Curating with gasps

I recently discovered the artist and writer Maira Kalman and am utterly charmed. In the first glances at her work I wondered if I was looking at a child’s art project because her drawings are folky and simple. But what quickly emerges is cunning truth about the subject and a subtle humor that reveals a mature hand behind the work. Her gift is to give you pause. To reconsider what you nearly passed by, what you so quickly consigned to the trite and ordinary, to pause for a minute and find unexpected meaning and/or beauty.

BrainPickings describes her work as having: “a spartan sincerity … an elegantly choreographed spontaneity – words meticulously chosen to be as simple as possible, yet impossibly expressive; drawings that invoke childhood yet brim with the complex awarenesses of a life lived long and wide.”

She has published a number of books but the one I discovered first was My Favorite Things. I had to get past the title  – at first, all I could hear was Julie Andrews droning on … “these are a few of my favorite things… da-da, da, dah..” But the book quickly invites you to look at her list and think in new categories. At the same time she asks the reader a serious question: “How do you curate a life?” I ask, how do you curate your life? Or mine?

 “…We begin with a portrait…” she writes.

In her hand-written, plain prose she tells us she has been chosen to curate an exhibition for a small museum in New York City, the Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum, and what a dilemma it is to choose from among centuries-worth of objects! Post cards from the Hotel Celeste in Tunisia. Hats. A fragile vase carefully painted in red and green and signed – someone loved it enough to keep it over a lifetime then pass it on.

This is why her work captured me: It struck me that her filter is one through which we could all strain our own collections. She writes: “The pieces I chose were based on ONE thing only – a gasp of DELIGHT.” Then she asks, “Isn’t that the only way to CURATE a LIFE? To live among things that make you GASP with delight?” (p. 9)

Of COURSE, not everything is going to make you gasp. What inspires me may quietly turn you off.  (If you are kind you won’t mention it. And I promise your inspirations won’t make me sign you up for an exorcism.) I began to realize that is why some of the very things others pass over will make another “gasp with delight.” It can be quite an individual matter. For example, I could see by the cover illustration on her book that Kalman enjoys photos of dandies from the 1930s. The way they dressed and paraded across the sand in their garish red and white stripped suits on the beach at Coney Island looking all satisfied with themselves. They make me smile.

I understand that not EVERYthing needs to make me gasp. I don’t want to have an asthma attack when I climb into bed at night. I mean. There needs to be calm scenes. Functionality. Quiet colors. Soft beds. Crisp sheets. Most of my bedroom is not required to make me gasp. We understand. But there are things I might now keep and others I may shed because she has named this way of curating.

I am intrigued by possibilities. By a new way of thinking about what everyday things can delight. What causes us to gasp? In this world with so much that is broken, broken, broken, I wonder if we could keep some of those good things, and also share a little. Like the annoying “Little Drummer Boy,” (oops. I guess he’s not on my gasping list.) perhaps I can give you what I have, which isn’t much, I admit. I can give what I write this year. I can keep on trying to stay focused long enough to make something of it. If my writing can cause you to, well, if not GASP with delight, but perhaps give a slight twitch in your nucleus accumbens (look it up.) that would make me very happy.

Work, writing, and dodging rotten fish

 Tell me what made you think I’d want to read about what you did yesterday? Your books didn’t arrive on the UPS truck when they were supposed to and now all your orders are late? You need new socks because all your old ones have holes? Waaa. Hearing about whatever it is you are up to is a waste of my time. Throw rotten fish.

There is a person in my life who sits on my shoulder, watching, someone who lifts an eyebrow and a corner of the lip while reading my sentences. I sense a cynical vibe asking, why aren’t you doing something more meaningful? Feeding the hungry? Something valuable. Perhaps you should clean your closet or something. But stop this bushwa.

We (Denis & I) often talk about how every square inch of life and reality belongs to the Lord Christ. That includes calling and vocation. Part of my calling right now is writing. Working on another manuscript. Posting to my blog. Writing my quarterly publication “Letters from the House Between.” Answering mail. Even after all these years of understanding the importance of being faithful in what you’ve been called to do today and not imagining some big sensational save or Pulitzer Prize for your astonishing work, I can have doubts about what I do.

