where the writers are
She takes small notes...

I hesitated when I saw the corridors. How they appeared grey and unforgiving and functional and full of lockers neatly tied with golden locks that might never be opened. I thought about small dog and how she might be missing me and if I remembered to thaw some dinner for the evening. I wondered if the clothes were in off the clothes line and if I remembered to line up the french grinds for older son and if I, if I what? I don't know now. All I know is that I had left my comfort zone. I had jumped from a tall cliff where a woman lived in relative ease, picking berries and making meals accompanied by Bach, while she wore old socks and drank wine. All of a sudden she was in what appeared to be the real world.

The real world is full of grey. The real world is a list of things. The real world screams out ''listen''. The woman thought about this and wanted to run away and back to the light that came into her window. There are no windows in this new place. Light is fluorescent - there are no windows. Men talk. They tell her that if she works she will succeed. She takes small notes. She draws silly things on a sheet of paper; leaves in fall, tiny bonfires, dogs sleeping. Nothing at all that makes any sense.

She buys a sandwich that tastes like airline food and eats it in her car. Grey houses border the parking lot. Houses with tiny windows. Barbed wire fences surround her and she plans what she will make for dinner. Nothing makes much sense but somewhere in her she knows that she is doing the right thing. When she gets home her boys will hug her and ask her how she did. She will not tell them about the grey. She will tell them how the words she heard mattered and the prospects are good & while the wind stirs up around the house she will make dinner. She thinks fresh Basil in September is very special. Soon it will not be here and she also thinks how new she feels and how odd that is, that grey corridors can evoke a sense of newness and how amazing the bog looks on a wet day, drenched wet, three cows, heads bent in earnest to grass are stunning, like art weeping through the hours, lost in time. And all that is to come.

Comments
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Learning

You have fully tenderly described your day at the culinary school, I'm guessing. (First?).I love your line "how new she feels and how odd that is."
I expect to soon hear brighter writings, pieces without grey. And perhaps excitement about boning a duck or chiffonading herbs for something wonderful.

I imagine it feels strange and inviting at the same time. Thank you for sharing with us, Mary.

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Ah Sharon, you read me so

Ah Sharon, you read me so well! Correct on all counts and I hope to be able to convey the parting of the grey, the shades to become more muted, the stark dissolving into something more tangible. Thank you. m

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airline food

Had to laugh at your poor sandwich at culinary school. Such is life. Obviously, the powers that be aren't too artsy about their grey corridors either. But hope they teach you lots of exciting new things about food to add to your already superior knowledge and cooking experience. (Or maybe more likely you will teach them a thing or two.)

You have a rich background of beauty and light coming through your window while you cook to Bach. Enjoy that basil while you can. You will learn to remember to thaw dinner, and your kids will grow as they hear your new experiences and as your life broadens. Small dog may not profit from the change in your life though.

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Small dog appears to be

Small dog appears to be reconciled to the new situation Sue! She is always so excited to see me when I come home and jumps up at me with great delight. I love the new life. It is so exciting. I get new knives and a new cookbook and a new attitude. Thank you Sue for your joy. mx

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Sounds Like....

I used to work in that building! I think so anyway. I used to practically run outside the building I worked in, in San Diego, angry at boring colors and dull people who built ugly places to line up a lot of desks for workers and try to keep them all the same. I sat in my car and listened to NPR and a bit of intelligence for an hour or I'd walk all around the neighboring industrial park and think up stories about each of the buildings. I think I kept my sanity, but I'm not that sure...

I can't imagine you'll let that place be gray for long with all the colors you notice and write about.

cheers,
Christine

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Thanks so much Christine. I

Thanks so much Christine. I do love the library. It is amazing with long, tall windows like sails that look out over Galway Bay and it is filled with interesting cooking journals and cookbooks and it is a serene place where I get to regroup. I discovered the salad bar on the third day so things are looking up! Hope all is well in Monterey. I've missed your blogs - got homework to do - but I will try and catch up as soon as I can. mx

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In Class

I'm studying, too, this semester, but - and I wish it were not so - I am spending all my extra time writing for the class.  The regret lies in lack of cooking time.  So, cook for me and learn well.  I'll post food photos when I've got them.  Monterey is prettier this time of year, and all is well.  Thanks for missing my blogs, I think.  Somehow that came out wrong....   Good luck with homework.  The library sounds best of all.  

Cheers,

Christine 

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Graffiti

Grey is only of the moment, and the Mary we know and love has spray cans hidden within a vivid floral satchel and will soon skip through those halls, merrily adorning the grey with the beauty of her prose, because grey lends such an excellent background color!
(Very, very proud of you.) Mx

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Ha ha Mara Buck, Red Room

Ha ha Mara Buck, Red Room Rising Star!!! Congrats on that. As for the graffiti, well, I know that I will miss my writing but I feel that I can write with food...I hope so. I am happy to read that you are proud of me Mara. This is a gift in itself. Best always, mx

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Journeying in gray

Grey—I always spell it gray, guess that means I'm one of those wayward Americans!

Your lovely piece got me thinking - some of us cover the gray in our hair with coats of many colors, and when I hear "the graying of America," I can't help but visualize old, bent folks trudging along into oblivion, but then I revel in the eerie grayness of fog, and dream of gray, rainy days when it’s okay to curl up with a book and not feel guilty. And then there are the gray early morning hours and those at dusk when the world seems to stand still for a time before giving us the day or the night. Those are often moments of forgiveness, even promise.

Your post had many flashes of gray where you stepped backward and forward – I believe you wear the “grey” cloak well. You need “not tell them about the grey,” that will be our little secret.

I love what you’re doing and where this journey will take you…
~Lynn

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Your lovely words cloak me

Your lovely words cloak me Lynn with scents of warm scones and hot soup on a cold day as it is here in Ireland this Saturday. The rain and wind blows in on this house and we all gather in the kitchen to eat well and share our lives. Thank you for your support on what is  a massive change in my life and one that I do not take lightly. best, mx

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I love how you’ve bared

I love how you’ve bared yourself here, m. I can feel the vulnerability with a dash of humor and such fine details of the line between where you are and where your mind is. And the unreal sometimes more real—always making us appreciate and re-view our surroundings as you beautifully describe when we come back to the lovely bog.

Wonderful, m! Look forward to reading more about your experience in this new world with new self :)

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Rebb, as always I thank you

Rebb, as always I thank you for your constant friendship and think how ironic it is that I can have a friend so far away and yet feel such a connection...yours in writing and all the deep and wonderful places it takes us. mx

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And all that is to come!

And all that is to come! Beautifully written Mary. How are you? Yea I am back , missed you all. :))

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I'm good Sumathi! Nice to

I'm good Sumathi! Nice to see you back on Red Room. As for my cooking, well, I have a few bandaged fingers but nothing I can't deal with...I see them as ink marks on my fingers - as I am writing with food. best, m