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Today was an exceptionally cozy day. Mom and I reorganized the upstairs living area to incorporate and decorate the sweet little Christmas tree Dad and I brought home earlier in the week.
While we steadied the trunk and strung the lights, we sang loudly along to the melismas of Handel’s Messiah (believe me, you are very sorry you missed this performance!) and then Pandora Christmas radio. It was all quite like the movies, our trimming the tree, except for me occasionally utterly phrases like, “These lights look shitty.” Sorry, Ma.
She’s used to my not-quite-Hollywood behavior, at least. One year Ty and I stayed up into the wee hours of the night decorating our silver tip tree with countless strands of carefully placed white lights. When Mom awoke to the surprise the next morning she oohed and cooed and called us her “little elves” (name inspired in part by the red button up union suits we both wore; union suits: onesies for adults with functional back flaps, if you know what I mean). It became one of her favorite Christmas memories until she learned we’d smoked a smidge of “weeds” while executing the labor of love. Again, sorry Ma . . .
Another year, Tyler and I were in his room on Christmas Eve wrapping presents and again poofin’ a little toof. Dad knocked on the door and we tried to gently deter him by explaining, “No Dad, don’t come in. We’re wrapping!” But, Dad being Dad turned the knob oh so slowly, easing the door open; then with his eyes squeezed shut poked just his head into the room. After a few seconds Dad’s nose began to twitch like a rabbit’s and he asked innocently, “What’s that smell?”
As I recall, Christmases were relatively devoid of such scandal during my adolescence; but delve into the single digits and you’ll find little Tessa creeping into the closet, behind the couch and into closed paper bags. I snooped all over our house every year and repeatedly ruined surprises for myself. Once, I found an awesome Spirograph set which I oddly never received (karma . . . ?) and when I was about 11, I found two Boxcar Children books my brother bought for me. For some reason discovering that gift early has always caused a little twinge in my heart. I think I may have changed my ways after that.
Unfortunately, my ways-changing didn’t happen in time to salvage the candy ornament Ty made in third grade. At four years old I neatly crawled under the tree, retrieved the sparkling rainbow swirl dangling dangerously low on a limb and took it back to my bedroom where I ate it under my bed.
Ahh, confession never felt so sweet. Merry holiday season, everyone!
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.
