sheller53's Open Salon Blog

"Let memories be your travel bag": On moving

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 18:06:57 -0400

My parents just sold and moved out of their home (my childhood home), and I didn’t think it would affect me as much as it has. I’m guessing that whoever said, “home is where the heart is” had just moved out of their childhood home—or home of twenty years—and was feeling groundless and displaced, and thus came up with that phrase to ease the pain a bit. I’m really happy for my parents, but as I walked through the house one last time, saying, “goodbye room” in Goodnight Moon fashion, I felt like I was also saying, in a small way, “goodbye childhood.” (I know, so dramatic!)

That said, during my last evening in the house, as I sat in the living room with my parents and cousin and a glass of wine in hand and played the “I remember…” game, I realized that a house is just a house is just a house, and it’s really the experiences you have in a place (all of the “I remembers”) that breathe life into a building or place. I am thrilled for my parents and for the new adventures that lay ahead. Packing/unpacking is an acute, back-breaking, and emotional reminder at how easy it is to accumulate “stuff,” when, in reality, memories are all that we can take with us. One of my good friends sent me this quote a while ago and, well, it just seems apt right now: “Own only what you can always carry with you. Know languages, know countries, know people. Let your memory be your travel bag.” -Alexander Solzhenitsyn

So, so long old house. Here’s to past memories, and here’s to yet-to-be-had ones, no matter where it is we call “home.”

Shakespeare in a Year? On verra...

Mon, 7 Jun 2010 19:06:59 -0400

I haven't spent much time pondering why a person might have goal-oriented tendencies vs. process-oriented ones, but over the past few years I have discovered that I unquestionably fall under the goal-oriented camp. Chalk it up to being a first-born, type A, mark-it-off-the-checklist type of person, but without goals—whether they be physical, mental, spiritual, or your general garden-variety ones—I think I would be lost, unsatisfied, and directionless. I know that “it’s all about the journey, not the destination,” but really, can’t “it” (whatever “it” is referring to. Life? Joy?) be about both the journey and the destination?

My recent goals have included such random endeavors as building a bike (check!); training for the STP with my husband (in process); maintaining a blog (near failure); and learning how to successfully bake Canelé de Bordeaux (utter failure; I suggest, instead, a pilgrimage to an estimable bakery in France or, if a jump across the pond is a bit much for a single pastry, a good French bakery near you that makes them).

That said, over the past couple of months I have craved the intellectual stimulus (i.e. goals ) that being in school provides; in particular, I’ve missed studying Early Modern English Literature at the University of Geneva alongside fabulously talented professors and fellow students. Alas, as modern science has not yet figured out a way for a person to physically be in two places simultaneously, and because I love my life in Seattle, I’ve decided that instead of heading back to Switzerland to study Shakespeare (another goal for another time), I’m going to stay put and bring Shakespeare to Seattle by attempting to read through all of his plays in a year. Who knows if I will actually succeed in this goal, or whether I’ll get through Henry VI, part 1, and call it a day, but I’ve wanted to read the extant canon of Shakespeare's plays for quite some time, so why wait?

I’ve been tinkering with the idea for a while, but when I came across this website a few weeks ago, I decided that if another girl out in the great, wide world of Shakespeare nerds could make the attempt, then I could, too. My “Shakespeare in a Year” marathon started May 1, as did hers, and the goal is to read about 3 plays/month. Unfortunately, we’re not reading the plays in the same order (I want to read them, more or less, in chronological order), but it’s still nice to have a teammate of sorts.

So this blog, for the next year, is going to be a journal of my reactions to, and observations and questions about, the Bard and his work. Nothing fancy, nothing very academic, but simply a record of the process side of this goal. Feel free to join me as I wade through histories, comedies, and dramas of Mr. William Shakespeare.

My Wedding Cake: Part Deux

Mon, 18 Jan 2010 02:01:39 -0500

I feel a bit guilty about posting this so late since the wedding was well over a month ago, but because the wedding was only one part of the big-life-changing-events package I signed up for (the other components being a move and a new job), I figured I'd cut myself a little slack. And so, as promised, I present to you (albeit belatedly) "My Wedding Cake: Part Deux."

