Irish Gumbo

The Fields Are Ripe With Grain

2012-05-29T20:02:00.001-04:00

As a testament to my distraction, I finally noticed today that, in the month of May, I had only posted twice to this here soapbox I call Irish Gumbo. A pity, really. Judging by the torrent of thoughts and ideas rushing through my noggin these past twenty-nine days I would have guessed my real output to have been much higher. Alas, that is not the case.

I haven't met my usual standard, methinks. Much of my writing occurs in my head, long before it hits the page, digital or otherwise, but it still makes it to some form of reality. The month of May has been for my writing self a mirage. A phantom. A figment. There has been much to say. I have created fiction, non-fiction and that intersection of the two called real life. Short stories, novellas, novels, anthologies, all have been cranked out in my Gutenberg mind.

Sadly, dear readers, as you can tell this fecundity has not made it to the page. The noise and clatter of the world has pulled me away from my explorations, and I regret that I have not set aside more time to the transcription of the stories in my overheated mind.

There has been intense and prolonged change in my world, stretched out over months. I have moved long distances physically, emotionally and spiritually. I have questioned many things in my life, seeking right answers to very hard questions. I have sought to overcome a stretch of unemployment that has now run close to eight months. Mentally, I am in a high state of attenuation, my mind and heart strings over the fretboard.

A chance encounter with a local bookstore/small printing house owner delivered unto me the opportunity to perhaps have some of my work professionally edited and printed, ideally in a small run. The past two days, I have had the good fortune to devote long stretches to editing my own writing.The effort I have been blessed to expend has left me with a sense of nervous excitement at the possibilities that may open up before me. This is a good thing, and perhaps the closest I have come yet to really being published.

What I need is time. I need more time. I haven't thought this big in a long time, and I don't want to stop. But time is crucial. It is not an infinite resource for those of us fated to walk this mortal coil; the imperative is to make the most of the moment before us. This I want to do, dear ones. I have to make the most of this moment of 'compilation' even if it means 'creation' must temporarily rest.

I want to make beautiful things, my lovelies. Creation is sustenance. Never in my life has it come so clear to me that now is the time to make what I want to do and what I need to do coincide. Wish me luck.

Through Which Roars the River

2012-05-22T00:01:00.000-04:00

It was a few days ago at breakfast that the white hole opened up in the center of my mind to pour forth a new light of wonder into my dormant heart. Across from me sat Love; I walked over that bridge Einstein had created for me and into a new creation. The river gushed forth to sweep me away. I was near speechless, on the verge of tears of joy. Love in all its glory seized me by the heart and refused to let go.

That river of the mind found its temporal twin today, under a sky of pure cerulean punctuated by the commas of swallows swooping through the air. It was pressure in my mind and heart that pushed me out of my new home with cameras in hand. The pressure, the call to find some water, or train tracks or something like them. I found my way down to the banks of the Missouri river where it flows past downtown Kansas City.

It was there that the great blue and the breeze and the slow dance of the river made it clear to me that change is inevitable and often necessary, ever the more so in the case of finding peace within ourselves and love without. It is up to us to guide that change where possible, and go with it when it is ever so larger than our hearts.

The Missouri showed me this. Mighty bridges cross it. Its banks have been shaped by the hands of man. There are gates and valves, sluices and levees placed in an effort to manage cosmic uncertainty as manifested by water. On a peaceful day, under a bright blue sky, in the company of the occasional branch floating lazily along one might be tempted to believe that this placid river could not possibly ever be out of control.

But look closer. Look at the marks on the riverbanks. The driftwood here, the odd bit of flotsam there. See the rusty barrel five feet above the water line, the faint red paint set off against sun-dried silt baked to the color of pewter in the Midwestern sun. It is then that the old high water marks make themselves known. The depth gauges painted on the piers of the bridges suddenly come into focus. They look worn. They look used. Obviously, something swift and fierce has passed this way.

