Capsule Wardrobes Are the New Kale

January 8th, 2015

Building a closet full of happy

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I’d never make it as a fashion blogger. For one thing, I don’t have a professional photographer boyfriend. Or a decent camera with a remote control. Or a selfie stick (or however it is those women are getting full-length, perfectly in-focus snapshots of themselves seemingly caught crossing the street, impeccably dressed. I don’t even own a full length mirror. I don’t know how my bottom half fits with the top until I see myself in the glass door at the supermarket.

But those are technical issues. My main disqualification for fashion blogging is that I lack the flair chromosome. Fashion is an inscrutable mystery to me, and always has been. It’s not a skill set I possess naturally, or will ever come by easily. Therefore it fascinates me. People who can coordinate complex layers of garments, patterns, textures, with multiple accessories–in other words, people who are put together–are another species. Like mantis shrimp, with eyes that have 12 types of color receptors to my paltry three.

I keep trying to crack the code. And just when I think I’ve figured some of it out (Eureka! I TIED my belt!), the mantis shrimp people go and change it.

It’s a fun puzzle. I’m an artist and a tinkerer, and I like learning the rules of things, so I can figure out how to break them. Ask any kid with a screwdriver in hand, and he’ll tell you: you’ve got to take stuff apart to know how to put it together.

I came across the concept of a capsule wardrobe last fall, and it must be in step with the 2015 zeitgeist, because suddenly it’s all over my social media feeds. Everybody’s doing the capsule wardrobe. Especially on Pinterest. It’s this year’s kale.

I think my original entry point was Project 333, but as I dug deeper down the rabbit hole, I swung more toward Unfancy, whose taste is closer to mine, and who is a little more elastic about the parameters. 

The parameters are what’s appealing. The basic concept is that you pare your wardrobe down to a set number of items per season. Some, like Project 333, include nearly everything in that number: jewelry, outerwear, shoes, etc. Others, like Unfancy, are more liberal in the interpretation. Either way, the idea is that by intentionally limiting the number of clothes you have, you’ll become more mindful and creative about what you wear. 

I fell in love with the notion right away, but when I posted about it on Facebook, I was surprised to get highly polarized reactions. Some (I’d venture to say they are mantis shrimp people) were baffled. What on earth could be the point of limiting one’s choices of what to wear? Others wryly responded that they’d have to expand their wardrobes to hit the maximum allowable number of garments–minimalists by necessity or nature. 

And then there were the people like me, who want to dress fashionably, but are generally overwhelmed by the scope of it all. Thirty three (or 37, or 30-ish) is a finite number, a fixed point in an ever-shifting sea of choices. Three months is a timeframe we can work with, without forcing an identity crisis. 

I decided to have a go at it, starting with the new year. Our mid-southern seasons are aligned a little differently than the standard fashion calendar year, so my winter capsule would go from December through February, rather than the suggested Jan-Mar span. And since December has come and gone, that means I only have to live with my choices for two months! However, I’d like credit for having purged several trash bags worth of clothes at the end of the year, in the course of trading my big bedroom closet for a much smaller one. 

(Note that ninety per cent of the purged items were party outfits, bought out of desperation at the eleventh hour, because I had “nothing to wear” to social events, where I spend ten percent of my time. Meanwhile, I was down to two pairs of jeans and a few shrunken t-shirts to get me through the other ninety percent I spend at home. Mantis shrimp people, don’t judge. Mere mortals like me need help.)

I’m developing this first capsule as I go, keeping a little journal of what I manage to pull together each day, what pieces are keepers, and what feels missing. A book of outfit recipes. 

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The goal is to have a closet that makes me smile instead of sigh when I open it each day. To get dressed on the first attempt, instead of the fourth or fifth, and to get on with things without all the negative self-image crap trailing behind me all day like toilet paper stuck to my shoe. The past few years have been the Second Coming of age thirteen in so many ways, and I’m so done with it.

