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Again, my life is so, so rich. I’m lying down on a couch wrapped in an afghan my grandmother crocheted (that word is spelled so weirdly. How can anyone read it and not think crotch-e-ted?) with the Yankees and Angels dueling it out in the background. Dad and I just finished a scrumptious Italian meal of red wine, mixed green salad, spicy sausage, rotini and homemade spaghetti sauce ripe with sauteed mushrooms, bell peppers and tomatoes from our garden. It doesn’t get much better; and I’m beginning to believe that yes, it can always be this good.
Today was another exceptionally full and busy day. I had my first official day in the deli at Berryvale. Despite that no one has yet to mention anything about me doing any baking (which is what I thought I was hired for), I still enjoyed myself immensely. I spent the morning smiling, flirting, and waiting on customers, pushing buttons, serving wraps, filling coffee and did I mention? Smiling.
After Berryvale, I moved on to work a shift at the SAC gallery. That I followed up with a short jaunt (it’s hardly a jaunt; the door to the kitchen is in the gallery!) to the Village Books bakery where I prepared (and sampled; mmm) ganache for topping trays of brownies. If you’ve not yet had ganache, you ought to. It’s semi-sweet dark chocolate melted into heavy cream. It is so sinful and delicious, and makes me think of Chocolat every time. . .
When I eventually got home, I was tired and rather displaced. I tried to collapse into a nap, but was still buzzing from the day’s activity. So I went for a walk.
It was divine. Bonsey (i.e. Savannah Belle Bones, the best dog in the world) went with me, past the high school, through Shastice park and onto a Disc Golf course. The course is actually just a lovely trail that wends through the woods with the occasional wire goal along the way. It’s lined with deciduous trees and thimbleberry bushes that turn golden in autumn, so the richness of fall color is there on all levels. Tonight we were out at sunset and due to the alpenglow, the pink hue streaked 360 degrees of the sky.
The highlight of the outing occurred when I happened upon the most luscious of smells in the middle of the trail. Suddenly, it was as though I’d walked into a grove of honeycomb. A sweet, subtle scent permeated the air. I inhaled deeply and raised my arms to the sky. I inhaled again and again and again and sighed in between.
The richness of life is available in every breath. Every breath is a chance for glory, for grace. I challenge you: take it.
Today’s blogging challenge is going to be to not focus so much on what somebody else might want to read as on what I want to write. This is actually the challenge of everyday, paired with the fact that as an image type I am A) concerned with keeping up a good rapport with my audience and B) not always sure of what I actually desire, being conditioned as I am to tuning into the needs of others . . .
It was Tessa I tuned into, though, when I decided to go ahead and tell my Arts Council boss I was applying for a job in Santa Barbara. Everyone around me was saying, “In this economy? Are you crazy? You can’t just go around telling your employer that you’re looking for other work. It’s not smart.”
Despite it, my conscience and I were adamant about being honest. If nothing else, lying just isn’t worth the trouble and energy! So, I told Lauri the whole truth: a fantastic opportunity had come up, I was driving to SB to pursue it; I might be leaving the Council soon but promise to give plenty of notice if I do. Of course, as you may already know, I didn’t get the job and I did receive my two weeks notice a few days ago.
So, everyone was right, huh. By looking out for the other guy and not for myself, I got the short end of the stick. Lesson learned! Or was it . . .
The very day I was given my notice (I wish I could just type “fired;” it’s so much more succinct) my friend Royce came by to visit and told me they might be looking for bakers at Berryvale.
Getting its name from one of Mt. Shasta City’s prior christenings, Berryvale is a local alternative grocery store with a culture all its own. It smells of herbs and patchuli, and more often than not there are small clumps of people (who also smell like herbs and patchuli, and sometimes herb) gathered in it’s vicinity. Inside, although you’ll almost certainly encounter dreadlocks, you’re equally likely to find logo-t’s and bike shorts. If there is such a thing as an intentional grocery store, Berryvale is it. They even provide metal rings for looping leashes and a stationary bowl of water out front for dogs waiting while their people shop.
Royce has worked at “Berry” for about a year now. He’s a checker, re-stocker and occasional dishwasher. He’s also a schmoozer, and the people there love him. So, when they needed a baker some months ago and he gave me a wholehearted recommendation, it seemed I was a shoe in.
As fate had it, I slowly let the Berryvale ball drop and got lined up with work at the Siskiyou Arts Council. Now here we are, six months later with Berryvale needing bakers and me needing a job. . .
Hearing the news, I recognized this as an opportunity to pick up the ball I had dropped in April and grip it tightly. I promised myself I would be diligent about returning to Berryvale on a regular basis until they hired me.
I made my first trip in on Thursday morning. The head baker Emily wasn’t there that day, but an Art History teacher of mine was (do you like the irony? The Arts Council, for me, History!) and he sent a whole new ball rolling down the aisle of my imagination. But that’s a story for another day.
I returned to Berryvale on Friday, this time catching Emily in the back room. I was prepared to go into great detail about my passion for baking and desire to join the Berryvale team. But, thanks to my loyal friend Royce, she began talking about scheduling and training before I hardly had a chance to say word!