To sum it up, the whole experience was surreal, amazing, and, well, pretty freaking awesome. The cake tasted great, but not any better or worse than all of the other wedding cakes I've sampled throughout the years.

What made the experience so memorable lay in two things: recognizing that so many friends and family helped bring this cake to fruition, and realizing, while I was putting the cakes in the car during the morning of the wedding, "This is it! No time for a dress rehearsal (in terms of both the cake, and, of course, the wedding itself.). Get your arse out on stage (cake-decorating/wedding-dress-wearing/center-stage-whether-you-like-it-or-not mode) and don't look back!" And so I took my own advice and didn't. And I loved every minute of it. And, I'm now realizing, my high-school AP English teacher would kill me if he knew how many sentences I'm starting with the word "and." And, I suppose, in writing this, I'm technically "looking back." And...

...to get back to the actual subject of this post, here's what happened on the wedding day in terms of the cake preparation/presentation/consumption. Between the hair/makeup session and the family photo session, I had about 30 minutes to run to the reception site with my sister, transport the cakes, and assemble and decorate the layers (yeay for adrenaline!). Molly Nickles, my friend and photographer extraordinaire, was keeping a tight schedule, so I didn't get to put the final touches on the cake before being whisked off for the family photo session, but thanks to my fabulous, creative, and ever-adaptable cousin, Nina, the finished cake was, to repeat myself, pretty freaking awesome.

Later in the evening, my sister (a.k.a. best friend, maid of honor, and emcee) shared the story about how my grandmother had grown up in a bakery, and how our baking the cake together served as a tribute to both her father and her love of baking.

To realize that so much work--the countless trips to the cake supply store; the practice baking sessions with my grandmother; the full day spent baking the cakes; the crazy and somewhat impromptu frosting-the-cake party (turns out that my grandfather, who has never baked a cake in his life, possesses expert-level cake-frosting skills!); the harrowing business of transporting the cake; and the oh-so thrilling experience of decorating the cake in a 30-minute window--had come down to a speech that would be over in a minute and a cake that would be cut up, served, and consumed in an hour, was a bit overwhelming.

But, like the opening performance of a play, I loved how singular and unique--even ephemeral--the whole experience was. To acutely feel that the moment wouldn't last for more than a couple hours made it thrilling beyond description. Kind of how I imagine Andy Goldsworthy feels when he spends hours/days/weeks assembling a work of art only to have the finished product last only a short while before it's destroyed by the forces of nature.

And so we, too, destroyed our humble work of art.

We cut the cake.

We smashed the cake into each other's mouth.

We consumed the cake.

And...we lived happily ever after (that's the goal, at least! :) ♥

Chillin' with William (Shakespeare, that is)

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 14:10:21 -0400

As I've discovered over the past few months, one of the benefits of being unemployed, from a glass-is-half-full perspective, is that you have loads of free time. Alongside this discovery has come another (of the glass-is-half-empty variety): that an unemployed person's free time has a different feel, weight, and quality to it than a working person's free time because there's no non-free time to counterbalance it. But unemployed or not, time is time, and, to quote Annie Dillard, "How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives." Of course, Annie, of course.

So what better way to pass the days for a nerdy bibliophile such as myself than to read through a fascimile copy of Shakespeare's First Folio (a compendium, first published in 1623, of a majority of Shakespeare's plays. You can find a free online version of it here)?

In terms of currently existing Early Modern English Literature, the Folio isn't necessarily rare (there are ~230 extant copies, give or take a dozen), but in terms of quality, it's as good as it gets. And now, thanks to a can't-pass-up-even-if-unemployed deal at Powell's books and a bad economy, I can fill my days reading plays penned by the finest English playwright in history from one of the finest works in English literature (okay, it's just a copy of the Folio, but still).