This isn’t strictly a “Christian” problem; people who don’t necessarily practice a faith also suffer from the guilt of living in a world with so much misery and sorrow and trying to reckon the worth of what they do. Recently I watched a 60 Minutes program about Syrian refugees that was so heartbreaking I sat on the couch and bawled. How could I be living in safety with a bowl of popcorn and a can of Coke while thousands were escaping up a hill into a Jordanian refugee camp  - their wounded bodies and hearts repositories of violence – their faces pinched with starvation and fear – How could I go about being a barista or a software developer or a writer? Especially a writer? (Opportunities to help do abound. And we can find them. That is a good topic for another time.) But, I’ve needed to reaffirm that it isn’t just okay, it is good to write.

Molly Wizenberg concludes her book Delancy: A Man, A Woman, ARestaurant, A Marriage by trying to work out their dilemma regarding the significance of opening a restaurant and her choice to write.

“…when I decided to quit graduate school, I was newly broken up with a boyfriend. He was a very kind, serious, thoughtful guy, someone who tutors kids with severe learning disabilities in his free time. I remember feeling so frivolous in comparison, so guilty, as I thought about giving up academia to try being a food writer. Food writing wasn’t important. It wouldn’t save a life. I did it anyway, because I wanted to, but I certainly couldn’t justify it on the grounds of world peace. That justification doesn’t work for opening a restaurant either. But there is something about Delancey that, to me, matters just as much: We get to make people happy. We get to give people a good night. We get to spend our days doing work that we can be proud of, and when we’re done, there’s all the pizza you can eat.”  P 225.

What I do everyday does matter. It may not be worthy of a Ten Best Books list, but I know this is what God has for me to do right now. If I listened too much to my doubts or to that person who sits on my shoulder sifting my words, paralysis would set in. Wizenberg may not be able to say “God has made me for this purpose” and understand that because they are making the best pizzas they can and she is being a good food writer honors God, but I can say it. He has created humans to live and work before him and it pleases him to bless us however big or small, significant or insignificant our work.  

The givenness of everything

Denis and I think, speak, try to live with the understanding that all we do is whole. We are not Christians here and over there we are an athlete, here we practice our faith, here, for the moment, I am buying spices or reconciling my bank account. Same with writing.

Posted on the Kalos Press blog:

Richard Doster helps me think about what this means for my own writing and faith as he points to so many writers of great literature whose faith was integral to their life and living:

“In speaking about life and faith, Marilyn Robinson declares, ‘I’ve never found them to be incompatible …. Frankly, historically speaking, a great deal of English language literature is generated directly out of religious thought and religious erudition.’ Then, with words that bring O’Connor and Percy to mind, she said, ‘For me, a religious mindset creates a habit of scrupulous inquiry relative to virtually everything ….’ She explained to Lanpher [Katherine Lanpher was interviewing] that, ‘… everything has religious significance. It’s not as if I go from one area of interest to another,’ she said, ‘they’re simultaneous for me.'

“From Robinson, throughout the whole of the conversation, there’s not a syllable of defensiveness; there’s no awkwardness, no need to shy away from anything she believes. And from Lanpher, there’s only respect for a great writer.

“The conversation later veers down this charming path, as the Pulitzer Prize winning Christian so casually explains to the secular interviewer on a nationally distributed podcast that John Calvin is 'cool in a lot of ways. If you read his sermons on the 10 Commandments,’ Robinson explains, ‘they’re absolutely beautiful, profoundly humane interpretations of things that many people find forbidding.’ She continues, talking about how Calvin situated sacred and human experience in the mind and in perception, and about how she feels indebted to the 16th century reformer for his understanding of, 'the givenness of everything.'  ”

Kalos Press reprinted this article with permission from byFaith magazine.

Sage-y potatoes and green peas

The chances of getting coldcocked by a great recipe when I got to the kitchen at 5:30 yesterday were slim. I was craving gnocchi and had a little fresh sage on hand, but the thought of making it. Ugh. Skinning bullheads sounded like less trouble. For such times I have Margie Fallbacks consisting mainly of baked chicken, baked chicken and baked chicken. With a baked potato.

