Jackson
My daughter Annya was one of the last babies born in the Yosemite National Park hospital,
called Lewis and Memorial. When it came time to deliver my baby,
we had to drive from the southern area of the park called Wawona (4,000 ft elevation),
up and over a mountain pass of 6000 ft to get to Yosemite Valley
where the hospital was located.
It was the first snow of the season.
Her father’s last name is White,
and we joked that we should call her “Snow.”
I absolutely love cats, kittens, and baby goats.
I have also become infatuated with the Blue Merle Australian Shepherds,
which seems to be a favorite dog in France.
My favorite poets are Mary Oliver, Rumi, ee cummings, and Haziz.
I am now living in France, a lifelong dream.
I moved here when I was 66.
Even though it took a while to get here,
it just goes to show that it is never too late to follow your dreams.
I have never been happier in my life!
~~~
I have 3 tattoos.
I got the one on my arm
a bit after I got married at 62 (not for the first time, may I say).
It is a quote by Mary Oliver,
“He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.”
I live in a small village in the south of France.
I tell time by the church bells chiming.
And occasionally looking at the clock…
Ms Amelia, our 1975 AirStream Trailer
https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/1486208
During the summers, we go back to our cottage in Connecticut.
We have a 1975 Airstream trailer in our backyard
(we have an acre of land), which we rent out on AirBnB.
I love the snow and occasionally insist that we go up to the mountains
so I can get a cold nose and feet. Does my husband like the snow…?
Not so much!
I have sea kayaked in Glacier Bay in Alaska
and on Baffin Island, off Canada’s northeastern coast.
(I found these at the brocante in France and dye them myself for my craft fair.)
I love going to brocantes.
While I do not have the Brocante Bug as bad as Corey,
I do love wandering the rows, finding things
I have no idea what they are and imagining their use in a prior lifetime.
I love the natural patina created by the many previous lives they touched.
While I look for linens, especially napkins
with really “heavy” monograms and old nighties,
My husband Ian is looking for old cameras, tools, and other curios that attract him.
What a wonderful way to spend a day!
I have not eaten red meat, chicken, or turkey for 38 years.
Well, except for bacon! For a period, in my career,
I was often traveling for work, and on arriving late at my hotel,
all I could get was room service.
As we all know, they would always have a BLT on that menu.
One night, I thought, “What the hell, why not!
After all, it was a self-imposed restriction.
And I never looked back…
It is a slippery slope, but I have held the line at bacon
(and lardon in France).
I love to cook and have friends over so I can try out new recipes on them.
I never use a recipe with over 10 ingredients,
and I am not particularly good at following directions.
My husband is my chief taster and almost always can let me know what the dish needs.
He is also a good cook. It
gives me great pleasure to have friends gathered around the table,
eating and talking and (perhaps) drinking till all hours of the night.
~~~
My life’s motto is “Live Creatively”
I am married to Ian. He was born in Scotland,
though he has lost most of his accent.
Except, that is, when he is drinking with his pals in the pubs.
Then I can’t understand a word he says!
Though I do love it when he reads me Robert Burns’ poems
in a full Scottish accent!
He is truly a kind spirit, intelligent,
knows politics and history
(I call him my personal Wikipedia),
thoughtful, helpful, and caring. I love him to pieces.
I love watching birds.
One of the great disappointments of where I live now
is that there are mostly only seagulls, pigeons, and ring-necked doves.
I also collect bird nests.
In fact, I bought an old steamer trunk,
removed the falling off lid,
put in a shelf about 4 inches from the top,
filled it with bird nests and eggs, and put a glass top on it.
I believe that I was married to Ian in a previous life.
We lived in Europe somewhere.
He was a farmer and we had three children, two girls and a boy.
~~~
For many years, I worked in a bookstore in Marin County.
I grew up loving reading and books.
I was a voracious reader and, as a child,
would ride my bike to the library a couple of times a week.
I liked "series"; I remember reading all the Briar Patch books,
then I headed on to the Greek Myths, and Nancy Drew, of course.
I often read books my parents had around the house.
I remember reading “Gone with the Wind” in fourth grade,
though many of the parts I was a little sketchy about (like that torn bodice).
