Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place. –Lain S. Thomas
The tea house is filled with the homey smells of fresh-baked scones, cut flowers, and holiday goodies. Ornaments hang like jewels from the ceiling, intertwined with plaid ribbons and twinkling lights. Sara’s wearing her Winter Princess gown, and why not? It’s our very first holiday tea, and we’re celebrating in style.
Sara chooses the TreeHouse luncheon, strawberry tea, and a heart-shaped scone. I opt for the quiche and vanilla tea.
Our server places two teapots and strainers on our table, suggests we might want to read our tea leaves when we’re done.
Sara spoons a generous amount of sugar into her teacup, adds liberal swirls of cream. She tells me she’s tasted sugar cubes, once or twice. So yummy! “At my grandma’s house,” she adds.
“My Nana used to plop them into her English Breakfast tea,” I say; and though I’m flooded with nostalgia, I’m smiling at the effervescence of this day.
Our server returns to the table, refreshes our water glasses. “Those flowers are 100% edible,” she reminds us. Sara takes a nibble, promptly steals repositions my camellia.
We eat our fill, and then visit the adobe houses and shops along Los Rios, the oldest neighborhood street in California. I follow Sara’s lead…
Turns out, Santa’s elves have an affinity for gardening. Seems they also love birds, same as us.
Such a coincidence, too, that this watering can looks very much like a teapot.
Ho! Ho! Ho! The Grinch nailed a wreath to his front gate–because, you know, Santa’s watching.
Sara’s transfixed by the “love dove” on this merchant’s porch, but I’m drawn to the rusted birdcage that stands empty. Save for its rusted patina, it looks identical to the one in which my Nana kept Curly, her pet canary.
We admire a local artisan’s wares: kitchen utensils, bracelets, and jewelry, exquisitely carved and then polished to a high sheen.
A caboose rumbles down the railroad tracks, chasing its engine, and Christmas tunes blare from hidden speakers. Sara’s humming to herself, and so am I. There’s an easy harmony between us.
We savor our special outing, capture its magic in a gazing ball….
And as quick as you can say “Cinderella,” Sara’s traded her princess gown for play clothes!
“Now,” says my little elf on the shelf, “it’s time to bake Christmas cookies!”
I'm writing today about my 4th-grade field trip to Mission San Juan Capistrano, the "crown jewel of the California missions." And in revisiting that experience, I find myself waxing nostalgic about the swallows–and to a broader significance, what it means to "migrate" and then return to one's original nest.
In a recent blog entry, Jeannine Atkins invited readers to admire the morning dew on a single blade of grass. It was elegant simplicity, this gentle reminder to find the sacred in the ordinary.
I get that treasures are often hidden in wide open spaces, that valuable lessons can come of everyday experiences. And I’m learning to write memoir with all senses fully engaged, with a humble awareness that transcendence is oftentimes found in the tiniest of details.
For instance, it was on a 4th grade field trip that I first visited Mission San Juan Capistrano, but it was just recently that I saw these ancient ruins with fresh eyes. (I ask in advance for your forgiveness: this example is much lengthier than Jeannine’s original post.)
According to historians, it was in 1776 that Father Junipera Serra founded this “crown jewel” of the California missions. With the blessings of the Spanish government, he enlisted the support of indigenous peoples in building this colonial outpost of the Catholic church. Males performed backbreaking labor, and women offered their most cherished belongings–semi-precious stones and seashells–as embellishments for the rough adobe walls. As recent converts to Christianity, they did so with open hearts and willing spirits…or so we was told.
It’s quite possible that somebody(ies) embroidered the truth. At this point, no one can prove their accuracy beyond all shadow of doubt, and so it was that these and similar "facts" got woven into the fabric of every 4th grade history class in California.
In December of 1812, a large earthquake toppled the Great Stone Church. I discovered these treasures, hidden in plain sight, on a recent trek through the ruins.
This is the wall in which I first spotted those precious objects, the altar on which those priceless offerings were laid.
I sent these photographs to Stacy Pendleton, my voice teacher, accompanied by some of my private musings. (With all due respect, I glossed quickly over the atrocities represented by those pictures.)
I should mention here that Stacy is a true child of the sea, deeply spiritual. That, plus her Native American heritage, helps explain the eagerness with which I awaited her response. No surprise, her reply was so illuminating that I asked (and received) permission to quote her verbatim:
My feeling is that they may have put them there so that even when they were tending the mission, working for their conquerors and unable to openly practice their spirituality or celebrate their culture, they, their descendants, and somehow even their ancestors would know that they had been there, and something they valued was embedded into the walls, into their being, into their DNA.
I’m reminded of Chartres Cathedral. Have you ever been there? I had the good fortune of visiting it one evening when I was in France years ago. I may be telling you things you already know, but it was built on an ancient Goddess worship site. In the stained glass windows the "converted" locals recreated the signs of the zodiac.
Pentacles were in the wrought iron fences, one tiny pinhole was placed in a stained glass window, and only on the winter and summer solstice at 12, a shaft of light shines through the window, illuminating the altar. There is also a labyrinth which once held a stone carving of Thesias slaying the Minotaur. I wrote a poem about it. The first stanza is:
The Minotaur was slain and buried deep
Within the walls of stifled consciousness Lured from the vortex, never quite asleep.
There are so many stories like these around the world. How beautiful it is that we can share them with each other, excavating our lives and our atmosphere, not for the sake of tearing things apart, but for the sake of putting them back together.
It was nearly 80 degrees yesterday–nothing but blue skies from the Santa Ana mountains to the Pacific. And so it was that we decided to celebrate our 7th wedding anniversary in nearby San Juan Capistrano. The citrus trees were laden with fruit, and cottage gardens were coming into bloom. I honestly can’t picture a more perfect afternoon, nor can I imagine a better companion with whom to share the rest of my life.
I brought you this bouquet from my travels. And if you come back tomorrow, I’ll tell you about my Close Encounter of the Spielberg kind….
A few weeks ago, I took a review copy of THE MILES BETWEEN on a road trip to the Orange County Fair. A grand adventure, that, and it whetted my appetite for another! So I headed out on the highway again yesterday—this time, to meet up with Mary Pearson, the author of that soon-to-be-released novel.
San Juan Capistrano is midway between us, more or less, so I suggested the Tea House on Los Rios—a cozy, cottage-style restaurant that’s tucked into a neighborhood with historical importance. Monarch butterflies hover among the lavender and sage, and roses amble along the white picket fence. In a word: heavenly!
We crowned ourselves in vintage hats, and then we indulged ourselves in a decadent lunch that included finger sandwiches, heart-shaped scones slathered with California cream, fresh fruit, and (of course) tea. It was a lovely tête-à-tête—almost three hours long, but who’s counting? And though it was the first time we’ve talked in person, I feel certain it won’t be the last.