This blog is about self-love, intimacy with others, and finding both. It is first and foremost, a spiritual blog that explores non-denominational spiritual evolution.
Do you know how precious you are? If you’re like me, probably not. Or you sometimes forget. I barely know how precious I am. I catch glimpses of my precious heart once in a while. When I look sideways at myself from the corner of my eye and see a golden light that is so tender and sweet and me, then I remember and relax.
Banging my head on the wall day in day out when I want something badly, like a literary agent and a book deal, crying in frustration “Not enough!” is, I admit, a little embarrassing. God just laughs and says, “Oh Polly, you are too funny!”
Little peon me doesn’t know how bright and shiny she is. Bright and shiny, that’s me. And you too. But do we act like we believe this? No, we don’t. We whine and complain, saying, “I hate waiting! I hate trying! I hate persevering in the face of uncertainty!” Like an impatient, hungry, and angry kid who wants what she wants NOW!
I once waited 36 years for a dream to come true
Except, I once waited 36 years for a dream to come true—to move to the mountains. It was a long, long wait. While waiting I thought, if it’s meant to happen, it will. And it did. Same with my publishing dream. If it’s meant to come true, it will and my obsessing about it won’t make it happen any sooner.
So, my prayer today is, dear Lord, may I have the grace to be grateful for all that I have and all that I am learning. If it is meant to be, my publishing dream will come true. In the meantime, let me fully appreciate and enjoy with humility the dream that has already come true—my life here in the mountains, my good health, and my abundant blessings.
This post is not my usual fare. A Twitter follower asked me for my cinnamon rolls recipe, so here it is. And when I say to-die-for, I’m not kidding. These cinnamon lovers cinnamon rolls require almost a pound of butter. My husband is a cinnamon roll aficionado. He compares all cinnamon rolls to mine and says a couple have come close, but still aren’t as good as these. I make them one day ahead so they can rest unbaked overnight in the frig.
Day 1 Prep time including rising: 2-2 1/2 hours
Day 2 Rising & Bake time: 60 minutes.
Ingredients for Dough:
3 ½ teaspoons active dry yeast (not fast acting)
2 teaspoons sugar
1/3 cup warm water
1 cup buttermilk
1 ½ sticks salted butter (6 ounces)
½ cup sugar
5 cups unbleached all-purpose flour (not bread flour–too much gluten makes the dough too gooey.)
(1 teaspoon salt)
Ingredients for Cinnamon Filling and butter drizzle:
1 1/2 sticks salted butter (6 ounces), plus ½ cup melted butter for drizzle
1 1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
3/8 cup ground cinnamon (I think Saigon cinnamon is the best but not necessary)
1 tsp vanilla extract
Ingredients for Cream Cheese Frosting:
4 ounces cream cheese (1/2 block)
2/3 cup powdered sugar
1 teaspoons vanilla extract
Instructions:
Dissolve 2 tsp. sugar into 1/3 cup warm water. Sprinkle in 3 ½ tsp yeast. Stir gently just until dissolved. Let sit 10 minutes. Yeast should foam. If it doesn’t your yeast is old.
Meanwhile, melt 1 ½ sticks butter with ½ cup granulated white sugar and stir. When almost all the butter has melted, remove from heat. Let cool until not too hot for your finger, but still warm. In a separate measuring cup microwave 1 cup buttermilk 30 seconds. NO LONGER OR IT WILL CURDLE! All this bother is to keep the yeast happy and warm – not too hot, not too cold. Too hot, you’ll kill the active yeast, too cold, it won’t grow.
Bread Maker
If using a bread maker, which I highly recommend, pour the butter-sugar mixture into bread maker canister, add warmed buttermilk, then add the foaming yeast. Add 5 cups flour. Add ¼ tsp salt into four corners of the canister on top of the flour. Close lid. Select dough option on your bread maker. Start! Should take 1 ½ hours to knead and rise. Don’t over rise or you’ll have a mess on your hands.
Mix Master
If you don’t have a bread maker, then I hope you have a Mix Master. I have never made these rolls completely by hand. Do everything the same way. Use the blender blade until the dough is just mixed. It will be gloppy and sticky. You probably should add flour gradually and use the plastic guards that keeps the flour from spilling over the sides.
