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There's a game I play sometimes: I look at my life as it is in this moment, think of everything I possess right now, and ask myself if I would be happy if nothing ever changed. I won't deny that sometimes this leads to sadness bordering on desperation. What if I don't finish my novel? Never build that house on the lake? Fail to see Burma? Is this it?  Time and money often factor into this mental equation. Self-doubt can creep in. On those days, I question if I have fulfilled my potential, tried hard enough, risked enough. But I am not what I own, nor even what I do, and if I start to define myself by those measures, there is no satisfaction guaranteed.

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A bit more about our little homestead. We've put in a lot of work over the last 7 years, transforming a place that was decidedly ramshackle, with questionable bones, into our own private paradise. I found this cottage just at the time I met G, so a major undertaking I had thought would be a solo project turned out to be a challenge built for two. (Still thanking my lucky stars!) Why not buy something new and pristine, you ask? Well, money, for one thing. Plus I was looking for something in this area in order to be close to a good friend (who wound up selling his place, but that's another story) and this was well-situated and truly the best of the bunch I saw. And I just envisioned the possibilities, I guess. Remember, at the time I was single and it was intended to be a weekend place, so I didn't think I needed lots of space. But when Prince Charming entered, he immediately financed the construction of our pride and joy: the screened-in porch.
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It occurred to me that you never get to see inside our little cottage, aside from a quick peek at the bathroom we renovated. We had the white brick fireplace built to replace the wood-burning stove that was here originally. Inspiration came from a Swedish book on fireplaces that I found in the mid-90s in a vintage book store in Illinois and carried around optimistically for a decade. We also stained the floors and ceiling beams a deep espresso brown and gave the walls a coat of white paint. My aesthetic is defnitely inspired by my Northern California upbringing, with lots of earthy colors and organic textures. (I recently received this book as a gift and was instantly nostalgic.) Mixed in are assorted works of art, ceramics, elements from nature and pieces collected on our travels, including several Berber rugs from Morocco.
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Today I am 50. It seems somehow inconceivable and yet it is merely the inevitable outcome of staying alive. (Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.) I’ve done more than that though—I’ve lived. And, as the inimitable Édith Piaf sang, Je ne regrette rien. I learned to play the oboe. I lived in Spain. I graduated from Harvard. I made my way in New York City. I moved to Los Angeles and back. I married 3 times, divorced twice and was widowed. I traveled the world. I found true love and married again. I bought a house in the woods and 5 acres on a lake. I started this blog. There have been some admirable achievements. There have been some spectacular flameouts. Much has been lost, but even more gained.

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With the advent of cable and increasingly sophisticated content, television is no longer just for "boobs." In fact, new shows featuring great female characters mean that boobs are now making headway in front of the camera. In general, these boobs are clothed, though on HBO's Girls, writer/director/star Lena Dunham frequently strips down, both figuratively and literally. You've probably heard plenty of rants and raves about this show already (including from me at the tail end of this post) but let me just reiterate that you don't have to be 25 years old or even female to enjoy it. It's illuminating, poignant, disturbing and hilarious. Whether or not Dunham is the voice of her generation, she's an original and one to watch.
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Our Christmas Eve tradition is to gather with friends and enjoy delicious food. This year, chef MiK (not his main profession) outdid himself with an epic menu of small plates that left few culinary stones unturned. We turned up early at Beaver Dam (other photos here and here) to help with the cooking, but the lion's share had been done and I was happy to play sous-chef for the night. The kitchen features an enormous wooden island to which guests and cooks alike moored themselves throughout the evening. It's where the action was. Round 1: bay scallop ceviche with fennel-grapefruit salad and a drizzle of chile oil. Portions were modest and the courses just kept on coming.
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Are you house-proud? It's one of the simple satisfactions of domestic life. I believe that living in a clean, uncluttered space that's well-organized and smells fresh is essential for health and happiness. Your house doesn't have to be big (mine is tiny) and your furnishings needn't be fancy, but you can surround yourself with things that are pleasing to the senses. Right now, I've made some small adjustments in honor of the holidays. I'm burning this fabulous juniper incense all the time (I also love their Big Sur cabin spray) and I've brought in bunches of red winterberries and boughs of fragrant pine. My three big silver mercury glass ornaments (jumbo versions of these that I got at the old Takashimaya) and our two embroidered stockings are out—small tributes to the Christmas tradition in which I was raised. And I'm also loving incorporating Jan Richter's lovely drawings into little vignettes around the house. Those are her gorgeous pomegranates, above. Have you been to the GFL shop yet? Her work is for sale there.
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There really is something about this time of year that invites a heightened emotional state. As much as I want to resist the cliché, I find myself steeped in memories, haunted by the ghosts of Christmases past. The minute I've digested my last bite of Thanksgiving turkey, I begin playing our family's traditional holiday music: Handel's Messiah, Noel by Joan Baez and Misa Criolla. It fills me with joy and sorrow in equal measure, and I wallow in both. I don't want to seem maudlin, nor to keep forcing you into unwanted introspection, but there are some more things I want to share with you and this just seems to be the right moment. Bear with me; inspiring cookbook recommendations and cheery holiday recipes are coming soon. Some of what I want to tell you is tied to this post, inspired by my time in the hospital with G—who is doing great, by the way...
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It has been a challenging week. My husband had surgery on his leg on Tuesday, to remove the steel hardware that repaired the shin bones he shattered in a motorcycle accident in Indonesia in April of 2011. Compared to the original surgery, this was nothing, though the surgeon did take an hour to scrape away at the healed bone in order to retrieve the 7 screws and one long plate from G's tibia. So I have no recipe for you today. Instead what I have is a heavy scarf of mixed emotions that I knit while waiting in the hospital, striped with painful memories and fringed with hope. I'm sorry to grieve you but I must unburden myself.
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Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
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