So three small pieces of chicken went into the oven with olive oil, a sprinkle of rosemary and a nice coating of smoked paprika to make it slightly more interesting. Then I took three potatoes, peeled, chunked and boiled until tender, added half a bag of frozen green peas at the last minute.

Meanwhile, a stroke of luck: (I’d read of it somewhere but never bothered to try) take fresh sage leaves and butter, sauté in a skillet until they turn black and crisp. Doesn’t take long. Set them aside. Drain peas and potato. Season with crunched up sage leaves, butter, coarse sea salt (if you have it) and pepper. Save a few whole sage leaves for garnish. We couldn’t believe how good this tasted. Every last bit was snarfed up and the dish was declared a Once-A-Weeker. And so simple!

I added a small fruit salad of tangerines, a bosc pear, and a mango that needed to be used up. A teaspoon of honey for the dressing was all it needed.

This is my ordinary – one of the places in life where God calls me to serve Him and others. The gift and surprise for me is that sometimes, even when I feel weary, the delight of an ordinary meal not only nourishes our bodies, but it comes out easy and beautiful.  

Love, after all

I received a few responses for a recent post “The ritual of small things.” Thank you. I know there are lots of us who find after the fact, after the grandparents have died, that we are indelibly linked. 

Here they are:

“I still remember the first time my Mother decided I didn't need an Easter basket at College. I was so disappointed. It is the small rituals that do show love and caring and remembering from year to year.” - Sandy O.

 “Just wanted to say that my grandmother gave me a Christmas ornament every year for the 23 years that I was blessed to have her. I appreciated the tradition then -- to varying degrees, more so as I got older -- but I treasure the results of it now. Even if your grandkids are less sentimental than I am, it's a good tradition!”  - Nikki J

“I love the grace of small things, Margie. Please keep giving your grandchildren ornaments...they are stories and links to you as well as memories of you and Denis many years from now. Do you date them and sign them? It will help them remember someday. My mom bought ornaments for us and then for her grandchildren up to her passing…” – Alice

“Our advent ritual is to celebrate St. Nicholas Day. We have a Dutch background and we celebrate by putting shoes out the night of the 5th or 6th of December. The date varies for St. Nicholas depending on whether I have my act together or not and buy gifts on time. The gifts usually involved chocolate and some small things. Our daughter is 17 and about to leave home. We don't live in America right now. But this ritual is important for us to keep as part of our Advent.”  - “Walkingtochina”

I agree now that I’ve moved thoroughly into being a grandparent – I’ve observed quite a number of young people who have fond memories of grandparents playing important roles in their lives. Enough to commemorate them with a tattoo. Yes.

Yesterday I was talking to my brother, the sheriff. He told me about one of his step-grandsons, a teenager who has not had anyone to love him spontaneously, unconditionally. He’s an abandoned quiet boy, not used to hard work or the kind of play they have up where my family lives in northern Minnesota. Last summer my brother had him working in the garden, caring for the horses, grading the driveway, right beside him and when work was done on a hot day in the evening they’d ride the 4-wheeler up to the beach for a swim in Lake of the Woods, light off firecrackers, sit around a fire as it grew dark. My brother, who’s a big man, but tender, said this quiet boy one day sat on his lap and said, “I love you, Grandpa.” Now from far away in Florida, he’s coming back for Christmas. He’d like to… “please, can I move up there so I can live with you, you wouldn’t even know I was here, I’d be so good, so quiet…”

So…the traditions. The small loves we give in the ordinariness of everyday life may be that sacred thing that will one day say, you are not lost in the cosmos. There is a bigger, better someone who loves you.

My favorite ornament given to me, ever: Baby Jesus in a nest. (Thanks, Judi Fong.)

Romancing Honeysuckle

Honeysuckle just hopped past where I’m working on the porch. She needed a drink after nibbling the rubber seal off the door to Anita’s studio. She’s doubled in size the last two weeks, (or is that bloat from rug fringe and Denis’ slipper toes?) and when she bounds up the ramp and bangs into her hutch you know it. This latest addition was added to the household because angora bunnies produce beautiful wool that can be spun into fine yarn and as a fiber artist, that is Anita’s intention. Whatever Honeysuckle’s value in that department, she has certainly been another interesting individual to indulge.

