Joyful Simplicities

Sentiments for May - SIMPLICITY: The Serenity of Space by Sarah Ban Breathnach

Live in the layers
Not on the litter.
--Stanley Kunitz

    We all do it, however neat and clean our home may be.  As soon as we learn company is coming, we rush to straighten the pictures, fluff pillows, buff mirrors, sweep away cobwebs and desperately camouflage any rumple or pile of untidiness.  In other words, hide all the evidence of our day-to-day existence.  Suddenly we want not only to welcome our guests, but welcome them into a home that is a reflection of our inner ideal.  Serene.  Gracious.  A woman who possesses repose of the Soul, which of course, is evident in her surroundings.  

    Does the natural state of your home express your serenity, or lack of it?  Of course it does.  That’s because every relationship you have—with other people, with your work, with Divinity—reflects in some way your Soul’s intimate union with you.  Nowhere is this spiritual truth more apparent than in the relationships we have with our homes.  All you have to do is take a good look around.  Is your house tidy on the surface but hiding chaos and confusion in the cabinets and closets, or have you completely thrown down the towel onto a heap on the floor?  “There are some homes you run from, and homes you run to,” Laura Shaine Cunningham reminds us in her touching memoir, Sleeping Arrangements (Riverside Books, New York 2000).

    In which direction are you running today?

    The emotional attachment—good or bad—that we have to our home is a daily spiritual tutorial in Love.  “Everyone longs for intimacy and dreams of a nest of belonging in which one is embraced, seen and loved,” the Irish poet John O’Donohue acknowledges.  “Something within each of us cries out for belonging.  We can have all the world has to offer in terms of status, achievement, and possessions, yet without a sense of belonging, it all seems empty and pointless.”

    What does the natural state of your home express today? Do you feel as if you belong there? Or is your space filled with the excess baggage of old relationships—parents, siblings, roommates, lovers or spouses, children who have moved out—or a self that you parted with long ago?  Are there pieces of furniture, equipment, knickknacks, that might be stylish but don’t resonate or reflect you anymore?  Who is this woman who lives here?  Are these things hers?  If they’re not what are they doing in her most intimate, personal spaces?

    And where exactly are you in this picture, Cherie?  Are you waiting for a magic wand to cause “real” furniture, a matched set of glassware, complete window treatments to magically appear?  Does your home look as if you just moved in?  (Especially if you’ve been there longer than a year).  Or is it a ramshackle of “making do” until some other life comes along (perhaps with someone to share it) or until guests to impress arrive.  Every day isn’t just a moment in time, it’s where you Live!!! Please note the present tense of the verb.  To live.  Now.  You don’t have to be on the streets to be homeless, and isn’t that the sad, sorry truth?

    Clutter is “not just about clearing a physical space.  It’s an emotional and spiritual act,” says the English writer Lesley Garner in her book Everything I’ve Ever Done That Worked (London, Hay House 2004).  “Like all acts of emotional and spiritual significance, the act of clearing out can be surrounded by deep resistance.  I only have to lay my hands on a well-loved old jacket or a jar of assorted screws for my mind to start screaming ‘You can’t get rid of that!’ Things of sentimental value are the worst.  They develop psychic tendrils and draw me in.  Old letters and photographs stick to my fingers and refuse to be thrown away.  Instead they bind me to them, insisting that I hear their story once again.  ‘We’re family history’, they rustle insidiously.  ‘You can’t get rid of us---[but] once you pay attention to your possessions in this way you realize they have a life of their own.  And sometimes the day comes when their life with you is over and you both need to move on.  The word that has the power here is ‘move.’  Movement is life.”

    Clutter is much more than objects that live on the surface of our lives.  It is the wall that is standing between you and a future of serenity.  Begin to think of clutter as the tip of what lies beneath, struggling to show its face to you.  Clutter “symbolizes what is outworn and unfulfilled in our lives,” Lesley Garner assures us.  “That is why it is so very hard to give away and clear out because that is an acknowledgement of hard truth.  It means admitting that I will never be a size 10 again, he will never love me again, I will never read War and Peace and the children won’t be coming back home.  I admit it. What is left after that is reality, and truth and space.  That is a wonderful place to let go of the past and begin the rest of your life.”

