Making My Retreat Center in the Kitchen

 

            Making My Retreat Center in the Kitchen

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Life is tough. At times, life is tougher. I’m on the periphery of that tough life but I feel it just the same.

Baby Marley is still in the hospital in Billings. She’s not out of the woods, but slowly on the right path, healing from RSV and Pneumonia and detoxing from the drug that kept her paralyzed during the worst of her personal storm. Mom and Dad still camp out in her room.

Meanwhile, back home in Glendive, Grandma Dee and Grandpa Chris and Uncle Tyler are taking care of the other children, in ages, two and three, six and eight. Grandma came down with a horrible cough, ear and throat infections, and is medicating the best she can while continuing work and child care.

Sure, I could hop a plane. And be one more person needing care, not being currently winterized, among other disabilities.

Me, I’m 2500 miles away but next door to the whole rumpus. I want to run away. I want to go on retreat. A three-day retreat would be better than any vacation. I’m serious. I’ve given this a lot of thought, edging into overthink.

The solution, obvious, is that I live in my own retreat center. I could hang a sign on my gate: “On Retreat. Do Not Disturb”. My problem is that I don’t want to unplug my phone. I want to know. I want to stay in touch with family. Goes against retreat rules, right? Rules such as no phone, no computer, no contact, no talking.

When Baby and Grandma are back to health and their own homes, I will make my retreat, sans phone and computer and talk.

In the interim, I find retreat in my kitchen. My kids used to say, “Watch out. Mom’s making bread.’ That was shorthand code for “Mom’s upset. Stay out of the way.” I’ve always found comfort in pummeling bread dough.

Baking bread doesn’t mean I’m upset. I bake bread because I’m out of bread. Because I want to do something nice for a neighbor. Because I’m stressed. Because I’m happy.

I find comfort in my kitchen. Instead of my usual honey whole-wheat bread, I decided to try a different bread roll recipe, new to me. Oh, my. I found the queen of all breads. Instead of baking cookies to eat with my morning coffee, and I had cookie dough in the refrigerator, ignored, I broke off a bread roll and delighted in the goodness.

I shared these rolls with a couple other people, suggested they try them with morning coffee. They have metaphorically lined up outside my gate waiting for me to bake again.

Figuring I had to make sure the recipe wasn’t a fluke, I made a second batch. Plain dough that good just might make sweet rolls. I divided the dough into sandwich buns, dinner rolls and cinnamon rolls.

When the cinnamon rolls cooled slightly, I broke off a taste-test. These are better than my usual cinnamon rolls. The bread is softer, more delicate, carries the flavors well.

Immediately I contacted my friend. Michelle, I know you and Ana are taking your sister Susan to the airport tomorrow. If you have time, stop by for cinnamon rolls and coffee. I knew their schedule would be tight.

They came. We ate, we drank, we had an unspoken communion. The plate of rolls disappeared. I shooed my friends on down the road.

That is one of the joys of a kitchen retreat center.

Several friends bake bread. We compare and share recipes. Most of my friends bake bread without ever touching the dough. This I do not understand.

We all use recipes. A recipe is a guide, right? We grew up, each with a slightly different guide or recipe for how to live. Circumstances might change, a difference in ingredients, an addition here or a subtraction there. That’s life.

Same for bread. The flour here is less refined but ground to a fineness that makes me smile. My butter is different than your butter. Honey or sugar? Sea salt or the stuff from the blue box with the girl and umbrella? Do they still sell that? Potato water? So many choices. Same for life.

I want my hands in the flour, to bring the ingredients together just right, to knead the dough until it is smooth and elastic and slightly blistery. How can I pour my heart into the dough without getting messy? The dough talks to me. My fingers understand the lingo. My fingers know when the dough is just right, ready to rise in a covered bowl, ready to shape and bake.

Bread of life with love and worry and frustration and goodness.

Don’t bother me. I’m in the kitchen.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

February, none too soon

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When Retreat Means Moving Forward

 

When Retreat Means Moving Forward 

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Two weeks. What a gift. I have had two weeks with my son at my home. 

My guestroom with bath was finished before Ben’s plane landed.

He said, “Mom, I don’t want to do a lot of visiting neighbors (of whom there are so few) or any tourist stuff. I just want to be with you and to have solitude to consider my life, to figure out what I want to do next. I want a retreat, away from everyday activities and responsibilities.”

And so it went.

We filled each day with stories, memories, with unhurried hours of solitude for both of us, favorite meals, jig-saw puzzles, no stress and plain fun.

What will my son do when he gets back home? I don’t know. It’s none of my business, is it?

What I do know is that because of this simple break in routine and ordinary pressures, Ben’s intuition toward his next steps is sharpened; his vision is enhanced.

I’d like to think that I have a helping hand in his life.

After all, I’m sure I also have had a hand in assuring him hours of personal therapy. All your woes are Mom’s fault. You know the routine.