I have a craft business. I make products from items
I recycled and/or repurposed that I find at the brocante.
I hand-dye old napkins and nighties, stamp vintage butter knives,
make cashmere lavender eye pillows, and create gifts from various items I stumble across.
I (usually) sell at craft fairs and farmers' markets when I am back in Connecticut
in the summer, though, of course, this last summer was an exception.
I had been reading Corey’s blog for years.
So when Ian and I were in Aix, (I have to say I am a very shy person)
I emailed Corey to see if we could stop by and meet her.
Now, this was VERY unusual for me to do.
Of course, being the generous and gracious person she is, she said, “Of course!”
We went to her house and had a wonderful couple of hours.
And since moving to France, we have become closer,
and our husbands have become friends.
How wonderful it has been to meet so many delightful,
interesting, and accomplished people through this blog!
Thank you, Corey, for inspiring all of us to share our stories!
--
Follow Laurie-Annya Linfoot on Facebook
"Everyman has two nations and one of them is France." Benjamin Franklin
Posted at 08:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)
I believe at one point or another in our lives
we find ourselves searching
for something or someone to guide us,
to help us along this life’s journey.
Finding Corey and following her blog for over 8 years
has been like finding a treasured jewel at the Brocante.
like many of you fellow readers, I start my morning with a cup of coffee,
sitting down with my computer and diving into Corey’s World.
She has a tremendous gift of weaving her tales and imagery that spark my heart.
I have been with her through the good and bad days,
learning by the love she so tenderly gives to family, friendships,
and the magical Brocante.
(My French Brocante Treasures)
Taken at the Brocante where we met C & Y
Imagine, visiting one of the Brocantes in France
and the serendipitous moment I turned my gaze and saw
Corey and French Husband from afar.
“Look that’s CORRREEY!!! “
I exclaimed with bubbling excitement to my husband.
Posted at 12:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)
Years ago, I reconnected with someone I went to high school with,
and through him, I found Corey
just in time to see the Paris apartment renovation.
When the apartment was done, my husband and I spent a week there.
Walking up the stairs and into the space was a bit like finally reaching the Emerald City.
I’m honored to be a guest blogger and to have the opportunity
to share a bit about my love of weaving and dyeing fabric.
This is my grandson.
He’s playing an instrument that belonged to my dad
who was a big band musician who played with some of the greatest.
He also did Broadway Theatre so I’m thrilled that Jasper
took his guitars and other string instruments.
Like Corey, family and friends are everything to me.
In addition to my family, the community has always been important to me
and varies with where in my life I am.
In these days of COVID, I’ve connected through FaceBook, to a community of weavers.
Weavers are a creative and supportive group, which is important as we find ourselves isolating.
My love for weaving started as a textile design student at F.I.T.,
the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York City.
Weaving was a required course so I walked in and sat down at a loom.
Who knew that you could take threads or yarn and arrange them vertically (the warp) and horizontally (the weft),
interlace them, and get fabric? I was hooked.
Not only had I found my passion; I found a world of people,
a community in which I finally felt comfortable.
I’d always loved working with color, but this was a new way to play
with endless possibilities of shades, hues, textures, and weave structures
Some, who were at F.I.T. at the same time, went on to greatness.
Calvin Klein married a girl in my class.
Antonio Lopez went on to become one of the most successful illustrators in the business,
hanging out in Paris with Karl Lagerfeld, Jerry Hall, and a host of others.
I do wish I’d saved the sketches he did of me when
I had a long, thin neck which was the piece of me on which he focused.
Now I’m 75 and in the Nora Ephron cohort with regard to my neck.
I moved into “the city” as soon as I could convince my parents it was ok,
I’d be fine and not end up on the back pages of a tabloid
which was where you would find all the good girls gone bad stories.
An apartment in a tenement building in Greenwich Village with a roommate was home.
My F.I.T. friends had also moved to the area
I was now able to earn a living and enjoy the things I love, the things that make me, me.
NYC offered me theatre (my Dad was a Broadway musician), opera, ballet, museums, etc.