    A serene one.

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PS - You have just enjoyed a bit of a classic from Sarah Ban Breathnach, from our archives. As we recreate our website, we hope you will stop by from time to time and share your thoughts on Simplicity below.

The Best Part Of The Day - Sarah Ban Breathnach's first Children's Book

I'm so pleased to share with you my debut children's book released today, The Best Part of the Day (Regnery Kids). Wendy Edelson's beautiful illustrations are sure to become a daily delight for all the little ones in your world. It is my deepest wish that our children and grandchildren will turn their focus to the things in life that make a difference: gratitude, kindness and spending time with the ones we love. Tell me, what's the best part of your day. Please share your pictures and reviews at facebook, twitter and your favorite booksellers website. Please use the hashtag #thebestpartoftheday so we can find your messages. Thank you so much for all your love and support over the years, my gratitude for you has always been one of the best parts of my day. Love Sarah

 

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The Costume Planning Party

                                     Enthusiasm is contagious.  Be a carrier.

                                                                        --Susan Rabin

          It has been Mrs. Sharp’s experience that the observance of All Hallow’s Eve is a holiday that brings out either the angel in us, dear Reader, or the witch.

        Bearing this in mind, let us speak frankly about this business of Halloween costumes.  Whether we like it or not, this is the time we must start planning the children’s costumes or little Bosley will end up a ghost for the seventh year.  While Halloween is the children’s own favorite holiday, it is the one that Mother fears most.  Why?  Because in her heart every woman dreads the annual occasion of having her maternal gifts (or she fears, her lack of them) so publicly displayed.  We mothers have allowed costumes to become an emotional litmus test.

        It takes one to know.

        A true enough story:  For Victorian families Halloween was not just a holiday, but an occasion. There were masquerade parades, harvest frolics, and All Hallows” pumpkin festivals and each event required elaborate costumes.  For months before hand, women’s periodicals featured articles detailing the minutiae of various fancy dress for our young ones.  To refresh your memory, the costumes a century ago were all handmade.

        Mrs. Sharp admits she’s always been nimble with a thimble, but more important, she has been blessed with an abundance of common sense.  Perhaps this is why her children were always happily outfitted for Halloween, usually in simple costumes of their own choosing.

        Then one fateful autumn, Mr. Ebenezer  Butterick’s “All New" 1899 arrived in the post.  That year, a costume known as the “the Ant”—a black sateen confection with six legs--was all the rage. 

        Suddenly Mrs. Sharp’s heart started beating wildly at the thought of cleverly outdoing herself.  Imagine!  One small fabulous little ant.  But Mrs. Sharp then had six young children.  Imagine!  Our own school of ants: six sibling insects all walking hand in hand in shiny splendor.  The very thought sent shivers of excitement down her spine.

         Needless to say, the ant costumes consumed Mrs. Sharp’s every waking moment, and many moments when she should have been asleep.  At first, the children cheered.  But then they cried and became increasingly cranky.  The more they cried and became increasingly cranky.  The more they fussed for Mother’s attentions, the more irritable she became.  Certifiable was a word frequently muttered by her husband.  Miraculously, the home circle survived intact.

        Finally, the big day arrived and what a very handsome school of worker ants paraded out Mrs. Sharp’s front door on their way to win first prize at the Takoma Park All Hallows’ Eve masquerade contest.  And the Sharp family would have brought home the blue ribbon had it not been for Mrs. Henry Hollister’s twins, Bertha and Buddy, disguised as a matched set of glad-bead-encrusted Etruscan vases.

        Of course, the sight of those miserable children was a startling epiphany for Mrs. Sharp, who realized mothers create Halloween costumes for one another, not our children.  Dear Reader, no child ever begged Mama to turn him into an Etruscan vase.  So let us continue to remind ourselves vigilantly each October just whom the Halloween costumes are for, and all will be well.