Change to the blade that looks like the letter ‘J’ and stir or knead for 5 minutes. Then take out the ball of dough and knead it on a lightly floured surface for a minute or so. It should be pliable, soft and elastic, not tough or stiff. Pour 1-2 tsp tasteless cooking oil like canola oil into a ceramic or glass mixing bowl (metal bowl from the Mix Master will get too hot for yeast), place your dough ball in it, then turn it over so that the oily side is on top. Cover with wax paper and damp tea towel and place in a warm oven on top of a potholder so the bowl doesn’t touch the hot rack. Turn oven off. Check in a half hour or 45 minutes. If oven temp is too cool turn it back on a few seconds to warm the oven again. Just don’t let the oven get too hot or too cool. Let dough rise for a total of 90 minutes.
Cinnamon Paste
While the dough is rising, melt 1 1/2 sticks salted butter in a medium saucepan. Add brown sugar and cinnamon, and 1 tsp vanilla. Should make a spreadable paste. Let cool while dough is rising.
Rolling the Dough
When dough is ready, lightly flour a countertop and roll out dough into roughly an 11’’x 17” rectangle. It doesn’t need to be exact. Your dough should be elastic and easy to roll. If it’s hard and tough, something went wrong.
Stir cinnamon paste and spread evenly over the dough. After spreading the filling, you may want to let it set a half-hour to harden a bit. Otherwise, it may be so runny that when you start to roll the dough the filling gushes out the front and sides. Or it may have cooled enough already.
Starting at the narrow end, carefully curl the edge in and keep curling until you have a long log. Cinnamon paste may ooze. Measure 1 ½ inch portions and make a small slit with a sharp knife to mark the spot. Don’t cut all the way through. The first joint of my index finger is one inch, so it makes a perfect ruler. Then take a long piece of thread that doesn’t break easily, or maybe unflavored dental floss? and use that to cut the roll by sliding the thread under it and then bringing both ends up and crossing them to cut the roll into 1 ½ “ pieces. Do not use a knife to cut the roll or else the paste will squish out and the rolls will tear. Place each piece on your baking pan. (I spray my pan lightly.)
Don’t pack the rolls in too tightly. You may have to use a small extra pan. I usually do. I can fit eight rolls to an 8″ x 12″ metal pan.
Melt the remaining ½ stick of salted butter and drizzle it over the unbaked rolls. Cover and refrigerate overnight. (I’ve never baked the rolls without refrigerating them overnight, but I suppose you could just stick them in the oven if you want them right away.)
Baking and Cream Cheese Frosting Instructions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Take rolls out of the frig and let them sit uncovered at room temperature for 30 minutes. Place on middle rack in the preheated oven.
Bake for 30 minutes. If small pans hold only 4 rolls, bake 22 minutes and check.
Oven temperatures may vary, so keep an eye on them the first time you bake these. It’s okay to open the oven at, say 28 minutes for a look. Rolls should be golden brown like light brown sugar. Dark brown like dark brown sugar is overdone.
While rolls are baking, leave cream cheese uncovered at room temperature. When ready to eat rolls, microwave a 1/2 block of cream cheese 20 seconds, whip with hand mixer, add vanilla extract and powdered sugar, whip again. Voila!
Nine women from my book club came over for dinner (salmon tacos with mango salsa). For dessert I read them my first anthologized short story, “Milk.” And then I listened and observed while they discussed it, uncovering insights and possibilities, each delving deeper into the story’s meaning.
And what fascinated me was that the story had a different meaning for each woman. One woman saw possibilities I hadn’t seen while writing it, and others saw completely different possibilities.
What I love about short story writing
That’s what I love about short story writing—you leave a gate open through which the reader can travel and take her own path, reach her own conclusions—the ones she needs to make. Ambiguity allows her to co-create with the author.
Have you done an awesome thing you were afraid to do lately, like jump into a cold mountain stream only to be rewarded with pure joy?
I hope this summer brings you at least one of these kinds of experiences.
