The Marvelous Mushroom Caftan: Part 1

It began with a mushroom caftan. 

Last year, on a slow autumn evening, that annoying juxtaposition of restless energy and listless boredom decided to show up. I had plans to write, create, do something and my brain and body couldn't get their act together.  

The cat yawn. David's keyboard clicked. The children slept. The refrigerator hummed. 

I sat. 

Obviously, the only thing I could do in this situation was scroll social media. I hopped onto Instagram prepared to like the lives of others while I ignored my own.

Dead stop. 

There in my Instagram feed I saw the Marvelous Mushroom Caftan.

I wanted* this caftan. More so, I wanted to be the kind of person who wears a Marvelous Mushroom Caftan. Never in two thousand lifetimes would I have guessed that this Marvelous Mushroom Caftan would precipitate a radical reorientation of my life. 

What sort of Amanda would wear a Marvelous Mushroom Caftan? Ten years from now would I be a Woman of the Marvelous Mushroom Caftan?

I opened a Google Doc on my phone and wrote the following**: 

Hi. It's 52 year-old me and I'm here to make things weird.

I've left the stress of higher education. I spend my days creating zines, reading tarot, writing, and working part-time at a bookshop specializing in magic and mischief.

I have seven cats, a hedgehog, and a grandchild who calls me Grantifa. I'm teaching them the important stuff like their ABCs and ACAB. 

I live in a rambling house with large windows and a giant covered porch. The porch ceiling is painted dark blue and dotted with scores of gold stars. I'm pleased with this ceiling; I've wanted a dark blue ceiling filled with gold stars since I was a teen. Actually, this is the first project I completed to make this home mine. 14 year-old Amanda is so happy.

My house is filled with bookshelves and smells like coffee, rosemary, and cloves. My desk is near the best back window. My journals and drafts are stacked here and there near my vintage green Hermes 3000 typewriter. (Of course it is like Sylvia Plath's typewriter!) My chairs are squishy, worn, velvet delights. Here is a wooden table littered with mugs and bits of projects. Candles abound and the twin flames of chaos and peace thread their way through my home. I think the energy of my home would be one that Shirley Jackson would appreciate.

Each room is painted a different color: mustard yellow, cool teal, warm pumpkin, glass green. Speaking of glass, I've put a collection of glass bottles in the windows that glint jeweled in the midday sunlight. Down the hallways, I've hung odd wallpaper that hints at fairy forests, sly foxes, and winter stillness. The painted walls are hung with an assortment of thrifted treasures: owl paintings, forgotten photos, embroidered scenes, and copper moons.

My grown children have their own nook or room; this is always their home whenever they need it. I cherish my time with them and I'm happy to watch them explore the world and make it their own. Their treasures are scattered through the house like when they were children: a rock that looks like a potato, purple tinged seashells, an assortment of beads, dried leaves with an occasional acorn offering, a jar of snail shells, drawn notes and pictures, and trinkets that look like small animals.

Here is the backyard, I planted some fig trees simply so I can make endless Bell Jar jokes. To the left is a hedge of juniper. A small garden flourishes on the right side of the yard. There are all sorts of plants growing wild and the birds make riotous music each morning. My current adventure is making friends with the crows. I leave them walnuts and shiny bits and bobs on a dilapidated table near the juniper.

Bordering the furthest edge of my backyard are several acres of oak, pine, and birch. A creek winds through the forest. I tread the well-loved forest path in the morning after breakfast and in the early evening before I cook dinner. Personally, I think this bit of woods has the best moss, mushrooms, and ferns. I have a large collection of thrifted quilts and when I am sad I nap on a quilt under a wide oak tree on the cusp of the forest. After oak tree naps, I wake up feeling maybe still sad and very much alive.

Bordering the front yard is an expanse of creeping thyme and patches of rosemary. In summer you can smell the clover and violets near the porch. I haven't mowed my lawn in years and the bee hum strums against the creak of rocking chairs under the blue-painted porch ceiling.

You should stay for dinner. I will change from my seasonally appropriate woodland rambling wear; evenings call for the Marvelous Mushroom Caftan and the softest handknit shawl in the world. The weather is turning to rain. I'll make a pot of tea after our meal of good soup and even better bread. We'll work a jigsaw puzzle all evening and listen to music. I’m still stuck on Weyes Blood. I’ll leave the windows cracked; I love the fresh crispness of rain with a bit of a chill. If it cools enough, we’ll light the woodstove. It grows late, you leave with promises of a future forest ramble.

The night deepens blue. I’m waiting for the moon. She rises and I’m stepping outside and into the nature pulsed expanse of my backyard. The moss greets me. The trees nod. The wind threads through my hair. Ear to earth, I breathe in the stars. My heart expands and entangles with every good thing on this earth. 

This is a life worth living.

*I showed great restraint and didn't buy it. 

** There are a few small edits for the sake of clarity.