        Now, armed with a notebook, pen and measuring tape, gather the children over milk and cookies and invite them to con fide what they would like to be.  Discuss with each child what particular items are absolutely crucial for their character’s costume, and then, leaving nothing to chance, especially Mother’s memory, write it down.   It has been Mrs. Sharp’s experience that it is always the smallest detail—especially if it is missing—that causes the biggest fuss.  Superman’s cape cannot be orange or Dorothy’s magic slippers blue.  They are called the ruby slippers for a reason.  Glitter is not optional.

        And please do not fret about buying Halloween costumes.  If little Boris says he wants a store-bought costume, being possessed of your reason, you will smile and say, “Wonderful” (if there is room in the budget).  For years mothers on both side of the domestic divide have tortured themselves needlessly with ever increasing and exchangeable fantasies that all the little children of full-time hommakers will be wearing wonderful, handcrafted creations at the grammar school masquerade parade.  Having attended more school Halloween assembles than you ever will—thank Heavens—have to, let Mrs. Sharp assure you, this is not the case.  The children are not separated into two groups: store-bought and homemade.

        Remember that any costume you help your child create—whether it’s from your sewing machine, purchased with loving forbearance or a combination of the two—will be treasured if you undertake this cherished custom with enthusiasm.  The tradition worth preserving is not the homemade Halloween costume, but the special time you set aside to have fun planning costumes together.

-----------------------------XO--------------------------------

The Costume Planning Party

                                     Enthusiasm is contagious.  Be a carrier.

                                                                        --Susan Rabin

          It has been Mrs. Sharp’s experience that the observance of All Hallow’s Eve is a holiday that brings out either the angel in us, dear Reader, or the witch.

        Bearing this in mind, let us speak frankly about this business of Halloween costumes.  Whether we like it or not, this is the time we must start planning the children’s costumes or little Bosley will end up a ghost for the seventh year.  While Halloween is the children’s own favorite holiday, it is the one that Mother fears most.  Why?  Because in her heart every woman dreads the annual occasion of having her maternal gifts (or she fears, her lack of them) so publicly displayed.  We mothers have allowed costumes to become an emotional litmus test.

        It takes one to know.

        A true enough story:  For Victorian families Halloween was not just a holiday, but an occasion. There were masquerade parades, harvest frolics, and All Hallows” pumpkin festivals and each event required elaborate costumes.  For months before hand, women’s periodicals featured articles detailing the minutiae of various fancy dress for our young ones.  To refresh your memory, the costumes a century ago were all handmade.

        Mrs. Sharp admits she’s always been nimble with a thimble, but more important, she has been blessed with an abundance of common sense.  Perhaps this is why her children were always happily outfitted for Halloween, usually in simple costumes of their own choosing.

        Then one fateful autumn, Mr. Ebenezer  Butterick’s “All New" 1899 arrived in the post.  That year, a costume known as the “the Ant”—a black sateen confection with six legs--was all the rage. 

        Suddenly Mrs. Sharp’s heart started beating wildly at the thought of cleverly outdoing herself.  Imagine!  One small fabulous little ant.  But Mrs. Sharp then had six young children.  Imagine!  Our own school of ants: six sibling insects all walking hand in hand in shiny splendor.  The very thought sent shivers of excitement down her spine.

         Needless to say, the ant costumes consumed Mrs. Sharp’s every waking moment, and many moments when she should have been asleep.  At first, the children cheered.  But then they cried and became increasingly cranky.  The more they cried and became increasingly cranky.  The more they fussed for Mother’s attentions, the more irritable she became.  Certifiable was a word frequently muttered by her husband.  Miraculously, the home circle survived intact.

        Finally, the big day arrived and what a very handsome school of worker ants paraded out Mrs. Sharp’s front door on their way to win first prize at the Takoma Park All Hallows’ Eve masquerade contest.  And the Sharp family would have brought home the blue ribbon had it not been for Mrs. Henry Hollister’s twins, Bertha and Buddy, disguised as a matched set of glad-bead-encrusted Etruscan vases.

        Of course, the sight of those miserable children was a startling epiphany for Mrs. Sharp, who realized mothers create Halloween costumes for one another, not our children.  Dear Reader, no child ever begged Mama to turn him into an Etruscan vase.  So let us continue to remind ourselves vigilantly each October just whom the Halloween costumes are for, and all will be well.

