Meditations On Life, Writing, and Activism

Field Notes - #1

Count Down

It is the day after my son's 8th birthday party, five boys running like Iroquois throughout the house, balloons flapping behind them like wild turkey feathers.  As I count out the number of shorts he should need for camp this week, along with coordinating t-shirts (which I know he will not stop to think about which ones coordinate well with which)  I think about how happy he was to see his friends come through the door with gifts in hand, smiles on their faces; friends he hadn't seen in a really long time.  As I label each of his items with his name or initials - N.S. - I think back to the image of them lined up at the theatre where we'd gone to to see Wall-E, and how attentive they were to the magic and message of Pixar's latest ingenious production.  I smile as I fill his toiletry bag, recognizing this moment as a milestone, when he will take the lessons that I have given him up till now and go out into the world to litmus test my theory as to whether kindness and love and fairness really work, where he will be on his own to gauge the meanings of what is said and what isn't, the significance of a raised brow, curled lip, sneer or scowl.  

My little man.

I pack enough for ten days, when really there are only seven.  I'm hoping he'll remember my mantra: it is always better to have and not need, than to need and not have.   He wants to take his dictionary and his Spider Man comics.  He wants a few pencils and his journal, his flashlight and Pokemon cards, and he wants to wear his brand new sneakers which I think are too fresh and clean to get muddied up at sleep-away camp, that really should be saved for when we "go places," to which he responds, "I am going someplace, Mom.  I'm going away to camp."

It sounds painfully like those words that mark the other milestone:  "going away to college."  A forging out into the world with only the necessities of living and, hopefully, 17 years worth of lessons and reminders about the condition of the human mind, the ways of the world, the hope that the Universe will be kind in her molding and shaping of my little man.  I look at his eyes all aglow about the unchartered experience that lies ahead and I smile with not an ounce of fear or trepidation.  This will be good for him.  And for me, too.

I head on over to my daughter's room, where she is sulking and clutching her stomach and saying that she is tired.  I gauge the look in her eyes, wondering whether it is nerves or whether, like me, this toxic state of perpetual hurriedness has all just finally caught up with her.  It is the last of the birthdays, the parties, the sleepovers, the hurrying to pick up this while dropping off that.  Together we start counting t-shirts, shorts, and bathing suits.  Her t-shirts and tiny little sports bras are stacked a few inches high.  I think back to the summer that I had asked my grandmother if I could order a training bra out of her shiny, brand new Sears and Roebuck catalogue and how she had looked at me as if I were an asteroid that had fallen out of the sky.  I was a late bloomer too, just like my daughter, with buds that were barely detectable lest you asked me to turn to my side.  Buds that made me want to stuff my shirt with cotton balls or tissue paper or a combination of both if I thought I could get away with no one seeing me in the girl's locker room or the whole wad slipping out during PE class.   I think about whether Murphy will have his law this week.  Will this be the week that she gets her very first period?  I contemplate packing that "special little care package" to send with her but, like the moment she took her first steps, I don't want to think that it will happen and that I won't be there and that I will miss it.  That the Universe will rob me of the opportunity that I've been looking forward to all these years -- the rite of passage dinner that I want to have for her.  The opportunity to sit for a few moments together and bond.  The opportunity to discuss, even at the most rudimentary level, what it means to be becoming a woman.  To hand the torch to her, as the next childbearer (hopefully) of our family.  To begin defining the meaning of Sacred Woman.  To say the words my mother never said to me.

Packed and ready we head on out, first for dinner, then gas, then a little money for the road.  We have a little less than an hours drive down to a beautiful little town on the Chesapeake Bay.  I'm neither anxious nor apprehensive about them going.  I'm happy in fact.  This is the time they need.  We need.  This is the slowing down that we've all been waiting for.

I need time to be with my thoughts, really.  To re-group, re-organize and re-prioritize.  I want time for cleansing my body and my mind.  I need space to think about the direction that lies ahead for me with my business ideas, my marketing plan, the next leg of studies and what it is that I really want to do as I approach this final year of my thirties.  I need time to write again, pull out that collection of short stories that I'd put aside over a year ago and, no matter how rusty the chains and wheels, start writing again.

