Seeing Things

I've decided to try out a writing prompt. I'm always trying to use writing as a way to detox my busy, busy mind. Problem is, I get a little caught up in self-criticism, and either stay too much on the surface (a.k.a., I write about rancid yogurt) or too deep (a.k.a., I wouldn't dare publish the post because innermost thoughts aren't meant for places like facebook). So, maybe a writing prompt will provide me with a happy medium. Here's the one I found just now:

From where you are sitting right now, make a list of everything you see. Keep listing until you feel compelled to write more than just a list.

My daughter, curled up in a "C" on my lap, has just finished nursing. Her features, while still small and delicate, are growing in size and sturdiness at a rate I can barely track. Her once paper-thin fingernails are now strong and sharp as they trace up and down my side, slow and rhythmic as she fights the urge to sleep.

Her head rests on a burgandy throw pillow that we bought a good five years ago. A time in our lives where things like throw pillows made us feel more like adults. I took comfort in the domestic significance of a throw pillow. Patrick, however, approached decorative housewares like a claustrophobe approaches an elevator. I think he saw them as youth's death sentence, and in essence, he was exactly right.

The pillow's twin rests to the other side of me, propped perfectly in one corner of the couch, just where it should be. I need order, especially now, when parenthood presents daily, unexpected, little eruptions of chaos. Even when I'm ten minutes past the point I needed to leave the house, I will always stop to arrange those pillows, despite knowing full well the dog will toss them to the floor before day's end. He's just another shifty pawn working to undo my already failing sense of order. He sees through the guise of an organized house. He knows, as we ask each other for the second time that evening, "Did you feed the animals yet?" that we aren't a tight ship.

Above the couch are two, newly framed photographs I took this summer on our second annual trip to York Beach. It's a diptych (two separate pieces hung together to create one comprehensive piece of art) of a multifaceted, mirrored column, reflecting the seaside town's amusement park. A colorful whirlwind, abstracted and broken down into separate, structured pieces - I guess that's a pretty accurate description of myself right about now. It's nice to have some of my own art up on the walls again. Somewhere in between college and the acquisition of throw pillows, I'd stashed all my work out of sight. Starting a new chapter of my life, prints of naked women cradled by large desert cacti didn't fit in with my more subtle style of expression.

The propane fireplace directly in front of me, while undoubtedly warm and convenient, is not very interesting to gaze upon in terms of fire. The fake, "burning" wood and flickering, glowing embers are mildly convincing, but the flame follows a very short pattern that lacks all the spontaneity a real fire boasts. I could watch a real fire for hours, and have. And though all the technology that goes into operating my flick-of-a-switch fire would likely have Ben Franklin turning cartwheels in his grave if he only knew, I'm much more awed by basic, burning wood. Of course, with the family, the 9-5 job, and the need to sit down and enjoy some time to myself once in awhile, I guess I'm better off with the switch.

The room observations stop here, as the household routine ensues. There was a time I could've broken it down all the way to the coasters in the bowl on the coffee table... but I think it's safe to say that things have changed.

Snowed in, and writing about yogurt.

A few months back we visited our old stomping grounds of Brattleboro, VT, for a wedding. Every time we go there, or even just pass through, we're fondly reminded of the different pace of life there. It's an anything-goes type of place, but not in that elitist sort of way where you have to be weird to be normal. Come to think of it, the last time we drove up main street, a father with huge hair ran across the street with his young son (who was wearing an animal tail) into a shop called "Knit or Dye." And, it just was what it was.

I used to work at the Brattleboro Food Co-op; a vegan paradise for me at the time. I still favor the food there (grocery and deli) more than anywhere- partially because it's a great selection of really tasty stuff, and partially because of the nostalgia factor. On our last trip, I decided to bring back a quart of yogurt, since I buy one each week to eat at work. "Butterworks Farm Maple Yogurt." Can't get more VT than that. Well, breakfast time on Monday morning, I was anticipating a little "bring-me-back" moment when I took my first bite of creamy, organic, mapley goodness. Instead, I almost gagged. I don't know what happened to that yogurt on its journey from cow to container, but it wasn't pleasant. There are some foods that we Americans have over-processed, over-sugared, or watered down into a version so tame and bland, we're completely missing the true food experience. I've had "real" yogurt before. Some can be sour or strong, but it's more in the way of "this is different," than "this is BAD." My maple yogurt was just wrong, and I was sad.

I've been on a kick lately of seeking out help when I'm dissatsisfyed with a product. I had never been one to contact customer service over anything, until I started hearing all the ridiculous emails coming in to my friend and cubicle neighbor at work, who answers customer emails of all kinds. Like, "I've lost weight and can't afford all new clothes- will you take back my ratty old extra large tee shirts and give me brand new ones in a smaller size?" That kind of ridiculous request. So, I figured, if that lady can get a tee shirt or two out of the company I work for, perhaps my justified complaints may see some results if I'm nice about it. So far, Starbucks is the only company that didn't do something for me. (Please keep that in mind the next time you're deciding where to get a coffee.)

Well, just yesterday, after I'd long forgot about my letter to Butterworks Farm (which I had to snail-mail, as they don't have an email address), I got a response back. A two page, hand written letter by the founder of the farm, including a 5 dollar bill so "I can either try another one or buy some more Stoneyfield. [The farm is] too small for the coupon thing." He also told me,"we are not the least bit put off if you like Stoneyfield yogurt better. We are number one here in Vermont."

There's just something about the proud, yet non-defensive reply I received. This farmer hasn't had any customer service training, and he didn't have to hem and haw over what to do about my letter. He simply gave me my money back, along with the tip that the State St. co-op in Concord sells his yogurt. If the world was run like Butterworks Farm, we'd all be in a much better place. Joking aside, most of Vermont pretty much runs the same way, and the natural, simplistic zen of it all is why I'll always long to return.

(http://butterworksfarm.com/)