a painting in waiting, grief.

The past few days I feel like my inspiration has been kidnapped. Stolen in the night. Thiefed like a kiss. I haven't been a ball of energy for some months now but nothing like the blank, un-primed, gouache-less canvas slumped in the corner collecting dust that I feel like right now.

This past weekend I produced a memorial for about 200 people in Berkeley.  Everyone has said how beautiful it was. Overwhelming as it was I feel satisfied by my efforts. I saw people I had not seen since I was a very short person. Friends and family traveled thousands of miles through time zones and hundreds of eco-systems. I fed them small delicious hand picked nibbles. Wondrous customized-bite-size Lamingtons from Bakesale Betty, crudite platters of cool, crisp, crunchy veggies from Poulet, and deep soulful Moroccan spreads & z'aatar dusted croutons from Aziza.

We all filled in our blanks about the absent guest of honor with stories shocking, funny, secret, painful, and surprising.

And now it's over. What's left? I'm tired.

Incorporating, the person gone, into my everyday. Wait for her to visit me in dreams. Sometimes we go adventuring, sometimes I watch her labored breath in sleep. In the waking hours I wear her striped and comfy clothes, her scent, and care for her many plants with the love of new parenthood.

At night I sometimes read the book almost every person I know recommended to me: The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion. No words have been more validating than hers.

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As we enter a new season of citrus I am thinking a lot about bright sour lemons, the mysterious Royal mandarin and an old faithful beau with an outy and the most unique scent, my Mineola Tangelo. I saute and braise a lot of Mariquita's escarole, radicchio, treviso. The freezer is stocked with chicken stock, the bed is lined with flannel sheets and trips are made to the farmer's market for sweet Little Gems from Star Route, dandelion greens from Dirty Girl, meaty treats from Fatted Calf and I continue dating persimmons, Peruvian goat's milk cheeses from Bodega Cheese and the bestest bread ever from the one and only Della Fattoria.

The grief takes me to a quiet place. I'll make a lot of slow cooked meals and take a lot of photographs. And share with you delicious meanderings visual, internal landscape and kitchen.

Comments

[ruby]

Ahhh yes, the dreams. I hope you have many
precious ones. Dreams of my father are few
and far between but what a gift when they come.
I heard the gathering was a blessed event.
So sorry I couldn't make it. I hope you will
post some photos or share some stories with
those who couldn't be there. You write so
beautifully Shuna, a real tribute to your mom.
Ruby

[Dr. Biggles]

Eeek, grief. I wish upon you moments of peace and maybe a tad of normalcy from time to time.
Maybe if you have some gravy or duck fat it'll help.

Hugs

[Kudzu]

Of course you are tired -- or as my daughter said when she was little, "desausted". Listen to that, pay attention to the blank canvas: it isn't going anywhere and you will know what will belong on it, and when.

You're doing just the proper things. Slow cooking, long dreaming.

Healing is hard, but it will happen.

[Brett]

Oh Shuna, so sorry to hear about your loss. It sounds like you have a lot of good support and are taking care of yourself, which is so important. Bitter greens and slow, easy cooking will definitely help heal your soul. So will long walks in lush redwood forests and listening to the crash of ocean waves. Wishing you peace and fresh air to breathe.

[shauna]

Shuna, I'm so sorry to hear about this deep season of grieving. The Didion book is the right choice. I highly recommend Mark Doty's Heaven's Coast as well. It has accompanied me through some dark times, lifted me up toward the light. Feel it. And we're all here. Let me know if there's anything I can do.

[Anne]

Shuna, I'm sending you warm wishes of peace and comfort.

Thank you for your writing and photography, which grow more marvelous all the time. Checking out your blog each day or so is such a gift and pure pleasure.

Anne

[Dad]

I agree with Anne--your writing and photography keep growing, and the pleasure they give to others will find its way back to you. Slow and steady, healing is going on all the time.

[Luisa]

You write very beautifully about your sadness. I'm sorry for your loss. I'm glad that you've found Didion's words healing - that book is extraordinary.