Guide to Self-Gifting

I haven't written for awhile because I recently (finally!) got a job after what felt like an endless period of unemployment. Luckily, it was worth the wait. My new workspace is both inspiring and completely overwhelming for someone like me, who tends to want to buy everything in sight. The store where I work, Cedar Chest in Northampton, has everything you want, and a lot more that you didn't even know you needed. Emphasis is placed on beautiful and functional gifts for the home and body. We're talking rows upon rows of tea towels, stationary, and perfume. I don't even have a discount yet, and my wish list is already a mile long.

Of course, it doesn't help that I started this job at a time of the year when we all, consciously or not, start to think about buying stuff. For other people, yes, but also for ourselves, because there are so many (ostensible) opportunities to save money. Whether we celebrate the holidays or not, we're bombarded with calls to consumerism all day every day. It's not even Thanksgiving yet, and Bed Bath and Beyond has been sending me a daily email (I kid you not) telling me that a 20% coupon is waiting for me. Every time I see it in my inbox, I can't help but think about what I COULD buy with it. And then I end up wanting to buy things that I hadn't even considered in the first place.

It's true--I am still trying to decorate my apartment, and that is going to require some shopping. I'm realizing that there are a few things I have to add to my wardrobe before the really cold weather starts to set in, and that is also going to require some shopping. But over the course of the next few weeks, I'm going to make a conscious effort to block out a lot of the capitalist white noise around me and focus on making researched and intentional purchases. At least for me, sometimes the smallest little treats can have the biggest impact. A couple of weeks ago my friend and I went to an indoor flea market with over 150 vendors, and I walked away with a single fifty-cent bottle. We were there for over an hour, and I looked long and hard at a lot of things I could have bought. But in the end, there was something about the particular blue of the bottle, and the way the glass shone, that made me want it more than anything else in the place. It was the smallest of purchases, but the most rewarding and intentional one I could have made.

I suppose that, in the end, the message I'm trying to get across is this: winter is coming, the holidays are coming, and it's cold. So, yes, buy yourself treats. I fully endorse that. But don't let yourself be bullied. Empower yourself by taking the opportunity to practice mindful retail therapy (I know, that sounds like an oxymoron, but it's not really, I promise). You'll thank yourself later.

The perfect blue bottle.

Herbs my roommate Kaylee hung in our dining room. Simple decoration and function at its finest.

Macrame plant holder I made last weekend. Cheap and easy.

Towel that lives on our dining room table. So much cheaper than a tablecloth, and prettier too.

And, just for fun, I've taken it upon myself to make a little list of five things that I think are always worth it to buy myself around this time of year. Just in case you want to treat yourself to a little something. This list was HELLA hard to make, too. Talk about needing to pare down. I've also purposely tried to include independent shops and makers in this list, because they do good work.

1. Candles

Nice candles will never go unused in my life, especially this time of year. They cozy up any room instantly. The ones I've been looking at recently aren't super cheap, but they're well-made and have good fragrances and decent burn times. My picks:

PF Candle Co. Soy Candle in Desert Lodge

Na Nin Fragrance "Breathe In Breathe Out" Candle

The woman who makes these also hand-makes scents, and I was super excited to see she had expanded her experimentation to include candles.

2. Scarves // Blankets // Hats

Keeping warm is necessary at this time of year, so why not get yourself something that will make you look fancy AND keep the wind away?

Bridge & Burn Ragg Wool Watch Cap in Moss

The Future Kept British Made 100% Recycled Wool Throw

Really, really affordable 100% wool blanket made from recycled material.

Pine Bough Cowl by Dianna Walla

Because my mom is a knitter, I spend a lot of time browsing knitting patterns this time of year. Lots of options for cheaper projects that you (or someone else) can make.

3. Plants // Planters

At this time of year, touches of green are essential. Pretty planters are functional and can be used all year round.

Mini Air Plant Hanging Planter by Studio Giverny on Etsy

Skinny Hanging Crystal Planter from Kestrel Shop

This is a local Western Mass shop located in Northampton, and they focus quite a lot on horticulture if you're interested in that.