I experienced one such blissful moment recently. My husband and I have scheduled outings every Friday. This past week we went to Skinny Dip Falls in the Pisgah National Forest. No one was skinny dipping though.
The water looked so inviting and it was a hot day, but it was so cold! 55 degrees! I dove in anyway and rose out of the water shrieking. But then I dove in again and swam underwater to the waterfall. Pure bliss.
The reward of bravery is precious fulfillment. I’m not talking about folly. There’s a difference. Folly is when you don’t take into consideration the likely negative consequences and do it anyway. Bravery is when you commit to a challenge that has potentially beneficial outcomes.
If you are faced with an opportunity that looks awesome, but frightening, I encourage you to take the plunge. I’ll bet you’ll be rewarded with bliss.
Years ago I hated myself and treated myself accordingly. I tried to manipulate others to get my way. How happy I am that life has given me second chances over and over again. To make mistakes and learn from them, to get it right—to get me right.
Yesterday I was on a Zoom meeting with over 30 volunteers giving their time to a beloved organization to assure its health and longevity. We were online from noon to five and in that time everyone was kind, loving, giving, cordial, polite and conscientious. I felt grateful to be amongst such healthy people—so lively, vibrant, and caring. They mirrored my own spiritual development.
Happiness and Service to Others
Whereas earlier in my life I resented anyone asking for my help, or to go out of my way for them, today I am eager and grateful to be of service. It is a wonderful way to live. I am so grateful to God for showing me this new way of being. She presents us with just the right lessons exquisitely tailored to our needs. She gives us opportunities to learn precisely what we need to know in order to grow in awareness and enable change within ourselves.
Being of service to others or to something greater than myself is one of the many ways I grow and become a happier person. I am enjoying the fruits of those lessons, namely, patience and gratitude.
When I was six years old my mother took me to a roller-skating rink. I had never been on skates before and hated the way my feet rolled out from under me. I clung to the wall in misery as I made my way around the rink. My mother enjoyed herself in the center doing twirls and circles.
Around I went until I noticed I was the only person on the rink. What was going on? When I approached the opening, people were calling my name, yelling and laughing. Arms reached for me, hands grabbing. Terrified, I avoided them and continued on my way, vaguely aware that a man and a woman were performing in the center of the rink.
I’ll bet very few people were watching the professional skaters. Instead, they were watching this little girl clinging to the wall, going around yet again. What on earth was she doing?
Humiliated and embarrassed, I ran into the bathroom and hid
When I approached the exit a second time, hands pulled me off the rink into a crowd of laughing adults and children. Humiliated and embarrassed, the moment my mother removed the skates from me feet I ran into the bathroom and hid in a stall.
Is this experience an emblem of my life—me struggling in places I shouldn’t be, but refusing help and needing to be rescued?
We all make mistakes. The last thing we need is an audience. I hated being the center of humiliating attention where an arena of strangers laughed and pointed at me. And yet, since then I’ve made myself the center of humiliating attention time and again.
Sorry, I don’t know
When I was performing a flute concerto from memory in Orchestra Hall with my university orchestra, I lost my place and completely botched the performance. My French teacher was sitting front and center, a look of horror on his face as his grin slid into a grimace. Another time I was hired as a consultant for a state arts commission to speak about corporate sponsorship of the arts, but I didn’t know enough about it. I had to say, “Sorry, I don’t know, but I’ll get back to you,” repeatedly to a room of 300 people.
I forgive myself for the mistakes I have made. That gives me confidence.
And I’m about to do it again. With my memoir this time, where I write about all the terrifying, humiliating, and shameful things I have done in my life. Why?
Because I survived. And because it’s a good story. I didn’t get all the guidance I needed when I was little. Adults didn’t watch over me, teaching me, helping me, but I survived and learned to thrive. Learning to love myself and treat myself and others well has been my journey. I forgive myself for the mistakes I have made, and forgive others for hurting or abandoning me. That gives me confidence to stop abandoning myself. That’s a good story.
So, this time when I enter the arena I will be ready. I cannot control the outcome, but when I get published, I will be prepared to face the audience with confidence. This is my story, and I am ready to be of service, hoping it may help someone.