I need to not be expected to be anywhere or do anything or be on any time schedule.  I need moments of absolute disconnect and irresponsibility and I begin to think that, like the man behind us during the open house last March, perhaps we should have signed on for two weeks instead of one.

We drop off our son first, in Dorm 1A.  His counselor, Jake, meets us at the gate.  I'm intrigued by the ways in which people really do embody their names ... Jake really looks like a Jake ... gorgeous, lightly bronzed, with shoulder length dark black hair secured by a bandana...mid-20's maybe ... with teeth that look like they were painted into his mouth and grayish, greenish eyes that remind me of the first time I'd flown over the Caribbean water.  Definitely not contacts, I tell myself, trying hard not to stare at Jake too hard, and yet feeling myself drifting off into the memory of that flight and the feel of that warm water, when my son was still a lap baby and flights were cheap.  Jake smiles that model-shoot smile and welcomes us and assures us that our son is going to have the time of his life.   Our son is greeted by another little boy of the same height, standing barefoot with a small cast around his wrist.  He's standing there looking at my son, eye to eye, when my son does something I've never seen him do:  he reaches out his 8 year old hand to the little guy, offering up a handshake and mutual smile.  The little guy responds with an open hand, a firm shake, and an invitation to "come on in," because after all, he's been there before.

As we pull away from the gate later, after getting our daughter settled in and navigating past her continued nervousness, I think about how this week will unfold.  What things they (and I) will discover.   

I am deeply comforted by that exchange between our son and the little guy .... reminded how much easier it is to be at peace.  To offer an extended hand, a smile, a greeting, an invitation to have a look around.  A lesson for keeping.

This thing called Parenting is a very surreal experience ... mystical in some ways ... intriguing how you can be both guide and traveler at the same time. 

# # #

Plan

....because summers aren't summers anymore, especially when you have school aged children who've been waiting all year for these lazy-dazy moments when they can wake up late, snack all day, ask to go outside a million and a half times (only to come back inside two million and a half times because it's too hot ..... ask to be transported to the pool, then back home again because somebody forgot something ..... 

....because it's summer swim team time and there are meets every Saturday morning at a God-forsaken hour that is too shameful to even write here and in the name of exposing your kids to good outdoor fun, activity, and healthy competition, you've signed them up for the Dive team, which means even more practices and meets ....

....because you have two children whose birthdays both fall in the month of June and that means that twice a year you are drawn sufficiently mad by the countdowns of Christmas and Kwanzaa in December and then birthdays in June .... and the unrelenting, "can I have a sleepover party again this year .... puh-leeze! puh-leeze ! ....

.... and because you are too much of a birthday wimp to say no .... and you're a sucker for a good birthday cake and candles .... and because after all, it was YOU who started the rule that every birthday gets celebrated NO MATTER WHAT !!!! .... because you never had a birthday party when you were a kid

.... and because your mind is feeling like a waterlogged sponge lately ....

you have decided that next to your home and your college education,  the $900 dollars that you spent for one week of sleep-away camp for the two children next week was the best investment you could have ever, ever made .... so much so that you have applied for the EXPRESS drop off at 6:00 rather than 6:45 and you will set every wheel in motion to get the following things done:

• sleep late
• get out of bed only to make holy basil tea and omelets
• savor taste of omelets and fresh tea on back deck
• return to bed to read and finish AT LEAST ONE of the TWELVE books still sitting next to the nightstand
• return to sleep
• wake again (preferably mid-afternoon)  for yoga & meditation practice
• begin your detox and cleansing program no later than Wednesday (triphala, milk thistle)
• research stinging nettle as an additional supplement to quercetin to relieve your adult onset allergy/hay fever symptoms
• register for clinical herbalist training program (read: send in first payment) and begin first lessons
• dig out beds on sides and back of house for fall plantings
• recommit to daily re-writing and editing of novel and short story collection
• begin to loosely lay out plans for fall/winter women's yoga programming  
• love-making.   lots of it.   in different locations of the house, just because you can.   finally. 

 

remember rule to NOT, under any circumstances, no matter how strong the urge,  answer telephone unless it is the camp or daughter's cell phone on caller ID.

We Are The Ones ...