        Now, armed with a notebook, pen and measuring tape, gather the children over milk and cookies and invite them to con fide what they would like to be.  Discuss with each child what particular items are absolutely crucial for their character’s costume, and then, leaving nothing to chance, especially Mother’s memory, write it down.   It has been Mrs. Sharp’s experience that it is always the smallest detail—especially if it is missing—that causes the biggest fuss.  Superman’s cape cannot be orange or Dorothy’s magic slippers blue.  They are called the ruby slippers for a reason.  Glitter is not optional.

        And please do not fret about buying Halloween costumes.  If little Boris says he wants a store-bought costume, being possessed of your reason, you will smile and say, “Wonderful” (if there is room in the budget).  For years mothers on both side of the domestic divide have tortured themselves needlessly with ever increasing and exchangeable fantasies that all the little children of full-time hommakers will be wearing wonderful, handcrafted creations at the grammar school masquerade parade.  Having attended more school Halloween assembles than you ever will—thank Heavens—have to, let Mrs. Sharp assure you, this is not the case.  The children are not separated into two groups: store-bought and homemade.

        Remember that any costume you help your child create—whether it’s from your sewing machine, purchased with loving forbearance or a combination of the two—will be treasured if you undertake this cherished custom with enthusiasm.  The tradition worth preserving is not the homemade Halloween costume, but the special time you set aside to have fun planning costumes together.

-----------------------------XO--------------------------------

Labor Day...

           Let us then, be up and doing
           with a heart for any fate;
           Still achieving, still pursuing,
           Learn to Labor and to wait.
             

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The first Monday of September the season changes officially from summer to autumn with “Labor’s Holiday” as Labor Day was known during the Victorian era.  This holiday grew out of organized marches of working men and women during the 1880s to protest the intolerable working conditions in America at that time:  very little pay for brutally long hours, unsafe and unsanitary conditions, and the great wrong of child labor in sweatshops.  In 1894, Labor Day became an official American holiday, and from that time until World War I, it was celebrated with lavish community picnics, grand parades, and oratory.  Everyone took the day off from work and enjoyed the fruits of their labor:  recreation.  Now there’s a thought.  For the last 15 years it seems I’ve worked on Labor Day trying to elevate my labor and skill to a craft…

    Of course, these traditions have long since passed away, and today Labor Day is viewed primarily as the official end to summer.  Vacation is over, the children have already returned back to school or need to get ready to next week and stores begin to display winter clothing.  Once again, it’s back to work.

    I always think of May’s Memorial weekend and September’s Labor Day in terms of potato salad.  In May we have the first heaping bowl of the season and on Labor Day, the last.  Out come and go our white shoes and bags as well because my Mother did it that way, as did her Mother.  Oh, the twig is bent early… 

    One Labor Day pursuit which is interesting is to trace the work history of your family.  If you’re lucky you can begin by interviewing the oldest member of your family (grandparents and great-grandparents) to discover what types of work they and their parents did.  Perhaps several generations back your family worked on a farm, then moved into the city.  You might discover occupations in your family’s past that no longer exist and follow that branch back with fascination and wonder… My Irish Catholic grandfather came over to the U.S. in 1920 and worked as a master electrician at Macy’s for the rest of his life.  How did he learn his trade?   By working at the Belfast shipyard Harland and Wolff during the time the British shipping company White Star Lines was building the Olympic ocean liner in 1911 and her sister, the Titanic in 1912.  Now I would have never known that I had a Titanic connection (and the Titanic has been an abiding passion of mine for years), if I hadn’t been curious.So this Labor Day weekend, an excursion to your family’s past might be a perfect destination….

Midsummer Magic

Midsummer’s Eve (June 23) is one of the most enchanting and sensuous nights of the year.  Falling halfway between the traditional start of summer on May Day and it’s end on Lammas in August, it celebrates the power and renewal of the sun at the summer solstice (which was Tuesday, June 21^st).  I think of it as a moveable feast because when my daughter was little we always celebrated whichever holiday fell on a weekend and we called it “Midsummer’s Eve”.  To me this represents the essence of personal holidays, customs and rituals.  It only needs to work for you!

