When I originally started Butterfly Mind, I planned my site to be an online home for writing. I wanted words to be the focus – I didn’t foresee using photographs at all – and I selected Oulipo, a journalist theme (layout), to highlight that intention.
Recently, I’ve been feeling the limitations of that choice. I’ve started posting more images on my site, and my original theme was not kind to photography. The column was too narrow to showcase landscape layouts, and there were no options to feature images.
But aside from that, I felt an itch to move the furniture.
Back in June, Cheri Lucas Rowlands wrote about her choice to redesign her blog. She got my wheels turning, and I think I browsed the WordPress.com theme showcase at the time – just to see. I didn’t do anything with my site then, but the seed had been planted. Though I didn’t water or feed it, it grew anyway.
When I returned from Hawaii, I returned inspired. More fluid. Vulnerable to beauty. The past few nights I’ve been staying up, computer on my lap in the big comfy chair, while my husband watches The Walking Dead. I signed up for a free site, set it to private, imported all of my content from Butterfly Mind, and started playing with themes.
I tried several that didn’t suit me, then found a post highlighting themes for writers on Hot Off the Press, the WordPress.com news blog. From there I narrowed my choices down to two. I tweaked widget areas, played with featured images, rearranged menus. And I ultimately decided (with our 9 year old daughter’s help) on Hemingway Rewritten; I was a little giddy that the theme that works best for my blog is named for one of my favorite authors.
The influence of Hawaii is obvious in my color choices and header image, and what I love about Hemingway Rewritten is that it still offers a sidebar like my previous theme, but it eliminates a third column by moving the menu to the top.
Now photographs can take up more space. They can breathe. And I particularly love that I can customize a particular post’s header by attaching a featured image, like here, here, and here. Of course, that means I need to go through nearly 300 posts to attach featured images, but that’s okay – my husband has a lot of Walking Dead to watch.
Do you have a thing you daydream about – an ambition, a wish, a thing you’d love to do but you know it will probably never happen? Some people call it a bucket list, I suppose.
I had that thing. I’ve had it since I was about 12, a freckle-faced island girl with a brother who surfed. He listened to the weather radio as he waited for waves, and his room smelled like Sex Wax, and bleached-hair, tanned-skin 16 year-old boys would trample in and out of our house, bare feet on Mexican-tile floors, salty and sandy as they surfed and returned home, surfed and returned home.
If it ever occurred to me that I might learn to surf, I don’t remember it. Surfing resonated with me in some soul-deep way, but surfing was for boys, not for girls. I was intimidated by the scene and didn’t think I had a place in it.
So instead of surfing myself, I sat on the beach and watched. As I grew older, I sat in my convertible Bug and watched. I screened the movie North Shore over and over as a teenage girl, and when I came home from college I sat on the sea wall and watched.
The fascination has always stayed with me, but it wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized I wished I was surfing, not just watching other people surf. Not just watching movies or reading about surfing. By then it was out of my reach, though. Or at least, I always had excuses: there weren’t consistent waves off the nearby Naples shore; the beach was too far in Tampa; we moved to Minnesota; we moved to the mountains.
I think the reality of it was that I was afraid. I knew it would take time to learn, that it would be dicey on the choppy storm waves of the coasts I’ve known. That I would look like an idiot. That I wouldn’t know the etiquette. That I would fight the water instead of flowing with it. That I would fail.
I think I also knew that once I surfed once – once I stood up on a board and rode a wave – I’d want more.
And I was right.
~
Back in September, a week into my new job at Automattic, a colleague mentioned in passing, “Oh, you need to book your flight to Hawaii.”
What?
“Yeah, we’re having a team meetup in Kauai in December.”
Surf swap in Hanalei, Hawaii
Automattic is a distributed company, meaning we don’t work together in a central office but are scattered all over the world. Most of us work from home. As a result, we don’t see each other every day, or even on a weekly or monthly basis. Since Automattic doesn’t incur office space costs, we gather instead at week-long meetups to give ourselves the opportunity to work — and play — together. Generally a meetup consists of two (or more) travel days, four work days, and two days for activities together.