 ....so I was telling my friend Robin about my compost pile yesterday.  Last time I turned it, which was about two weeks ago, it seemed as if nothing was  happening.

 nothing.

 and don't get me wrong, I'm not an impatient gardening type.  I've got all the time in the world, is what I figure. As I told Robin, I had been de-weeding the garden  space, getting ready to plant the tomatoes, swiss chard, and collards and found that there was quite a bit of overgrown grass creeping up close to the raised bed.  I clipped what I could and threw it in the compost bin and forgot all about it.  

Until I looked in my bin that day and saw those clippings there on top of my pile, still in a loose heap, browned but barely decomposed.   

Hadn't I turned it after I threw the clippings inside?  

Apparently not.   

But why wouldn't I have remembered to turn it?  What was I so engrossed with (read: why was I so distracted) that I'd forgotten to turn the pile?  Isn't that what it's all about ... remembering to turn the doggone pile?

So Robin -- who is an authority on ALL matters environmental -- gets me to describe EXACTLY what is in my bin.  

Foodstuffs, I tell her.  Everything except meat.  Basmati rice, brown rice, coffee grinds, coffee filters, tea bags, loose tea; every single cutting of our vegetables goes in there ..... 

Okay, what else? 

Well.... just about everything.

What about toilet paper rolls? she asks.   No.

And lint, from the dryer filter?   Nope.

Paper plates, shredded paper, paper towels?  Uhh....no.

Okay, she says.  Get busy.

And oh, another thing, she adds.  Do you see any worms?

Worms? 

Yes, worms.

No.  I don't have any worms in there.

Well, you need worms if you want compost, she says with finality.

So the thought comes to me of a gardener's magazine that showed up in my mailbox a few weeks ago. Every single thing you can imagine a gardener would want or need.  Every imagineable heirloom seed, every device, every organic fertilizer known to wo(man).   Including worms, delivered straight to your door.

Okay, I tell Robin, I know exactly where I can order a heap of worms.  There's this really great organic gardening supply company that ships them directly to your door and ....

Order worms?  Mail order worms??  she asks, incredulously.  Now how UN-organic is that?

Go outside, she tells me, and pull up a heap of earth in the woods behind your house. Beneath all those trees are leaves, Angel.  And beneath those leaves is earth.  And beneath that earth are earthworms.  They are the ones that you are looking for.

So today, that's precisely what I did.  In addition to planting some squash and checking on my vine grown tomatoes, I went in search of worms.  Clump by clump I found them and lovingly placed them in the bin. 

As the birds sung overhead and as my little leaves of chard stood tall beneath the stream of water that I was giving, I thought about those worms and how, on any other day, they would be the last thing I'd be looking for.  Who thinks about worms, really?  I thought about those things that we go in search of in times of need, and the things we spend the bulk of our time searching for:  love, hope, kindness, peace, and overall, a sense of community.  

People who know me know that I talk a lot about community.  There are times that I feel like we have lost our sense of what that really means.  We depend so much upon connections made over the Internet, through text messaging and emails and chat groups, rather than those communities that are right in front of our very eyes, in need of our loving attention and commitment.  We talk and talk and talk about all of these green initiatives and ideas and technologies when the solutions are right underneath our noses. There is an entire ecosystem -- a COMMUNITY -- right in our own backyard, ready and willing to come to our aid to reduce greenhouse gases, to reduce our waste and over-use, to reduce the oil and fuel needed to cart the same food we could grow on our own, if we just give it a try.   

This community of thick, round earthworms scooped from my very own yard will reduce my family's pile of "trash" to a heap of compost..... a safe, natural, purely organic fertilizer in a short, short period of time.  How ridiculous it is of me to even think of spending money and using resources to order what can be had from the earth below my feet.  

This is my community, I thought, as I lovingly placed those earthworms inside the bin.  These birds, these worms, this incredibly beautiful grass, softer than any carpet could ever be.  The red robin that went skirting by me the day before, as I was sitting outside giving myself a pedicure.  The oriole and all of the sparrows that have come and gone in my birdhouses.  I thought of all of the families that have come and gone through those houses.  Where are those little bird families now?    

