My brain is bursting at the seams. We have completed the move about 90%, but only about 20% of the unpacking. I have been disconnected from the internet for roughly 2.5 days, and though it's been nice, it only adds to the general feeling of ODDITY that encompasses my description of this new life. In a conversation today with my friend, I described it thus:

I love it when I am at the house.
I hate it when I leave the house.

Except for while at my new local coffee shop, which to some might be called Joel's parents house, but I see internet and coffee (and lunch, and rubs, and free bananas) and normalcy.

And that's the worst part of moving. After you do all of this physically and emotionally draining work, you just want to go home and noodle on your couch. Well, there will be no noodling on your couch when you couch is buried in the living room and no where near your disconnected media center (which is missing a monitor and speakers anyway). So I come to the closest home I know and try to find myself again here, among you.

My attendance will for sure be sporadic at best in the next few weeks, but I'll be sure to return to keep you abreast of Musings of a Melancholic - country style.



p.s. come visit me.

Shelves Bare.

Racks Empty.




Mme. in grunge

The purpose of my most recent Redding trip was to finally be a part of my best friend Jackie's delivery of child number three. I haven't been able to be there for the other two children (missed the last one by a DAY), so I took advantage of my flexible situation and went down for the two weeks right around her due date. We were hoping that fate would be on our side so I could be a part of it.

It's magical; divinity sure pulled a rabbit out of a hat with this one. And boy, after Levi came, it was the hardest thing in the world to get back on that plane. I have always had a serious case of baby fever (NOT parent fever, sadly), and this only made it soooo.much.worse. He's my new favorite 5 day old.

There was talk about me extending my plane ticket, but alas, the saint and I had made a huge decision right before I left for the trip, and I needed to get back to execute the plans. We have decided to move to the country. It's a rather long story, but Joel will be working from home next month and we do not have enough room in our little city-cave to accommodate the both of us here. Not only that, but in order to maintain my stay-at-homeness, we needed a cheaper place. These are the practical reasons.

The soulful reasons, and the vastly more important to me are these: We are slow-pokey souls. We want a simpler life, a quieter life, a more intentional life. In order to do this, we need to unbury ourselves from the debt of our early 20s. We need to be in the forest. We need space to spread our wings and test our courage in flight. We need to be closer to his parents.

The move happens this next weekend - so this week is me packing and taking trips out there. We've already spent more time in the car this week than we probably have all year. So there you have it, we will be upgrading Chateau Bookling into Bookling Manor.

Right around my birthday, I posted a 12-month challenge blog. The first month's challenge was to stick to my budget. Well, all I'm going to say about that is that I tried really, really, really hard. And though I wasn't entirely successful, it was remarkable how just even paying acute attention to it made me spend less. August came and went and I never got to report or tell you what September's challenge was. Well, I decided that September's challenge was moving to the country.

Dears, I hope that you put goals in place as a guideline for yourselves and not a binding contract. I am learning to give myself a WHOLE lot of room in this way...even to boast to the world that "I AM RUNNING FOR 5 HOURS A DAY" and then not doing it if it turns out that it wasn't a goal I could keep, or didn't want to keep...or whatever. Needless to say, I am not the kind of person that will ever become a body-builder or have drive to accomplish something with unwavering focus, but I tell you, I AM the kind of person that can extend myself the amount of graciousness that I can extend to those I love - and that is a rare gift.

For the last two weeks, I've enjoyed the pleasure and pain of living with children.
I've watched them, I've kissed them, I've corrected them, I've read to them,
I've played with them...
but mostly...

I've envied them.
Their innocence, their authenticity, their imagination.
Their nakedness.
Their kiddie pool.

You may have noticed a theme around these parts lately. I've been somewhat obsessed with the idea of becoming a "real woman." In the last year, I sewed my own my own dress, learned to make jam and pies, and shot guns. Though I've joked about these things being the crux of my coming of age, I realize that I've treated something rather intentional and meaningful in a cavalier manner.

Lemme s'plain.

One of the ways I've learned to be kinder to myself in the last few years is in self-definition.

