Gochujang Made Me Do It

It was a trip to get three things. Three. A loaves and fishes minor miracle that I walked out of the store with as few as I did. Yet...three things. Curiosity, hunger, and some free time conspired against discipline, hence the haul you see above.

The original plan, as scribbled on a torn scrap of notepaper, outline the procurement of soy sauce, water chestnuts, and gochujang. For those who are not familiar with gochujang (and I was not until sometime last summer) it is a spicy, pungent condiment originating in Korea. Traditional ingredients are red chili peppers, rice or wheat, fermented soybeans, and salt. I had eaten it before last year but did not know it as an ingredient.

Food and cooking are never far from my mind. Reading and researching as much as I do had brought the gochujang into my awareness. Not surprising considering how much I was hearing about it. It took on the character as an "It" ingredient in cuisines outside of Korean. While it may be unavoidable that it ran the risk of being the latest trend it fired my imagination immediately. When that occurs, there really is no choice but to track it down for research purposes. Tasty, tasty research.

There are a number of Asian markets in the area where I live. One of those markets happened to be within easy striking distance of my mid-week errand running. My mind and my belly rejoiced at the coincidence, so with small shopping list in hand, it was off to the store.

Confession: no matter the culinary traditions of a particular market, I tend to regard them like kids regard candy stores. The stuff! The things! The food! This one was no different. Well, no different in my reaction to it. Different certainly in the scope and type of offerings as compared to the average "American" market. Any pretense to a plan abruptly evaporated in the face of the goodness I came upon.

Mind you, a lot of it was not immediately apparent to me in terms of the "CONDIMENT" or "BAKING" aisle of the stores I typically frequent. There were plenty of signs in English, but more predominantly in Chinese, Korean, and possibly Japanese. The shelves themselves had little tags listing the products in English, but what most fascinated and amused me was that many of the products were faced so that the labels read in the language of their origin. This is just the sort of thing I enjoy when I am doing research. It invites engagement and attention to detail.

That engagement really came into play as I wandered up and down the aisles. Every Asian cuisine known to me was represented in the astonishing array of products. China. Korea. Japan. Thailand. India. Pickled radish. Dried seafood. Kimchi and not just of the cabbage variety. Preserved mangoes. Millet, sorghum, and black rice. Potato flour and dried noodles of all types. I wondered if the hand basket I carried was adequate to my ambitions. A pallet loader would have been a better choice!

Discipline began to crack. The basket grew heavier. My ambition swelled, damn near drowning out the small voice crying out to "Stick to the plan!" Eventually, I came to and the bubble popped as I realized that I had everything except the gochujang. I was standing in an aisle that was one long wall of soy sauces and bean pastes. Scanning the shelves I could not locate the elusive condiment. This is where my near non-existent knowledge of written Chinese, Japanese, and Korean truly hampered me. Where was it, this gochujang?

That is when it dawned on me. I realized I was looking at a wall of Chinese condiments. I had made the naive mistake of assuming that fermented bean paste is fermented bean paste, so naturally it would be on the "bean paste" aisle. However, what I wanted was Korean. Embarrassment crept over me as I sheepishly slunk over to the Korean section. Down to the end by which I had passed without registering the wall of gochujang there. 

A whole wall. Of gochujang. Right there. Deep red goodness in small jars to little buckets to big pails. I quickly placed a jar in my basket thereby completing my collection. A fine collection, indeed. I hoofed it up to the counter before I could be tempted by anything else. As I waited to pay I knew I would be back soon. But next time, I'll remember that geography, culture, and language are crucial to understanding what my far-away neighbors like to eat...and what I hope to have the privilege to share with them.

Sunday Meditation #48: We Are Imperial and Ridiculous

The night sky bears down on us with its scattering of diamonds on black velvet. The pale smear of the Milky Way slips in and out of vision, frustrating and captivating all at once. In the fleeting moments where the Via Lactea can be seen it is brought home with dizzying impact that everything in the Universe is either You or Not-You. Such thoughts either evoke laughter or consternation.

You or Not-You. The imperial absurdity of it comes clear if "potato" is substituted for You. Everything in the Universe is either a potato or not a potato. An internet meme thus becomes the cornerstone of a new philosophy of self-awareness. It can be safely said by us all that "I am not a potato, therefore I am!" 

Silliness, indeed. Such thoughts on an icy winter night turn life into an extended Monty Python skit, a theater of the absurd in which we all star. "I am not a potato," we mutter into the cold air whilst shaking our relatively tiny fists at the sky. It all becomes meta. A conflation of the Universe in its immensity with tubers and all the things we are not but which we consume. We may not be potatoes or air or books, but these things become part of us the instant we chew, breathe, or read. Sometimes all those at once.

To stand under the stars and revel in the mundanity of a humble tuber as being you and not-you is profound and absurd. The paradoxes within can make the head spin and the mind marvel at the amount of energy we expend on the maintenance of partitions between ourselves and our circumstances. By such fiction we strive to convince ourselves we can be masters of the universe. 

To see the stars above and the ground below is to know, however, that we are not potatoes. We are not the Universe. We eat the one and curse and praise the other. This assures us that we are human, even if potatoes and galaxies do not seem to know we exist. We consume them both, and are consumed by the imperial and the ridiculous.

Blackbird

God and the aspens alone knew how many winters the derelict building had seen, Tadhg reckoned. Where once were windows, bits of rotted wooden frames clinging to lichen-furred stone. The blank openings held the memory of glass, but no traces of the panes could be seen in the grasses nudging the slumping sides of the building. To his eyes, the ruin looked like it had been poured into place rather than by stacking stone upon stone. 