This thing about sustainability and being "totally green" by the year 2020 is a crock of bull.  We can do it now.  We can do it today, if we just try and if we remind ourselves of what it means to be a community ... communing with each other, with the earth, with our world neighbors.  Each one, teaching one.  Each one, helping one.  Each one knowing that s(he) wouldn't be here without the other.

I thought about my little community out back, how hard they try to remind us of who they are and what they are capable of when we stop to listen .... their little chirping sounds, their rustling noises in and out of the leaves....those worms, even .... saying, "Here we are.  We are the ones that you've been looking for ..."

I Have Learned Some Things

....and so I'm walking down the hallway after dropping off the 12 year old's cupcakes in homeroom (yes, it's her birthday WEEK), heading toward the parking lot through the lower school as i happen upon two young boys walking shoulder to rib cage, whispering between them.  the taller one, an adorable lanky type with a mass of thick brown curls atop his head says something to the younger one, rather short and wiry, which causes the younger one to look back at me and whisper something in return.  

the taller one says in a deliberate, exasperated tone, "no, goof...she's not a teacher.  she's a parent ! "

to which i wanted to say, "i beg your pardon?  ain't they one in the same?"

until i realized, heading out the door, that on the real tip ... i am neither.

i am actually a student.

because this school year has taught me some things.  has upset my whole apple-kart.  tore my head a mess, the way grandma used to say.

it has taught me that all children really want is to be loved.  to be accepted.  to be confirmed. to be validated. to be heard.  to be recognized.  to be respected.  to be spoken to.  to be acknowledged with your absolute, full attention.

it has taught me that it is okay to cry in front of them.  to admit what we don't know.  to be vulnerable and afraid.  to let go.  to be unpredicting.   and unpredictable.  to be brave and courageous and willful and defiant and petulant, even.  to be nobody's darling.

it has taught me that non-violence has nothing to do with perpetually turning the other cheek.  that the way of the bodhisattva has nothing to do with being anybody's doormat.

it has taught me that the only way i can ensure the growth and enlightenment i wish to see in others is to commit to the same growth and enlightenment in myself.

it has taught me that children really can do for themselves.  after a certain age, there really is no need for any more hand-holding.  they will either sink or they will swim and when they inevitably sink, they will learn the most valuable lesson of them all -- how to correct, refine, and try again.

it has taught me that learning, knowledge, and wisdom are not synonymous.  that wisdom is attained through life experience not through books and charts and standardized tests.

it has taught me that a test is simply a man made construct that does not and cannot ever quantify or qualify a child's aptitude.  

it has taught me that given the opportunity, every child -- every child -- can learn.  hopelessness is a man-made construct.

it has taught me to remember the classroom that exists in every backyard.

it has reaffirmed my commitment to making sure that my child is NOT 

"the last child into the woods":

this year has infused me with an everlasting hope and reminder about the sanctity of marriage and friendship and partnership.  an unwavering belief again in the possibility of creating real live communities, face to face, table to table.  it has re-ignited my commitment to being physically and mentally present for my family through every one of our day to day struggles, trials, and triumphs....no matter how high the heat gets.  

this year has re-affirmed my definition of womanist and woman-hood and what it really means to "stand by your man."   what it means to put "family first."

you see, i have learned some things.

this year has stoked a flame in my heart that i can no longer deny.  a flame ... a fire ... a vision of healing ... one woman at a time:

a deep, soul-stirring inner knowing that at the end of the day, despite tragedies and upsets, disappointments, heartaches and heart breaks, we can still rise....we can be filled, fueled, and moved to action by the simple audacity of hope.

that just when you feel like the WORLD has been ripped out from under your feet, when everything you thought you knew becomes subject to questioning, when even your own intrinsic heartbeat feels so uncertain ... here comes a story and a message that tells you that you really have no choice but to move, no, press on.

i have learned that no woman's life is complete without a roster (short or long) of good sisterfriends to call upon.  in the middle of the night, on weekends, and holidays too.

i have learned that sisterfriends are those who remind you of the things you need to know and help you forget that stuff you don't .... all of those words that were nothing more than you just blowing off a little steam.  

i have learned that the quickest way to happiness is through the lens of nature.  

yes indeed honey, i have learned some things !

so as i move forward into this bright beautiful summer with my two little ones, my old man, and my sweet loveable Lab, i know i will not be worrying about how high the gas prices climb or who the next president will be.  i will be knocking down my reading list, harvesting my herbs, loving my family, reaching out to sisterfriends with wide open arms as opposed to keyboards and wires ...  

cuz when you get older, honey, you start learning a few things.

postscript:  

a burst to flight:  thanks for rolling with a sister! and thanks for letting a sister roll. i'm inducting you into the village, if you don't mind.