At first she was going to live in her hutch in the yard, but we’ve made room for her on the back porch where she roams freely using her litter box when necessary, eating dandelions, apple branches and rabbit kibble. As long as someone is around to make sure she doesn’t gnaw on electric cords, we let her in the house. She steadfastly ignores me unless I offer her a  banana slice which she will eat in any condition, peels and all. This does spare me from freezing them only to pitch them out six months later because I didn’t make banana bread after all.

She likes my donkey tails houseplant and I’m pretty lazy about removing her from it. Forgive me, dear Mary Jane, but I plan to sacrifice it to Honeysuckle even though almost every day the plant reminds me of you and all you suffered. But some day I’ll be where you are again and we will probably make gardens even more beautiful than the one you had in Durango.

I think it is awfully indulgent when Denis laughs as she pulls books off the bottom shelf in our front room and eats their spines and corners. (You would think this slightly inconsistent, too, if you knew how precioussss his books are.) I decided to buy her some special books when we stopped at a used bookstore so she could lay off the Tom Clancy spy novels. They can be her very own and she can snack on them whenever she wants. The cheapest paperbacks were bodice rippers and I carefully chose three for their titles: Hot to the Touch, Awaken to Pleasure, and Forbidden Temptation. When I went to pay I was going to tell the guy-clerk that they weren’t really for me, they were for our friend’s rabbit who liked to eat books, but then I thought that if he did care about good writing he’d just stare at me with pity. A rabbit. Like, right, lady.

Kitchen re-new

The traffic pattern in our old kitchen is convoluted, congested. Stand anywhere while I cook, in a matter of seconds I’ll need to gently move you. It’d cost thousands to remodel to current standards featuring the Occasional cook who demands a Wolf range and walk-in cooler but mostly orders takeout or eats in on Jenny Craig. Not that I judge. The question we asked (mostly of me since it’s my area mostly) is what could we do that would make it more attractive to a buyer, and yet fall within our budget and my quirky tastes in case we live here til I die or can’t walk.



We painted first. That was last summer. We uncovered the chimney bricks, chose a warmish gray color so that with the radiator and pipes exposed on the ceiling we had a kind of faux industrial look. The new lighting above window over the sink casts a sunny glow that warms the space. I love this on cold dreary days.


For years I intensely disliked our Formica boomerang-patterned, coral-colored countertops until the style came round again. Mine weren’t just retro, they were authentic. It’s humbling to learn you’re a complete relativist when it comes to fashion. Even though Formica lasts about a hundred years, this was getting too worn. Picking new made me anxious. Denis was, whatever you want is okay with me. I finally chose maple butcher block. I wanted something natural, organic, warm, and easy on the dishes I regularly shatter. Couldn’t find much info anywhere on care or upkeep since everyone goes for laminate, granite or concrete these days. Laminate is the cheapest, the cost for a wood is higher, but less than stone.




After the counter was installed I was told to give it a coat of mineral oil. So I did, thinking along lines of polishing furniture. You know. A shot of dusting spray and a bit of a rub down. But the oil totally disappeared, as if I’d done nothing at all. It took several days to figure it out that I needed to dump a cup or more of oil at a time, spread it with my palm, working it in until the surface felt warm to the touch, then let it sit for a few hours, wipe off the excess and do it again and again. The scent of the wood and the rhythm of circling and spreading made things slow down, hold still. I could appreciate the color and pattern of the grain and a sense that I was preserving this beauty not just for myself but for others who might someday use it. I eventually applied three and a half pints of mineral oil.

The extra care needed to wipe up standing water especially around the sink and to not set the red wine bottle directly on the surface is okay with me. I’m still obsessive about not cutting on it and keep the old boards handy so one isn’t quite so tempted to forget. Over time it will develop a patina, the grain will smooth out more and there will be dings and stains that give it character. I like this.



A new countertop isn’t newsworthy, but most of daily life isn't. It only sounds a small note - part of a larger symphony – a desire to live well and gratefully as God’s creatures in the ordinary chores of life.