Alive, by the sea
His appetite awoken
Green waves' aroma
Showing posts with label joy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label joy. Show all posts
04 March 2018
05 March 2014
12 March 2013
Echoes and Ricochets
It wasn't the two sets of strangers' fingers digging into my groin that brought tears to my eyes. It was a heart attack what did it. A heart attack that does not belong to me, but in some guise feels as if it had.
I was standing in the exam room, after the obligatory Q & A with the surgeon and the medical student who accompanied her. I had been asked more than once if it was okay for the student to be there, and if she could also participate in the exam. As I long ago shed most of my squeamishness when it comes to medical exams, I told them I had no problem with it. The way I see it, we all have to start somewhere, and how else is anyone going to learn this stuff?
So there I was, two people I had met for the first time only minutes ago, poking and prodding my groin to identify that what we were looking at was indeed a hernia. (It was. Yay, me.) They pushed somewhat hard, and it was moderately uncomfortable, but endurable in the name of medical education. I winced.
What was really working on my mind was not inguinal distress (fancy talk for "groin pain"), it was history. The student had asked a series of pre-exam questions relating to my medical history and that of my family, and she asked what proved to be the sharp question. Sharp, pointy, like a syringe needle.
"Do you have any siblings?"
There was a moment of silence, broken only by murmurs from the hall. Always, there is this dislocation when I have to decide between "have" and "had".
"Yes, one brother. Deceased."
"What did he die of, what did it?"
"He died suddenly, of a massive heart attack."
(concerned look)
"I'm so sorry."
"It took us all by surprise. Thank you."
We then segued into a general discussion, away from non-physical aches. Procedures and concerns and recovery times allowed me to step back from the edge of the canyon that had opened up in my head. Shortly after this exchange I was asked to stand so they could conduct the physical exam I mentioned earlier. The pain on the nerve endings acted as cover for the pain I felt in my heart and head, a peculiar ache caused by the loss of something that cannot be replaced. Subconsciously I think I was grateful for the physical hurt as a distraction. Exam concluded, I tugged up my undies, tucked in the shirt, and sat down to conclude the visit. Surgery and soon is for the best, we agreed, and I would let them know as soon as I figured out what to do. I left the office, got into my car and began the drive home.
The canyon opened up again, right there in the middle of a busy street. Memories of my brother flooded my head, and I nearly swooned. I sobbed, briefly. What to do with the shards of the past that deafen and sting when I least expect them? Sitting confused and helpless there at the stoplight, I wondered. I had the sensation that someone was in the passenger seat; and maybe, just maybe, my brother's ghost smiled and said "Duck and cover yer ears, bro, duck and cover yer ears."
It was just like him to say it. I ducked, I covered, I held him close as the echoes and ricochets faded away.
I was standing in the exam room, after the obligatory Q & A with the surgeon and the medical student who accompanied her. I had been asked more than once if it was okay for the student to be there, and if she could also participate in the exam. As I long ago shed most of my squeamishness when it comes to medical exams, I told them I had no problem with it. The way I see it, we all have to start somewhere, and how else is anyone going to learn this stuff?
So there I was, two people I had met for the first time only minutes ago, poking and prodding my groin to identify that what we were looking at was indeed a hernia. (It was. Yay, me.) They pushed somewhat hard, and it was moderately uncomfortable, but endurable in the name of medical education. I winced.
What was really working on my mind was not inguinal distress (fancy talk for "groin pain"), it was history. The student had asked a series of pre-exam questions relating to my medical history and that of my family, and she asked what proved to be the sharp question. Sharp, pointy, like a syringe needle.
"Do you have any siblings?"
There was a moment of silence, broken only by murmurs from the hall. Always, there is this dislocation when I have to decide between "have" and "had".
"Yes, one brother. Deceased."
"What did he die of, what did it?"
"He died suddenly, of a massive heart attack."
(concerned look)
"I'm so sorry."
"It took us all by surprise. Thank you."
We then segued into a general discussion, away from non-physical aches. Procedures and concerns and recovery times allowed me to step back from the edge of the canyon that had opened up in my head. Shortly after this exchange I was asked to stand so they could conduct the physical exam I mentioned earlier. The pain on the nerve endings acted as cover for the pain I felt in my heart and head, a peculiar ache caused by the loss of something that cannot be replaced. Subconsciously I think I was grateful for the physical hurt as a distraction. Exam concluded, I tugged up my undies, tucked in the shirt, and sat down to conclude the visit. Surgery and soon is for the best, we agreed, and I would let them know as soon as I figured out what to do. I left the office, got into my car and began the drive home.
The canyon opened up again, right there in the middle of a busy street. Memories of my brother flooded my head, and I nearly swooned. I sobbed, briefly. What to do with the shards of the past that deafen and sting when I least expect them? Sitting confused and helpless there at the stoplight, I wondered. I had the sensation that someone was in the passenger seat; and maybe, just maybe, my brother's ghost smiled and said "Duck and cover yer ears, bro, duck and cover yer ears."
It was just like him to say it. I ducked, I covered, I held him close as the echoes and ricochets faded away.
06 February 2013
Traveller's Blues
...Blue, blue, electric blue...that's the colour of my room...
...Off we go into the wild blue yonder...
...Remember watching while your lightning blue eyes reflected sunrise...
Blues. Blues. I got the blues. Not a 'down-in-the-dumps' sort of blues. No, no, this is more a hankering, yearning kind of blues. Traveling blues, you might say. And it is not my fault. The precipitation of this state of mind I can lay squarely on the (digital) shoulders of the illustrious Braja...and for good reason. Because of something she did, I find I want to travel the world.
Travel the world and take pictures, that is. All because of a picture she posted, that shows the color blue. Not just any blue. A vibrant blue that made me ache to want to lay eyes on it in person. I don't have a link to it here, because the picture was taken by another person and posted on Facebook, and for some reason I did not feel right to copy paste it from another person's media feed. Silly, perhaps, but there you have it.
Anyway, the picture shows a blue she christened India blue, and I can believe it. Blue is my favorite color, hands down, so it is no surprise I found the image attractive. Yet, this picture transcended something in my mind, some threshold I knew was there but had not often noticed. This blue made me want to hop on a plane or a ship and go where I could see the color in morning light and sunset light and maybe that twilight shade as the sun slips below the horizon with the moon on the way up. I want to touch it.
I sat entranced by that color and wanted to touch all colors. I want to see the orange in a Siberian tiger's fur lit by the morning light. I want to see the the blue morpho butterfly in its natural habitat. I want to see the moon shine on the Grand Canyon, the color of old freighter's hull as it passes through the Bosporus, and the green sod of Ireland. It has become imperative that I see the opalescence of Lake Louise in Canada, and the saffron colored robes of monks in Tibet. I need to know the color of the Pacific while watching a sunset in Tierra Del Fuego.
I want to know the color of moss in the garden of a Buddhist shrine, somewhere in Japan. And I cannot clearly tell you why. I just know I need to know. I feel this need to travel the world and take pictures of these colors that inhabit my mind, fill my heart, exalt my soul.