Laughing In The Dark

This time last year I thought about it. And thought about it again. And the reasons for doing it far outweighed the reasons for moving ahead.

I don't have the money.
I don't have the time.
I really should stay focused on finishing my novel.
What about the kids?
What about the assignments?
I really don't have the money.
It'll take so long.
This is her first year of middle school, she needs my full attention.
Five hundred dollars down, two hundred a month for the next eleven months, I could go back to Belize for that kind of money.

But I met a soul sister online who asked me if those things really mattered. If those things were justifiable truths. Were they relevant in any way to the reality I had held for so long in my mind's eye. A reality that had been showing up for the past fifteen years in short, flash visions when my eyes were softly closed.

What do you want?

and moreover -

Who do you want to be?

Facing my thirty-ninth birthday I held those questions in my heart, enrolled in the program, put my novel, poems, and even my memoir on the back burner determined that being able to answer those questions truthfully and fearlessly was more important than going on a book tour, signing my name inside of a book jacket, sitting in front of a camera and calling myself a writer.

One year later now, as Certified Integral Yoga Therapist, I realize that sometimes the path diverges the moment we realize that what we are in search of, what we seek to understand in our art and in the world, is really Ourselves, our own Buddhi Consciousness that meets each day with courage, conviction, determination, and pure will. As Judith Hanson Lassiter says, "we use ourselves to find ourselves."

Each time I come down onto my mat, I feel the world settling down and around me. As my shoulders fall away from my ears, as my heels press into the Earth, I'm reminded of the absolute goodness in simply being alive. No matter who the president is, no matter which way the economy turns, I know that the Earth will still exist, that Spirit will provide, that all is going to be Oh-kay.

What I've found in this past year of intensive training is discipline, focus, pointed determination, and fearlessness. Because that is, for me, what it's all been about: awakening fearlessness. The lojong teachings have taken on new meaning.

People ask if I'm worried that the economy will be too volatile for a business like mine; whether people will have the money to pay for classes or therapy. I say "Who knows? We'll see."

Two nights ago I sat down with a leasing agent to write up the contract for our space. We talked about what it means to go against the grain -- that not only are we selling a service, we are selling a mindset. We are trying to change behavior and long held beliefs and that's not easy. I say that I'm not out to change the world overnight, one person at a time will be more than enough for me.

Looking at how quickly this time has gone makes me remember what I always say to people who are stuck in the mud about whether they should or should not do a thing. I say, "Well, time is going to pass whether you do something about it or not. Better to be doing something, than to look back and wish you had.

Continuing along the path of a naturopathic career that I want has led me into Ayurveda and clinical herbalism. I've decided too that for the work I want to do both here and abroad, I'm going to need my MPH. Wow. Where did that come from, eh? Somewhere on the mat, is all I can say.

There was a time when this road of my life seemed so long, so uncertain, wrought with the bumps of "how" and "when" and "with what resources."

Now, instead of worrying I find myself overjoyed by those uncertainties, by these unexpected turns in the road. I find myself smiling and laughing in the dark.

Happy Earth Day

"Here's what I've decided: the very least you can do in your life is figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof. What I want is so simple I almost can't say it: elementary kindness"

Barbara Kingsolver, Animal Dreams

God knows I wish I had the time to bring you up to date on what I've been doing since I've been gone from here. But it's Earth Day (by calendar) and I've got so much on my plate today. I leave you this, to at least give some idea as to where my thoughts have been.

Meet me over here when you get a minute.

Peace.