For excitement, and occasional entertainment, our area is experiencing nightly torrential rainfall. There is a new laguna along the highway between Etzatlan and Ahualulco, homes are flooded throughout the country and towns, the arroyos are running full. Driving in and out of Oconahua is an adventure. The arroyo alongside our rancho looks like a river and I’ve never before seen water in it—at all. My backyard looks like a duck pond.

Gardening is at a standstill. This is the time I generally start a new planting in my buckets but the rain would rot any seeds I plant now. So I plan rather than plant. Maybe dream would be a better word. The only things I have going at present, other than herbs which thrive year-round, are beans and chilies of three varieties. They are beautiful.

Jalapenos can be included in almost every dish. In moderation.

Cinnamon goes with everything, no exceptions.

Do not buy food in small town Mexico to last for more than five days. The foods contain no preservatives. Which is a plus. Most times. Occasionally, rather than a plus, a putrid.

My big avocado tree, of a local variety, is full of fruit, dropping large globes half the size of a football during the nightly storms. In the morning, I sneak the beauties to the neighbors and run.

One of my rhubarb plants died. The other seems to be thriving.

We discovered that rhubarb and mango in a crisp or a fruit pie make the absolute best fruit combination.

Working jigsaw puzzles is more fun with two people.

Life is more fun with two people. Dependent on the two people.

I bought strawberries at Etza Frut and when I was prepping them for strawberry shortcake, I found a berry that looks like a Coronavirus. All around the plump little berry tiny green leaves sprouted. Is this how all the little strawberry plants are born? Or is this a mutant berry and a threat to world peas?

 Ben is in flight north. When he lands, he will be ready to change gears and change lanes.

Me? I’m sitting in the back yard duck pond in tears.

Looking at my bell pepper plants. If bell pepper makes a good custard pie, it should make a supercalifragilistiticexpialidocious cheese cake. Hmmm. Help! I need to get up. The mud is sucking me down. Help!

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Latter part of August, 2022

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My ditzy-doodle retreat day

 

My ditzy-doodle retreat day

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I’ve been called ditzy more than once over the years. I’m going to share something I ordinarily would keep to myself because it rather proves the point. Maybe I really am ditzy. I don’t mind.

If a thought lazes through my mind several times over a few days, weaving its way into consciousness, I’ve finally learned to pay attention. I’ve been sensing that a retreat would be good. I’d been feeling a little out of balance, especially since my knee was body-slammed near a month ago now and is healing too slowly for my wants.

That imbalance is physical but I believe the physical affects the whole system, body, mind and spirit. So I set Sunday for my day of retreat.

I’ve not been on a retreat, solitary or in a group, in many years. But, for me, time set aside for prayer and contemplation has immense value.

In the olden days, whether a retreat was a day, a weekend or a week, I’d set restrictions on myself. Not quite hair-shirt restrictions, but if the guidelines suggested minimal food, for example, I’d go without food at all. Like I wanted to be a little better, do it a little better. I wanted to show how good I am. (Forgive me.) I’m embarrassed to admit this trait. Talk about false pride. Fortunately that trait no longer lingers. Or maybe I recognize it sooner and pounce on it.

Sunday I set aside the day for a kinder, gentler retreat. The only things I denied myself were telephone, computer, reading novels, and talking with people. I’ve not had television in decades or that would be top on the list. With that in mind, I let my neighbors know I was going to observe a day of silence.

I love going to sleep. I’m a dreamer. I know, more evidence of ditzy me. I dream vividly, intensely, wildly; dreams, I neither track nor analyze and seldom remember.

Sunday morning in my final dream of the night, two women, good friends, but as dreams go, nobody I know in waking life, joined me in an auditorium of some sort, somewhere. We sat on bleachers, talking about love.

We were not just making a list. We had a real dialogue with back-and forth comments, laughter, and easy input, free-flowing conversation about love in many of its manifestations.

We talked about affection and friendship, family love, especially mother-child love, romantic love and passion, respectful warmth, caretaking love, deep connections.  

Soon another woman joined us. She talked about those times it is difficult to love but we love anyway, because we choose to love. I awoke thinking, how strange, my dream about love.

Outside my window, in the pre-dawn light, a songbird began a solo. It sang long and beautifully, a love song for me. Okay, so I’m still self-centered. See, ditzy. I own it. After three or four minutes, this bird’s mate joined in the chorus, followed by a long moment of silence as the sun rose. Then the whole multi-bird-community sounded off and I got out of bed. 

That, my friends, set the tone for my whole day of retreat. I had a sweet, easy day, a time set aside for self-reflection. No visions. No voices from the clouds. No revelations.

Perhaps it was a day of self-love. I often found myself laughing at myself, especially before I got a chance to become too self-important. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it was a day of selfless love. Perhaps they are the same thing.

I don’t know and I don’t care. Who could not love to have an entire day full of ditzy-doodle love?

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

May 26, 2022

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