In the activities link, which offered options for horseback riding, tubing, hiking, it was there: surfing. And not only surfing, but surfing lessons. I knew my chance had come. I wouldn’t have to worry about any of my fears because I would have smooth waves, a long board, and instruction. And I wasn’t just going to surf, I was going to surf in Hawaii. My name was the first one on the spreadsheet.
Five of us drove from the south end of Kauai where we were staying to Quicksilver surf shop on the north end, in Hanalei, Hawaii. When we arrived, the shop signed us in, loaned us rashguards, and introduced us to our instructor, Makani, a lean Hawaiian with an easy smile. He said, “I can tell just by looking at you guys that you’re going to be awesome.” He flashed a white grin that made me believe him.
We spent about 10 minutes on dry land, jumping on longboards to check our stance, starting on our bellies to learn how to stand. Our instructor taught us to lay with our feet less than six inches from the board’s tail, to stand with our back foot planted perpendicular to and bisecting the board’s center line, to put weight on our back foot to brake, on our front foot to go faster. After we pushed up onto our knees, then into a kneel, then into a stand two or three times he said, “You guys are pros! Let’s get in the water,” and we drove to the beach.
We surfed in Hanalei Bay, a protected alcove with a curved shoreline, surrounded by lush volcanic mountains, and with perfectly consistent, perfectly dependable, easy, aqua waves.
Makani, whose name means “wind” in Hawaiian, taught us how to tip our longboards over incoming breakers, and once we were out, he instructed us to turn our boards towards the shore and collected the noses at his chest. He watched the sets roll in behind us and would nod at one of us at a time, allow the wave to come up under us, then give us a shove and say, “Stand.”
He didn’t shout, he didn’t stress, he just said, “Stand.” And I stood.
I wiped out on my first wave, but I got enough of a feel of the wave beneath me that I was already hooked. I paddled back to him instantly for another run.
“Lean back when you stand so your nose doesn’t go under,” he said. He watched the swell behind me, turned his shoulder so my board could move past him, gave me a shove and said, “Stand.” I stood and rode the wave all the way to the beach.
I paddled back out to him again. And again. And again. And again. Each time he gave me a more advanced move.
“Paddle four strong strokes. Stand.”
“Don’t kneel this time. Jump straight to your feet when I say stand. Stand.”
“I want you to do a little hop. You’ve got your left foot forward, yeah? Do a quick hop to turn your body 180 degrees so your right foot is forward. Then hop back.” He scanned the swell behind me. “You do that you’ll be surfing in the big leagues. Learn the balance. Keep your center of gravity low. Stand.”
He motioned three of us to paddle over to him at the same time. “I’m going to put you all on this wave together.” We watched the beach as he watched the surf behind us. All three of our boards pointed at him. He shifted his shoulders so he was between two boards. “Stand.”
And we were on a party wave.
Surfboards in Hanalei, HI
After my 8th or 10th ride, Makani stopped telling me when to stand. I learned the feel of the surge and figured out that I can stand too early and the wave will roll under and give me a ride, but the opposite is not true. If you stand too late you miss out. I practiced the hop on flat water behind the break, when I wasn’t riding a wave but was stable. And again and again I pointed my board at Makani.
I began to worry that maybe I should be trying to catch my own wave. But I wanted more time riding. More time to feel the surge underneath me, to learn balance on liquid, to tap into the energy of the surf. To learn what it feels like to ride a wave so that when I’m on my own, I’ll have those sensations to guide me.
I asked Makani, “Is it okay if I just keep coming to you instead of figuring out how to catch my own wave?”
“Yeah!” he said. “That’s what I’m here for. Now this time, look over your shoulder.”
I looked.
“See that swell coming? When it’s 20 feet away you start paddling. And on this one I want you to do the trick. Do the hop. I know you can do it. Paddle.”
I paddled. I stood. I wiped out.