In a home where there is X amount of love and Y amount of kids fighting for X amount, a child will do anything to stand out, to form her own identity. A child becomes the "smart" or the "athletic" one; she'll be named the "outgoing" one or the "stubborn" one. These labels are not put there maliciously, but they do indeed stick. We are taught from an early age to focus on one goal, to decide who we will be well before our soul's reveal their essence, be this one person so that we are easy to figure out, easy to handle, easy to love.

I looked at my soul carefully, turning over the rocks, inspecting the bugs. Turns out I had a concrete box poured around the garden of my identity. This box was suffocating my roots and killing off the new growth. For example, I used to hate pink just to hate pink, I used to be so serious because immature behavior was irritating. I never wanted to fit into any status-quo of womanhood so I decided that I don't wear short skirts, I don't draw hearts, and I'd never be caught dead doing something as boring as staring at a flower or using my imagination. Granted, I also didn't do some of these things because they simply did not interest me at the time, but I realize that if I had continued on a path that did not allow for my interests to change, my soul would be stuck. Hell, I was so cut off from my natural desires that I wouldn't even know which new things I would want to try. My opinion about them would have been formed well before I had experienced it.

And that's my point. Why do we form opinions about things we know very little about? Perhaps it's fear that breeds the desire to squelch that which we do not understand with petty definitions and wounded resentment for an identity we couldn't have because someone else already claimed that label.


I hated pink, so as an experiment, I wore pink fingernail polish for months. It made me laugh all month because of the frivolous joy of being a little girl. Turns out that I actually don't like pink after all, but at least I know that it's because of my natural taste, not bull-shit labeling.

I thought I found sewing and baking boring. So, I decided to delve into it...break some needles, get my prissy hands dirty with dough! Turns out that I love to create, but was SO PARALYZED that I would look stupid in the attempt or that the product would dash my hopes and leave me with a big pill of disappointment to swallow, that I had convinced myself that I was in no way an artist. But I am an artist. I never thought that a pie would show me that more clearly than my writing or my photographs.

I was scared to shoot a gun at first...which is totally typically girly I guess. But because I was in touch with how I felt on the subject ("Hello, anxiety and nerves. Hmmm, you must be scared to shoot off your big toe. This makes perfect sense! Let's be scared"), I was able to stop using every little thing to define myself. Here's the way it sounded in my head,

"Am I the kind of girl that enjoys shooting guns because I want to appear bad-ass to the men in my life? If that is the case, why should it be about how they perceive me rather than what I actually enjoy doing? And what the hell do I actually enjoy doing, after all? Will the other females think I am doing this to just get attention? Am I doing this to get attention? Is that bad? Why is that bad?"

OR

OR DING DING DING

"I'd like to explore shooting more. I think I started liking because it's a natural curiosity born from being a cop's daughter. Also, I am a voracious learner and enjoy the intimacy of sharing else's hobbies. I'll spend time with this person who can educate me on how to shoot AND enjoy myself in the process. I will be concerned only with what I think of myself and not drown that voice out with the PERCEIVED opinions that others have about me. Also, I like guns because I DO feel empowered, bad-ass, and sexy."

Yes. I vote for the third option.

But let me tell you, all of this filtering takes an awful lot of work. Many find it an exhausting trait in me; many find it an inspiration. This is not important, and truthfully, I wish I didn't know either way, for everyone is easily-influenced to some degree...and I don't want to be doing it for anyone else but me.

And there you have it. CRM version 9.15.09. This is by no means an exhaustive definition of Candace. Perhaps tomorrow she'll will learn to love brussel sprouts and all of a sudden despise Prada (GOD FORBID!).

So, I am glad to announce that I am an official female, just in case there were any doubts out there.

Here's the lemon and (premade*) crust

This particular recipe called for zest in the filling...a perfect addition

The premeasured ingredients;
I love doing this and highly recommend it when trying a new recipe

Whisking up the filling...

Pouring the filling into the crust

Whipping up the egg whites to make meraninge. It was an awesome experience, but I have decided that it's way too much work for something I don't enjoy eating that much. I refused to use the mixer to do this...does this earn me extra points or just make me insane?

The pre-browned merangie

Isn't it gorgeous?


*Some might postulate that real womanhood does not begin until one can make their own pie crust. I've tried it and have decided that it's DUMB.