So, what do you think? Does the capsule wardrobe sound like a useful strategy to you, or an instrument of oppression? What’s your relationship history with fashion? I’d love to know. 

Season Opener

January 6th, 2015

When a blogger has been absent from her blog as long as I have, you expect her to come back with a divorce announcement or rehab story–some kind of major plot twist. But I don’t have a big season opener, or even an explanation for the eight-week gap between posts, except that life has been full with sweet and ordinary things. 

Thanksgiving things.

Thanksgiving arrangement

Birthday things.

Birthday shoes

Crafty things.


Cozy things.

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Christmas things.

christmas2014moments 2014-12-14 12.10.35


 Church things.


And this sort of thing.

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Lots of that sort of thing.

It was lovely. 

And now it’s good to be back, fingertips tapping on keys. I like the sound of twenty-fifteen. The way the staccato syllables come off my tongue all crisp and new like cards dealt from a fresh deck.

I feel lucky.



Margins: Why I Take My Kids to Church

November 11th, 2014

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“Why do I have to go to church? I don’t want to.” My 13-year-old was bleary-eyed and cranky. Ten a.m. is far too early, by his reckoning, to be wrested from bed on a Sunday.

It was a rhetorical question–more protest than inquiry–and a moot point, since we were already on the road, but I responded anyway, in cheery dictator fashion.

“I know you don’t, and I respect that. I didn’t want to when I was your age either.” When I was in junior high, my best friend and I would sneak into the back of the Cathedral right before five o’clock Mass, grab the Sunday bulletin as evidence we been there, then split to go smoke cigarettes behind the mall. 

“You’ll be a grown-up person soon, and you won’t have to go to church if you don’t want to.”

“Good. I’m never going.”

If you want to amuse your mother, say never. 

“That’s alright. But someday you might need the church. Something might happen that’s too big for you to handle on your own. You’ll know it’s a place you can go, where you’ll feel at home.”

Maybe he pondered this, or more likely, he decided not to invite further edification with a rebuttal. We arrived late, as usual, and took our seats in a pew near the back.


Ours was a party of three–the oldest had spent the night at a friend’s, and Patrick, who doesn’t share my bone-deep love of ritual, can only be coaxed to endure high-church Anglican liturgical rites once a quarter. It was almost time for the sermon before we got settled.

Father Danny ascended the pulpit, and I sat up. I love when Father Danny has the sermon. He has the deep mind and the open heart I’ve come to expect from Episcopal priests, but his style has a touch of country tent preacher. He presses his palms on the pulpit rail, and rocks forward on his feet a little when he gets going. (If you’ve spent time in an Episcopal church, you know that’s a lot of spontaneous body language for an Anglican. They don’t call us the frozen chosen for nothing.) 

Sunday’s sermon was about preserving space around the busyness and business of life–leaving margins around our schedules, budgets, and relationships, instead of writing over them from the edge of one day to the next. Margins that leave room for breath, perspective, grace. A simple but illuminating metaphor that even a ten-year-old could follow (and did). And a perfect articulation of what I was trying to tell my teenager in the car.

I bring my kids to church to draw a margin around them. A space outside the bounded agenda of self and society, where something greater than the to-do list has a chance to enter. And I need the weight of the institution–that I once found so lumbering and oppressive–to frame it and protect it, when the craziness of the world presses in. I need people like Father Danny to remind me why it’s worth it–what meets us in the margins, in the small, still space.

How they honor that space when they are adults is up to them. What matters to me is that they know its outline.


During the announcements, I asked my son if he had listened to any of the sermon.

“Nah,” he said, “I spaced out.” I smiled. I demand very little of my boys at church–come along every few Sundays, don’t cause distractions, follow along in body if not in mind. Usually I let him bring a sketchbook, but he had been too sleepy to remember it. Instead, he had drawn in the margins of the service bulletin.

It was tempting to pick up where I’d left off earlier, summarize the sermon, point out the example of his creativity finding expression in the literal margins, tie it all together for him like a line of poetry diagrammed to death. 