An enchanting book (and now movie) that can’t fail to inspire Midsummer romps is Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle (1948).  A witty tale set in England during the thirties, it tells the story of a bohemian family of eccentrics living in a decaying English castle.  Although Dodie Smith (1899-1990) was a successful British dramatist and writer, it was her children’s book One Hundred and One Dalmatians,  published in 1956, that earned her fame in America.  But I Capture the Castle  was her first novel and quickly became an English classic, selling over a million copies. 

       Fifty years later, it has lost none of it’s charm.  The future of 17 year old Cassandra Mortmain, as duly noted in her wistful, wry journal, seems bleak indeed.  “My imagination longs to dash ahead and plan developments; but I have noticed that when things happen in one’s imaginings, they never happen in one’s life, so I am curbing myself…”  Cassandra’s father, once a literary cause célèbre is attempting a comeback, but hasn’t written a word in twelve years; her glamorous stepmother is a nudist; and her older sister, Rose, is a petulant beauty.  When the castle’s American heirs suddenly turn up—two handsome, eligible bachelors—romantic chaos ensues.

One of Miss Mortmain’s most engaging quirks is her fervent believe in the power of magic (J.K. Rowling has confessed that Cassandra is her favorite narrator) and she considers Midsummer’s Eve sacred.  She gathers wildflowers, weaves a garland for her hair, and as evening falls, dresses entirely in green to summon up the earth goddess within. Lighting a miniature bonfire made out of fragrant twigs, she sprinkles dried herbs and salt upon the flames, casting her dreams and fate into the ether.  Her ceremony concludes with an offering to Mother Nature (never out of place) of cake and wine (which Cassandra delightfully and dutifully consumes on her behalf), before she runs around the fire a magical seven times and communes with the elements.  It’s easy to see why generations of girls and women have found a kindred spirit in her.  So spread a blanket under the stars sometime this week for bewitchment that comes once a year.

       When Dodie Smith was in her sixties she was occasionally appalled that her impetuous nature, whether on the page or in her imagination, still seemed to have a life of its own. “{Am] I the only woman in the world who at my age—and after a lifetime of quite rampant independence—still [does] not feel grown-up? she wondered.  Thankfully, she’s not!

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Big Girl Celebrations

What’s as much fun as a plump Christmas stocking for both the giver and lucky receiver? Well, a gorgeous simply abundant Easter basket for children of all ages.  Using the tried and true formula, Something they want, something they need, something to play with and something to read…steers you in the right direction.  For women, new cosmetics in fresh spring colors, hair accessories, a new floral umbrella, or hat, costume jewelry or bath indulgence is just the thing to replace doldrums with smiles, especially as grown children, sisters and friends don’t expect anything at Easter. 

      For the grown up boys, little things that are hobby related (golf, gardening, photography) with favorite candy memories from Pez dispensers to Smarties are fun to tuck into after the chocolate bunny has disappeared. 

      If you’ve got small children or animals, forgo the Easter basket grass for bright crumpled tissue paper or vintage dollies.  Then bewitch them all by wrapping the basket in old fashioned cellophane and ribbon.  So much fun, just a little effort and lots of surprise makes all the difference.

      Here’s a glimpse of my baskets (click on the picture for a larger view).  I hope you had a glorious Easter and Passover weekend blessed by the peace that passes all understanding and the love that makes all things possible.

--------------------------XO SBB-------------- 

Calling All the Irish

Really my darlings, it seems like your luck has begun to change because I’m sharing a seasonal recipe before the big day arrives and departs.  Perhaps that’s because I’m inspired by the glorious Darina Allen’s Forgotten Skills of Cooking: The Time Honored Ways are the Best (Kyle Books).  For the last forty years the woman often called “the Irish Julia Child” has been collecting and restoring the kitchen legacies of Irish women and teaching them to the world at her famous Ballymaloe Cookery School outside of Cork, Ireland (www.cookingisfun.ie) where a 12 week course costs around $13,000.  And while I might forego nettle soup, I wouldn’t want to miss the annual occasion for Irish Soda Bread, lathered with creamy butter, strawberry jam and a pot of Irish tea. Mrs. Allen’s recipe is similar to my  Nana’s version, but better the loaf you know.  I like very much her technique for rolling the dough, which is barely kneading and produces a lighter loaf.