One of the owners joined our conversation halfway through it. “This is Tessa!” Emily said, introducing me. Belinda nodded and handed me an application. “Just fill out the basics,” she suggested, “name, phone number, etc . . . You can include your previous employer if you want, but don’t worry about phone numbers there. I won’t be calling anyone.” And she disappeared into the back.
I floated out of the store, giving Royce a bear hug and a thank you on the way out. . .
If this experience hasn’t convinced me to follow my thread of truth and have faith, I don’t know what will.
As Mom would say, it’s “D.R.O!”
D.R.O.: an acronym meaning Divine Right Order.
I’ve relocated my blog station to the coffee shop Seven Suns for the weekend. I have a nice table out front, Bodhi the dog to keep me company and a creamy mocha to distract me from typing. I also have limited time because there aren’t any outlets outside, so I’ll have to be precise in executing today’s post.
Let’s see . . . as I consider what to write about, I am reminded that I am supposed to be dedicating an equal amount of time to relationships, creative/reflective time and career. So. . . after yesterday’s trip through Tessa’s Boyfriend Hall of Fame, it can only be time to consider career again.
As I mentioned, yesterday was a difficult one for me. Want to know what why? Because I was exhausted from staying up every night reading Dan Brown’s book! That man has an indisputable way of creating an intense urge to turn the page.
Tired as I was, I made it through my Friday morning at the Gallery without much trouble; but by the time I went to the Kitchen to bake for the afternoon, I was spacing out on names and ingredients and rapidly consuming caffeine and sugar to try and penetrate the murky haze of my mind (No lectures, please. I am well aware of the contraindications of both caffeine and sugar. I just couldn’t see another option at the time and so I used both anyway. . .).
Let that be a lesson to the both of us! I ended up with three trays of half-baked biscotti resembling supersized, rectangular sugar cookies and a four inch burn on my left arm. The sad thing is, just before I burned myself saving a poorly balanced tray of 24 muffins from crashing to the floor, I proudly proclaimed to Anne next door, “I’m going to go home to rest and finish up up tomorrow!” I was so pleased with myself to have seen a fresh option and acted upon it, thinking all would be well from that point on. I guess the joke was on me. OR maybe I was just “burning” through some of my 20-something karma. Hm . . .
I usually love baking. I love the way it stimulates all the senses–touch as you mix and meddle with doughs and batters, sound in the whir of the mixer and hum of the oven, sight in the beauties produced, smell in the batters, the spices, the goods as they bake, taste . . . But even as I toy with the idea of having an apprenticeship at some classy bakery in Santa Barbara someday, baking is not actually something I see myself doing for a living. It’s not quite fulfilling enough. Fulfilling to the body, yes, but I’m looking for soul food!
That’s one reason I believe massage might be something that would suit me. It, too, is a profession where all the senses can be stimulated, with the additional perk that of the healing potential. Plus, it’s versatile. I could give massages as an aspect of the fancy practice I’ll establish someday, at a fancy resort in the tropics, or in anyone’s home. Not to mention, while you’re in school, a portion of homework is receiving massages.
Yes indeed, I like this aspect of my current career plan. However, with Kristina on the fence about our Santa Barbara plan and a friendly date in place to discuss the possibility of my teaching English in Sicily, as always, absolutely anything might happen. Let’s just hope that (as is not always the case), I am able to accept it all with grace.
OMG, 6 views today and they weren’t my mother; I just asked her. Woohoo and thank you all!
We just arrived home from yet another of Mom’s birthday celebrations this evening. It was dinner with Terry and Happ, Mona and Bruce, Mom, Dad and myself. For a few of these birthday gatherings I had a date to bring along, but tonight we’re back to the good ol’ norm: three wise couples and . . . me. I tolerated it in good taste anyhow, comforting myself by sitting prettily in my green dress between Savannah and Shasta, the dogs. . .
Today is Sunday. I spent the early morning sipping coffee and making my Slovakian grandmother’s award winning pastry, “cheesies,” for dessert at the party. The experience was lovely and nostaligic, bittersweet only in that the gooey bites of deliciousness are prepared with premade Pillsbury dinner roll dough and therefore gave me no opportunity to show off my baking skills. Alas, I tolerated the convenience and popped the golden puffs in the oven with expectant glee anyway.
I spent most of the afternoon trying not to eat the cheesies. Thankfully, my friend Amy came over later and “Mmm’d” and ate some for me and then kept me good company. We talked about school and shopping and food and God.
The last fellow I dated nicknamed Amy “Bible Amy” for her love of the good Word. Although I think his intention in coining the nickname might have been slightly less than pure, it really is fitting. Amy is a “Good Christian” in every of the phrase. She does just what Jesus would and doesn’t what he wouldn’t; she’s never judged me even though I used to babble church like a brook in the Garden of Eden and now I burble enneagram instead and have nothing to say about church anymore because I haven’t been going . . .
For nearly an entire year I was infatuated with a church called Bethel. Each week, I drove 60 miles there and back, and sometimes attended three two-plus hour services in one day! But the year before that, it was the Buddhist Abbey that had my heart. I guess if I had to categorize myself, I’d say I was a Buddhist-Christian-Yogini . . .
. . . which is a musing I will have to indulge another day. For now, as first the Abbey’s and now Bethel’s tugs on me wane, I am simply grateful to be gifted again with the quiet pleasures of Sunday mornings unplanned.