I left it blank instead.




I carry your heart with me

October 3rd, 2014

I’m going on a cub scout campout this weekend, and there’s a million things to do before we can leave, so naturally I’ve been sitting at my desk in my nightgown all morning, going through old photos. 


Originally, I was going to pull a retrospective sample of snapshots from my improbable career as cub scout den mom. Since the Littlest Who crosses over to Boy Scouts in the new year, this is my last cub scout campout. I was looking for photos like this:



But then I got sidetracked by these:


They were taken in November 2007–only seven years ago, but an epoch in child years. The 15-year-old came with me a few weeks ago to pick up a mis-delivered parcel at our former address. He kept exclaiming how small everything was–the yard, the hedge where he and his brothers had a fort, the Japanese maple tree that was their ladder to the sky. He walked around like Gulliver in Lilliput.

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I thought I would feel more wistful about them growing up, leaving behind those little guys. But I love the big people they are growing up to be, too much to want to roll time back. And when I look at them, I see all their ages and stages, nested like matryoshka dolls. 

I look up at this man,


and I can still see this boy:

tree on north spruce

Nothing is left behind. I carry all the years with me.


[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

by ee cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                                      i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

The End of the Affair

September 26th, 2014

Processed with VSCOcam with m5 preset

My summer fling with the garden is thoroughly over. The last of the grape tomatoes drop to the ground and turn to raisins before I even notice them ripening. Cherry peppers wither on the stem. The cucumber vine is a pale wraith. 

faded corn stalks

The corn is dead to me.

dead flowers

My infatuation has faded to indifference. There’s a new season in town.


sewing with wine

cup of tea

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So long, my summer love. Maybe next year.


The Edge of Seventeen

September 18th, 2014
Rehearsing, circa 1977

Rehearsing, circa 1977


Tomorrow will be our seventeenth wedding anniversary. Which means I’ve now lived with my husband for more years than I lived with my parents. A span of time long enough to be halfway grownup. In Canada, our marriage is legal to consent to sex and drive a car. Which might suggest a fun anniversary date night theme.

We still weren’t all the way grown up when we met at 25 and 31. I look back at us then, eighteen years ago–even eight years ago–and marvel at how much we’ve changed. Then marvel more that our new selves have kept managing to find and fall in love with each other. It was a miracle it ever happened in the first place. That it endures seems more rare and wondrous every year.

Seventeen years is a long time to stay married these days. There’s plenty to celebrate, a lot to be proud of. But I’m wary of congratulating ourselves. As Mr. Cohen sang, “there’s many loved before us. I know that we are not new.” Lots of couples–some of them our good friends–have loved each other, then lost each other, who set out with hearts every bit as true. That we’ve arrived here, hand in hand on the edge of another year, feels less like something we’ve achieved and more like something we’ve been given. A chance, a wish, another year of grace. A fresh miracle.


The Runner

September 8th, 2014

I was a soccer mom for a couple of years, when my oldest son was playing. A very laid back soccer mom. I liked those fall mornings, standing around the field with the other parents, chatting with each other, cheerfully shouting out our kids’ names whenever it seemed like something might be happening out there between the nets. That lasted until my second child got old enough to join the league. One season of ferrying kids between different practice and game times, happening in two separate locations was enough. I bailed.  I’m the mom Olympic sponsors will never celebrate in commercials: half-assed, but whole-hearted.

That was seven years ago, and if I sometimes felt guilty for depriving the boys of one of the cornerstones of a suburban upbringing, I never missed it for myself. So I was surprised at how much I loved spending this past Saturday morning in a field, chatting with the other parents, eyes on the race course, ready to shout my kid’s name when he made the final sprint in his first 5K with his high school cross-country running team. 