I still drive in from Connecticut to enjoy all those things and will again when we’re vaccinated,
though I worry about the survival of the arts.
My F.I.T. graduation gift was a 45” wide loom which I still have.
While living in NY, I did freelance work on the loom.
I’m in Connecticut now, but the loom came with me and now has two sisters.
My yarn stash is immense, but I never seem to have exactly the color or texture I need,
so it continues to grow. Sometimes, I dye what I need by hand painting or doing Shibori.
When I arrived in Connecticut, there was no work for a fabric designer.
Changing circumstances demanded I pursue another career to ensure a paycheck.
With it came another new community, work friends.
Though it was not a particularly creative endeavor,
I find you can bring creativity to anything.
Though I marked time knowing I’d be back at the loom one day.
For years I was not able to weave and despite encouragement to
“get rid of that thing”,
I held on to my loom.
Weaving is my Zen and an escape.
Once you decide what you will create and set it up on the loom,
the rhythm of the weaving has a calming effect.
It’s physical and good for the brain.
It had been important to me years ago
and I knew it would again.
When I retired, I went for some refresher courses at Wesleyan Potters
which is an artists’ co-op, gallery, and school.
We are potters, weavers, and jewelers.
Another community, this one like a family, though right now,
we can’t gather nor do much work together.
Artists are struggling in these times, as are so many others.
Many who usually teach live workshops are seeking new ways to earn a living.
I’m participating in a workshop with an international group of weavers,
helping an artist who would usually be teaching in person, to develop an online program.
The instructor studied at the Rhode Island School of Design.
My studies at F.I.T. were industry-oriented.
In the Garment District of New York,
I was limited to designing fabrics for apparel that would photograph and sell.
I’m working through a completely different methodology now,
with no limitations other than my own creativity,
the loom capability, and materials on hand.
It’s a challenge.
Old dog, new tricks!
If things go well pandemic-wise,
I’ll be loading my loom into the back of my SUV and heading to Knoxville, Tennessee
in the summer of 2022 for a week of live, intense workshops.
That was supposed to have happened this past summer.
It occurs to me that all the rearranging and adjusting
we have done is akin to what the French call le Système D.
The D stands for 'débrouille', meaning to get on with it,
figure it out, use any means available to do something.
Here’s to us all managing through
continuing to find ways to do
the things we love.
Question: Do you sell your items or do commissions?
I sell very little.
I sometimes sell scarves, baby blankets, placemats, towels, etc.
in the Gallery Shop at Wesleyan Potters,
but I don’t have a website.
I give my work as gifts because the process is so enjoyable.
I keep a stack of hand towels to take when visiting.
Having worked in the garment district with constraints of what
would sell based on what was in Europe the previous season,
and the price point of the company I worked for,
I love that I can finally do what I love without worrying if it’s perfect.
I also suffer from “Imposter Syndrome”
and never think what I do is good enough.
Posted at 12:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)
Hello Friends!
I’d like to thank Corey for reaching out
to us all and inviting us to share
a bit about our lives.
I’m Penni, and I found Corey about a year after
she began her blog, ‘Tongue in Cheek’.
I will rewrite a message I sent her a bit ago,
changing the pronouns
"I’m not really into antiques, France is fine-
but I’ve never been there, and probably never will—
I stumbled on Corey’s blog about a year after she started and I stay because of her literal Spirit.
She’s genuine. She’s real. She’s poetic, intelligent, and constantly positive.
This blog is a soft place to land.
I have found much peace in her conversations and observations.
I am inspired to be more because of the familial connection she has with her readers.
I don’t always have something to add,
but I always read. I admire her dedication to God and family,
and the way those things are reflected in her posts, photos,
and yes, antiques. I love that she shares her prayers and hope.
I thoroughly enjoy her relationship with Yann;
and have gushed over all the renovations. She is a constant light. "
I met my husband when I was 15, married him at 18,
and had the first of our five children when I was 20.
Our life was simple and sweet with plenty of ups and downs,
but we had so much fun and have the best kids ever!
Our #1 child was a FireFighter until just recently, he was headed to be a Captain,
however, a life long illness required him to make a career shift,
so he is now an Arson Investigator married with 3 boys,
his fun wife works as a Preschool Teacher for the severely handicapped.