When my mother was pregnant with me, she begged her obstetrician for an abortion. She didn’t want to be pregnant yet again, didn’t want another child. Yet, she had no choice. She had to give birth to me.
“I adored you the moment you popped out, of course,” she says.
The last time she told me this abortion story, she was 95 and I was 67. She’s been telling me this story all my life. I’ve spent decades wondering why and whether she really loves me. Letting me leave home at age 15, abandoning me in my own apartment at age 17, not wanting to see my firstborn, her first grandchild, until he was older and more interesting. (“Newborns are so boring. They don’t do anything.”) So many reasons to wonder—did she adore me?
I used to take her treatment of me personally. It hurt deeply, having a mother who didn’t seem to care all that much whether I existed. But I have learned what matters is that I love myself and have found others who love me as well. My mother’s lack of depth or intimacy needn’t hold me back from becoming all that I can be. I don’t take her treatment of me personally anymore.
A Change of Attitude
It takes a change of attitude to see ourselves as worthy of love and to let go of the resentments towards those who have hurt us. That can take a lot of work. Painful work. But it is worthwhile facing it.
It takes a change of attitude to see ourselves as worthy of love and to let go of the resentments towards those who have hurt us.
How I started out in life wasn’t my choice. How I have continued in life is my choice. I chose to love me. I wish everyone made that choice, although it’s hard work getting to that point of self-love. It was for me anyway.
When I was 21, it was my most fervent dream to believe I was good—innately good, and to feel it and be it and operate from that truth. It took decades for me to embody that truth, even though I was good from the very beginning. At first it was just a dream, a hope, and then I began to believe I am love.
It is true for all of us. Many of us just don’t know it or believe it yet. But you will. If that is what you want to believe, you will know you are love.
I found the goodness within me and believe it to be true. I have faith in a Higher Power that loves me.
As for my mom, all I can do is pray for her. And I do. God will handle the rest.
A young friend called asking for advice saying she was full of anxiety and didn’t know what to do. She had fled to her parents’ house after a fight with her husband. I asked whether she had done that before—fled to her parents. Yes, numerous times, she said.
“And does that work? Is it helpful?”
“No.”
“I believe that is the definition of insanity. Doing the same thing over and over, hoping for a different outcome.”
She paused, taking that statement in.
“Do you feel unsafe with your husband?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” she said.
And then she figured out on her own what she needed to do, which was to go home and deal with the pain rather than run from it.
Scientists run experiments repeatedly to do just exactly that—to get the same results in order to prove that their theorem is correct. It truly is insanity when we do the same thing over and over hoping for something different to happen.
Finding Clarity
So often we get so close to a thing we can’t see it. I’m glad my friend called me. I could see clearly what the issue was and simply asked her the right questions.
That’s what a good editor does–cuts through the confusion to arrive at clarity. I need one of those. I feel like I’m running in circles with my memoir. Someday, I hope you’ll get to read it. My message is, don’t take what happens to you in life personally. It has no bearing on your value and worth. Your dignity, psyche and heart may be bruised. It takes time to face that pain and sort it out. But running away from pain never works. You must stay in the trenches and deal with it. And then you discover your self-worth is intact.
It takes time to face that pain and sort it out. But running away from pain never works. You must stay in the trenches and deal with it. And then you discover your self-worth is intact.
Attitude adjustments take work and time. If you’ve told yourself “I’m worthless” for years, it may take time to believe otherwise. And then you will know your worth and smile deep down in your soul.
Be patient and gentle with yourself. You’re going to be okay.
A slightly longer version of this essay was published in Vol. XI, Spring 2023 print edition of MetonymLiterary Journal.
My ninety-one-year-old mother is shivering on the patio on a cool spring day. I remove my shawl from my shoulders and drape it around hers. She opens her eyes. “Ew! What are you doing with that thing? I don’t want that!” She tosses it to the ground. I pick it up and walk away feeling hurt and ashamed. I remind myself I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s my first time in my mother’s new house on the other side of the country. I try not to disturb the precarious balance she and my sister, Tiggy, her permanent caretaker, have established.