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This guy loves to run. In middle school, he was crazy about parkour, but couldn’t find an organized training program. I encouraged him to try out for track, and we were both discouraged when he ran one of the fastest times, and didn’t make the team. I don’t know if the coach took one look and decided my punk kid wasn’t jock enough, or there was some technical reason he wasn’t picked, but I knew I’d have a hard time persuading him to put himself out there again. Parkour gave way to skateboarding, which has been his passion and focus the last couple of years, one I’ve supported and mostly delighted in (when I’m not covering my eyes with my hands).

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Then a few weeks ago, a friend happened to see him running to catch up to someone, and remarked on his natural gait, suggesting he’d make a good long distance runner. It was the nudge I needed to nudge my son one more time. I called up the coach of the cross country team, and sent a message telling my son to bring the forms home for me to sign, and expect to run after school the next day. Just to see.

He’s been at practice every afternoon, ever since, and comes home exhilarated by it every night.

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It’s always beautiful to see a person doing something they were born to do. For however long a season.

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It makes me think of that line in Chariots of Fire:

“I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.”

My son doesn’t have to run like an Olympian, or even stay on the cross-country team, for God’s pleasure or for mine. But whenever he does anything with his whole heart, I hope he feels both.



September 1st, 2014


Sowing corn on May 25

May 25

Of all the sweet summer memories to be gathered in now, and put by, the days spent gardening with this boy are among the sweetest. 

planting corn May 25

May 25

watching corn sprout

May 31

Corn stalks June 17

June 17

Corn tassel July 9

July 9

Corn stalks July 13

July 13

Corn silks July 23

July 23

Corn harvest August 11

August 11

And they’ll keep a long, long time.

Mason Jar White Sangria

August 29th, 2014

Happy Labor Day Weekend! (And Labour Day!) Got any special plans? How about a fun drink recipe to kick things off?

I gave you the recipe for Mason Jar Sangria, made with red wine, citrus fruit, and spiced rum, back in February. It’s a nice hot weather cooler also, but when the real dog days hit, white wine sangria is a refreshing twist. 

I made a batch of Mason Jar White Sangria for a pool party last Labor Day, and it definitely merits a place in the Planting Dandelions mason jar cocktail collection. Now, some of you are into mason jar cocktails for the rustic charm, but for me, the chief charm lies in portability and convenience. As with the red sangria, and my recipe for Mason Jar Spiked Lemonade, it lets you premix individual drinks and keep them cold without them getting watery or going flat. 
white sangria ingredients

The formula for sangria is simple: wine + fruit juice + spiced rum + fresh fruit + sparkling water (the last ingredient being added at serving time). There’s a lot of room to improvise (add hot tea or cider instead of sparkling water and PRESTO, hot spiced wine), so feel free to substitute, but here’s what I used:

  • White wine (I like sauvignon blanc here, because it has nice tropical fruit flavors, without a lot of oak)
  • Peach nectar
  • Fresh peaches
  • Spiced rum
  • Seltzer water for topping up at serving time
  • Wide-mouth pint jars

First, slice some fruit and put it in the bottom of each jar. Pretty!

peaches in jar

Next, for each pint jar:

  1. Measure one shot (1.5 ounce) of spiced rum and pour over the sliced fruit.
  2. That’s about about a finger’s worth, if you learned to mix your Dad’s drinks as a child in the 70s.
  3. Add peach nectar or whatever juice you’re using to a depth of three fingers. That’s metric fingers if you’re Canadian.
  4. Add wine so the jar is a little more than half full. Or less than half empty, depending on your outlook.

white sangria steps

Depending on the juice and wine you’re using, you might want to add sugar to taste. So be sure to taste, and adjust the batch accordingly. Also, I mix these on the light side, because it’s a tall drink, and they go down easy on a hot day. You may like a more generous pour of rum. I won’t judge–just don’t drive. Screw the lids on, and keep the jars iced down until serving time. Don’t forget to bring the sparkling water, and keep it chilled, too!

mason jar white sangria on ice

To serve, unscrew the lid and top off with sparkling water. I especially like the rum-soaked fruit at the bottom. It’s full of fibre and vitamins. And rum.