We have 11 grandkids who are hilarious and smart and are just the best medicine for a bad day
-so after the move, once I am settled,
I plan on just going from one house to the other to receive as much joy as possible!
In the times I am at home I will continue to work on my hobbies,
volunteering, and many visits to the beach.
I currently live in a small town in the Mojave Desert of SoCal, in the U.S.
however, I am literally in the middle of a life changing move!
My garage is stacked and packed with a zillion boxes
my house will go up for sale this week…
I have no idea where I am moving to!
“Sell high, buy low!” so here I am.
I am an artist and creator at heart and have worked on and off
all my life doing the most enjoyable things.
I began selling home-baked and decorated gingerbread houses
when I was in 4th grade and decorated my first “official” wedding cake
as a freshman in high school.
I have always done some form of art, from logos to billboards,
custom Christmas cards, and had a few decades of painting murals
and faux finishes in model homes, businesses, and for personal home clients.
I was an ASL interpreter and instructional aide
for sign dependent deaf students k-12 for about 15 years.
I decorated cakes and reception
centers for weddings, quinceaneras, and have taught many of those skills to others.
I have taught art to school children and adults.
I made patterns for custom-tailored furniture covers to clothing.
I love making costumes and use the ideas of clients and my grandkids for inspiration.
I have volunteered for the Red Cross, LDS Charities, Domestic Violence Shelters, Homeless Shelters, Community Warming Centers, Deseret Industries,
helped build a community park in one day, and other places where I could.
I am a true “Jane of All Trades, Master of None!”
I fear I have written a very long rambling book -
I will blame it on lack of sleep and leave it at that! Haha!
Again, I have enjoyed reading everyone’s incredible stories,
I feel like I have added a lot more “Imaginary Friends” to my life!
Posted at 10:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (15)
Bonjour!
My name is Amy.
Here is my story. It’s about adventure.
Surprise. Disappointment.
Music, art, discovery.
It’s even a little juicy.
First, I am from North Mankato, Minnesota.
I live in a charming old Craftsman-style bungalow
that I love despite its quirks, creaks, crookedness,
and the occasional wayward bat
they are always gently shepherded
outside in a net,
accompanied by lots of screaming.
This silky little creature, SamTheCat,
showed up on my doorstep
on Halloween 15 years ago.
He lets me live with him. He does
Allow me to introduce you to the love of my life:
my ancient, huge, cast iron clawfoot bathtub.
It’s part therapist, part healer.
The statue guarding the tub is Bathrodite.
She’s a good secret-keeper.
I have a huge garden I dug up
with an old shovel divorce therapy, 1999.
This summer, I made a stone circle in my garden for “sacred” activities
like smoky fires with friends and laughing
way too hard and eating waaaaay too much cheese and chocolate.
I studied English with a writing concentration in college then
immediately went to work for a printing company
as an advertising copywriter.
Also, music, I have played the piano since I was 10, and continued playing
and pursuing choral studies in college.
But a beautiful harp at a Renaissance fair stole my musical heart
and changed the course of my life.
The harp quickly went from “Well, this will be fun…”
to “Having weddings and events booked through the years.”
As soon as I earned enough I purchased
a concert harp from Lyon & Healy in Chicago.
I still worked as a copywriter, but I spent all of my free time performing.
Playing in cathedrals and at county fairs,
at weddings and funerals,
for dignitaries like Mikhail Gorbachev,
and for preschoolers.
I have made four recordings plus a DVD based on an original song.
I also started giving concerts on St. Patrick’s Day and at the holidays.
I’ve played for thousands of people,
and it brought me joy to share the joy of music with each of them.
But in 2009, softly, quietly, came the whispers of restlessness.
At work, I was supposed to be writing, but instead,
I was daydreaming, wondering, “What if? What else?”
And after 10 years of giving my own concerts, recording albums,
playing at hundreds of weddings and events and accompanying
orchestras and choirs
I began to look at the harp with weariness rather than joy.
I was tired.
My wonderful, perceptive Mom noticed. She called me one morning in April,
“You need to get out of here. Let’s go to Paris.”