4. Jewelry

I don't mean to suggest anything extravagant, just that this is the time of year to add a little simple, affordable sparkle.

Favor Jewelry Small Glyph Ring

Laite Jewelry Arch Earrings

I got these earrings for Christmas last year and I LOVE them. Perfectly hammered metal.

Consider The Wldflwrs Tiny Double Stem

5. Bath // Body Products

Enough Said.

Herbivore Botanicals Coconut Bath Soak

I can't say enough about how much I love this brand. They're pioneering the small-batch, sustainably made beauty movement. Plus, they offer a lot of smaller sizes of their products which is if you're on a budget or want to try something out before buying a bigger size.

Little Barn Apothecary Honeysuckle + Grapefruit Body Oil

Soul Sunday Rose Wash All-Over Cleanser

Phew !!

Collecting

I was walking through my dining room the other day, and a pop of color caught the corner of my eye. I happened to be carrying my phone, so I snapped this photo. I swear that bush wasn't red the day before. And that is one of my absolute favorite things about New England this time of year--so many different kinds of flora change costume and make you notice them. I went out for a walk the same day, and was delighted to find that the bushes that flank the entrance to the woods behind my house had also turned the same fiery color. I thought to myself, if I was my mother, I would know what to call this plant. 

But, alas, since I haven't spent the last twenty or so years of my life learning the names of plants like my mother, I couldn't do anything but stand there and admire. I remember standing in the garden as a child while my mother gardened, hearing her say lots of plant names that sounded mysterious and foreign and have mostly slipped from my memory: phlox, hydrangea,  I often find myself in these kinds of situations. I have friends who have dedicated themselves to learning about types of cameras, or types of herbs, or mixed drinks. I've never felt the need or desire to collect and catalogue knowledge about any one thing. I didn't have many collections of objects as a child. 

What I am, I think, is more of an observer and an experimenter than anything else. I prefer to meet the world as it comes to me, and synthesize it in little bits through writing or photography. If one was to call me a collector of anything, it would be of moments. Moments that I feel are worth writing about, moments that are worth capturing. I wrote a lot of fiction in college, and I often found that I had an uncanny ability to unearth small images and instances that blossomed out into larger imaginary worlds. In a way, I also treat physical spaces as moments to be captured: I am constantly aware of the spaces i inhabit and am always searching for ways to improve my living space and to make it a more unique expression of myself. Of course, this involves the collection of objects, but only in the service of a greater whole.

Virginia Woolf, one of my favorite writers, was also a collector of moments, or "moments of being," as she called them. In her work of the same name, she writes: "Behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we--I mean all human beings--are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself." I empathize a lot with Woolf, as someone who also feels acutely aware of the possible significance and beauty contained in every single moment. It's an overwhelming and sometimes frustrating way to see the world.

However, I wouldn't trade the way I experience beauty for anything. I could have walked by my window the other day without even noticing the change in color outside. I could have passed through the archway into the woods without even thinking twice. But instead, I stopped, I observed, I thought. I let the deluge of associations that came to my mind wash over me. And all in an instant, a breath, a second. I didn't know what I was looking at, but it didn't matter. No, I wouldn't trade that for anything.

There's Spooky Everywhere

For me, this Halloween was one of the slowest in recent memory. I spent this past Friday night celebrating my cousin's wedding, so my party energy store was pretty much all but depleted as soon as last night rolled around. Which I felt very ready to embrace. During my years at Bennington, Halloween was a big event. My house hosted the annual Halloween party, and spent weeks planning the theme and decorations. Last year I got off work at 11:30, raced to the bars, and woke up covered in glitter. Don't get me wrong, I love a good party, especially one that involves dressing up. However, this year I decided to tone things down a bit. Maybe chock things up to the time change, but I was feeling a bit more introverted. I bought myself some snacks, lit some candles, and spent the night with Marion Crane and Norman Bates. 