Have a restful and refreshing Labor Day weekend. Here’s to the Summer of ’14!”


We Believe. (part I)

August 27th, 2014

A psalm of belonging.

Church courtyard

After the sermon, before Holy Communion, Episcopalians stand up to recite the Nicene Creed, the profession of Christian faith. It begins with the words, “We believe,” followed by a list of things that the church agreed to agree on in the fourth century, and has managed to hang onto as a common denominator through hundreds of years of killing each other over everything else. For Anglicans, Roman Catholics, Eastern Orthodox Christians, and most of the major Protestant denominations, the creed is the bottom line.

It’s a poetic, rhythmic litany, with trippy bits that sound like they were penned by a medieval Jim Morrison. Light from light, seen and unseen, and all that. And it lines up perfectly with my personal spiritual beliefs, all the way through those two opening words.

 “We believe.” 

As for everything after that, well, I just don’t know.


I tell people I’m a one-foot-in, one-foot-out kind of person when it comes to church. I’ve been doing the hokey pokey with religion as long as I’ve lived. My parents were Catholics in name. My grandparents were Catholics in everything. I was baptized Roman Catholic and went to Catholic school and mass week in, week out, until I graduated from high school, but religion was something I put on and took off like my navy blue uniform. It wasn’t part of my home life (though my mother was, and is, deeply spiritual), except as far as it was part of our cultural heritage. I still claim to be Catholic in that cultural sense, the way I call myself Canadian, though I chose to leave both a long time ago. “Catholic” says a lot about where I came from, but not much about who I am.


I wonder if my kids will feel that way about being Episcopalian when they are grown up. They were baptized in the Episcopal cathedral. They go to Episcopal youth groups during the school year, and Episcopal camp during the summer. Once every so many Sundays, I can bribe/threaten them all into coming to church, and they know the liturgy like a book of nursery rhymes. We stand up together after the sermon and they hear me recite the Nicene Creed.

“We believe…”

 Then we leave the liturgy behind, with the service programs and the paper lemonade cups, and go about our lives. Sometimes at home, but mostly in the car (because there is something about in-between spaces that invites truth), we talk about what we really believe, or sort of believe, or don’t believe at all. Often, we just wonder.

The kids know I believe in an historical Jesus, a teacher and wise man, who understood God uniquely. And that I believe in Christ, as shorthand for something that connects us to the source of our being and our highest becoming. But whether they are both the same, and where doctrines and creeds  fit into it, I have no idea, and no inclination to figure it out. I find most theology to be a weirdly forced and abstract enterprise–men building tiny boxes of logic that are supposed to contain boundless mystery. The metaphorical devil surely lives in a religion’s details.

I prefer Carl Jung’s proclamation of faith: All that I have learned has led me step by step to an unshakable conviction of the existence of God. I only believe in what I know. And that eliminates believing. Therefore I do not take his existence on belief – I know that he exists.”

I wouldn’t dare say my own convictions are unshakable, only that I know what I’ve known: a loving power that’s greater than the box of my thinking, bigger than the boxes of religion. That doesn’t eliminate believing (or thinking) for me, either, because there are times that I need to remind myself what I’ve known until I know it again. But it simplifies my creed vastly. 

I believe. That’s all.

Until I get to church, where “I’ becomes “we.”

“We” is complicated.


The first Episcopal church I walked into, with my infant firstborn son in my arms, was my church home for nearly a decade. My two oldest sons went to the attached parochial school for primary grades. The baby spent a couple of years in daycare there, while I worked in the office as an assistant to one of the priests. I led study groups, and served as a lector. There was a blink of time when I thought I might become a priest myself. I had just gotten the Bishop’s sanction to begin the official discernment process when I learned I was pregnant (surprise!) with my third child. I daydreamed about seeing my children get married there. I pictured my own funeral there, the words of John 11 pealing out through a cloud of incense. I am the Resurrection and the Life.

I put my whole self in. Then I took my whole self out.

(To be continued.)