I gave her a thousand excuses why I couldn’t: work, the garden, the house,
my harp performances.
Oh yeah: and we didn’t speak French.
She didn’t listen. She bought plane tickets.
We found a hotel in the Latin Quarter.
I got some travel guides.
A friend taught us some basic get-by-as-a-tourist French.
I scoured French blogs for travel advice, and “met” Corey in doing so.
I read every one of her posts.
I dreamed about what her life must be like in France, the culture,
and brocante, the romance.
My favorite post still is her poetic recipe for hot chocolate!
Mom and I flew to Paris.
The taxi ride from CDG airport was terrifying.
“You have been in Paris before?” the taxi driver asked,
swerving madly around a motorcycle.
“No,” we said. I squeezed my eyes shut, motion sick from the
smell of exhaust, the traffic, the ugly graffiti on the highway walls.
“I hate this city,” I said to myself.
A while later, the taxi driver said, “Open your eyes, look, Notre Dame de Paris.”
I looked and saw the cathedral, glowing in the morning light
like a bright pearl. I burst into tears.
I didn’t know why.
“You have been to Paris before,”
the taxi driver said. “In your heart.”
“Maybe,” I whispered. “Yes.”
Mom and I wandered cobbled streets and lingered by the Seine
and ate and drank wine and saw the Mona Lisa and
Monet’s Water Lilies and rode to the top of the Eiffel Tower
and sat in the park and fed crepes to sparrows
that flew right up to our fingers.
Every day, we went into Notre Dame to light candles, to hear vespers.
One night during dinner at a restaurant near Notre Dame,
a French man struck up a conversation with us.
He was charming, funny. He was also uncannily perceptive.
“You are tired,” he said to me suddenly. “You work too hard, no?”
“Did my mother tell you this?” I asked.
“She does not have to. I can see it,” he said.
“And you come from that place in the cold,
with 9 months winter and only 3 months summer?
You are a woman who needs much more of the warm.”
I didn’t know what to say, but inside,
I felt my being say, “Yes.”
He walked us to our hotel. Mom smiled at me and ducked inside.
As he and I walked through winding streets,
he pulled me inside an ancient doorway and kissed me.
I told you this would get juicy.
He wanted to meet the next night.
We did, except we left the restaurant earlier,
and my walk with him was longer…
He met us on our last night in Paris. He begged me not to work so hard.
Mom nodded in agreement.
Then, as we were leaving, he invited me (just me, with a wink at Mom)
to come back and visit him.
What a dream, I thought, as he bade goodbye.
I thought of Corey’s blog, her story about finding love
and moving to France.
I looked back at Notre Dame and felt a tug on my heart.
I arrived home to an overgrown garden, an overflowing work inbox,
a wedding to play for the next day…
and an email from him.
We talked on the phone all summer. We got to know each other -
our dreams, wishes, deepest thoughts.
He really did want me to visit.
So I studied French, read Corey’s blog, ran for miles to get in better shape.
In early October, with Corey’s stories and my own hopes in my mind,
I flew to Paris.
Into the arms of…a stranger. It was him,
but he was not the perceptive, kind person I had gotten to know.
He was cold and distant. “Your plane was late,” he said.
“And you are too thin.” He left me at the apartment and went to work.
I barely saw him.
When I did, he was cruel. One night was so frightening,
I hoped for Liam Neeson to rescue me like in the movie “Taken.”
I wandered Paris alone, getting to know her,
falling in love with her. I was also falling in love with the way
I felt about being in Paris.
I didn’t need him or anyone else to be there.
I could take care of myself. It was clear that Corey’s story
and mine would be very different.
So I escaped to a tiny room at the tip-top of a hotel.
I disguised myself with a huge scarf over my head.
I sat in Notre Dame for hours, lighting candles, kneeling.
I sat in the backs of cafés and drank hot chocolate and wrote music,
wrote in my journal, wrote to my worried Mom back home that I was fine.
And I was fine.
Things had gone wrong with him,
but I was doing what I wanted,
when I wanted, in a city I was loving.
That December, back home, I gave a concert of the new music
that I had written in Paris.