Dinnertime isn’t for a couple of hours, but my body is on a different timetable. I find a pot of water on the stove, sniff it, and boil a potato in it. Ten minutes before it’s done I add a stalk of broccoli. As I’m eating, I think, broccoli certainly is sweet in this part of the country. What an odd variety.
Tiggy enters the kitchen and goes to the stove. “Where’s the water that was in this pot?”
“Oh! I used it.”
“That was hummingbird syrup! Why didn’t you ask first?”
I laugh at my mistake. “No wonder the broccoli was so sweet!”
She is not amused. She flips a hand and slaps her thigh in exasperation, then leaves the room. I feel clumsy and stupid. I get out my phone and look up on the Internet how to make hummingbird syrup and have just found a bag of white sugar in the pantry when Tiggy reenters the kitchen. “Don’t bother,” she says.
“I just thought I’d help.”
“Well, please don’t.”
Bruised and angry, I grab an umbrella and go for a long walk in the rain. I reach a friend on my cell phone and tell him my woes. By coincidence, he’s also visiting family and tells me his. We laugh and take courage from each other.
Late at night, in the privacy of my sister’s art studio which seconds as a guest bedroom, I lie naked on my yoga mat in front of the space heater. It’s how I relax and unwind. Is it my imagination, or do I smell paper burning? Someone taps on the door. The doorknob twists back and forth. My sister knocks loudly. I quickly pull on my bathrobe and yank open the door. She stands there looking rejected and hurt. “Why did you lock it?”
“I like privacy.”
“Why are you yelling at me?”
“Because you woke me up,” I lied.
“If you hadn’t locked it I would have snuck in quietly. I wouldn’t have woken you.”
She gets what she needs, then softly closes the door behind her. I hesitate, my hand poised over the knob, but leave it unlocked.
The next morning Mom looks up from her crossword puzzle. “Did you hear me yelp last night? Tiggy made a batch of hummingbird syrup, forgot it was on the stove and set off the smoke detector. I was terrified!”
I open the back door and find the scorched pot on the stoop; billows of charred lava fill it to the brim. I pick it up, thinking I’ll scrub it clean, hesitate and put it back down.
Later, I drive Mom to a national wetlands park nearby Tiggy says Mom won’t like.
It has finally stopped raining and only a few people are there. We sit on a bench listening to birds and admiring the view.
“It’s lovely out here,” Mom says. “Peaceful. Tiggy would love it.”
I agree. I want to carry her here in my arms and make her sit and breathe.
Returning home, I notice the weedy flowerbed encircling the massive ponderosa pine out front. I enjoy weeding. The physical exertion of digging into the Earth and releasing Her fragrant richness soothes me. After depositing Mom into her favorite chair, I go to the garage and find a trowel and spade but no gardening gloves. I’d ask Tiggy if she has some but decide against it, thinking she’ll tell me not to bother.
I bite into the impacted, grass-bound bed with the spade, then kneel on the cool ground, disentangling various bulbs from roots and put them aside in a pile to replant. A few mounds of grass clumps are scattered around me when Tiggy rushes outside. “There are all kinds of bulbs in there! You’ve got to be careful!”
The roots of our sisterly frustration pull at me. I resist, but not successfully. I smile wanly, pick up the trowel and spade, and without a word, take them back to the garage. Then I retreat to her studio and sit on the bed, arms folded, and stare out the window at nothing, my mind a wall of frustration. I look about at her art projects everywhere—huge, bold oil paintings, delicate watercolors, wire sculptures of playful characters—a woman eating peas, a cowboy singing, and wonder at the woman who creates so marvelously and uninhibitedly. This is the sister I want to be with, not this brittle, tense person I now see.
My eye falls on an empty glass I hadn’t noticed before sitting on the wicker trunk that acts as a bedside table. It’s etched with the words, “The Pumpkin Ball.” “Pumpkin” is my mother’s pet name for me. Then I turn and notice for the first time the clothes rack that had been lying in a jumble on the floor earlier is now assembled with a few items Tiggy offered me hanging from it, including a very nice black mohair jacket that no longer fits her. I am touched by her thoughtfulness, her generosity. I feel chastened. I look around at the dazzling expressions of my sister’s creativity, appreciating her artwork. It is all so stunning. I ache because she is stunning, and I miss her.