I want to know blue. All the blues in the world, and the people who know those shades the best. Someday, if I am fortunate, I'll do just that. Until then, I'll continue to plot and dream of the day my rainbow heart can scatter itself into the world, and return home with some stories to tell of the colors I have seen. Join me, perhaps?
(And many thanks to Braja, and her opening of the window for me...)
...Off we go into the wild blue yonder...
...Remember watching while your lightning blue eyes reflected sunrise...
Blues. Blues. I got the blues. Not a 'down-in-the-dumps' sort of blues. No, no, this is more a hankering, yearning kind of blues. Traveling blues, you might say. And it is not my fault. The precipitation of this state of mind I can lay squarely on the (digital) shoulders of the illustrious Braja...and for good reason. Because of something she did, I find I want to travel the world.
Travel the world and take pictures, that is. All because of a picture she posted, that shows the color blue. Not just any blue. A vibrant blue that made me ache to want to lay eyes on it in person. I don't have a link to it here, because the picture was taken by another person and posted on Facebook, and for some reason I did not feel right to copy paste it from another person's media feed. Silly, perhaps, but there you have it.
Anyway, the picture shows a blue she christened India blue, and I can believe it. Blue is my favorite color, hands down, so it is no surprise I found the image attractive. Yet, this picture transcended something in my mind, some threshold I knew was there but had not often noticed. This blue made me want to hop on a plane or a ship and go where I could see the color in morning light and sunset light and maybe that twilight shade as the sun slips below the horizon with the moon on the way up. I want to touch it.
I sat entranced by that color and wanted to touch all colors. I want to see the orange in a Siberian tiger's fur lit by the morning light. I want to see the the blue morpho butterfly in its natural habitat. I want to see the moon shine on the Grand Canyon, the color of old freighter's hull as it passes through the Bosporus, and the green sod of Ireland. It has become imperative that I see the opalescence of Lake Louise in Canada, and the saffron colored robes of monks in Tibet. I need to know the color of the Pacific while watching a sunset in Tierra Del Fuego.
I want to know the color of moss in the garden of a Buddhist shrine, somewhere in Japan. And I cannot clearly tell you why. I just know I need to know. I feel this need to travel the world and take pictures of these colors that inhabit my mind, fill my heart, exalt my soul.
I want to know blue. All the blues in the world, and the people who know those shades the best. Someday, if I am fortunate, I'll do just that. Until then, I'll continue to plot and dream of the day my rainbow heart can scatter itself into the world, and return home with some stories to tell of the colors I have seen. Join me, perhaps?
(And many thanks to Braja, and her opening of the window for me...)
07 September 2012
Retail Therapy, with Chiles
September 6th, 2012, 8:41 PM. This notion swirling in my head, after a bowl of beans, dressed in shades of cinnabar and rust.
Close to three weeks into my part-time job, dear ones, of being a seller of spices. About time for a status report, methinks. For me just as much for you, it would seem. This is because the retail environment is a very different terrarium than my usual habitat. I took my emotional temperature on the matter earlier this week. I had a particularly enjoyable day at the store. Stocking, finding stuff, connecting the customers with what they need, what they want and occasionally with something they did not realize they wanted...it was all to the good. This is important. The work is uncomplicated, but important. I mused on that as I drove home after closing. Why did I think that?
The first thing that occurred to me was that it is important because getting your customer what he or she needs is crucial to survival as a merchant. Even more so is doing it with grace, style and efficiency. Not only connecting them to the particular product, but enjoying the process becomes a matter of pride.
The second thing was the realization that all of these transactions I was involved with during the day were opportunities to learn something new about someone or something. I am finding it fascinating to discover what people are making with and doing with the herbs and spices and seasonings they come to buy. Talk about a fertile ground! It opened my mind again to the notion that there are so many good things in the world, to be seen, touched, tasted. Listening the short stories people tell is time well spent, I believe.
The third thing, and perhaps the most revelatory of my musings, was the effects on my own physical and mental states of being. At the end of the day, I was tired, but strangely happy. Happy. Being in a store, selling the stuff and the things! How could this be? I'm introverted, people usually wear me out, and sometimes I feel like Forrest Gump when it comes to small talk. So you would think this setup would be the wrong way to go.
Much to my delight, it is not. At least, not so far. I realized that, yes, people do wear me out. I do have to venture outside of my "hamster ball" for hours at a time. But the reasons for that are good ones. I get to solve simple problems, with easily measurable results. I can talk about what people are cooking for dinner (and I so enjoy food and the cooking of it), and for whom they are cooking. And one of the coolest things about the gig: if at any point in the day I feel the need for a pick-me-up, I can open any number of the apothecary jars holding samples of a huge variety of spices or herbs...and smell them, enjoy the colors and textures.
Trust me, there are times where a noseful of basil or oregano or curry spices are just the thing to perk a mind and body up. Lately my new favorite has been this ground Indonesian white pepper that looks a little like fine sand and smells like wine and beaches. So good...
I arrived home, pulling into the driveway to park the car. I sat for a moment in the silence after turning off the engine, wondering why I felt so accomplished. The only thing I could think was that it was retail therapy that is doing me some good. Not the buying of things, but the selling of things that help fill bellies and bring people to the table that have brought me some peace of mind.
--
Epilogue: Tonight I made a big batch of pot beans, based on a new recipe newly brought to my attention. The ingredient list is short and simple, just the thing for a day when you don't feel like much fuss. I did make some changes, because I like to ask questions of what I cook. Instead of 2 to 3 dried 'red' chile pods, I used the equivalent of 5 chiles (3 Anaheims and 2 anchos). And instead of leaving them whole, I removed the seeds and ground the peppers fine in a spice grinder. The resulting powder was spicy but not hot, and was beautifully mottled in shades of red. Bricks and rust, cinnabar and iron, painterly shades swirling around in the pot as the beans simmered to full-bodied tastiness. I spooned up the last bits from the bowl, at peace with a full belly and savoring the good things come from this earth.
Close to three weeks into my part-time job, dear ones, of being a seller of spices. About time for a status report, methinks. For me just as much for you, it would seem. This is because the retail environment is a very different terrarium than my usual habitat. I took my emotional temperature on the matter earlier this week. I had a particularly enjoyable day at the store. Stocking, finding stuff, connecting the customers with what they need, what they want and occasionally with something they did not realize they wanted...it was all to the good. This is important. The work is uncomplicated, but important. I mused on that as I drove home after closing. Why did I think that?
The first thing that occurred to me was that it is important because getting your customer what he or she needs is crucial to survival as a merchant. Even more so is doing it with grace, style and efficiency. Not only connecting them to the particular product, but enjoying the process becomes a matter of pride.
