Bracing Myself For Christmas

This year, we tried to lay low. The last few Christmases have been tiring, if I were to sum them up. While much of the world rushes to buy and wrap last minute presents, we brace ourselves for some kind of catastrophe. It's always something, and this truth is universal no matter the household or the continent. And while we put out fires year round, Christmas seems to go up in the largest of flames, as if to remind us of the tumultuous nature of holding onto a ground that never stops spinning.

So I have learned to spot the little things, santa's permanent smile on the 30-year old cookie cutter and the smell created by anise and confectioner's sugar coming together in a modern version of an age-old recipe from our Italian descendants. And each year, we downsize, not in laughs or in experience, but in the stuff that surrounds us and seems to complicate what is supposed to be simple. In the absence of traditional religion, our focus is creating things, art, food. We move from meal to meal, inventing new flavors and clinging to old smells that inspire nostalgia when warm, and we spend the hours in between planning our next adventure, letting ideas adapt to our current mood and play off of our influences. The days of festive wrapping paper, extended family, and expectations have worn thin in an effort to keep things calm. And we have realized, all too painfully, that no matter how still you sit, nothing stops or slows down.

My sister gave birth, and every day I thank whoever it was that brought her that child. The baby girl who reminds us to smile often, whose hand on your chest or your face, reminds us that there is probably a God somewhere, hiding behind something, has lifted my sister, healed her perspective. She carries the arch of her father's eyebrows though she is too young to ask about him, and she is a perfect example of what he could have been. And on Christmas, our gift is counting kisses from a baby in footy pajamas, a baby whose adventures deserve to be preserved in the pages of a storybook.

This December, we remember the corruption and upset of the previous holiday, the sun is warm, the air is mild, and even though we have baked, and laughed, and reflected on the difference, Grandpa Michael Cassone is miles away, and nature is running it's course through his 97-year old veins. Growing up, I endured his predictable and usually crude jokes, watched him dip garlic bread in water at family dinners, marveled at his 'duct tape can cure all' mindset, and read his beautifully written account of the Italian branch of our shared family tree. And if i could, I would toss a message in the air, and the wind would carry it to his bedside. And I would ask him if he remembers the days that his children were born, if he could pinpoint the year that technology came in and trampled simplicity, if he's as fascinated by our five generations of living women as I am, and if he is ready to see whatever's next.

Our holiday evolution reads as a timeline of finding lightness, in small ways that might not be noticed by random passerby's, but has proven to our family, which consistently rises and falls in size, shape and color, that less, in the case of Christmas, is definitely more.

New Video Chapter!

Crock-Potting!

Recent work..

Bees and Lavender

Photos taken at the Lavender Project just outside of San Miguel De Allende, where they farm and make tons of beautiful lavender products on site!

Books and Banana Bread

Sometimes it's nice to go to the library, regardless of what country you are in. For some reason the seemingly endless train of books acts as a comfort. And THIS library in San Miguel De Allende, has an adorable cafe where we ate banana bread (Tara's new vice) and drank iced tea before entering the room of books and "silencio".

Some things I've missed....

It's easy to take advantage of the little things you enjoy. Being in Greece was a slight shock to my comfort zone and all the things/people I have defined it with. Here are a few I am ecstatic to have back in my life.

List #1: things I've missed that can be found in Mexico.

Walking in the dessert

Large, clean, stocked kitchen

A mounted shower head, as in, not hand held

Books in english

Raw coconut sugar & nut butters

Ghee and Agave

Cotton linens and a bed that doesn't squeek when I breathe

Organic vegetables

Mineral water that doesn't come from a bottle

Organic, cold-press coffee

My sister's baked goods

REAL bacon

Tallulah, and the joy she gives everyone

Yes, it was even nice to see Taco and Baby

Clarity in Leaving

The sun has set and we've stopped crying. It was as though the water behind the ferry was encouraging us, the setting sun egging us on. At the port I said goodbye to what we often referred to as "the four best friends that anyone could have". I started crying first, which prompted Angela to say "Chloe, stop being over dramatic." within minutes she was more hysterical than any of us. So the four of us who left Paros together sat in silence and watched what had been so familiar become barely visible. We ate chicken nuggets and chocolate chip cookies, and tried to figure out the last time anything was this sad.

Two days ago I had my last meeting with George Crane. He wanted to talk more about the direction of my book. Who I was writing it for, how it was being organized, and eventually, where it ends. To that question I did not have a concrete answer. I knew I wanted the book to be mostly consumed with what happened before I was twenty, but I had never come up with an exact ending point. It wasn't until I pulled away from Paros on the ferry that it became clear, this is where it ends, when I realized that being on this island enabled me to let it all go and put it into words. In three short months I rewound and looked at my life through an entirely new lens. I can't pinpoint what allowed for this, but it only seems appropriate that the end of the book coincides with a distinct moment of clarity.