As I watched Psycho for roughly the thousandth time, I thought about the subtle role that darkness and the macabre have played in my life, starting from when I was very young. I find suspense and thriller movies (especially Hitchcock) comforting, and often watch them when I'm sick. Film Noir is my movie version of mac and cheese. I've also always loved graveyards, likely because the Vermont landscape is peppered with old and forgotten burial sites. Many of the gravestones are so old that small forested areas have grown around them. The last time my sister flew to Vermont from Los Angeles, the first thing she wanted to do was go to the graveyard near my parents' house. "Some places are just magical," she said.

And, because my father taught me that there is nothing better than a good creepy movie, here is a list of my favorite suspense and thriller movies to watch this time of year. I'm biased toward mid-century stuff, so if you have anything more recent to recommend I'd love to hear from you.

Strangers on a Train--d. Alfred Hitchcock--1951
Classic murder-swapping tale in which only one of the participants follows through on the deal. Robert Walker lurking in the shadows is absolutely terrifying.

Wait Until Dark--d. Terence Young--1967
A blind woman discovers she has accidentally come into the possession of a doll stuffed with heroin, and its rightful owners terrorize her. Based on the play on the same name by Frederick Knott. Audrey Hepburn's best performance, I think, and a bone-chilling delivery by Alan Arkin.

The Children's Hour--d. William Wyler--1961
Another Audrey Hepburn film, with an amazing performance by Shirley Maclaine. A properly disturbing film that combines bitter rumors, creepy kids, and nervous breakdowns. A social commentary on the impact that gossip and finger pointing can have.

Gaslight--d. George Cukor--1944
Ingrid Bergman is systematically driven crazy by her husband, who seems to be searching for something from her past. The foggy London period setting fits the story perfectly.

The Haunting--d. Robert Wise--1963
A scientist doing research on paranormal activity invites a group of people to an old mansion. Dreamy cinematography and chilling voiceovers by Julie Harris. Based on The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson, a Bennington celebrity.

Carnival of Souls--d. Herk Harvey--1962
A favorite in my family, this B-movie classic tells the story of a woman who feels like she is becoming invisible to everyone around her. Filmed on a low budget so there are some laughable moments, but they only add to its charm. Some beautiful shots, and a REALLY creepy organ score by Gene Moore.

Arsenic and Old Lace--d. Frank Capra-- 1944
Not exactly a scary movie, but definitely a Halloween classic and one of my favorites, so I thought I would include it anyway. A newly married man, played by Cary Grant, discovers that his two old aunts have a disturbing secret. A hilarious screwball adventure ensues, putting Grant in his element.

Jewel Tones and Dark Days

Today, I happened to be on the homepage for the Emily Dickinson Museum's website. Every week, a new one of her poems is posted, and this week's somehow magically pulled together many disjointed thoughts I've been having about fall. Mainly, how it makes me feel like I'm being pulled in many different directions. Here is the text:

The name - of it - is "Autumn" -
The hue - of it - is Blood -
An Artery - opon the Hill -
A Vein - along the Road -

Great Globules - in the Alleys -
And Oh, the Shower of Stain -
When Winds - upset the Basin -
And spill the Scarlet Rain -

It sprinkles Bonnets - far below -
It gathers ruddy Pools -
Then - eddies like a Rose - away -
Opon Vermillion Wheels -

(https://www.emilydickinsonmuseum.org/)

The first thing I noticed about this poem is the preponderance of color and color-associated words--stain, rose, vermillion, and of course, blood. Practically every other word the poem re-explodes with a new visual association, and the way it moves reminds me a lot of the way the landscape in my (And Emily's) native New England looks this time of year, especially in early fall; bursts of color that surprise and delight the eye at every turn. And that, I think, is what gets my heart racing about fall. It is a dynamic and beautiful season, it makes itself known. It screams possibility and re-birth (as does the menstrual imagery in Dickinson's poem, which I can't not point out).