I paddled out again. I pointed my board at Makani. He watched behind me. “Paddle,” and release.
I paddled. I stood. And somewhere on the ride — I can’t remember if it was as the crest curled beneath me or as I glided into the beach at the end — I did the trick. I hopped. I turned. I hopped and turned back again. And I didn’t wipe out.
We only caught one more wave after that one, and our lessons were over. The tops of my toes and my thighs were shredded from rubbing the board, but I didn’t care. I wanted to keep going. It was perfect. Everything was perfect. I surfed. In Hawaii.
Thank you Store team. Thank you Automattic.
Makani and Automatticians in Hanalei, HI. Photo courtesy of Radford Smith (aka Rads)
Stand of firs from Wilburn Ridge on Appalachian Trail, hike to Mt. Rogers from Massie Gap, VA
We hiked Mt. Rogers last year with our kids. Mt. Rogers is the highest peak in the state of Virginia (5729 ft), and the entire hike is in the open like this, with nearly 360 degree views of the Appalachians. This is possibly my favorite hike that I’ve ever done. Unfortunately my theme does not do landscape photos justice – click the images for a larger view.
Wild ponies, colt, and view of Appalachians, Mt. Rogers, VAWild pony in sunlight along Appalachian Trail on Wilburn Ridge, Mt. Rogers, VA
I can’t resist greenery growing from the fissures of stones. Rocks seem an unlikely place for plants to take root. Granite is unyielding. It says: keep out, you cannot penetrate me.
And yet. There are little flowers that do. Every time I see green growing from stone, I am reminded of the persistence of life. And I am glad.
I grew up in my Southern home on pound cake, cheesecake, layer cakes with frosting, chocolate chip cookies and two kinds of pie: pecan and key lime. We didn’t do fruit pie in our house.
But when I met my husband, and more specifically, ate my first holiday meal with his mom, dad, sister, and two pies for the five of us, I discovered the gift of cherry pie.
Until his mom’s cherry pie, I had only eaten frozen or pre-made fruit pie, or pie made with filling from a can, where the fruit was mush or mealy, and the only flavor was sugar. From those experiences – at diners? on all-you-can-eat buffets? as a guest in someone’s home? they weren’t my mom’s, so I’m not sure where I tasted them – I assumed I did not like fruit pie, and I turned my nose up at it. But at this meal with my then-boyfriend’s family, the only dessert option was pie, and the pies were beautiful, and I didn’t want to offend his family, and so I ate pie.
I remember the crust, homemade and flaking, and the fruity burst of tart and sweet when the cherries touched my tongue. My limited experience with fruit pies in the past had not prepared me for this. I was transformed. Into a pie-lover. I ate the whole piece, then served myself another. Ate pie for breakfast the next day, because they do that in my husband’s family.
My husband is a Midwestern man, and in his family, pie is as vital to life as laughing. Over the years I’ve eaten every kind of pie they served up (except mincemeat): apple with a double crust, apple with a crumble top, apple with lattice work, pumpkin, sour cherry with a double crust, sour cherry with a crumble top, peach, strawberry rhubarb, loquat, pecan, chocolate pecan, and the most legendary of all, Aunt Sue’s grape pie. At nearly every holiday – Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas – during the pie eating portion of the meal, when everyone is sinking forks into golden crust and warm fruit, three pieces of pie on their plates (a slice of each – my kind of people), someone will inevitably say, “But have you tried Sue’s grape pie?” Eyes will roll in pleasure. “She always tries crazy stuff, and boy, that one is the best.”
Over the years, I have watched how they do things, building my pastry repertoire. Grandma Janet, the matriarch, advises not to cut the shortening all the way down to pea size when you’re making your crust. She says the secret is to leave some bigger chunks. Sally, my mother-in-law, uses a waxy rolling pad, with guiding circles printed on it to show how big to roll your dough, depending on whether you’re making a 9”, 10”, or deep dish crust. Aunt Sue (yes, I have had her grape pie, made from grapes she grows on her vine out back in Chicago, and yes, it is as good as they all say) uses a tea infuser – the $1.99 stainless steel kind with a handle that you squeeze to open the ball – to sprinkle flour on her board to roll out the dough.