The second thing was the realization that all of these transactions I was involved with during the day were opportunities to learn something new about someone or something. I am finding it fascinating to discover what people are making with and doing with the herbs and spices and seasonings they come to buy. Talk about a fertile ground! It opened my mind again to the notion that there are so many good things in the world, to be seen, touched, tasted. Listening the short stories people tell is time well spent, I believe.
The third thing, and perhaps the most revelatory of my musings, was the effects on my own physical and mental states of being. At the end of the day, I was tired, but strangely happy. Happy. Being in a store, selling the stuff and the things! How could this be? I'm introverted, people usually wear me out, and sometimes I feel like Forrest Gump when it comes to small talk. So you would think this setup would be the wrong way to go.
Much to my delight, it is not. At least, not so far. I realized that, yes, people do wear me out. I do have to venture outside of my "hamster ball" for hours at a time. But the reasons for that are good ones. I get to solve simple problems, with easily measurable results. I can talk about what people are cooking for dinner (and I so enjoy food and the cooking of it), and for whom they are cooking. And one of the coolest things about the gig: if at any point in the day I feel the need for a pick-me-up, I can open any number of the apothecary jars holding samples of a huge variety of spices or herbs...and smell them, enjoy the colors and textures.
Trust me, there are times where a noseful of basil or oregano or curry spices are just the thing to perk a mind and body up. Lately my new favorite has been this ground Indonesian white pepper that looks a little like fine sand and smells like wine and beaches. So good...
I arrived home, pulling into the driveway to park the car. I sat for a moment in the silence after turning off the engine, wondering why I felt so accomplished. The only thing I could think was that it was retail therapy that is doing me some good. Not the buying of things, but the selling of things that help fill bellies and bring people to the table that have brought me some peace of mind.
--
Epilogue: Tonight I made a big batch of pot beans, based on a new recipe newly brought to my attention. The ingredient list is short and simple, just the thing for a day when you don't feel like much fuss. I did make some changes, because I like to ask questions of what I cook. Instead of 2 to 3 dried 'red' chile pods, I used the equivalent of 5 chiles (3 Anaheims and 2 anchos). And instead of leaving them whole, I removed the seeds and ground the peppers fine in a spice grinder. The resulting powder was spicy but not hot, and was beautifully mottled in shades of red. Bricks and rust, cinnabar and iron, painterly shades swirling around in the pot as the beans simmered to full-bodied tastiness. I spooned up the last bits from the bowl, at peace with a full belly and savoring the good things come from this earth.
05 September 2012
Slow Time With Avocados
September 4, 2012, 8:22 PM. Settling in beside the electronic hearth.
Here is the antidote to small anxieties:
2 ripe avocados
1 lime, halved
Minced fresh cilantro, 1 to 2 tablespoons
1/4 teaspoon dried minced garlic, rehydrated in a very small amount of cool water
Pinch of cayenne pepper (if you like)
Kosher salt, to taste
Potato masher
Bowl
Cure: Cut the avocados in half, carefully remove pits. Scoop out avocado flesh and place in a bowl big enough to hold it with room to spare. Squeeze one half lime over avocado. Be thorough, squeeze hard for catharsis and to get as much juice as possible over the avocado. Sprinkle minced cilantro into bowl. Pour minced garlic and the small amount of remaining water into the bowl, distributed as evenly as possible. Dust the mixture with the cayenne and a big pinch of kosher salt.
Take the potato masher firmly in hand and give the avocado mixture a gentle massage. Make sure things are evenly distributed, but don't get carried away. A short go will smooth things out and leave just enough chunks of avocado embedded in a pureed matrix of green goodness. Stop. Taste. Add more lime juice, cayenne or salt if needed, to make it your own. Scoop into small ramekins, if you wish, but definitely cover with plastic wrap and let chill in the fridge for an hour or so.
Dosage: Pick up a spoon. If tortilla chips are available, take some of those. Crackers work, too. Spoon up some guacamole, or scoop it with a chip. Place in mouth, chew, swallow, and grin. Repeat, feeling the little anxieties of the day melt away. Be content.
You have just experienced grace.
Here is the antidote to small anxieties:
2 ripe avocados
1 lime, halved
Minced fresh cilantro, 1 to 2 tablespoons
1/4 teaspoon dried minced garlic, rehydrated in a very small amount of cool water
Pinch of cayenne pepper (if you like)
Kosher salt, to taste
Potato masher
Bowl
Cure: Cut the avocados in half, carefully remove pits. Scoop out avocado flesh and place in a bowl big enough to hold it with room to spare. Squeeze one half lime over avocado. Be thorough, squeeze hard for catharsis and to get as much juice as possible over the avocado. Sprinkle minced cilantro into bowl. Pour minced garlic and the small amount of remaining water into the bowl, distributed as evenly as possible. Dust the mixture with the cayenne and a big pinch of kosher salt.
Take the potato masher firmly in hand and give the avocado mixture a gentle massage. Make sure things are evenly distributed, but don't get carried away. A short go will smooth things out and leave just enough chunks of avocado embedded in a pureed matrix of green goodness. Stop. Taste. Add more lime juice, cayenne or salt if needed, to make it your own. Scoop into small ramekins, if you wish, but definitely cover with plastic wrap and let chill in the fridge for an hour or so.
Dosage: Pick up a spoon. If tortilla chips are available, take some of those. Crackers work, too. Spoon up some guacamole, or scoop it with a chip. Place in mouth, chew, swallow, and grin. Repeat, feeling the little anxieties of the day melt away. Be content.
You have just experienced grace.
28 July 2012
Shine the Now
It's Saturday. Nothing particularly unusual or significant about the day other than it is the Now. The Now is beautiful if we let it shine.
It's Saturday. My brain feels like a reactor core deep in the cooling pond. I'm grateful for the water to contain my chain reactions. I've had a lot lately, as the pages of the blog show in abundance.
It's Saturday. I am setting aside the tragedies, the anxieties and the grief because it is the Now, and I wish to enjoy it. I wish you to enjoy it, dear ones.
It is the Now. That's all we have, and it's beautiful. Peace to you all, in your Now.
It's Saturday. My brain feels like a reactor core deep in the cooling pond. I'm grateful for the water to contain my chain reactions. I've had a lot lately, as the pages of the blog show in abundance.
It's Saturday. I am setting aside the tragedies, the anxieties and the grief because it is the Now, and I wish to enjoy it. I wish you to enjoy it, dear ones.
It is the Now. That's all we have, and it's beautiful. Peace to you all, in your Now.
16 July 2012
From Little Acorns
Hard to fathom how nine years can fold itself into the span of a few seconds, but it happens. I looked out the window into the sunlight peeking through the clouds and the hands of my first son and daughter wrapped themselves around my heart. It is a testament to the changes in me since 2003 that I did not cry to feel the pressure. I only lowered my head while coming to grips with what I knew was on the way. It's their birthday, the day that growing up and being a man were no longer optional.
They came into our lives in a fire drill of life, under duress and much too early for anyone. They had no choice, and neither did we. It was a terrifying, awesome spectacle that I believe no one wants to witness, but having gone through it I cannot deny the effect the whole delivery process had on me. There will be no forgetting the urgency of the operation. There will be no unseeing of the blood and the machines, the focus of so many to preserve the lives of two tiny babies.