What makes the Folio so incredible, aside from the fact that without it, we as a human race would have most likely lost almost 20 of Shakespeare's plays to sands of time, is that it allows modern-day readers to see and study how the plays were originally printed, quirks and smudges and nonstandardized spellings and all. I could go on and on about the joys of reading something that nerdy bibliophiles since the early 17th century have been reading, but I'll spare you the pain and instead pick one little line from "The Tempest" that has reminded me just how relevant and timeless Shakespeare's words and works are:

"what's past is Prologue "(II.i.253)

With this anemic economy, I often find myself with my head tossed over one shoulder looking at that ever-elusive thing: the past. And while I think reflection is a great thing, sometimes I get caught with my head turned so far around I start (metaphorically and--more often--physically) tripping on whatever is right beneath me. But how truly refreshing is it to take Shakespeare's words to heart and view life-especially present-moment life--as one big play that is just beginning? Forget about the past, or at least view it merely as preparation for the right-here-right-now. The lights have dimmed, the prologue is over, the curtains have risen, and you're on the verge of breaking the silence, speaking out into the darkened void, uttering those hallowed first lines.

Etiquette Schmetiquette

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 17:10:29 -0400

In the past few months of wedding planning, I've come across many a etiquette-centric quandary, and none so far-fetched as the formidable task of wedding-envelope addressing. Don't get me wrong: I love a good tradition as much as any other bride-to-be out there, but when my fiancé and I recently started the task of addressing our wedding envolopes, we mutually decided that some traditions--etiquette-based and otherwise--have run their courses and need, respectfully, to be put to rest, even at the risk of rolling Emily Post over in her grave.

The following is one such tradition that I'm in favor of offing. In addressing envolopes this morning, my fiancé and I had a wedding-envelope-addressing conundrum: one of his aunts is a doctor and her husband isn't. I assumed that, according to what I thought was the proper etiquette, her name would automatically go first, followed by his name, since she held the title of "Doctor". A quick trip to the website of Crane and Co. -- the Cadillac of stationary -- almost sent me to my grave. Carefully read the following envelope-addressing rules, taken directly from Crane and Co.'s website:

In Which Man Is a Doctor

Doctor and Mrs. Troy Clayton

In Which Both Are Doctors

Doctor and Mrs. Troy Claytonor

The Doctors Claytonor, or

Doctor Christine Clayton
and Doctor Troy Clayton

In Which Woman Is a Doctor

Mr. and Mrs. Troy Clayton

Doctor Christine Clayton
and Mr. Troy Clayton

Source: http://www.crane.com/etiquette.aspx?C=WeddingEtiquette&S=Addressing_Envelopes&I=Married_Couples

I'm no bra-burning feminist, but I am a feminist in the Merriam-Webster-definition sense of being someone whose beliefs support the "theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes." And if etiquette isn't a social phenomenon, I don't know what is. In fact, Crane and Co. has an "essence of etiquette" explanation on its website, with the following indroductory words:

"Etiquette can be defined as the body of rules of social conduct that tells us what our society considers appropriate and acceptable behavior...The etiquette that we follow when sending a letter or invitation, like etiquette in other areas, revolves around three basic building blocks: Common sense, courtesy, and usage. Etiquette's foundation is common sense."

Source: http://www.crane.com/etiquette.aspx?C=StationeryEtiquette&S=The+Essence+of+Etiquette

Why, if the husband is a doctor and the wife is not, the only etiquette-based adressing choice is "Doctor and Mrs. [man's first name] [man's last name]," whereas if the woman is a doctor (or a judge, for that matter) and her husband is not, etiquette says that you may still choose to address the envelope, "Mr. and Mrs. [man's first name][man's last name]," not indicating the woman's hard-earned doctor status at all? Where's the common sense in this (among other equally confusing etiquette-dictated addressing rules)?

Perhaps I'm overreacting a bit or my current flu-like state has pushed me over the top, but in any case, after my near heart attack, I proudly listed my fiancé's aunt's "Doctor" status and name first, followed by her husband's name. Maybe one day my idealism will fade or die or get squished by a 16-wheeler-sized dose of reality, but until then, I'm going to live in a world where female doctors will be addressed as such when invited to weddings. And my sincerest apologies to Emily Post...make that Mrs. Edwin Post...I mean Mrs. Emily Price Post. Oh, I give up.