Starlight, Starbright ... Wishing on the Moon Tonight

....and even though I was settled into my comfy robe, spread across my comfy couch, with the heat cranked up Bahamas style.... even though I was drifting slowly into a warm, welcome sleep and it was way past their bedtime, I suddenly jumped up and remembered.

"Grab your shoes, your coat, throw on some socks! The eclipse ! The eclipse is tonight !"

S turned off the water, the shortest shower she's ever taken in her life. N climbed down from his bunk bed, threw on his Little Man-sized houserobe and ran outside with me, on our deck, lightly covered with the day's snow. And there it was .... the most beautiful sight two eyes can behold:

The babies and I are up late tonight....wishing on stars, wishing on the moon, "Not just one wish, Mommy. Let's make two !"

"Of course," I said, slowly closing my eyes and smiling so hard that my teeth felt chilled against the cold. "Let's make two."

Because, after all, the Universe and Life are just so darn good.

Ready, Set....Grow !

The decision this year was not whether to plant but what to plant and, moreover, how much of that 'what' I wanted to plant.  Why I subjected myself to the head-rush like feeling that one receives in the dead middle of winter when seed catalogues start arriving in the mail is unbenownst to me.   If I recall correctly, I sent away for two seed catalogues and wound up with about five.  Maybe I did order them, I can't remember now.  All that I know is that the past five weeks I've had my nose in either a seed catalogue, a cookbook, or both, in between the time that I am studying and submitting home work assignments for my yoga teacher training program.  Yikes !

With graph paper and pencil in hand (for some reason, I love writing on graph paper these days)  I proceeded to lay out my plans for Garden 2008.   On my list were Danver Carrots, Feurio Swiss Chard, Lacinato Kale, Champion Collards, and a whole host of herbs.    I was rock solid stuck when I arrived at the tomato page -- my God, who knew there were this many varieties of tomatoes ?!   (And here's where I should add that the seed catalogues that I ordered are all Heirloom seeds, which means the varieties of any vegetable are absolutely endless.)  Not to mention the fact that the Dear Husband said, as he was standing over the kitchen sink pouring a cup of Morning Joe,   "Y' know, I was thinking, maybe we should cut away another part of the yard, y'know, make that garden a little bigger this year."    

What ?! 

Did I just hear what I thought I heard ?!

Say no more.

And with that, I was off to the races with my catalogues, graph paper, measuring tape, and highlighters in hand.

But what I think I've settled upon is not necessarily planting MORE veggies this year, but planting more VARIETIES.   To that end, I've selected two of the  shortest germinators I could  find for  each veggie I want to grow, like the Champion and Vale varieties of collards and the Lucullus and Feurio Swiss Chard.....

.....you get the idea.  I've heard that it's particularly difficult to get herbs started from seeds (this is something I need to verify with more research), so I've decided to try maybe just the oregano and sage from seed for testing sake, and then purchase the rest of my herbs from the Herb Festival coming up in May.
I'll place my order in the morning, start washing out my seed trays and get moving because before you know it, March will be here.

And all of this coincides with this sudden obsession I have with cookbooks.  I picked up three more from the library today (double yikes !!) and have so many books checked out that I have to print out my borrower's summary once-a-week to make sure that I don't forget what's due and wind up with a year's salary worth of fines.    Just today I picked up this lovely:

by Michel Nischon and was absolutely humbled by his introduction and the acknowledgements, in which he tells his story of how he came to the passion he holds about food.    The Dear Husband who is rarely brought to tears, was almost in tears.  Truly heartwarming.   Michel offers a whole host of resources in the back of the book including  online spice companies from which you can order those  hard to find (but absolutely essential) spices found in almost every ethnic dish.    One look through this book and I decided that I have to own this book.  I have to.   

And honestly, I was on my way to the library checkout when I couldn't resist adding this lovely to my armful:

by Alex Garcia.   I mean, really, who can resist the fabulous colours in the Enchilado de camarones (Creole-style shrimp) or the Ensalada de coditos (Cuban-style pasta salad).  The jury's still out on whether I'll purchase this one but I have  30 days to figure that out.

And so, resolving that that was it.....no more, no more, I made my way toward the checkout counter.  (Notice I said "toward")  ..... until this voice started calling my name:

at which point I was done for.    Because the moment I opened it up and saw the recipe for Curry Shrimp and Classic Jamaican Rum Punch, I knew I was a goner.  Absolutely done.