Small, delicate, and ultimately too fragile, yet they made a man out of me. More precisely, they made a new man out of me, by bringing me face to face with the evolution I had long postponed. Our babies made me grow up. Fast.
What to say to them, on this day upon which they would have been nine years old? What can I tell them? What can I give to them, to their memories?
As parents many of us may want to believe that our children will be our legacy, and for many that is true. For me through them, however, it is not. At least as long as I am on this earth, the man that I became is destined to be their legacy.
My children shaped me, forged me, poured me into a new mold. If on this their birthday I do weep it will not be tears of anguish at their loss, it will be tears of joy. I will celebrate the day they came into the world and bestowed upon me the honor of being their father.
Nine years, my children. I have your memory in my mind and your love in my heart. Happy birthday, son and daughter. You are no longer of this earth, but you are loved.
They came into our lives in a fire drill of life, under duress and much too early for anyone. They had no choice, and neither did we. It was a terrifying, awesome spectacle that I believe no one wants to witness, but having gone through it I cannot deny the effect the whole delivery process had on me. There will be no forgetting the urgency of the operation. There will be no unseeing of the blood and the machines, the focus of so many to preserve the lives of two tiny babies.
Small, delicate, and ultimately too fragile, yet they made a man out of me. More precisely, they made a new man out of me, by bringing me face to face with the evolution I had long postponed. Our babies made me grow up. Fast.
What to say to them, on this day upon which they would have been nine years old? What can I tell them? What can I give to them, to their memories?
As parents many of us may want to believe that our children will be our legacy, and for many that is true. For me through them, however, it is not. At least as long as I am on this earth, the man that I became is destined to be their legacy.
My children shaped me, forged me, poured me into a new mold. If on this their birthday I do weep it will not be tears of anguish at their loss, it will be tears of joy. I will celebrate the day they came into the world and bestowed upon me the honor of being their father.
Nine years, my children. I have your memory in my mind and your love in my heart. Happy birthday, son and daughter. You are no longer of this earth, but you are loved.
16 April 2012
Breathtaking Beauty in the Museum of Our Lives
Today I witnessed, was blessed, by beauty that brought tears to my eyes and nearly brought me to my knees. I have seen the Mona Lisa in real life, and I don't make that assertion lightly. I felt in the hand of my daughter, pressed to mine, and saw it in a collage such as only a child can make.
"I know what beauty is" I read somewhere, cannot remember who wrote that, but on a pleasant Sunday afternoon at the mall I was hit full force by its unmistakable truth.
My daughter and I were at the mall to view the art exhibits of local schoolchildren, hers included. She was eager to see it, as was I. Her piece was a mixed media collage of what she dubbed the "Silly Bot", a whimsical creation of metallic foil paper, markers, crayons and pens. The Silly Bot, as one would expect, is a robot in a silly pose, flanked by a bird in a cage (wearing a party hat), a small stage (what she dubbed the "joke stand", a small platform complete with microphone) and the "Amazing Flying Zebra", an airborne zebra wearing "rocket boots" (complete with flames) to boost it into the sky.
She said "There it is, daddy!" in that voice that is the essence of a child's glee. I felt a surge of pride, wonder and gratitude that the day had taken me there. She smiled and my heart followed. This was the wonder of creation, the joy of something unspoiled by the grinding of life. That someone could take so much delight in a simple act of creation! My god, the amount of beauty there is when we let ourselves see!
She wanted to see more, so we wandered amongst the displays. Batik prints, ceramic plaques, paintings, drawings, colors and collages. This was not the Louvre, nor did it need to be. It did not want to be. It was while gazing upon a print of a tortoise, done in muted primaries on a burlap screen, that I felt a lump in my throat. At that moment with my daughter's hand in mine, surrounded by the collective joy of heartfelt creation made material, by the simple presence of Art, my knees went weak. There were momentary tears in my eyes. I looked down at my daughter who was taking great delight on pointing out new treasures.
"I know what beauty is..." Yes, I do. It was next to me, around me, holding my hand, letting me see.
"I know what beauty is" I read somewhere, cannot remember who wrote that, but on a pleasant Sunday afternoon at the mall I was hit full force by its unmistakable truth.
My daughter and I were at the mall to view the art exhibits of local schoolchildren, hers included. She was eager to see it, as was I. Her piece was a mixed media collage of what she dubbed the "Silly Bot", a whimsical creation of metallic foil paper, markers, crayons and pens. The Silly Bot, as one would expect, is a robot in a silly pose, flanked by a bird in a cage (wearing a party hat), a small stage (what she dubbed the "joke stand", a small platform complete with microphone) and the "Amazing Flying Zebra", an airborne zebra wearing "rocket boots" (complete with flames) to boost it into the sky.
She said "There it is, daddy!" in that voice that is the essence of a child's glee. I felt a surge of pride, wonder and gratitude that the day had taken me there. She smiled and my heart followed. This was the wonder of creation, the joy of something unspoiled by the grinding of life. That someone could take so much delight in a simple act of creation! My god, the amount of beauty there is when we let ourselves see!
She wanted to see more, so we wandered amongst the displays. Batik prints, ceramic plaques, paintings, drawings, colors and collages. This was not the Louvre, nor did it need to be. It did not want to be. It was while gazing upon a print of a tortoise, done in muted primaries on a burlap screen, that I felt a lump in my throat. At that moment with my daughter's hand in mine, surrounded by the collective joy of heartfelt creation made material, by the simple presence of Art, my knees went weak. There were momentary tears in my eyes. I looked down at my daughter who was taking great delight on pointing out new treasures.
"I know what beauty is..." Yes, I do. It was next to me, around me, holding my hand, letting me see.
18 March 2012
Sunday Meditation #19: Silence and the Saint
Saturday night was a curious mix of sound, celebration and intent. At the local tavern, St. Patrick's Day festivities were in full swing. A block over, in the community hall on the town common, the sounds of what may have been Tejano or mariachi music thumped loudly through my window. I had no desire to be at the tavern and I have no idea what they celebrating at the hall; perhaps a fundraiser or a wedding reception.
I'm pretty sure that the people at the tavern were not really celebrating the life and memory of St. Patrick. I didn't really expect that they would. But still, the thought of faux-Irish music and green beer...well, it gave me no reason to want to be there. As with many "holiday" celebrations in this country (Cinco de Mayo also comes to mind) the rapacious nature of consumer culture turns it into yet another overbearing push involving overindulgence in alcohol and food, stretched taut over a paper-thin surface of incomplete understanding. Green cardboard shamrock hat, anyone?
The other celebration or party, with the music, was more of a puzzle. While I wished they would turn down the volume (too much bass is not cool and only makes my head hurt) I was more interested in the reason for it. If I had not had my daughter with me for the weekend I would have sauntered over to the hall to peek in the windows, see what was going on. I could hear the shouts and squeals of children or young people, so my guess was a big party for family and friends. I don't know if any saints were involved.