***writing this at the athens airport, 3:30AM, please excuse any typos :)

Boo. Endings.

Endings. A concept I have always struggled with, and one that I can't seem to come to terms with right now. As I prepare to leave Paros, and the life that I have created for myself the last three months, I can't help but feeling severe melancholy.

Walking to the beach this morning, after seeing off our first friend at the ferry, my friend Angela and I talked about this. I mentioned that I couldn't decide what was worse, leaving at a high point, when all of our memories are wonderful but it might feel too soon, or having overstayed our welcome and been eager to leave. While leaving is difficult after we have established a deeply concentrated relationship with our peers, teachers, and this island we agreed that the fondness in which we will remember it will make up for the bittersweet emotions right now.

We have spent 3 months, nearly 12 hours a day at least, together, regardless of how irritated we have been with one another, there has been little room for escape. We have gotten to know eachother's lives, learned names of parents, antics of siblings, and sagas of significant others, without having met any of them face to face.

Without having a complete grasp on the extent of what I've learned here, I can safely say that the dynamic between the students, teachers, and the concentration of art, will be what I miss most. I can't say enough about each teacher I have met here, even ones whose classes I wasn't in. They operate with a focus that is contagious, and their main motivation, or so it seemed, was to better our experience and encourage our artistic process.

And I know I've mentioned the writing class before, but having completed the course, I feel even more strongly about it. We had our reading last Friday, each student stood up in front of everyone and read something they wrote this semester. We were all jittery, and the energy between the students was almost tangible. Spending most of that evening trying to cope with my fear of public speaking, I eventually turned to my friend Kayla and said, "We're nervous now, but we're going to wake up tomorrow wishing we could do it all over again." The reading went beautifully, mixing laughs and tears alike, and the whole time I continued to remind myself to be there, in that room of artists, and take advantage of the rare opportunity that is being surrounded by brilliantly talented and joyful people. When the last reader had gone, the nine of us, as well as fellow friends and teachers hugged and cried in celebration. Our writing teacher, Mr. George Crane said that we were the most talented class he's had, and that he felt like quitting thinking that the students to come could not possibly measure up. I share the same sentiment, in the sense that I will likely never again be in a class of students so grounded in joy and honesty. In the last three months, I wrote about things that I had previously felt unable to talk about with anyone, let alone write and expose in front of an audience. The space and comfort that this program has provided me is simply irreplaceable.

Sample of Recent Painting/Doodles/Photography

Source: None via Chloe on Pinterest

Source: None via Chloe on Pinterest

Source: None via Chloe on Pinterest

Source: None via Chloe on Pinterest

Source: None via Chloe on Pinterest

Source: None via Chloe on Pinterest

Source: None via Chloe on Pinterest

Source: None via Chloe on Pinterest

Rambling About Greece While I Should Be Drawing...

The people here inspire me. I arrived in Greece just about one month ago, which feels very short considering what I have done and seen. No offense to Concordia, because no one has forced me to enroll there and it is because of that school that I have found what I love to do, but the people here at HISA, the professors, and the students, carry an energy about them that I have been craving since going to college.

They care about what they are doing and they realize that there is no right way to do it.

I sit in my classes and doodle most days. It probably seems to my peers and professors that I am not listening to a word of what's going on, but most of the time I am doodling as a way to internalize the amazing conversation that is taking place around me. In my creative writing class I listen to my peers read their most personal reflections written in a way that inspires me to do the same. It is not uncommon to feel like crying in this class, sometimes people actually do, and it's okay because we all understand that the physical act of writing is a meditation on all of the little things that have made us who we are right now.

The process of writing has been somewhat confrontational in the sense that I have so much freedom in what I am doing and an abundance of time to consider what is most important to me, events in my life that

have altered my path, and the people who have changed the way I see myself and others around me. The confrontation is a positive side effect enabling me to look clearly at what I am doing and why. We talk a lot about intentionality here and how it is the most important aspect of both art and life- a sentiment that is the subject of many conversations in my family, and now seems to be coming full circle.

All of my classes and experience seem to mesh with one another as I am slowly allowing myself to figure out my path here in Paros, Greece. I walk about a mile to class along the beachfront every day, and every day the overwhelmingly nostalgic smell of dense salt water reminds me of my family, Barbados, and everything else that matters. The one aspect of living in Paros that has been quite serendipitous is the way that little details from my childhood, or even my recent past have crept in and found a home here with me, and seem to be reminding me once again, that home is not defined by a geographical location.

Bittersweet

My last day in Mexico included a trip to the lavender farm, a 3 mile jog with my trusty bodyguard Davis, the purchase of 3 kilos of fresh strawberries, and a wide array of strawberry creations (strawberry sorbet, mini strawberry pies, strawberry jam)!