       You will need to mix your dry ingredients separately from the wet.

       Dry Ingredients

       3 ½ cups of unbleached all purpose flour

       2/3 cup sugar

       1 teaspoon salt

       1 tsp baking soda (Sarah's original recipe called for a cup, but one reader tried it and it didn't work)

       1 teaspoon baking power

       1 ½ cup seedless raisins

       Wet Ingredients

       1 ½ cups buttermilk

       2 beaten eggs

       4 tablespoons melted butter

       Optional: 2 teaspoons caraway seeds

Mix your dry ingredients and make a well in the center of your flour mixture. Pour in your wet ingredients and mix together well.  Mrs. Allen suggests:  “Using one hand with the fingers open and stiff, mix in a full circle drawing in the flour mixture from the sides of the bowl, adding more milk if necessary.  The dough should be softish, but not too wet and sticky…With floured fingers roll the dough lightly for a few seconds—just enough to tidy it up.  Then pat the dough into a round about 1 inches thick.  Transfer to a baking sheet dusted lightly with flour.” 

       Use a sharp knife to cut a cross on the top which is done to let the “fairies out”.  Make sure the cuts go over the side. Bake for 400 for 35 minutes. Serve warm with butter and jam.

       Soda bread is daily fare in Ireland, made fresh for breakfast and tea.  If the loaf is made with whole-meal wheat flour, it is known as brown bread; if made with unbleached white flour, it’s Irish soda bread.  When I lived in Gaelic speaking Connemara many lifetimes ago, my neighbors used sour milk, not buttermilk (or heaven forefend, milk soured by adding vinegar or lemon juice!).  Traditionally the milk soured because there was no refrigeration!  The milk came from the family cow and the eggs from the flock of chickens outside the door. 

       If you love history, scrumptious food and cherished traditions from the past, you’ll adore Forgotten Skills of Cooking, a perfect bedside cooking book if ever there was one.

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Tuesday is Pancake Day!

 Shrove Tuesday, March 8, 2011.

      Tuesday is the beginning of Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Creole communities and South American countries, but in England it’s Pancake Day, the day before Lent begins on Ash Wednesday and the joyous feasting on pancakes.  This tradition dates back to the 14^th century because it was customary to use up all the “forbidden” foods such as eggs, sugar, fat and butter which the devout abstain from during the 6 weeks of Lent.

      In old England, each village would host a Pancake Race, with homemakers wearing aprons and running with a heated skillet and flipping their “flapjacks”.  The English pancake is very thin, like a crepe, and it’s sprinkled with super fine sugar, and the fresh squeezed juice of a lemon or orange (blood orange juice is heavenly) and rolled up.  Instead of maple syrup there’s Lyle’s Golden Syrup, which isn’t the same at all (rather like pouring corn syrup).   I remember several years ago being in London’s gourmet foods emporium, Fortnum & Mason one Christmastide, where foreign delicacies from the far corners of the earth were being sold and coming across a box of Aunt Jemima’s Pancake mix and maple syrup.  I just about fell to my knees for the miracle and the shock of it—one of my favorite finding the sacred in the ordinary epiphanies and that holiday Aunt Jemima was sticking out of my Christmas stocking. 

      A pancake supper is the best budget saver—think of them for Sunday night suppers.  Your pancakes don’t have to be sweet.  Adding bits of ham or bacon, shallots and asparagus tips, enlarges the scope of the cast iron skillet canvas as well as the thrill of thrift. So this Tuesday, it’s real pancakes, as only my beloved Aunt Jemima makes them.  While the image of Aunt Jemima has evolved over the years, her pancakes have retained all of the love and deliciousness she put in every batch. Even during the Great Depression, home-makers made sure their food budget included Aunt Jemima pancake flour, as this March 1933 ad from Woman’s Home Companion attests.  Hope you indulge do too! Click on the image below to open up the full version

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