But the best part of all is that there is never, ever shame associated with eating pie. At that first meal with my husband’s family, the meal with the life-altering cherry pie, there were actually two pies to choose from: cherry, and chocolate pecan. I stressed, plate in hand, about which one to try. The pecan was a sure bet, but the cherry was golden and red and glistening and beautiful. I wanted both. Then, talking and cutting, like nothing strange was going on, nothing greedy or gluttonous or shameful, my husband put one of each kind on his plate. So did my sister-in-law. And my mother-in-law.
I looked up at them, “So I can have them both?”
And they looked at me like, “Who is this woman Brian has brought home with him? Doesn’t she know how to eat pie?”
And I knew I wanted to marry this man. And his family.
Last year, we went to Aunt Connie’s for Thanksgiving, where the second incarnation of the family cherry tree still produces. It, or its predecessor, has stood in the same spot in the Columbus, Ohio yard since my mother-in-law and her six siblings were children. When they were growing up, Grandma Janet would harvest the sour cherries and make pies and cherry jam, just as Aunt Connie continues to do now.
When we arrived for Thanksgiving, Connie had two cherry pies on the counter (one with a crumble crust and one with a pastry crust), along with an apple and a pumpkin. I added my pecan pie to the spread. Our children, then 6 and 8, stood at eye level with those pies, and they drooled. Cousin Joe, in his mid-40s, immediately recognized them as competition.
On Thanksgiving day, after we feasted on the savory portion of the meal, we got to the part everyone was waiting for. The pie. Our son wanted apple. Our daughter wanted pumpkin. Cousin Mikie, in her early 40s, watched as our daughter squirted whipped cream on her piece. “That’s not enough, girl!” she said. Our daughter looked at me for permission, and I tipped my head. She grinned, flipped the can back over, and kept squirting.
I served myself a piece of cherry, a piece of apple, and a piece of pecan. I don’t know what everyone else ate, except that our son went back for a second piece of apple with Aunt Connie’s blessing.
Afterward, as we slouched in the dining room with our heads lolling on the chairbacks and our tongues hanging out of the sides of our mouths, totally spent from our day of gorging, Cousin Joey wandered through the kitchen. He didn’t know I was watching him, but I was. He surveyed the mostly empty pie plates, calculating how much was left, how much we would eat in a couple of hours, and how much might remain after that. He planned to go home for the evening and come back tomorrow. He looked up and I was looking right at him. “There were five pies,” he said. “Five.” His shoulders slumped. “I hope there’s some left tomorrow,” he said as he picked up his keys to leave. It didn’t look promising.
Sure enough, a few hours later, when we could move again, we hit the pies for a second round. Our son sliced yet another piece of the apple and I chided him. “Dude, leave some for everyone else.”
Aunt Connie swatted her hand at me and crouched down to our son’s level. “You eat as much as you want. I’ve got an extra one in the freezer.” Our son’s eyes widened, and he showed a bunch of teeth.
“You have another one in the freezer?” I asked. I didn’t know you could freeze pies.
Aunt Connie shrugged. “Yeah, you know, for emergencies.”
Emergency Pie.
I heard the squssssshhhhh of the whipped cream can, then Mikie and our daughter giggling. Our son looked at Aunt Connie and gave her one of his sweet, soul-felt smiles, where his eyes crinkle and his irises clear, and you can see down into his deepest, gratitude-filled, awe-inspiring depths and you wonder, how many lives has this little boy lived? How ancient is this happy, Buddha soul? Then he turned his smile to me, holding his pie-filled plate in both hands, and he said, across the golden brown crust and with his silly open mouthed grin, “I love my family.”
*(R) – This post was originally published October 3, 2013. I’ve got pie on my mind right now and couldn’t resist reposting. Hope you enjoyed it.
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