Earlier in the evening I had put my daughter to bed after watching one of her favorite shows on the food channel. We had snuggled up on the couch with her collection of stuffed animals, she tucked in under a blanket. She declared that I "made a good footrest," some of the highest praise I've received in the months of my unemployment. We enjoyed our slice of time there, just us, no bother, no worry, no noise and clatter.
That which I truly want to celebrate has no need for the loud and the crass and the intoxicated. As I lay on my bed with the music vibrating through the walls, I wondered what Saint Patrick would really think of this day, and I wondered at my own desire to celebrate something meaningful. Then I had it. The gift I received today was the quiet time with the blood of my blood. Blessings abound in the silence between our words, and I prayed again in gratitude for the quiet.
I'm pretty sure that the people at the tavern were not really celebrating the life and memory of St. Patrick. I didn't really expect that they would. But still, the thought of faux-Irish music and green beer...well, it gave me no reason to want to be there. As with many "holiday" celebrations in this country (Cinco de Mayo also comes to mind) the rapacious nature of consumer culture turns it into yet another overbearing push involving overindulgence in alcohol and food, stretched taut over a paper-thin surface of incomplete understanding. Green cardboard shamrock hat, anyone?
The other celebration or party, with the music, was more of a puzzle. While I wished they would turn down the volume (too much bass is not cool and only makes my head hurt) I was more interested in the reason for it. If I had not had my daughter with me for the weekend I would have sauntered over to the hall to peek in the windows, see what was going on. I could hear the shouts and squeals of children or young people, so my guess was a big party for family and friends. I don't know if any saints were involved.
Earlier in the evening I had put my daughter to bed after watching one of her favorite shows on the food channel. We had snuggled up on the couch with her collection of stuffed animals, she tucked in under a blanket. She declared that I "made a good footrest," some of the highest praise I've received in the months of my unemployment. We enjoyed our slice of time there, just us, no bother, no worry, no noise and clatter.
That which I truly want to celebrate has no need for the loud and the crass and the intoxicated. As I lay on my bed with the music vibrating through the walls, I wondered what Saint Patrick would really think of this day, and I wondered at my own desire to celebrate something meaningful. Then I had it. The gift I received today was the quiet time with the blood of my blood. Blessings abound in the silence between our words, and I prayed again in gratitude for the quiet.
17 March 2012
Lá Fhéile Pádraig Shona dhuit!
Happy St. Patrick's Day, from my Irish heart to yours. Blessings to everyone!
15 March 2012
Serendipity, with Anchovies
A delicious dinner, of course. I had it tonight, in the form of pasta ammuddicata, via a re-reading of an essay by John Thorne titled "Pasta With Anchovies". Ammuddicata is an Italian dialect (exact one, I am not sure. Calabrian, maybe?) word meaning 'bread crumbs' and that picture above is of the ones I made out of the aforementioned baguette. They are sauteed in a little bit of olive oil until golden brown, then sprinkled with some hot pepper flakes.
They are so much better tasting than they have any right to be. I was eating them right out of the bowl.
But I get ahead of myself. The recipe for pasta ammuddicata seized my attention today as I read the essay. It has a total of six ingredients, one of which (salt) I ended up not using: anchovy fillets, olive oil, bread crumbs, red pepper flakes, salt, and spaghetti. I recalled that I was intrigued by the dish a long time ago, when I first read it. For some reason, I never seemed to have stale bread worth turning into crumbs.
That is, until today. The remains of a baguette purchased ten days ago, at the request of my darling daughter. We purchased it at the French bakery just down the street, and she thinks of them as a real treat. Which, frankly, they are because the bakers there know their craft. The drawback is, the baguettes are just over two feet long, and as much as me and my offspring like bread, we can't eat the whole thing at a sitting. Nor would I try.
So I had almost half left, and some little voice told me to leave it in the wrapper, sitting on the counter. "I might need it" I heard the voice say. Sure enough, I did. Inspiration in the form of pasta ammuddicata! This version calls for bread crumbs to be sprinkled over the pasta at the eater's discretion. The baguette was, by this time, as hard as a stick of locust wood. I put it in a heavy plastic bag and beat the hell out of it with a hammer, sifting the crumbs through a colander.
All I needed was some anchovy fillets and spaghetti, which I garnered on a quick shopping trip. Back in the kitchen, I fired up the stove and set to. Lately I have been stressed out and scattered by life, and it felt good to focus, to get into the zen of it. With six ingredients and very little fuss, I had a feast in very little time.
The pasta went into one white ceramic bowl, a salad into another, and the ammuddicata into another. I sat at the table on my porch, enjoying the early evening of a perfectly lovely day. The simplicity of it enhanced the taste, and I chewed contentedly.
Early flowers perfumed the air. My heart felt at peace, my stomach felt full. Dinner should always be so good.
12 March 2012
Bowing My Head, Saying Hey-Men!
Sunday, March 11, 8:50 PM. Spring night, cool breeze, calm heart.
Unplugged a little bit this evening. Paid attention to what I was eating tonight, instead of the computer screen. It makes a big difference in the quality of the meal, I can tell you. There is something to this practice of mindfulness I have been ruminating on as of late.
Mindfulness. I paid attention to the grains of rice in my bowl, the flecks of parsley in the gumbo, the savor of shrimp on my tongue and between my teeth. Time slowed down. The house breathed around me.
As the spoon gathered up the last goodness in the bowl, uncovering the bottom of white porcelain flecked with green bits of herbs, I had a quiet revelation. In the here and now, I am humbly grateful for two things (not the only things, to be sure) in my life: good gumbo and deep love.
In the midst of the storms of my life, gumbo nourishes my body, and love...my friends, Love it is that nourishes my soul. Between the two of them, especially love, I believe I am going to be well fed in this life.
It's good, that's all there is to it.
Unplugged a little bit this evening. Paid attention to what I was eating tonight, instead of the computer screen. It makes a big difference in the quality of the meal, I can tell you. There is something to this practice of mindfulness I have been ruminating on as of late.
Mindfulness. I paid attention to the grains of rice in my bowl, the flecks of parsley in the gumbo, the savor of shrimp on my tongue and between my teeth. Time slowed down. The house breathed around me.
As the spoon gathered up the last goodness in the bowl, uncovering the bottom of white porcelain flecked with green bits of herbs, I had a quiet revelation. In the here and now, I am humbly grateful for two things (not the only things, to be sure) in my life: good gumbo and deep love.
In the midst of the storms of my life, gumbo nourishes my body, and love...my friends, Love it is that nourishes my soul. Between the two of them, especially love, I believe I am going to be well fed in this life.
It's good, that's all there is to it.
10 March 2012
The Heart Knows Holi
Breeze brushes crocus,
Celebrants raise powdered hands
Color blooms, heart fills
March 8th, 2012, 8:34 PM. Alone at the table. Night, window and breeze.