He wondered for what the building had been designed. Living hut? Chapel? The structure sat mute, giving few clues in its architecture. Small square openings up near the eaves gave Tadhg the feeling it had been used for something other than worship, but surely this must be the shrine for which he had so long been searching. He stood still in the morning light, shallow breath and pounding heart as his eyes searched for anything that would confirm his hopes.

He saw it then. In the lichen covered carvings above the doorway there was the softened outline of a man, arm outstretched, with a bird perched on his palm. At its feet was carved a tangle of sticks that Tadhg thought to be a nest. Tears of joy sprang from his dry eyes. St. Kevin and the blackbird, he was sure of it.

The small front door, or what was left of it, stood beckoning. Its opening was a pointed arch, inky black in shadows beyond. Tiny chunks of wood clung to the stonework. There had been a frame there, once and long ago, but the doors now existed only in piles of pale splinters mounded over the threshold. The jamb stones were mottled by little blooms of rust, florets telling of hinges long corroded away. Tadhg spotted a lump that he guessed used to be a beaten iron rivet. It bore more than a passing resemblance to the small russet-orange mushrooms that flecked the woods surrounding the building. 

The pilgrim carefully stepped over the threshold. Inside, the cool air filled his nostrils with the redolence of musky damp and cool stone. He breathed deep, amazed at the silence and the chill of the air. Translucent obsidian shadows were pierced by argentine shafts of light that coruscated through the windows and holes in the roof. Along the walls were carved stone shelves, dusted with the remains of objects long decayed.

At the rear of the space, Tadhg saw what could have been a stone shelf. An urn sat on it, both carved of the same greenish-black rock. He moved towards the back to get a closer look. The shelf was a thick, long slab of stone corbeled into the wall. It showed signs of wear, the edges worn smooth by the passage of hands and legs. Centered in the wall above the ledge was a small opening in the wall. Light streamed in. A soft breeze carried with it the liquid songs of birds laced with the scent of sun-warmed grass. A patch of azure sky could be glimpsed through the window.

Tadhg hoisted himself up onto the ledge. He found that he could not stand fully upright without scraping his head on the underside of the rough rafters and stone roof tiles. He knelt down, resting his arms on the sill of the window. He leaned forward to get a better view. 

The hut was surrounded by trees forming a glade around the structure. Aspens, birch, maples, perhaps. The sound of birds had grown louder. Tadhg could see their numbers flitting through the leaves, an avian susurrus washing him in song. Straight ahead through a gap in the trees could be spied a far-off mountain. Its sides were furred with green, deep green, so green the pilgrim felt himself begin to swoon.

"Such beauty here",  he whispered. His heart filled with a longing that threaten to burst him wide open. His vision swam with tears. Faintness overtook him, reminding him that he had not eaten properly in days. Now he felt he could not leave, the ache inside transforming into peace. Tadhg thrust his arm out the window to grasp desperately at the mountain as if it were closer. The tears welled into outright sobbing.

The sun felt so warm on his upturned palm. The hollow filled with liquid gold light. Tadhg knelt, trembling and praying. A sudden flurry of motion surprised him but he did not flinch as the light in his palm was replaced by a bird. A blackbird carrying a small bundle of grass in its beak. It eyed the pilgrim calmly, head cocking up and down.

Tadhg froze. The ache in his knees subsided, the weariness in his body drained away. In its place he could feel warmth spreading throughout, as if the earth itself were granting him peace. His legs and back thrummed with the seismic energies of the rock on which he knelt. He felt the blood in his veins as the trees feel their sap. The stuff of rivers flowed in his heart.

The blackbird ruffled its wings. With the skill of a tailor, it began to weave the grasses into a little bowl in Tadhg's palm, which trembled slightly at the end of his tired, sun-brown arm. The blackbird flitted away, returning shortly thereafter with another bundle of grass. The was a tiny leaf caught up in the green strands. These were swiftly knitted into the   grasses already there. The blackbird flew away, returned, flew away, returned.

The clouds rolled by. The sun arced slowly down the sky. The blackbird continued its trips back and forth across the glade. Tadhg watched in silent awe as the nest took shape in his hand. The blackbird completed it in the russet-gold light of the afternoon, settling down into a basket if its own creation. 

A trance deepened upon the pilgrim. He knew then that he would not move until the eggs were laid, the birds grown and flying on their own journeys beneath the sun. He would not move until the task was complete. Until he was complete. 

Night fell. Crystalline stars wheeled across the sky as the blackbird murmured to Tadhg of its dreams of Creation and fulfillment. The pilgrim, waiting patiently, felt the stirrings of love in his stony heart.

Feeding Yourself (Sunday Meditation #37)

Chewing my way through a shrimp po' boy the other day, hunger doing its best to overcome disgruntlement at being surrounded by competition culture. The sandwich proved to be a fair balm, but only just. Meditation on society and culture should not be done on an empty stomach but perhaps it is to be avoided whilst eating. Especially hard to do when surrounded by big screen TV's and noisy folks watching the game(s).

Nowhere is safe it seems, in this modern society, from the illness of competition. Everything has been turned into some sort of sports metaphor, with all of us required to give "110%" and to "bring it" when it is "game on". All the time, 24/7. And I am quite tired of it.

Even cooking and eating are not spared the lunacy of win or die. I noticed this one night this week while watching a cooking show on the tube, the name of which rhymes with "Flopped". I do enjoy watching the chefs work creatively under impressive constraints, but it became clear to me with the episode in question just how pernicious sports and gaming "culture" have gripped our sensibilities.