Anyway, what I'm getting at is that fall is life-affirming. At the beginning of the month, my friend Anna and I did a ritual that is traditionally associated with the Jewish New Year. We walked through the woods to the stream behind my house and filled our pockets with acorns. Then we stood in the stream bed and tossed them into the water, symbolically casting off burdens and negativity. I cherish moments like this every year.

However, (and this is a big however) if we direct ourselves back to the poem and read it a few more times, violence starts to creep out from between the lines. Arteries, veins, globules, scarlet spilling. If we place the poem in the context of its time, it seems obvious that Dickinson was writing in reference to the Civil War, which was well underway when this poem was published. I one-hundred-percent believe this, but I also like to think about how Dickinson, who was so in touch with the natural world, would have considered the connection between autumn and death, that placing autumn imagery and war imagery in the same poem would have been intuitive to her. For we can't forget that fall is still, in all its glory, one gigantic natural death, the final sigh before the darkest days of the year.

So in the end, I think the paradox of this time of year is what gets me all confused and restless. It's colder, it's darker, it's depressing, but it's also exciting, and prime for creative work. Which is good, when all's said and done. So get to work, friends! And read some Emily Dickinson, or better yet, if you're close to Western Massachusetts, go and visit her house. The view from her room is amazing.

Keeping Warm

I'm always surprised by how quickly illness can derail me from my daily routine. These past few weeks I've been struggling against a bug that I've finally gotten the better of, but not without a fight. Not just a cold, but the kind of knock-you-on-your back aches and pains and fatigue that I could only chalk up to the big bad flu. And when you're knocked on your back onto a pillow-top mattress pad with a kitten on your belly, it can be hard to get back up again, even when your body is feeling better.

I've been thinking a lot as the seasons have started to shift about the desire to burrow that overwhelms me at this time every year, and the subsequent guilt that always accompanies it. Growing up in northern New England, a region with some of the toughest winters out there, I was always taught that winter was something to brace against. My friends and I had contests to see who could stand in the snow barefoot the longest. Snow days were for building snowmen and ice skating until our fingers and toes couldn't take it anymore. We were taught that chilly weather was no excuse to stay cooped up in the house. Which explains the glimmer of childish glee I felt during this recent illness, even though I felt like I had been hit by a freight train. I had an excuse, a get-out-of-jail free card to cave into my cozy craving.

Of course, there was warmth to my childhood winters in Vermont, too. I remember wood stoves, mittens dripping on radiators, kicking off boots and stepping around the puddles pooling on the linoleum. But even so, it was something to be earned, something we knew was precious. We were scolded for lying around in the living room for too long, or sitting on the heating vents. Maybe it was just that our parents didn't want us underfoot, but I think there was a very real New England sensibility at work: don't get too comfortable, because you're going to have to go right back out there again. It wasn't until much later in life, when I visited Europe, that I was invited to embrace the cold and darkness in a new way. Around this time of year, I always think about the week I spent visiting my sister in Berlin, from Christmas through New Year's. There, I found what the child inside me had always been missing: an invitation to stay inside a little longer, to stay warm a little longer.

Around four o' clock in Berlin, when the afternoon light first starts to fade, something magical happens. One by one, cafe workers begin to light the long tapers that dot the tables until all the windows on either side of the streets glow, inviting chilly wanderers inside. Guests are encouraged to sample beer and warm, spiced glühwein. Bars lights dim so low that candlelight is all that's left to see by. There's no sense of bitterness about the cold, and no one hurrying you along. A kind of glass-half-full mentality I had been missing my entire life. The Germans have a word for this, which is (unsurprisingly) not easily translatable into English: Gemütlichkeit. It is used to describe spaces, particularly those that emanate warmth, coziness, and festivity. The Danish have a similar word, hygge, which encapsulates a special kind of hominess.

Of course, I'm still a New Englander at heart, a drive-through-the-blizzard curmudgeon who drinks iced coffee in sub-zero temperatures. But slowly, and ever so surely, I'm trying to embrace that this is the time of year when it should be okay, and even encouraged for me to have another glass of wine, put a little bit more fat on my bones, and cozy up to those I love. And you should, too.