That swift and fierce thing swept over me again today, out there in the sun. I stood still, camera poised to capture an elaborate combination of light and shadow that had caught my eye. The instant the shutter clicked I flashed back to that morning at the breakfast table, across from Love, and the switch flicked in my heart. The white hole opened up to pour forth its energy of creation and it spilled down into my heart there on the banks of the Missouri, flowing down the levee and into the water, the circuit, it closed and the energy of the earth, the sun, the river, the Universe it poured back into a thousand fold, I knew it, I knew it there and then, I felt its majesty, I felt love all around me with my feet on the ground and my head in the sky and my heart in the hands of another, knowing beyond a shadow of all my doubts that we must tear down the dams we build in the rivers of our heart, risking the flood for the fullness of being…

…We must, dear ones. We must undam the rivers of heart-space-time to let them burst forth and carry us to where we can find that which gives us life, that which makes us human. Embrace the singularity. Cross your own event horizons. Come out the other side and into Love.

Sea of Grass, Heart of Light

2012-05-08T00:01:00.000-04:00

I am not a child of the sun, I am a creature of the light.

So Seeker told himself whilst waiting patiently under the argentine refulgence of the new sun in his sky. Insects hummed in the sea of grass surrounding his place of repose atop a low hummock, perhaps the highest spot for what could have been miles. Dry whispers rose to his ears from the wind rustling in amongst the stalks encircling him. The sounds made him smile. They reminded him of home, long ago and miles away beside the great ocean that had nurtured him in his days as a younger man.

The sea. His heart stirred. The sea was far away now, and would be for months or perhaps years. Seeker’s eyes drooped, drowsy in heat. He made himself draw in a deep lungful or two of air in an effort to maintain awareness. The wind carried no salt tang here, only the wheaty burn of sun-drenched grass and trees. He considered that for the space of ten heartbeats. Exhaling slowly, the aroma of the grass sea permeated his body, his aura. His vision began to blur. The jade-green waves in his blood were fading into an ebb tide, while on the horizon of his consciousness a new swell appeared. The color of red gold, millions of tasseled stalks replacing the foam-spattered breakers he used to know.

Seeker stared into the middle distance. The threadbare sleeves of his camouflage shirt rasped over his sun-brown arms. The fingers of his hands traced over the outline of the chevrons he had ripped off long ago, tossed into the wind. The stitch marks plowed little divots in the faded olive-drab fabric.

A keening filled the sky. It was no gull he heard, it was a hawk. The red-tinged bird looped in a slow figure-eight while riding the wind. The bird traced infinity against the cerulean sky. Seeker’s face split into a smile. The warmth rising in his chest matched that pouring down from the sun.

“I am not a child of the sun, I am a creature of the light”, he said to the hawk. “I was not born of the sun but I seek it in shadows cast and the passage of a star that has brought me here to the shores of a new sea.”

Seeker found himself light, feeling as if he might be swept away by the prairie wind. The wind and the light had brought him here, and inscrutable though they might be, they had good reasons for doing so.

Seeker stood, watching the hawk. The bird kept silent counsel, watching with diamond eyes as the man turned into the sun. His shadow lay long on the grass behind. Seeker placed a hand over his heart, knowing the warmth within would serve as compass over this new sea upon which he sailed.

903 Views Of Mt. Gumbo

2012-04-24T00:01:00.000-04:00

Following my own "narrow road to the deep north"*, through the countryside of my mind...

This is a time of particular reflection, as I contemplate change in my life, and a path that unfolds a step at a time. The jottings here have mapped out parts of the peculiar terrain of my mind. I have been unable to shake the notion put forth in the work of Japanese artist Hokusai, in his famous series of woodblock prints 36 Views of Mount Fuji. The art being a manifestation of explorations into a central idea, I realized that I have been engaging in the same thing with words.

The problem is I am still chasing Mount Fuji.

My nine-hundred and third post. 903 different maps in just over three-and-a-half years of journeying. I'm still looking for that point about which this world of mine revolves. My own personal axis mundi. Perhaps it is there. There have been glimpses. Sometimes the fog burns off and I can just see something there, something that might be a mountain, a tree, a post the size of Fuji.

I don't know. Ideas are funny that way. Our heads are full of them, universes contained in the perimeter of our minds. I have many. What I don't know is the one that functions as the anchor of my internal universe, and by extension, my external universe. I've come close, at times, I think. Lately "Love" seems to be central to the mental eructations I call my writing. You, dear readers, may better able to tell me.