The announcers, the chefs, the ads, all using the language of conquest, domination and war. It isn't enough to create something amazing for its own sake, it has to "crush" the competition it "came after". The erstwhile chefs throw shadow punches and talk about their fellow contestants as if they were weak neighbor nations in possession of natural resources to be pillaged. They must be "taken down" and "dominated" because they are all "here to win".

It is a conundrum I face every time I set out to cook something or write something: for whom and why do it? The truth became apparent to me as I ruminated on the sandwich I was devouring. To focus on domination, humiliation and subjugation of others as "winning" is to have already lost the game. Whether it be cooking a meal or filling the pages or sending a ball through a hoop, the true competition lies not in overcoming others, it lies in overcoming one's own self.

We Are Light Made Solid (Sunday Meditation #36)

Day began for my house with a glow in a dim corner of a early morning kitchen. Cobalt glass lit from within by an opalescent white mist. I was hurrying through the room in haze of mental distractions and hunger pangs, I forget what I was on my way to do. But that blue glow arrested my progress, breath catching, and the ghost of my brother lit a candle in my heart.

Look carefully, look consciously, to find the light. It exists everywhere and nowhere, which sometimes causes it to fade from consciousness. Like air. Breathing is so fundamental to the course of life that distracted minds lose the ability to do it properly. Not unlike growing our souls without light. We forget to see it as did this morning.

The blueness in the corner radiated from a humble salt jar, silver cap on rich cobalt-hued glass. The glow was unearthly but I quickly determined its provenance. My kitchen is adjacent to a dining room by a wall containing an opening. The kitchen itself has no windows directly to the outside but borrows light from the dining room, which has three windows. The windows face south and west.

The light came through the dining room, illuminating the salt jar just in time to pull my out of my anxious head. Light communicates, it speaks in its own way. A brief rush of time as the spirit of my brother, and my family, was there for me in that blue light. The continuum of life in the corner of an ordinary kitchen.

A humble cobalt-colored jar, filled with the only rock, in its pure form, that we eat. These are not the materials of grand revelations, fiery visions, speaking in tongues. They are, like ourselves, of the earth seen. By light, I am privileged to view the earth unseen, and the spirits which inhabit it. Salt and glass, light and shadow, by these materials I am made whole, I am made human.

Hold the Sky

If I could have kissed the sky, I would have done it. There was a purple haze in the air, but Jimi Hendrix had nothing to do with my slack-jawed admiration. I looked at the sky, really looked at it for the first time in months. Rain was falling and to be honest I don't know if I fell in love again at that moment. Clouds like horses' manes, that curl of spray refracted against the sun when waves break on the shore.

That is perhaps what did me in. Staring through a plate glass window in the middle of the country, weary from a workday, and the ocean was breaking over my head. The pull of tides on the heart is a mysterious thing in the heartland when you don't have a liquid horizon as frame of reference. God knows I truly miss it sometimes. The steely bluish-purple sky, painted with curls of clouds that sang of the sea so vibrantly I forgot where I was.

Is it odd to fall in love with the sky? Perhaps this love is misguided. It is the sea that could be said to be my mistress, if I was so inclined to have one. Perhaps this explains my confusion and dislocation sometimes when I watch the sky or view the prairie. Alike in their vastness, different in their manifestations. Sky and grass have not the same gravitational effect on the salt in my blood.

I often ask myself if I should worry about tidal effects, how I feel the waves in my blood even being thousands of miles from the coast of my upbringing. In a curious inversion, the sky becomes that which holds me on the earth. The gauzy curls adorning the sky reminded me so much of the froth and spume on breakers that I was rendered speechless.

I'm rambling, aren't I? I should stop. Maybe. God, where am I now that I don't have the tide as anchor?

Don't be alarmed by my apparent drift. I'm not. I cannot be after the revelation I had when the sky caught up to me that day. File under "Things I Know About Myself": I can appreciate beauty without the imperative to possess that beauty. This is important.

What I know of the sky is that I do not want to possess it. To possess such a thing is to assume too much responsibility for that which I cannot control. What I know is this: I wish to  live under the sky, to coexist with it, and to bask in the glow of its beauty. I have no need to hold it anywhere but in my heart.

Windows to the Soul

His name was Rowan*. He was about three or four years old, and I'll probably not forget his face. He won't forget mine, but for different reasons. He cannot forget it, because he never saw it. Rowan is stone cold blind.

He came into the store where I work today, accompanied by two other small children and three adult minders. A cheerful, towheaded imp of a lad, wielding a specialized cane with a roller ball on the tip. He was smiling from the first moment I saw his face.

To see that face was to know that his eyes simply did not work. I chatted a bit with his guardian and she said he had been completely sightless since birth. The other children, two adorable little girls, were also legally blind but did have some limited sight. The group was visiting from a local school for the blind, and today was "O" day. They were out visiting stores like ours to get tactile and sensory impressions of things that started with "O". Like olive oil from the shop down the street. Oregano and orange peel from ours. Lunch was to be at Olive Garden, a prospect at which the kids, especially Rowan, were eagerly anticipating.

I watched the kids as they were led around the store. It was humbling and enlightening to see how someone so young and without benefit of the sight that most of us give no second thought. Every pattern change, every color shift, every textural difference was an opportunity for discovery, even delight. My mind reeled at the idea of treating color and fabric as things to be sussed out, requiring more than the average effort to effect understanding of the concepts of "blue" and "carpet".

Oddly enough, I began to feel quite at ease in their presence. While they had some difficulties expressing themselves, it was a joy to watch their faces when they would take a sniff of the sample jars scattered throughout the store. A radiant happiness, pure appreciation, and something I told myself I need to watch and learn from.