Celebrants raise powdered hands
Color blooms, heart fills
March 8th, 2012, 8:34 PM. Alone at the table. Night, window and breeze.
26 February 2012
Sunday Meditation #17: Seeds for the Soul
A burst of joy landed at the Gumbo homestead earlier in the week. Spring is not far away, and that means it is time for seed catalogs. Huzzah!
A seed catalog may not match Victoria's Secret for le sexy stuff, but nonetheless I was thrilled to find the latest Burpee's homage to All Things Growable sitting in my mailbox. It came at just the right time. The cover was graced with a brilliant full-color photo of a zinnia, resplendent in eye-popping yellow spattered with red. Neither of those two colors is my favorite but the combination filled me with a bit o' the happies.
I was feeling a bit melancholy. The gorgeous flower was a nice hit of pretty and a reminder that spring is coming. I didn't have the energy or time to plant a garden last year, and I don't know if I will this year. I do know that I like flowers, and the idea of the seed.
Humble little packets of mystery that produce things of beauty, things of savor. A feast for the eyes, nose and mouth. Sometimes all three if you plant the right stuff. I would most like to have is a kitchen garden, full of good growing things that I can see, smell, touch and taste. This is a quiet dream of mine.
I opened the mailbox, with a heart weighed down by care, and a piece of the sun fell into my hands. Spring is on the way, dear readers. Choose your seeds, plant with care and let the green things revive us.
A seed catalog may not match Victoria's Secret for le sexy stuff, but nonetheless I was thrilled to find the latest Burpee's homage to All Things Growable sitting in my mailbox. It came at just the right time. The cover was graced with a brilliant full-color photo of a zinnia, resplendent in eye-popping yellow spattered with red. Neither of those two colors is my favorite but the combination filled me with a bit o' the happies.
I was feeling a bit melancholy. The gorgeous flower was a nice hit of pretty and a reminder that spring is coming. I didn't have the energy or time to plant a garden last year, and I don't know if I will this year. I do know that I like flowers, and the idea of the seed.
Humble little packets of mystery that produce things of beauty, things of savor. A feast for the eyes, nose and mouth. Sometimes all three if you plant the right stuff. I would most like to have is a kitchen garden, full of good growing things that I can see, smell, touch and taste. This is a quiet dream of mine.
I opened the mailbox, with a heart weighed down by care, and a piece of the sun fell into my hands. Spring is on the way, dear readers. Choose your seeds, plant with care and let the green things revive us.
19 February 2012
Sunday Meditation #16: Patapsco Whorl
The shell was a thing of beauty, held in the hand of my beautiful daughter. She found it at the base of a tree, after stopping next to this big sycamore and insisting I take her picture in the silver-white light of a mild winter Saturday afternoon. The shell surprised and delighted us, as it made up for the lack of river glass and freshwater clam shells we had set out to collect.
The sandbar I had hoped to mine for glass bits and clam shells was no longer to be found. The river was running a little higher than the day I had first seen it. Perhaps the recent storms had even washed it completely away. My daughter was disappointed. In the morning, she had been talking about collecting river glass after breakfast and through lunch. So we trekked on, looking for other natural delights.
Then there was the shell in the picture. She 'oohed' and 'ahhed' over her discovery. I took joy in seeing hers. She bubbled with excitement as she brought the shell over to share. I had never seen such a thing on all my walks along the river. This was something new and fascinating. It helped make a good walk better. She happily wanted to carry it in her pocket, beaming as she told me she couldn't wait to show it to her mother.
On the return leg of our walk, we stopped at one of the small tunnels under the railroad tracks, through which rushed a brisk, cold stream. It makes it way through the tunnel and spills out into a little pool before running into the river. There were stones and moss. Her whim dictated that we spend some time lobbing small rocks into the water, listening to the splashes and plunks. She seemed particularly amused by the wet plop of stones into the thick beds of underwater moss or algae.
She found a rock she wanted to keep. It sparkled. I mentioned it probably contained mica. She wanted to know what mica meant. This led to a discussion of rocks and minerals, and the difference between a geologist and a mycologist. It was she who gravely informed me that the latter was someone who studies mushrooms and fungi. I was amused and proud that she even knew what the word meant.
We walked back to the car, in that way peculiar to kids which combines an amble and an eddy. She wrote her name in the dirt with the rock. I contemplated the beauty of my legacy, and the shell in her dainty hand. The sun, the river, my lovely daughter enchanted me. In a nacreous whorl the size of a cherry, I saw my place in this universe: to breathe, to be content, to know love.
03 February 2012
All We Need is Wooooah!
Wooooah!
I need a few more of these in my life. Those moments where I could just shout it.
Wooooah!
I'd love to burst out with it in the middle of a business meeting someday. I think it would be a great way to let everyone know my enthusiasm for the topic at hand. Get some attention, for sure. Wouldn't that be cool? Random explosions of joy, of exuberance.
Wooooah!
What holds me back? Decorum, I suppose. Not wanting to perturb co-workers or random folks passing by. Although that wouldn't be so bad, would it?
Wooooah!
I used to shout it out. That was back in the days of being a young Gumbo, at concerts and dances where it was noisy and I could get lost in the crowd. The problem for me was self-consciousness and a lack of good musical voice. Not that being able to sing is necessary, but it is better if you can at least get it in key. I can't sing, and for me to hit a key is more chance than skill.
Wooooah!
These days I don't get my woah on very often. It has to be the right moment, almost always music inspired. And I don't do it in public. Mostly in the car, or in the odd moment at home when I can occasionally be moved to caper about like a fool to something on the radio or my music collection. I kid myself that I can do it well.
Wooooah!
Sometimes I do get it right. And when I do, I smile and play my air guitar or put my fist in the air, recalling the energy I once had and the time I cherished where a good woah fit right in. These days, I hear one on the radio and I know that exuberance can be had, if I know where to look. I used to think that growing up meant I'd have to leave it behind. For too long, I did leave it behind.
Now I know better. It's still there, peeking out from the shadows of my jaded heart. It won't manifest every day; that's no longer possible. But it doesn't have to be every day. All I need to know is I have it, and all it needs are the right moments. I'm happy to say that, even in the midst of nearly four months of being jobless, I'm having quite a few Wooooah! moments.
That is a very good thing indeed. Wooooah!
Two of the best wooooah! moments I have heard recently is in a new favorite song of mine, "I Don't Owe You A Thang" by blues guitar virtuoso Gary Clark, Jr. If you want a great pick-me-up, you can listen to the song/watch the video HERE. Great stuff. I wish I could do it the way he does it!
I need a few more of these in my life. Those moments where I could just shout it.
Wooooah!
I'd love to burst out with it in the middle of a business meeting someday. I think it would be a great way to let everyone know my enthusiasm for the topic at hand. Get some attention, for sure. Wouldn't that be cool? Random explosions of joy, of exuberance.
Wooooah!
