Reflecting on Tasha Tudor 1915-2008

As
always,
she's
been
on
my
mind
a lot
lately.
I found I had a difficult time choosing a picture to accompany this letter. So many of Tasha's photos depict her in the Autumn years of her life after she had gained so much notoriety in her art. And though I greatly admire Tasha's art, it is her life than I admired most. Not the life of travel when she was promoting her work, but the life I can only imagine that happened when she was alone or with loved ones. This is the most intimate portrait of Tasha that I have ever seen, and can only think Nell Dorr to be the photographer. I can hardly imagine anyone else so close to Tasha to capture this picture of a young nursing mother. It is such a rare depiction of her life and must have been taken in the late thirties or early forties of the 20Th century- which is in itself somewhat astonishing. Which of the four children this little beautiful babe is I do not know. But it is heartbreaking in so many ways with everything the family is going through with settling the estate of Tasha Tudor. What is evident to me is this. No matter what happened to cause the family to break apart as it has, Tasha loved her babies. It is written all over her face. The stress and trials of bringing up four children after she left her husband, I cannot even begin to imagine. Her art paid the bills. Perhaps this is the reason I feel more attached to her daily life than her art. In my head, it seems that for her it was a means to an end. Tasha was extremely protective of her private life and had a very structured life. To the casual onlooker it may not have seemed so, but for any modern person to shun all outside forms of media takes great discipline. No television, radio, or Internet. No reading other peoples Blogs, joining Facebook, or writing emails. It may seem like she didn't care about the outside world. To me, it seemed like she cared about her inside world more deeply than to let the outside world get in the way. This is the notion that has been tumbling about in my head for the past months. I write on this Blog to those I care deeply about, and maybe to those who find some sort of shelter in a common soul. I can relate on so many levels to Tasha wanting to shun the outside world. Sometimes contact with people outside your protective circle can be more hassle than what it seems worth. The bottom line is that we often do not see the world the same way. These can include people we do not know, but it can also include those who should be most close to us, but for one reason or another are not. I would like to be the type of person who could overcome any transgression. I can forgive any hurt, but I cannot say I am able to readily give the other cheek for another slap, so to speak. Maybe this is how it was for Tasha and her family. Whatever is said or written, one thing I believe is true. Her family and home place were her world. Taking care of her gardens, animals, and art left little time for wasted energy. Those who loved her knew where to find her. I wonder at her feelings of sentimentality towards the end of her life. Was this the reason she entrusted one child to the bulk of her life? In her heart, was he the one who most understood her? I did not know her so I cannot say. But I can say that we can empathize with someone we do not know, and I think this is entirely possible. A home takes a lifetime to build up and can be torn to pieces in a matter of months with the right attorneys. If you think I am speaking of brick and mortar, think again. What is at stake here in Tasha's world is much more than her home place. It is a way of life that thousands cling to for strength in navigating a world far to concerned with the lives of other's. She remains a strong reminder for many of us that our life happens in the rituals of each and every day. If we become too engrossed in the lives of others, or in world events, we find ourselves at risk of losing touch with our own. Take Peace, dear Tasha. We miss you.

Joined at the Funny Bone

There are some jokes I'm just not allowed to be in on.

I never know when or where they are going to spring up either. My three and a half year old daughter and one and a half year old son will share a glance, a few words, even some indistinguishable sound, and set the funny bone in motion. It happened during our nightly bedtime story ritual this evening. I chose In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak as this evening's book, perhaps because I have been up to my elbows in flour and such as of late. I hadn't read through the first page when the giggling began. By the third page it was in full force. By the time we were reading "Milk in the batter! Milk in the batter!" on the fifth page I found it amazing that they could even hear what I was saying. Those deep belly laughs continued right through to the very last page with Wren trying to get out, "Read it again! Read it again!". I thought, surely, they won't find this story as funny the second time around. I was wrong. This funny bone was a strong one. It is a joke that perhaps only the two of them truly get, but for those of us lucky enough to witness, it doesn't really matter what the joke is because they are just so darn funny to watch. It's like a feeding frenzy only the food in this case is laughter. Bouncing back and forth between the two of them, the laughter escalates and escalates until all that is audible are those deep belly laughs we all seem incapable of making once we grow up and become such "adults". I can almost hear our own sets of parents saying that it's not such a good idea to get children so riled up before bedtime. I can hear my husband saying it too, but we're now well beyond the point of no return. A last minute change of the baby's diaper becomes akin to struggling with a slippery bar of soap. No matter where I touch him to make the change he is bursting with yet more laughter. And Wren is just eating it up. I find my index finger uncontrollably lightly poking her belly and you would swear it was the worst form of tickle torture. I'm thinking to myself, "When do they come up for air? Can they hurt themselves from laughing this much?" Sooner or later they'll start to settle down and both will have a glassed over look about their eyes. The next thing I know they are passed out sound asleep. No warning whatsoever. Just done. Nights like these can run for hours with not even the slightest of movements from either one of them. They ran a laughter marathon and ran it hard. A few weeks ago the funny bone began when Wren commented in the back of the car that she was hungry. We were talking about dinner and I asked her what she wanted. What she wanted was some humor, and replied, "I'm going to eat a tree." I hadn't had time to really find this remark humorous but obviously Dane had. He couldn't stop laughing. I listened to a rally about eating trees for ten minutes while doing my best to drive the car home in a straight line. I had NO IDEA why I was laughing except that they were just infectious. It will be interesting to see how long this funny bone lasts between the two of them. I hope it hangs on for a long time because it is something that I think is really special that only the two of them are a part of. I'm just along for the ride.