Gripping smoke. Herding cats. Embracing a waterfall. The tasks I set for myself, because if I have learned anything from writing, getting a handle on truth, authenticity, and the "real" means chasing something I may never fully grasp. Yet something keeps me on the path, searching for that one view in my head that finally makes me say "I have seen the mountain".

I will see it. I know it. All I need to do is keep looking.

---
*The Narrow Road to the Deep North (and Other Travel Sketches), by Matsuo Basho, is a book I would love to write for today, and one I wish I had written.

Bennie Beats A Cougar

2012-04-21T00:01:00.000-04:00

"The fuck...!" There was a cougar in the door.

All Bennie Doyle wanted was a corned beef sandwich from Richler's. A short walk, the old green door and a corned beef so good it could make you hurt yourself. So the cougar scared the shit out of him, and he stumbled back. The animal sprang.

Bennie's right foot went looking for concrete. In his fright he forgot there were two steps up into the deli. With nothing under his boot, he tipped and began a slow fall to the sidewalk. He was too scared to know it but the fall had bought him some time.

The writer looked up, round-eyed and shaking, thinking two things. First, the cougar seemed a little on the small side; he was unsure what made him think that, not being an expert on large predators cats. Second, he thought about an interview he read, with Jim Harrison, where the grizzled author said his problem with being a writer is that he could not see a cow without thinking the word 'cow'.

Bennie Doyle had 'cougar' stuck in his mind. He sensed the cold grit of concrete rapidly approaching his back, the cougar streaking towards him. Concrete. Cougar. ConcreteCougarconcretecougarconcrete. The words formed a rhythm in his mind. Bracing for impact but trying not to laugh, he coughed in a strangled whinny. The cougars paws reached for him, rippled golden-brown muscle tipped with pain.

Bennie slammed into the sidewalk. He was never so thankful as then to have the wind knocked out him. The fall had thrown off the cougar's timing; the wiry beast failed to latch on to Bennie's throat. The change in arc allowed him time to bring his arms up and grab the cougar by its own throat. The cougar choked and chuffed under the pressure of Bennie's shaking hands. His arms were locked in a rigid 'A' to hold the snout as far away as he could get the beast. He shook the stars out of his eyes, drawing a deep breath.

The cougar swatted at Bennie's sweating face. He felt a tug and a burn as a claw ripped into his cheek. Behind the cougar the door to the deli opened again. Mort Richler stood there, eyes wide and with a face the color of a raw pierogi.

"Bennie! The fuck you doin'?"

"What's it look like, Morty? Tryin' to kill this fuckin' cougar before it kills me!"

Bennie could feel his arms beginning to buckle. The snarling beast thrashed frantically, sensing freedom. Mort shouted again. "Cougar? What? That's not a cougar, dumbass! That's my wife's cat. Lay off!"

Bennie laughed hysterically. If it was a cat, it was a monster. He thought frantically, desperate for way to stop it. Choke it to death? Not likely, his hands were beginning to slip. Punch it in the nose? Wasn't that what you did to stop a shark?

Fuck. Think, Bennie. Think!

Above on the steps, Mort was babbling about his wife being pissed, she'd kill him, just stop, you crazy bastardstopstopstop...

Bennie blinked. It came to him. All he had to do was poke out the cougar's eyes. He choked back bile at the thought. It was do that, or the beast would rip his throat out. Bennie shouted and reached up a hand, thumb aimed at an eye socket. Mort jumped off the step, making a grab at the cat, which launched a frantic bite at Bennie's hand. It missed.

Bennie sank his thumb deep into the eye, screaming. The cougar howled like a doomed soul, vitreous humor gushing out of its ruined eye. Mort grabbed the cat and yanked, pulling it off, hurling curses at the writer laying sprawled on the sidewalk.

Bennie stared at the bloody mess of his hand. Blackness crept into his vision, fading into unconsciousness. He heard the faint wail of sirens approaching. The last thing he felt was a sense of relief, and he wondered a bit to know that he was no longer thinking 'cougar'. He only felt it. He slipped under the surface, passing out.

Everyone who came to see him in the hospital could only wonder at his smile.