What holds me back? Decorum, I suppose. Not wanting to perturb co-workers or random folks passing by. Although that wouldn't be so bad, would it?
Wooooah!
I used to shout it out. That was back in the days of being a young Gumbo, at concerts and dances where it was noisy and I could get lost in the crowd. The problem for me was self-consciousness and a lack of good musical voice. Not that being able to sing is necessary, but it is better if you can at least get it in key. I can't sing, and for me to hit a key is more chance than skill.
Wooooah!
These days I don't get my woah on very often. It has to be the right moment, almost always music inspired. And I don't do it in public. Mostly in the car, or in the odd moment at home when I can occasionally be moved to caper about like a fool to something on the radio or my music collection. I kid myself that I can do it well.
Wooooah!
Sometimes I do get it right. And when I do, I smile and play my air guitar or put my fist in the air, recalling the energy I once had and the time I cherished where a good woah fit right in. These days, I hear one on the radio and I know that exuberance can be had, if I know where to look. I used to think that growing up meant I'd have to leave it behind. For too long, I did leave it behind.
Now I know better. It's still there, peeking out from the shadows of my jaded heart. It won't manifest every day; that's no longer possible. But it doesn't have to be every day. All I need to know is I have it, and all it needs are the right moments. I'm happy to say that, even in the midst of nearly four months of being jobless, I'm having quite a few Wooooah! moments.
That is a very good thing indeed. Wooooah!
Two of the best wooooah! moments I have heard recently is in a new favorite song of mine, "I Don't Owe You A Thang" by blues guitar virtuoso Gary Clark, Jr. If you want a great pick-me-up, you can listen to the song/watch the video HERE. Great stuff. I wish I could do it the way he does it!
28 January 2012
Walking Under Black Pines With Thomas
I'm reading Thomas Merton on a regular basis these days. A spiritual man who makes me think, in good ways. His writing has a knack for stunning me with a thought, a phrase, a turn of mind. Earlier this month, this leapt off the page at me:
I read that, and knew envy. To know such unfettered joy...
Even without the benefit of gainful employment life has often not held that simplicity for me. Anxieties, searching, the omnipresent specter of diminishing resources have obscured my inner vision. I come in from the cold, and instead of the treat of a glass of sherry I find myself supping on worry.
That is not to say I have not had joy and relief. To the contrary. I have experienced some wonderful periods of togetherness and love; the difficulty is that the proportions of joy to anxiety are too far weighted to anxiety. I am working to change them to the good.
Still, I cherish that with which I have been blessed. Thomas Merton reminded me of that in a simple sentence of three phrases. Walking with him on a cold winter morning, in the counsel of black pines, I reawakened to the simple joys to be had in this life. I sit at the dining table, washed in the pearly winter light, and vow to myself to always remember what he had to teach me.
Quotation is from "A Year with Thomas Merton: Daily Meditations from His Journals", in the essay for January 6 entitled 'Winter Hermitage Under Black Pines'. This particular excerpt was written by Fr. Merton on January 5, 1968. I am still pondering what it really means to me. I do know that it brings with it a sense of peace.
I drank a glass of dry sherry and warm! Lovely morning! How lovely life can be!It was winter, and he had just returned to his hermitage from an early morning recitation of psalms and a rosary. Settling in by a gas fire, he takes such uncomplicated delight in the actions of the morning finished off with a glass of sherry.
I read that, and knew envy. To know such unfettered joy...
Even without the benefit of gainful employment life has often not held that simplicity for me. Anxieties, searching, the omnipresent specter of diminishing resources have obscured my inner vision. I come in from the cold, and instead of the treat of a glass of sherry I find myself supping on worry.
That is not to say I have not had joy and relief. To the contrary. I have experienced some wonderful periods of togetherness and love; the difficulty is that the proportions of joy to anxiety are too far weighted to anxiety. I am working to change them to the good.
Still, I cherish that with which I have been blessed. Thomas Merton reminded me of that in a simple sentence of three phrases. Walking with him on a cold winter morning, in the counsel of black pines, I reawakened to the simple joys to be had in this life. I sit at the dining table, washed in the pearly winter light, and vow to myself to always remember what he had to teach me.
Quotation is from "A Year with Thomas Merton: Daily Meditations from His Journals", in the essay for January 6 entitled 'Winter Hermitage Under Black Pines'. This particular excerpt was written by Fr. Merton on January 5, 1968. I am still pondering what it really means to me. I do know that it brings with it a sense of peace.
25 December 2011
Sunday Meditation #12: Christmas Threads and Contradictions
An odd run-up to this, my forty-seventh Christmas on Earth. Alone in my house two days ago, chuckling at my own weirdness as I stood in bar of sunlight, a copy of A Year With Thomas Merton in my hands, and the supercharged chant of Rollins' Band "Shine" shaking the walls a little as I read. How this came to be I cannot recall. I do know that at the time, it made perfect sense.
I have been reading the Merton book since June, which is the month in which I acquired it. The short daily meditations I mostly read at the pace of one a day, in sync with the calendar. Time and circumstance conspired to disturb the symmetry of that schedule. Lately I have the habit of neglecting the book for days at a time, then catch up in a concentrated burst of reading when I have time. So it was this time.
"In The End, Grace Alone" the title of Merton's meditation. Henry Rollins exhorts me to "Shine" as I read it. I lean against the door frame and grin. This time the apparent cognitive dissonance of the ideas before my mind does not bother me. Merton writes of his frustration with being an intellectual in a land of "businessmen and squares", while Rollins practically boots me in the ass to be a hero. It is to laugh, and I do.
Truly it does not bother me, these two ends of the tug rope. I've lived with the bifurcation of my interior life for so long it seems normal. I feel like a warrior-poet, except I cannot squarely identify my foe or my muse. I very often, in the words of Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes fame), "obey the inscrutable exhortations of my soul". These exhortations I have trouble explaining to myself, much less to others.
Yet I listen. I savor. I worry them with the teeth of my mind. Somewhere on there exists my destination.
The season and in particular, this day, always place me in this frame of mind. A season of merriment and good will towards humankind marred by either too much belief or not enough. By some lights it isn't enough that you be kindly disposed to those around you, you must be Christian and you have to believe. Never mind all the ironies involved in the chauvinistic demands for "keeping Christ in Christmas" when Christmas itself was taken over from a pagan holiday and has been further hijacked by a consumer-driven, free market (arguably) capitalistic and money-driven culture. No wonder this time of year produces so much anxiety in so many.
There seems to be little real peace, and true love. For better or worse, Christmas as a season and a holiday has been dilated too much by the demands of an open society for the 'at-large' return to a ritual acknowledgment of the birth of Jesus Christ. To do so would be to ignore entire segments of our society, and would not be allowed by the money machines of consumer capitalism because it would cut down on the profit pool. From what I see in the news, it is either about mass consumption or religious narrow-mindedness. Hardly anyone speaks of peace, at least, not in a pure sense.