Little Girls

Sugar and
Spice and
Every
Thing
Nice...
That's
What
Little
Girls
are Made
of.
When I had Wren in the summer of 2005, I had some sort of notion of how my former world and future world would be different. I was looking forward to moving out of the place that had been "me" and moving into another that was "her". I had had enough time to live for myself, and my husband and I had five years under our belts to navigate the road map of living as a family. I had enjoyed success in both my personal life and career, and right as I was approaching the birth of my daughter, that career success I had worked so hard to achieve would disintegrate right before my very eyes. It was the beginning of the economic bubble and the signs of its inevitability were becoming impossible to deny. I think every parent worries about how they will provide for their families in the long run. We all face uncertainty of some sort, whether it be the health of our children, finances, our own abilities as parents- the list can go on and on. One thing I knew for sure the moment Wren was put in my arms was that my heart would forever remain no longer inside of me, but permanently take up residence in her. It managed to do this again two years later when baby Dane was placed in my arms, but this is another story. The news of the past four years hasn't been better in regards to the economy, as if I have to tell anyone that. What I have found, however, is that I reside in some sort of unshakable bliss. Sure, there are moments when the realities of the world's troubles creep into my bliss, but those moments really seem to be short lived. I imagine that this bottomless well of love that I feel while watching this child grow has a lot to do with my rosy outlook, but I also am keenly aware that Wren's wonder about the world and everything in it has re infiltrated my senses. I watched her little blond head glittering in the sunshine while picking up seashells on the beach last week in Florida, looking at each one, putting some back, and putting others in her pockets. I watched her do the same thing on Valentines Day with colorful rose petals from my sister's wedding. Pocketfuls were given to me once we were back in the car and their scent was as beautiful as their hue. Everything in Wren's world is a treasure to be looked at, carefully studied, and sometimes squirreled away in a pocket for future admiring. I sometimes find these hidden treasures months later in a pocket of her last season's jacket and they always bring a smile. Wren's needs are so few, and most of them are so easy to meet, regardless of what happens on the news. Last night, a small voice called out from a few inches away, "Mama, will you hold me?". I put down my knitting, switched off the light, switched off thinking about the pros and cons of the stimulus package, and thanked the Heavens above for Little Girls.

Remembering Tasha Tudor

Tasha Tudor would have been ninety three years young on August 28th of this year.

Sadly, we lost Tasha on June 18 after she had suffered a stroke earlier in the year. For some years now, I have made it a point to stop on August 28 and remember how thankful I am to have had Tasha in my life. This last birthday was bittersweet. It had always been so nice to know that nestled in a quiet spot in Vermont, Tasha was going about her day working in the garden, cooking at the old stove, or as she used to say, "keeping the wolf from the door" with her art. So many people knew her because of her art, but there were an equal number of people who knew her because of the life she created at Corgi Cottage. Tasha was one of those rare people who knew with certainty who she was right from the start. Avoiding all forms of public media, she stepped back in time to the 1830's and lived as if the world around her did not exist. Tasha never had to explain why she wore old 19th century styled frocks as those who knew her knew her only in this way. She was very private, and despite how very much I had wanted to meet her in person, and know people who knew her well, the respect I had for her way of life never permitted me to ask for an introduction. At times I deeply regret this, and at others I realize with certainty that a mere introduction would have probably driven me mad. Her wit, wisdom, and hearty homecooking made Tasha the kind of person you would like to have in your family of dearest friends. No, a mere introduction would never have done. At Hawk's Run, we cherish the lessons Tasha Tudor has given us through her beautifully illustrated books. Tasha has taught me to honor childhood, and even more so to honor being a mother. She has taught me that a good meal on the stove can drive out the darkest of days, and a nuzzle from a furry friend can ease the worries of the world. We raised our cups of tea to the memory of one of America's greatest National Treasures on August 28. Tasha's cup was placed in the herb garden as the afternoon gave way to dusk. It is nearly impossible to think of Tasha without hearing the words of Fra Giovanni, early 16th century Italian Renaissance painter of religious subjects.

"I salute you! There is nothing I can give you which you have not; but there is much, that, while I cannot give, you can take.
No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in it today. Take Heaven.
No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present instant. Take Peace.
The gloom of the world is but a shadow; behind it, yet, within our reach, is joy. Take Joy.
And so . . . I greet you, with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks and the shadows flee away."

Tasha had both Joy and Peace in a world that is far too troubled. She found Heaven at Corgi Cottage. God rest her soul.