It was the cinnamon that really sent my heart over the edge. All three of the kids took a big sniff of the strongest cinnamon in the store. Their faces scrunched up, mouths in a gleeful rictus of "Oh, my!" and the smiles. Oh, my god, the smiles.

Rowan looked up in the direction of his guardian's voice. I looked into his eyes, he could not see mine, and unfocused beauty lanced my heart. He grinned widely and in a loud voice announced "Cinna-MON!". Then he laughed and something divine swept throughout the store. I felt faint.

As they were ready to leave, I made a gift to them of little jars of cinnamon, some specials we had on hand. The adults were effusively grateful, thanking me repeatedly. One of them said to the little boy "What do you say for the cinnamon, Rowan? Can you say thank you?"

Rowan turned his head in my direction, looking over my shoulder but straight into my heart. His eyes were like porcelain, beautiful and glazed. I gulped.

"Thank you you for the cinna-MON!" He turned to leave, hand in hand with his guardian. "You're welcome, Rowan!" I said.

But really I should have been thanking him for teaching me more about sight in ten minutes than I think I've learned in a lifetime. I should thank him for helping me see.

---

*Not his real name, changed for privacy reasons.

We Do Not Wish to Sing a Requiem for Bees

If it can ever be said that I have evidence of the Divine in this world, surely it resides in a spoonful of tupelo honey. To paraphrase the 17th century English physician William Butler, doubtless God could have made a better honey, but doubtless God never did.

The estimable Dr. Butler was referring to strawberries in his original remark, but the principle easily extends to tupelo honey. I am not, by nature, overly drawn to sweet things but tupelo honey has a hold on the imagination of my palate that I cannot explain. The only other sweetener that is on par with it is sorghum. I love sorghum, but that is a story for another time.

In recent months it has become my evening custom to have a mug of chamomile tea before retiring for the evening. Its soothing, soporific effects have done much to assuage my difficulties in easily falling asleep. For this I am grateful.

It is with the flavor of chamomile that I am somewhat less than enthralled. For months I drank it straight up, convincing myself that the salubrious effects of the infusion outweighed the medicinal taste of it. The conceit wore thin and I ceased my nightcap for a short time.

The hiatus ended the evening a jar of tupelo honey landed on kitchen counter. As luck had it, I found it in a local grocery store for not too much money. This, after some months without, as the last jar I had seemed to be exorbitantly priced.

Such are the penalties we pay for our appetites.

So with this windfall of honey, I found myself once again in need of a mug of chamomile tea, but with little enthusiasm to drink it. It was then that the inspiration came upon me to lace my cup with a generous dollop of tupelo honey. The effect, I must say, was damn near magical.

I sat down on the couch to enjoy my drink, and as the first warm sips slid down my gullet I could not help my meditation on tupelo honey and what makes its existence possible. Trees and bees. Specifically, tupelo gum trees and honey bees.

But especially bees. The news of recent die-offs and colony collapse disorder had me unsettled. It boggles the mind to think that so much of the good things we take for granted depend on healthy bees. Fruits, vegetables and all the things that flow from them, like honey. They could all disappear if the bees die and do not come back.

The thought of it makes me sad. That night I added tupelo honey to my chamomile tea I leaned back on the couch and said aloud "Lord, I hope the bees don't die." The winter chill seeping through the walls raced up my spine as I voiced those words. I shivered slightly, sipped a gift from the Divine, and meditated on the miracle of the honeybee and its dance with the tupelo gum tree. To sing a requiem for them seemed an offense to the universe, one that I cannot bring myself to commit.

 

On the Realization of Having Gone Off the Path

April 14th, 4:39 PM. A sudden jerking awake, a popping of the bubble. Good lord, man, what happened?

It is not an exaggeration to say I had an abrupt moment of clarity, this morning, between slipping in and out of naps. Clarity accompanied by the gasp of knowing that there seems to be a lot undone in recent days. The lack of "productivity" in my life always creates a tension with which I find it hard to cope. I was disappointed that I have written and photographed almost nothing since March 23rd. Also, somewhat anxious.

What makes this absurdly funny is that I had no official deadlines or production schedules in that time.

Life is what happens when you make other plans...to be clear, I had a near week long visit with my daughter at the beginning of the month, followed closely by surgery (due to the events mentioned HEARnia), the recovery time I knew full well would set me back by keeping me off my feet. Even so I remained optimistic that while reclining in bed or on the couch I would still be working the keyboards and maybe even getting a jump on the Next Great American Novel. I thought I would bounce back in a snap, not unlike I did the first time I had a similar operation nearly 30 years gone.

Boy, was I ever mistaken. The surgery was just over 4 days ago, I was home the afternoon it took place, but it wasn't until now, a relatively nice Sunday afternoon, that I felt energetic and focused enough to sit down and write. Anything. Anything at all. In hindsight, I am astounded I managed to communicate to the extent I did during the last week. Even that was thanks to the miracle of the Interwebs and social media. The combined effects of surgery, anesthesia, pain medications and the fact I've been a few more years around the sun rendered me exhausted, loopy and beyond caring (too much) about typos. The smart phone was a boon, allowing me to at least dabble in the world beyond my shoulders between bouts of sudden-onset napping and just plain goofball fuzziness. I also managed to stay connected to loved ones, far and near.

My plans for literary excellence, or even increased output, were busted. It made me antsy, even as I drifted off to snooze and comprehensively map the insides of my eyelids. A curious battle between the need to rest (which really was the right way) and this need to fulfill my creative, productive urge. It felt good to rest, but laced with a ribbon of panic that golden opportunities were slipping away from me.