For myself, I want peace of mind. I want the simple joy to be found in caring for those around you and in the communion with life in the universe. I do not want to be wrapped up in questions of salvation versus damnation, belief versus non-belief, extravagant consumption in the face of need. The former question misses the point of personal faith, and the latter question is one that exists independently of any holiday. Neither is a question to be solved if this is supposed to be a matter of peace and love.
Thomas Merton and Henry Rollins: the yin and yang of my Christmas season. They both speak to me, in different tongues. The thinker and the warrior tell me to seek inner peace, but I will have to fight for it. This makes me laugh. Salvation and consumption both seem to me to be missing the main point: that we should exist in love and seek peace in ourselves so that we may know it with others.
As I meditate on my roots this Christmas, I feel I am closer to casting aside the distractions and noise of this world, and getting much closer to love and to peace. This is my wish for us all.
I have been reading the Merton book since June, which is the month in which I acquired it. The short daily meditations I mostly read at the pace of one a day, in sync with the calendar. Time and circumstance conspired to disturb the symmetry of that schedule. Lately I have the habit of neglecting the book for days at a time, then catch up in a concentrated burst of reading when I have time. So it was this time.
"In The End, Grace Alone" the title of Merton's meditation. Henry Rollins exhorts me to "Shine" as I read it. I lean against the door frame and grin. This time the apparent cognitive dissonance of the ideas before my mind does not bother me. Merton writes of his frustration with being an intellectual in a land of "businessmen and squares", while Rollins practically boots me in the ass to be a hero. It is to laugh, and I do.
Truly it does not bother me, these two ends of the tug rope. I've lived with the bifurcation of my interior life for so long it seems normal. I feel like a warrior-poet, except I cannot squarely identify my foe or my muse. I very often, in the words of Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes fame), "obey the inscrutable exhortations of my soul". These exhortations I have trouble explaining to myself, much less to others.
Yet I listen. I savor. I worry them with the teeth of my mind. Somewhere on there exists my destination.
The season and in particular, this day, always place me in this frame of mind. A season of merriment and good will towards humankind marred by either too much belief or not enough. By some lights it isn't enough that you be kindly disposed to those around you, you must be Christian and you have to believe. Never mind all the ironies involved in the chauvinistic demands for "keeping Christ in Christmas" when Christmas itself was taken over from a pagan holiday and has been further hijacked by a consumer-driven, free market (arguably) capitalistic and money-driven culture. No wonder this time of year produces so much anxiety in so many.
There seems to be little real peace, and true love. For better or worse, Christmas as a season and a holiday has been dilated too much by the demands of an open society for the 'at-large' return to a ritual acknowledgment of the birth of Jesus Christ. To do so would be to ignore entire segments of our society, and would not be allowed by the money machines of consumer capitalism because it would cut down on the profit pool. From what I see in the news, it is either about mass consumption or religious narrow-mindedness. Hardly anyone speaks of peace, at least, not in a pure sense.
For myself, I want peace of mind. I want the simple joy to be found in caring for those around you and in the communion with life in the universe. I do not want to be wrapped up in questions of salvation versus damnation, belief versus non-belief, extravagant consumption in the face of need. The former question misses the point of personal faith, and the latter question is one that exists independently of any holiday. Neither is a question to be solved if this is supposed to be a matter of peace and love.
Thomas Merton and Henry Rollins: the yin and yang of my Christmas season. They both speak to me, in different tongues. The thinker and the warrior tell me to seek inner peace, but I will have to fight for it. This makes me laugh. Salvation and consumption both seem to me to be missing the main point: that we should exist in love and seek peace in ourselves so that we may know it with others.
As I meditate on my roots this Christmas, I feel I am closer to casting aside the distractions and noise of this world, and getting much closer to love and to peace. This is my wish for us all.
22 December 2011
Andromeda Drinks Kyklos Galaktikos: A Love Story
She frolicked in the night for time beyond the ages of anything said to be living. She did so unfettered, under the sway of no being, save one. She wrapped her arms in hypnotizing patterns while swaying to the deep ocean chant of gigantic gravities. A starfish made of suns, thirsty for love that ever felt unrequited save for the warp and weft of invisible tides pulsing through the absolute arctic of the interstellar night. She smiled. She sometimes wept. She always turned, suns beyond count burning into a thirst that forever seemed unquenched. Patience beyond comprehension radiated outward. She would wait. He would come to her.
He saw her, knew her for billions of years without speaking. His own arms ached, fluid plasma spirals whirling and spattering light of infinite intensities into the void. They waved to and fro in a curl he could not control. Gravitic hands, invisible lips guarding a seeking tongue that he knew wanted, needed, demanded his body as sacrifice for the gift of existence. The milk of his body he held close. Never did he dare to let it go. He too had patience measured in a scale incomprehensible to the motes of life that flashed in and out of existence in his body, tiny beings flickering like organic mirrors of the pulsars murmuring in the heart. He would wait. He had time. But he knew it was his destiny for her to drink the milk of his creation.
Decay. Contraction. Red shift into blue. Billions of years rolling by as if an afternoon to Andromeda and Kyklos. Under the wheel of time they drew closer. Her heart leaped, his body ached. She gasped in delight, he groaned in pain. The gravity ocean swelled and roiled as their arms met. She dove into the core as his arms curled up around her, a cosmic lotus enrobing a jewel beyond price. This universe filled with light so bright it became all, covered all. Her heart swelled to meet his, her lips drinking in the milk of stellar fusion. The light consumed everything as it poured from their entwined centers. Keening filled the black matrix between the stars when Andromeda drank her lover, he consumed by her passion to end the universe as it began: in the singularity of love. Andromeda drank Kyklos Galaktikos, and the universe was reborn.
He saw her, knew her for billions of years without speaking. His own arms ached, fluid plasma spirals whirling and spattering light of infinite intensities into the void. They waved to and fro in a curl he could not control. Gravitic hands, invisible lips guarding a seeking tongue that he knew wanted, needed, demanded his body as sacrifice for the gift of existence. The milk of his body he held close. Never did he dare to let it go. He too had patience measured in a scale incomprehensible to the motes of life that flashed in and out of existence in his body, tiny beings flickering like organic mirrors of the pulsars murmuring in the heart. He would wait. He had time. But he knew it was his destiny for her to drink the milk of his creation.
Decay. Contraction. Red shift into blue. Billions of years rolling by as if an afternoon to Andromeda and Kyklos. Under the wheel of time they drew closer. Her heart leaped, his body ached. She gasped in delight, he groaned in pain. The gravity ocean swelled and roiled as their arms met. She dove into the core as his arms curled up around her, a cosmic lotus enrobing a jewel beyond price. This universe filled with light so bright it became all, covered all. Her heart swelled to meet his, her lips drinking in the milk of stellar fusion. The light consumed everything as it poured from their entwined centers. Keening filled the black matrix between the stars when Andromeda drank her lover, he consumed by her passion to end the universe as it began: in the singularity of love. Andromeda drank Kyklos Galaktikos, and the universe was reborn.
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