If you want to read a great post on Danish "hygge," check out this link.

Or, try this recipe for Glüweihn I found over at Food52.

And if you're feeling indulgent, check out some stuff that's on my stay-cozy (and erm, practical) list for late fall:

This Woolrich shirt jacket I spotted at Port Northampton. If you live in Western Massachusetts I highly suggest you check this boutique out. Everything is American-made and perfect for the chillier months.

Herbivore Botanicals Coco Rose Lip Conditioner (for moisture, and a little bit of tropical warmth).

This perfect mug for wine or tea sipping.

And if you're looking for a good fireside read, check out this brand-spanking-new collection of the complete stories of Clarice Lispector, collected all together for the first time and translated into English. I just started reading it and it's so transporting that you'll forget winter even exists.

Wandering

I was recently turned on to Human Being Journal, a bi-annual print publication put out by a small studio housed inside the Richmond-based clothing and lifestyle store Need Supply Company. While browsing the website, I came across an essay called "The Aesthetics of Wandering," whose sweeping first line swept my imagination right up with it. Essayist Kate Fowler writes: "Embedded within the history of Western literature, cinema, and theater is the tale of the wanderer--a spirit guide or reverie that has functioned as an outlet for our repressed dreams and vestigial desires for abandon, disconnection, and self-discovery."

Interestingly enough, it wasn't the content or style of this carefully-crafted sentence that sat with me. It was the hollow it left behind, the suggestion of something lacking. If we long for and desire abandon and self-discovery and look to something external to fulfill those desires, then as a people we are either being denied or denying ourselves something essential.

In fact, this is exactly what Fowler's essay goes on to discuss: to her, the act of wandering has been so aestheticized in this increasingly media-saturated world that we can't find the impetus inside ourselves to be our own compasses and start our own deeply personal wandering journeys. And this argument makes a lot of sense--if we are constantly bombarded with media that seeks to define "journey" or "self-discovery" (think blurry photographs of camping trips on Tumblr, or "Girls"-like coming-of-age stories) then we feel increasing pressure to model even something as volatile and shifting as self-discovery after someone else's narrative.

Of course, as a young artist who appreciates beauty and who also has no clear idea where my life is headed, I am as drawn to these images as the next person. I am just as baffled and paralyzed by the seemingly endless wealth of options in front of me. Should I move to New York City and live on nothing or awhile, or should I go and live on an arts colony, or get a residency, or apply for a grant?

In the essay, Fowler also writes about folk Icons Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie, and how they were in many ways responsible for starting the wave that led to our current obsession with wandering and its reflection in the media. But if you think about Dylan and Guthrie themselves and their initial decisions to hit the road and, in Dylan's case, change his entire identity, the impetus was pure impulse. Simple, satisfying human impulse.

To be frank, I think that my generation has lost its ability to act upon and trust gut instinct. And this is true for many reasons that extend beyond Fowler's aesthetic argument. Many twenty-somethings are paralyzed by poverty and a job economy that makes it impossible to just up and leave. Many feel the pull of their baby-boomer parents' instincts toward job security on one side, and the pull of endless possibilities on the other. In a world with increased visibility, we feel a constant need to define and defend ourselves, our communities, our families, and our own identities in the moment, right now. In many ways this is a good thing, because it allows us to advocate for ourselves and form communities, but it also leaves little time for inward self-reflection and physical exploration.

I'm not sure where this leaves us, but I know that personally I have felt freaked out in the year since graduating college about the fact that I don't feel like I want to go back to school right now, and I don't have a certain kind of job in mind for myself right now. But I am realizing that there are a lot of places I want to go, and a lot of interests and passions I want to explore. And it might be a much more valuable use of my time to trust myself, take a leap and try new things, and know that if I own my wanderings they will teach me something.

To read Kate Fowler's essay on the Human Being Journal website, click here.