It's a good thing that I have people in my life who care deeply for me, for my well-being. I may have received some good-natured teasing over some typos and the loopiness I indulged in, but I also received good advice and care. Priceless, indeed. The core of the advice I needed to hear, is that my body is telling me what it needs, and I would do well to listen. No sense in trying to bang out a collection of short stories if all it does is land me right back in the care of physicians.

Having said all that, I think it's time to wrap it up. I getting weary again, the body is achy. I have some more meditations I'd like to offer to you, dear readers, based on my "from-gurney-observations" I collected whilst in the recovery room. Minor epiphanies and gratitudes, if I may. Those will wait a bit longer, after a nap and maybe some ice cream.

The Road to Hell is Paved With Beds Unmade (Sunday Meditation #27)

Nearly every day, upon arising from sleep, I think of making my bed. Nearly every morning, I make the bed. On the mornings I don't make the bed, I almost always carry with me nagging anxiety and disappointment. Every time I climb the stairs to my room, to enter it or passing by, I gaze through the opening upon the rumpled sheets and disheveled pillows and berate myself for not following through with intention. The bed in its disarray asks me "Really, sir, what was your intention for the day? What else will you leave unfinished?"

The bed does not literally speak, I know. If it did, I would have greater problems to solve than mere rearrangement of sheets. Ones that might involve doctors and analysis, and at this point in life I would rather not stray into that territory. But the bed does say something to me. Made, it gives the satisfaction of knowing that I have accomplished something, however small, in my day. Unmade, it exists as silent reminder that I have been lazy or unfocused or simply inattentive. Each state is a small seed, planting something in my heart of hearts that guides my actions for the remainder of my waking hours.

You may scoff at this notion, and I would not blame you. "It is a bed, man, not a plan for your life's work!" and the logical me would agree with you. There are many days when the logical me can put such daft notions aside, sink its teeth into the flesh of the day and consume it for all its worth. There are days when such consumption is necessary, if anything is to be accomplished.

Consumption is not the end of our actions entire, I must say. Some days reflection is required, an asking of "What are my intentions for the day? What do I hope to do, for whom, and for why?" These are questions that appeal to the emotional me. The answers do not necessarily demand us to struggle under the burden of reason (and make no mistake, reason as a state of existence is sometimes a burden on our animal minds) in order to make it through our day. But these questions must be engaged, I believe, if I am to fulfill the intentions I carry within my heart.

Intentions. We all have them. We all follow through on them with varying degrees of success. We all hope (at least, I hope we all hope) that we have done what we said we would do. The trap inherent in this is that too often we mistake the having of intentions with the fulfilling of intentions. We congratulate ourselves on meaning well, and we rely on the presumed good natures of those we claim to love, or want to love, that even if  things "just didn't work out" when in reality we just didn't bother ourselves to follow through, they know that we meant well. Human nature, I suppose, to take the easy route if we think someone will always cut us slack. Or that life will always cut us some slack. Things undone for too long, in life and love, will come back to haunt or hurt us.

This haunting is perhaps is the kernel of my anxieties, the driver behind my need to make the bed. A tangled blanket, a pillow on the floor, become avatars of the rippling chaos of my subconscious mind. I sometimes don't have the energy to dispel them even when I know it would be good for me. It takes an intention realized in an action to quell the ripples and set my heart on the right path for the day. This is why I so often force myself to make the bed: I calm the chaos and prime my mind to fulfill potential for the day, rather than congratulating myself for having created a 'to do' list which may end as mere desk ornament.

Again, you may laugh and point at the seeming silliness of my need to make the bed. Again, I take no offense. I realize that sometimes (to paraphrase Freud) a bed is just a bed. On the bad days, I berate myself for being attached to this notion of bed making. I can only note that on the days I do make the bed, I get more done. I feel stillness. I feel more open to love. I am not always fortunate to experience more love as a result, but I do know this: being still and open to love goes a long way towards keeping me from paving the road to hell with my own good intentions.

Taking Fire

Winter light of lapis and polished sterling flooded the room through the paired windows. The stone around the openings flared outward into the room, magnifying the illumination to make the infirmary cell much brighter than Rāhula would have imagined. He was grateful, prayers of thanks going up every morning when the sun slipped into his room.

The old monk lay still, his eyes tracking the progress of snow finches across the flagstone patio outside the window. His bed had been pushed close to the window to afford a view out. The weight of the blankets and bandages served as warm anchors. But it was the pain in his skin that acted as biggest shackle. Rāhula's eyes twitched in time with the hopping birds, his racing mind considering that the pain was simply another attachment. The task, he thought, was to consume the horrible ache before it consumed him.

The smell of gasoline lingered as a phantom haunt in his nostrils. Blinding sunlight and the horrified screams of passers-by kaleidoscoped across his memory. He gritted his teeth. Tears surged, searing his dry eyes. Rapid blinks cleared his vision. The snow finches snapped into sharp focus.

Rāhula smiled, a reflex action at odds with his will, but felt good. Watching the finches peck at the black scatterings of nyjer seeds on the snow, Rāhula decided then that he would never again set himself afire for anyone. Not the government, not the news, not even himself.

On What We Could Be Doing

Dear readers, I know my posting of things has been rather sparse, and for that I offer my regrets. The usual suspects are involved: life events, job search pressures, the endless search for food and revenue. I do not offer them as excuses, only factors. But those factors alone do not account for my relative silence.

No, it is more. Two things at odds with each other.

It is the Buddhist idea of "mindfulness" versus the overbearing, seemingly endless paranoia and violence of the culture surrounding me in these here United States. I'm at a bit of impasse as to how to resolve the tension. It is giving me tremendous food for thought, yet stifling my creativity and energy.