I hear Tiggy coughing and clearing her throat in the next room. I want to make up with her but don’t know how. How can I walk through the adjoining bedroom without an ugly encounter? I yearn to return to the flower bed, to dig in the soil, to pull and weed, to tidy things. Then I remember, I’m not nine years old anymore. I can do what is best for me without hurting anyone. Perhaps I have been careless and disruptive. But right now, I need to be outside, digging and pulling and breaking apart. I close my eyes and pray. Help me, Lord. Let me be kind and patient and good to us both.
I stand in the doorway. “I’m going back out to weed, if that’s alright.”
Tiggy turns from her computer. I detect a fraction of relief, an easing of tension about the eyes and mouth. She holds out three left-handed gardening gloves. “It’s all I have. It really would be lovely if you want to weed. I just wanted you to know what’s in there. I’m sure you’d feel the same about your garden.”
“You’re right. I’m sure I would.”
I am three-quarters of the way around the tree, shaking out dirt from a root ball when Tiggy approaches. At first, I think she is going to tell me I’m doing it wrong, but then I notice she’s smiling and holding out a glass of wine.
“What? Now?” I survey my work. A few primroses past bloom breathe freely, two lily stalks yet to flower stoop slightly, clumps of volunteer blackberry seedlings lay in a pile ready to be transplanted. “Maybe in a bit,” I say, “but thanks.”
“It looks good. Are you going to be here all night?” she teases.
“Just a while longer. I’m almost done.”
She retreats and a moment later I hear tapping at the window above me. Tiggy and Mom wave. They put their hands to their brows and turn left and right as if scanning the horizon searching for me. I mime binoculars with my hands and stare back at them, grinning.
After all the tiny crocus bulbs and large tulip bulbs are replanted, and I’ve swept away the dirt from the brick border and dumped grassy clumps by the compost I enter the house to wash up. Vegetable soup heats in the crock pot on the counter. I help myself and when Tiggy enters the kitchen she looks alarmed.
“You said to help myself to whatever was in the kitchen,” I say, mid-mouthful.
She stammers, “Yes, but….” Then pauses and relaxes her shoulders. “Okay…it’s not quite ready.”
She’s right, but I’m famished and scoop another spoonful into my mouth. “It’s delicious just the way it is.”
She accepts my choice with a faint smile. A truce, then, as if she’s acknowledging, to each her own.
The rest of our visit goes relatively smoothly. Eventually we talk about Mom’s estate. I tell Tiggy how much I appreciate the care with which she has managed all of Mom’s financial affairs. She’s made a huge sacrifice to take care of our mother. I endeavor to accept her choices and not interfere. It’s difficult; I feel guilty not doing more. But I hold myself back. All I can do is take care of myself, watch from a distance, and hope my love is enough.
There’s a family of catbird’s right outside my bedroom window. The bush leans up against the pane, so I have an eyelevel view of the nest. I saw the moment one of the parents returned to it this spring, inspecting its intactness, how it had weathered over the winter. I watched as Mama bolstered its security and sturdiness with new twigs. And then it got in, ready to lay eggs. (I had seen the moment the nestlings fledged last year.)
Mama and Papa catbird are diligent parents. I see them foraging throughout the day while I’m in the yard, flying back and forth with small worms. When I’m in my room, I keep a discreet distance from the window, wanting to give the family its privacy, not wanting to scare them away, but I doubt if I even could, at least not permanently. The parents are so dedicated.
Mama flies to the bush just now while I’m watching. She lands in the low branches, then hops her way up to the nest. I think she saw me through the glass for she perched on the nest looking at me before feeding the tiny beaks that barely crested into view. And then she stuffed worm bits into several beaks and sat on her brood. It’s a cool morning.
Ah, what maternal bliss, watching what nature does instinctually. Alas, it is not so for us humans.