I mulled over my memories.
I read Corey’s blog. She and I wrote to each other periodically.
Every time I talked about my Paris trips,
people would say, “You need to write a book about this!”
Over five years, two trips back to Paris,
and many writing workshops,
I wrote my memoir while still working long hours as a copywriter.
Plus still playing the harp every week.
I had forgotten his words, “Don’t work so hard, you work too much.”
One morning, exhausted from pushing myself,
I fainted and fell in the shower,
hitting my head hard at least three times.
which caused a traumatic brain injury.
which developed severe migraines and fibromyalgia.
My memoir sat, nearly finished.
The harp sat, silent.
I went through the motions of my life like a ghost.
For my 50th birthday in December 2017, I felt well enough
to go back to Paris and stayed in Corey’s beautiful apartment.
It was a healing trip. I spent most of it sitting in Notre Dame,
breathing incense, lighting candles, kneeling on the floor,
grateful to be alive, to have done so many things,
to have learned so many beautiful lessons.
Never will I forget Christmas Eve in Notre Dame.
Eventually, I quit my job and am able to be at home now,
managing my pain and recovering.
Through a practice of gratitude, and feel like I am awakening more and more.
Recently, I have played my harp
for some Zoom events.
Reading through some pages of my memoir, made some notes.
I do believe that one day I will finish and publish it.
And then Corey asked me to write a post for her blog -
the blog that has been so inspiring,
a gentle guide to goodness and gratitude,
a place of beauty.
It was like being asked to make a drink to pour into the holy grail.
I said yes. And here it is.
A story of writing and music,
Of Paris. Of Notre Dame, my beloved sanctuary,
which I mourn and pray for.
And of my friendship with Corey -
we have never met in person,
but I feel a kindred-spirit love for you,
and appreciate everything you have given to all of us through your blog.
If you’re interested, you can purchase my music here.
(Note: The Month of January album is sold out at the moment.)
Please keep in touch! Follow Amy on Facebook.
Posted at 05:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)
For many of you, this is a very unusual Thanksgiving.
It certainly is for my mother and family
given that it is the first time my mother is celebrating alone,
not preparing her cherished feast,
nor having to chase my brother Marty from biting off the turkey cookies’ heads,
though I bet she is secretly happy not to have had to make those pesky cookies...
and at the same time wishing without a doubt
that my brother Marty would run in and eat every single turkey cookie.
My brother is in the hospital.
A week ago or so my mother called the family
to say she preferred for the family to celebrate Thanksgiving
within their own homes with their families and not come over this year due to Covid,
to be prudent.
My mother is first and foremost faithful
in her belief to do what is right and that love prevails.
Faltering from that would go against who she is as a woman of faith.
I admire my mother's bravery, her strength, her guiding light that she has led us by
without wavering especially when life throws curve balls and the road seems long,
she is a constant source of unending possibilities to lean on. Amazing.
When I asked her if it was going to be hard to be alone
on Thanksgiving day she replied,
»It is just another day that is how I am going to look at it.
I am thankful and pray every day in gratitude,
for my family, and those who have asked me to pray for them.
I would rather everyone be safe
than celebrate this one day together. »
It is another day to be thankful
in a year that has constantly
reminded us that nothing is certain,
and what is important.
A year where heroes in everyday clothing
have shown us what it means to be counted on,
who have stood up without question and worked tirelessly for humanity.
A year where toilet paper was the golden egg and luxury of safety
was another stab at poverty.
A year that has brought to focus on how divided our nation
is and made us question reality from fiction.
A year like none other that I have experienced.
Nevertheless,
it is another day,
a gift,
like every day,
every moment
worthy, sacred, and taken for granted at times.
Another day to give thanks,
to pray,
to long,
to live.
Along with Happy Thanksgiving, I would rather ask:
How are you?
Posted at 12:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (26)
Like many of the other blog posters who have shared about themselves here,
I’ve wondered if I should accept Corey’s invitation to tell a bit about my life.
Don’t we all wonder if we are “good enough” or “ interesting enough?
Finally, I thought I’d just throw that doubt out the window.
So here’s a bit about me.
Posted at 10:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)