I am trying to practice mindfulness (the awareness of one's body, one's feelings, one's thoughts and perceptions, and consciousness itself), because I am becoming aware of how it may help me in my quest for inner peace. It helps me realize peace and appreciate beauty in ways that escaped me as a younger man.

But it has made me more aware...of everything. Or almost everything. This means that the overload of information from events over the past two or so years, such as vitriolic politics seemingly devoid of reason and the horrific acts of gun violence (and the continued willfully irrational fallout from both) have strained my internal resources close to the point of non-functioning.

This makes me sad.

When I consider all the wonderful things we could be doing with our time, like caring more for our fellow humans, creating beauty, working constructively for a better future for all of us in this supposedly free society in contrast to what actually happens (violence, hatred, partisanship)...I lose energy and motivation.

There is much beauty to be had, love to be shared, yet we spend our time building walls, digging trenches and tearing down others. So many advantages and blessings, squandered.

Bah. It is winter and I am feeling tired. I am mindful of that, and know that it will pass. Perhaps the practice of mindfulness will teach me to celebrate what I can do, rather than mourn what others cannot seem to do. This is my hope.

Prayer Flags on Everest Cerebrum

Some time ago I discovered the delightful artifacts known as prayer flags, those humble yet amazing pieces of cloth whose purpose came to fill me with delight. Their roots are in India, they blossomed in Tibet (known as lung ta or darchor depending on the style) and somehow ended up flying in the cool winds caressing the Mount Everest of my mind.

It is my understanding that traditionally, the flags are used to promote compassion, strength, wisdom and peace. The idea is that the prayers and mantras written on the flags will be carried by the wind into the surrounding space. Thus, by power of the wind, good will is carried to all. Hanging the flags in high places, especially those with frequent or powerful winds, is considered to be especially effective.

Lately I find myself struggling with the ideas of compassion, strength, wisdom and peace. How to find them within myself, and how to help spread them throughout the world. It seems to me that all of us could use more of each. I am acutely aware of the struggle within myself to overcome the base impulses that led me away from those four elements. I see and hear what is happening in the world and am saddened but also amazed at the feelings created within my head and heart.

I have written "flying some prayer flags for you on the Everest of my mind" quite often in my correspondence with my friends and acquaintances over the interwebs. I don't recall the first time I used those words, but I do recall thinking I was quite clever in my turn of phrase. It has not been until recently that it occurred to me it was more than triteness meant to convey solidarity or sympathy. I mean, it is that, but has also become much more to me.

I know now that I will almost certainly never climb Mount Everest, or even venture into the foothills of that majestic, legendary mountain. My life path and circumstances will most likely not allow it. At one time, that notion made me very sad; I don't have to climb it, but I would love to at least see it with my own two eyes, breathe the cold crystalline air sweeping down it flanks.

At the same time, I know that I may never get to see some of the dear people I consider to be my friends of the electronic age, as much as the notion pains me. This does not stop me from wishing them love, peace, and good fortune in whatever life is serving up to them. So if I can't get to the mountain, I will bring the mountain to me.

The space within my mind may be infinite if I wish it so. I could build cities marching to the horizon, oceans unbounded or invisible forests if I so desired. But with all that is going on in our lives, dear ones, I have chosen to create a shield against the negative energy that threatens us. I am forcing up a mountain range from the tectonic plates of my soul, the anchor of which is this Everest I think has grown from my heart.

It fits there, in the space behind my eyes, a stereo vision overlay on the shared hallucination that is our world. The winds blow strong and swift in the crystalline cerulean sky around the Everest I see. The flanks of the mountain are dotted with bits of bright fabric, seeming almost alive as the flags I have hung for you swirl in their eager arabesques and tarantellas and tangos upon the wind.

Lately my heart has grown weary of the hardness and stone of its typical existence. There are cracks, like those of a shell surrounding a chick. My heart is trying to break out so as to share in this world...to share with you, my fellow humans. In the foothills, I kneel and turn my gaze toward the mountain. In my hands are lung ta, inscribed with prayers and the names of those I know and those I wish to know.

The shadows hang blue upon the valley, dear ones. I fly my flags in the wind. May they bring you compassion, strength, wisdom and peace.

Mouse

Nibbling pumpkin seeds
Brown grass scraping bare belly
Gray Cat watches, schemes

Me, Knife

This soul is not Pierre nor
Delphic queries on the tongue
of a dead French philosopher

Yet a day does not pass
without replacing the heart
or switching out the mind

Or is it heart every day
and mind every other?
Confusion, exhaustion

I know it happens, I feel it
reaching for the blade-mind
gripping handle of the soul

Ignore the whispers of Sartre:
blade, handle are distractions
I am the Knife within my reach

On the Exasperation of Being Careful

No.
Wait a minute.
Hold up.
...
BE CAREFUL.

Oh, for the love of Pete...How many times will I repeat those words and phrases? I'm getting on my own nerves. To paraphrase Dieter, my habit of needless warnings becomes tiresome. I'm sure my daughter feels the same way. She rarely replies to me when I do it. I'm not sure if she is too conscious of me being Daddy or if she is being polite.

Knowing her, it may be a mix of both...or she could be mentally rolling her eyes and saying "Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, whatever, Daddy". That wouldn't surprise me in the least. My progeny is whip-smart and has a sharp wit for one so young.

I suspect she may be smarter than me. This means trouble, down the road. Ah, I digress.

No, the problem for me at the moment is that whenever Wee Lass is with me, I suddenly turn into a nag. A nag when it involves her doing something that incurs a modicum of risk. And by risk, I mean "a little kid moving through space-time". I constantly worry that she is going to run into something, fall off something or knock something down and break it. So I become Polly Parrot squawking its fool head off.