Small Things

Whenever I go home to my Mom's house in Vermont, I inevitably notice something new about the physical makeup of the space. Sometimes it's a bigger cosmetic lift like a paint job or new bathroom tiling, but more often than not, a smaller change catches my eye. A tiny moonstone found on the beach, glowing milky against the kitchen countertop. A baby spider plant in a bell-shaped glass vase. I have come to expect and appreciate these little additions, because although the house's general integrity remains the same, it feels continually fresh and renewed.

This is not to say that my Mother is a hoarder, or that the windowsills and cabinets are lined with tchotchkes and trinkets. Her relationship to the objects she collects is far more complex. Her house is sparsely decorated, so the placement of each new acquisition seems deliberate. You might think the overall result would be a museum-like space, but it actually seems to make the house seem more lived-in, because I don't think she ever fully inhabits the role of "decorator." Rather, in the process of cutting flowers or cooking or cleaning she comes across something that speaks to her and begs to be showcased for its beauty.

In the course of my thinking about homes and objects, I recalled and re-read a short story I read in a literature class in college, Ann Beattie's "Janus." In this story, Beattie uses crystal-clear descriptive third-person prose to describe the protagonist's deep and mysterious relationship to an inanimate object, a bowl bought for her by a lover at a craft fair. So much emotion and longing has been poured into this object that for the character, Andrea, it is infused with its own magic, an inexplicable aura that draws people to it.

I am a firm believer in this elevation of objects to the level of magic and mystery, because it is evidence that there is a whole world of small things out there to be noticed and appreciated, and that maybe these things don't have to be "just things" if they are essential and imbued with importance by those who own them.  I know my mother is the last person anyone would call "materialist," because she has restricted her collection to what resonates with her and delights her. And this act of careful collecting affects how she approaches every aspect of her life, reminding her to slow down and pay closest attention to what matters the most. In a time when there is so much out there to be collected, this could be a good practice for all of us.

To read Ann Beattie's Janus, click here.

For some related insight, click here to read an interview in Kinfolk Magazine with Greg Mckeown, the author of Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less.

Blank Slates

Sometimes empty spaces can seem daunting. When I was in college, I always used to try to set my entire room up in one go, despite the inevitable fatigue and hunger and frustration that would set in after five straight hours of rearranging and decorating. But after that one great burst of energy and work, the space was mine, and I could live in it.

About a week ago I moved into a new apartment, and I had the same impulse. I unpacked my books, lined up my rocks on the windowsill, and tacked my postcards to the walls. My room was ready long before my roommates had even began unpacking. Call it what you will: anxiety or a need to nest, I just can't seem to insert myself into a space gradually. In order for my mind to be all there, my objects have to be all there and in their place.

At this point I'm trying desperately to resist psychoanalyzing myself, but I almost always cave into that desire, and there may be some sense in it this time. I am certain that I share this fear of the empty and unfinished with a lot of others, mainly because it so often carries over into the greater arc of life. Our lives are perpetually and forever unfinished, and, as humans, that is the last thing we would like to admit. I will be the first to say that I have no idea what I was placed on this Earth to do, and that I will probably never have a true idea.

So I took it upon myself to go downstairs into the common space, which is vastly unfinished, and just sit there and notice what I felt. At first, I was overwhelmed by all of the things that weren't there. And then, once that passed, sitting there started to feel nice. I started to notice the way the light was slanting, and the nice cherry color of the floors, and after awhile, almost wished it would stay that way. Which is the same way I felt when I first published this site. Like it was a blank slate. I have challenged myself to turn my fears and apprehensions into excitement and anticipation, to turn all that I cherish and admire on a daily basis out into the world. Not an easy feat, and a messy one at that, but here's to new beginnings.

Some of my essentials for a stress-free transition to a new space:

PF Candle Co. Mini Soy Candle in Sweet Grapefruit

Aquarian Soul Designs Catcus Flower and Quartz Essence Spray

Moon Rivers Naturals Good Vibes Oil