The good thing is there were people in line with more than me.

Come on Spring ..... come on.

YES, WE CAN.......YES, WE WILL

Sacred Space...(or, Making Room)

Enough.
These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.
This opening to the life
we have refused
again and again
until now.
Until now.

David Whyte, "Enough"

If there were ever any words as apropos, these would be those words.    I drive in absolute silence, convinced that even my thoughts, at times, are too much.  Being is enough.  Being present in the moments of my life that lately, has begun to feel so incredibly full.  Full as in swollen....edematous.  If the change of the design in this blog represents anything, it is representative of my desire for space and openness and a sense of liberation from ideas and institutions that have begun to feel like a straightjacket.   

Oddly enough, it seems that lately I've taken to pouring over food books.  I intentionally decline from calling them "cookbooks" since what I am reading is about more than just cooking....it is about food as culture.  Food as ritual.  Food as celebration.  American life bores me in too many ways to name.  I miss our time in the Carribean.  I long for Spain.  I dream of taking a month long cooking class in Tuscany.   I dream of living in a place where the days are spent in an open air market gathering freshly baked bread, fresh herbs, and meeting the men down by the docks as the day's catch is spread ashore;  where flowers don the table everyday, not because it is a holiday but because it is time to eat...time to celebrate...time for togetherness.

What I am enjoying so thoroughly right now is Nina Simonds'  Spice of Life:  Simple and Delicious Recipes for Great Health.

What a treasure it is!  I stumbled (literally) on it at the library and knew immediately that I had to own it for myself.    Tonight, I surprised my dear old man with the Barbecue Chicken recipe, which is, in my opinion, a misnomer since the recipe does not come out as a barbecue sauce but a delicious marinade.   I am already making plans for that recipe, for a month or two from now when the weather becomes warm enough again for us to pull out (and leave out) the grill.   It calls for dried oregano and basil, which I could kick myself for not growing enough of this past summer but that's okay because I will, tonight, be ordering my seeds for this year's harvest.   I've decided to cut away another patch of the yard for nothing but herbs. 

And so, what is interesting to me is this propensity I seem to have toward preserving things.   Preserving good literature.  Preserving traditions.  Preserving the notion of ritual.  Preserving food as culture.   (It makes me think of a very odd question that one of the students in my yoga therapist training program asked recently.... "Do we really have to know all of the Sanskrit names for the yoga postures?"  I guess for most Americans it is just too much of an inconvenience, a burden, to know the origins of a thing).  Aside from the stunning photography and truly simple recipes, Simond's delightful book is a study of the healing properties of food, from both the Asian and Ayurvedic perspective.    All of this takes me so deeply into my mind and my own thoughts that it feels almost irritating to be yanked into the current of reality.

Speaking of which, very briefly, I am happy that Barack Obama has come as far as he has.  He is my candidate of choice for many reasons.  I am happy that he is married to ,what seems to me, a Real Woman.  A Normal Woman.   And could they have had children any more gorgeous ?  I am proud  of them both and feel immensely grateful to be living in a time when an African American person can be challenging the status quo in the cogent way that he has, and forcing such status quo to put their cards on the table.

I am equally happy that Bill Clinton has shown his true colors for the masses to see.   The mistaken assignment of "America's first black president" has always irritated me.   His obvious frustration with a viable candidate such as Barack and his absolute unwillingness to let his wife run on her own platform and stop behaving like a Little League Dad on the sidelines only underscores the assumption, I guess, that "they" were going to be a shoe-in for the November ballot....that America couldn't possibly forget the good ol' 90's made possible by Bill and Bill alone and so too of course, by default, his wife.   I listen to as much as I can bear about Barack's inexperience while I wait for someone to explain to me how being the "wife-of" qualifies as "experience."  (Not to mention the whole "Jesse Jackson won in South Carolina, too" comment.....true colors, I tell you.  True Colors.)  Enough said.   I check in every other day or so to see that Barack is still forging ahead and when I see that he is, I say, that is enough.   

Let the butterflies roam, baby.  Let 'em roam.