The problem is that for the most part there isn't really anything to worry about, and there isn't anything I could really do to prevent something that truly is an accident. I am sure my daughter is smart enough to avoid the obvious threats (don't stick your hand in a fire, watch out for cars, keep you head out of the toilet), yet I feel compelled to say "Be careful!" when she so much as does an impromptu dance in the living room.*

Why do I do this? Is it that I believe so strongly in the power of words that I find them talismanic against chaos and misfortune? If so, my energy may be wasted. After all, "No Trespassing" signs have never kept anyone off the railroad tracks. I don't know why I think that the utterance of a few syllables will magically protect her from embarrassment at best and physical harm at worst.

Maybe it is my 'daddy' instinct. Maybe it is my own fears directing my behavior. For most of my life I have been surprise-averse. The sudden and the unpredictable typically give me fits, and I don't react often enough with grace and aplomb. Being that way is not a character flaw, yet I'm troubled by it all the same.

It makes sense to avoid risk in some cases, yes. But not in all cases. Certainly not in cases where the risk is more a perception than a reality, and that is the case for most day-to-day life. Avoiding all perceived risks and trying to limit uncertainty creates a new problem, the limiting of experience. It teaches one to live in anxiety rather than in wonder. It limits experience, even if subtly. It is something I have not yet overcome as an adult. Today it hit me why it bothers me so. 

I may be quietly teaching my daughter to live in fear. Subtle, maybe, but explicit in its effects. I may be setting the wrong example, that life is constant vigilance against the unexpected. The side effect is that it can lead to missing out on joy. I have noticed my daughter is somewhat cautious when it comes to new experiences. She tends to be reserved until she figures things out in her own mind; spontaneous eruptions of 'kid-ness' are not unknown with her, but they aren't exactly the norm either.

I wonder how much of that is innate, and how much of it is me. I know from examining my own behavior that I tend to be cautious, too. As a rule I don't just dive in to new social situations or experiences. Over the course of my life I am sure that has held me back from some truly enjoyable situations and worthwhile relationships.

The thought that this may set an example for Wee Lass, well, that just makes me question myself as a father. Her father. I should be teaching her to be better than the bundle of nerves that I am. I will be teaching her better. There is still time for me to get it right, for the apple that fell to outshine the tree upon which it grew.

--
*I should point out a recent example in which I didn't revert to type, and a minor accident DID occur. There is a big cushy chair in my family room that spins around 360 degrees. She, naturally, wanted to sit in it and spin around. I obliged, giving the chair a few not overly strong pushes. She, of course, chooses that very moment to try and adjust her position. Centrifugal force and bad luck conspired to tip her over, falling off the chair and knocking over a lamp. Lucky for us, it ended with only embarrassment and a very small bruise. However, I was kicking myself mentally, saying "Why didn't I say 'Be Careful!'" Of course, it would have done no good...and I have yet to convince myself of that truth.

Psalm of the Bagstamper

August 17th, 4:57 PM. Cooling my heels before heading out the door. Lovely day.

It is a very simple task, this stamping of bags. Ink stamp, lift stamp, stamp bag. Repeat. Two words, two colors, each bag gets stamped twice with one color of each. Simplicity, indeed. It is not the most intellectually engaging work to do, true, but you know what?

That doesn't matter.

Also,you know what? I'm good at it. I'd go so far as to say that I excel at stamping bags with the company name in green and purple ink. The colors look good on the brown kraft paper of the bags, and I have a knack for getting the ink coverage and positioning just right. "It ain't rocket science!" people will say...but it doesn't have to be rocket science.

Let me make it clear that I am not making light of the chore. On my latest workday I stamped enough bags to fill up a cardboard box about 30 inches to a side and 24 inches deep. That is a lot of bags, I can tell you. As can my aching wrist and arm. It may be a simple task, but it need to be done. It is worth doing and therefore it is worth doing right. It is part of the way this particular business of selling spices is conducted.

I like the idea of hand-stamping the bags. It adds humanity to the business, a semi-anonymous (the customers usually don't know who stamped which bags) yet uniquely personal (a person stamped the a paper) touch in a what could be seen as a cold process: exchanging money for goods. One thing I realized, the core reason why I believe I liked what I was doing, is that by hand stamping the bags, each one becomes a unique creation. Retail snowflakes, if you will, through slight variations in word position, word angle, coverage of ink, even the occasional little spatters of ink from hitting the bag a little harder. It was cool, this concept of the simple, imperfect beauty.

So I stood at the counter, stacks of bags and ink pads at the ready. Ink the bag, move the bag, ink the bag, move the bag...I achieved a "no mindedness" flow, as the bags piled up in the box. Simple problem, measurable result. Was I lighting the world on fire, landing on Mars, discovering a cure for the common cold?

No, of course not. What I was doing, however, was getting something done. And that is just what I needed, right there in the Now.

Edge of the Coin

That kind of day, one where a glance out the window shows a leaf swirling downward in the white-gold sun, slowing the heart in a graceful spiral to the ground.

And you think..."The future is when? Is what?" All the days of your life condense in the mind, creating a singularity of shiny density. The matter compresses. It grows smaller but heavier. A black hole (or is it a white hole?) forming in the skull. You think it is going to suck everything in and you won't escape.

The explosion just might change your mind. Bright matter bursts forth to spray in all directions in shards of thought, of memory, scattering your mind across the universe. It whirls and twists in a paroxysm of joy laminates with sadness, encrusted with nostalgia and longing. The heart wants to follow, it does.

But fear is the stake linked to the chain fastened to the collar that keeps you in the yard.

"Fear of what?", you ask yourself again for a time uncounted. A future you cannot predict? A past you cannot change? Fear that you won't be able to figure out what to do next before it is too late to do anything?

The shards glitter and gambol as if each is animated by the spirits of dolphins at play in the sea. They twist about in a waltz the mind can scarcely comprehend. They move too fast. The speed of things is itself a fount of concern. Concrete decisions seem impossible to make when the data upon which they are founded will not sit still long enough for confident analysis. Sit still. They won't sit still. And if they sit still, you might know their position but you won't necessarily know their momentum.

Out on the lawn, Werner Heisenberg kneels,  grinning at you through the window. At his feet is a box marked "Schrödinger's cat". Werner's hand is poised on the handle, eyebrows arched with a look that seems to say "Shall I open the box?" You laugh. Physics as a monumental joke in the guise of a thought experiment designed to help you unravel the mystery of your life.

Rub your eyes. Make him go away. He begins to fade just as the handle turns. Through him you see the thought shards spinning so fast they look like a ball of molten iridium. They slow and coalesce, taking a shape you recognize, but seems slightly alien.

It is a coin. A silver dollar from your youth, spinning on its edge. It slows and you can make out some faint details, a dead president you never knew but now seems an oracle.

This coin with its knife-bright edge spinning, spinning, leaving you to wonder when it will come to rest. Aha! Rest! This idea releases a trickle of relief in your head and heart.

It will come to rest. The future may seem to be a spinning coin that can't be grasped. Don't worry, though. You don't have to call heads or tails, Future or Past. It will fall into place, this bright, shiny currency of potential fulfilled, and you will hold it by the edges of the Now.

Horizons As Big As Our Hearts

What are the edges of your love? Not boundaries, mind you, but edges. When I think of boundary I think of a discrete stop, beyond which a thing cannot go. "Edge" to me speaks of a condition less static, more fluid and less sharp.

A barbed wire fence is a boundary. A tide line is an edge. Does that make sense? The wire is meant to keep something out, or keep something in. Where the water meets the shore is interplay and mingling of sea, sand and air. Fences are imposed by an outside order. Tide lines arise from organic circumstance.

I wonder if it is the same with love. It saddens me to think of love as something that requires capture and containment in order to flourish. Who would want their heart brought to rest upon rusty wire, held in place only to bleed out onto an uncaring earth? Would it not be grander, more humane and satisfying to alight upon the shored from the curl of a wave, delighting in sun and spray?

These things occurred to me while considering if the love within us is possessed of a horizon. This thought a random bit of mental flotsam, conjured up by the quantum associations of conversations touching on love. The image in my head one of standing on deck with my eyes on the horizon, and wondering just how far away it could be.

The idea stuck with me, I suppose because oceans and love have fascinated me for years. Fascinated and spooked me simultaneously, as I always have been when surrounded by vastness I cannot fully comprehend. Deep ocean, vast hearts. I admire the one and crave the other, yet am fearful of being swallowed whole by both. Ultimately how big can they be and we survive their mysterious embraces? 

As a result of this anxious meditation I have a better understanding of my own concerns. For the longest time I have held in my heart that in order for it to love, it had to have limits to that love; if it did not, the heart would be lost, swept away and identity dissolved. It is true that love to some degree requires the giving up of ego, an unsettling but necessary act that can lead to deep understanding.

Clinging to ego can be limiting, however. One perhaps may never know the true depths and breadths of love if one never lets go. This is a notion that has crept up on me, and now refuses to go away. Because I wonder, how much love have I missed because I was afraid of that which appears to be without limits? How much love could it be possible for me to receive if my heart became as an ocean?

It has been suggested to me that the amount is infinite. What is required is the removal of those limits imposed by the ego. Fear is yet another attachment that prevents us from opening ourselves up to love.

The greater the distance to the horizon of love, the larger the sphere of our hearts, but this is less important than defining that horizon as boundary or edge. Boundaries allow for control, but perhaps at the expense of growth. Edges allow more space for growth. Love needs edges. Love needs horizons as big as our hearts.

Grit

Pardon, pardon, dear readers. A brief hiatus for me whilst on a week's vacation, a post for another time. I'll get back into the swing of things, I'm sure. Tonight I had some observations which would not wait, meditations on Olympic sport and the limits of human capability.

I caught the semifinals of the men's 400m tonight. It is significant because lane 5 was occupied by Oscar Pistorius, the double-amputee runner from South Africa with blades instead of legs, below the knees. Anyone who has paid attention knows most of his story, so I won't repeat that here. Suffice to say, I was fascinated by the sight of this man who is not quite like many men, running as fast as he can on prosthetics, in the premier sporting event of human history.

I wanted him to win, but alas, he did not. He finished last and approximately two seconds behind the man who did win, Kirani James of Grenada. I was disappointed, but not overly affected. I was about to turn away, thinking of other things when something amazing happened that put a lump in my throat.

Kirani James, a man possessed of "regular" legs,  asked Oscar Pistorius to trade name cards. The sight of them exchanging the papers and a hug put small tears in my eyes.

I stayed put, entranced by the sight of this man who has had no lower legs since he was a child, yet got it in his head that he was going to run. Run, not just like the rest of us. But run against the fastest people in the world. I thought, "This is a man with grit. With steel."

That he did not win is not the most important thing to take away from this race. At least not for us regular mortals. The thing I will remember is that I must stop thinking I can't run with the best, something that will certainly be true if I don't even try.

I should run. We should run. There is no way for us to know how good we can be if we don't cast aside the things we fear will hold us back. We should all be Oscar Pistorius...and run, no matter what.