Patuxent River Meditation #8

2012-04-18T00:01:00.000-04:00

Early twilight, I watched the silver sky diffract and ripple in the gunmetal sheen of the river below my feet. In front of me a pollen-encrusted spiderweb fluttered in a gentle breeze that felt like a lover's whispers. Worn wood, pitted iron bracing and the smell of sun-warmed creosote fading in my nostrils. The chuckle of water over rocks soothed me. Ten heartbeats of reflection took me back to my youth, and those spring evenings hanging out on the train trestle down the road from my house.

I tarried only briefly in that pool of memory. Traffic noise and passers-by broke my reverie. To my credit, I felt no irritation, only gentle joy. A river flows, far from the waters of my boyhood home, and carries me back and forth through time. Change is constant, the saying goes, and the river is an exemplar of the proverb. I leaned on the rail of the bridge to look closer at the water. I don't know what I was looking for, exactly. Maybe a way to divine the future, tell my fortune in the patterns on the surface.

The river said nothing. Not that I could hear with my ears, anyway. No, what it said was meant to be heard by the heart and the soul. The water flows to be broken up by stones and roll over sand. It rejoins itself. It cannot know clearly its true path, only that it flows ever onward to someday join the sea. Not unlike myself.

This I learned from the river, when it spoke to me.

Breathtaking Beauty in the Museum of Our Lives

2012-04-16T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

Spot Of Light

2012-04-11T00:01:00.000-04:00

It's been of late a tough row to hoe here in the People's Republic of Gumbolia. Feeling a bit like being trapped in the northeast quarter of a tropical storm. My general outlook has been, shall we say, less than sunny.

I was challenged recently to find at least one good thing about my day. Just one, as an exercise in looking for the good in life.

Tonight, I stood at my kitchen windows, rubbing my face with my hands in an attempt to wipe away the anxiety. I looked between my fingers, outside, where a smudge of pale bluish-purple caught my eye. I looked closer.

The lilacs are in bloom. I think I actually smiled.

Sunday Meditation #20: Weeds Grow Again...As Do Souls

2012-04-08T00:01:00.000-04:00

Some thoughts for this Easter Sunday, born in dirt and grown in pensive light...

I feel unqualified to speak in depth of the significance of Easter. Others know more, and have said it better. The commentary is too well known for me to illuminate it further. Instead I will speak of rebirth on a small scale, the kind to be found in weeds and dirt, flowers and sunlight, on a rather ordinary Saturday.

My mind had been caroming about, never sitting still. A shame, really, on such a beautiful day. I flitted from chore to chore. I folded laundry, swept floors, caulked tubs. Yard work beckoned for the second day in a row. I finally could not take the confines of my house any longer and fled to the less claustrophobic setting of my backyard. It was white gold sunlight under a cerulean sky. The lessening of tension in my shoulders and gut were immediate, even as I drew on gloves and hefted the weed whacker.

The weeds were thick in the back planting bed, to my chagrin. I set the machine down, considered the thick mat of creeping plants that were threatening the little Japanese maple I have come to love. I bent down and with both hands began to tear at the runners. The crunch of leaves, snapping of twigs sounded oddly soothing in symmetry with the bird songs and wind. I pulled and clutched. I relaxed.

As I cleared weeds, I felt a lightening of spirit, wonderful and mysterious. The weeds I am sure saw no friend in me, but for the first time in a long time I felt no grudge against them. It felt good to clear, to uncover, to make things right. I finally understood that if the weeds were to have a purpose other than being a nuisance, it was to make me appreciate the joy of simple tasks with measurable results. This rejuvenated me.

We can all rise again, in ways big and small, and it is perhaps the small ways that underpin our lives. I give thanks for the joy of small things.

Tell Us, O Master, What Is Perfection?

2012-04-07T00:01:00.000-04:00

"The perfect blend of spices, cheese and bread crumbs for you to make something wonderful..."

...Or some such drivel as I was about to push the 'Off' button. The tag line caught my attention. I was momentarily transfixed by what I was hearing and seeing on the tube. So now a Very Large Company has rolled out a new product to further relieve a long-suffering public from the burden of actually thinking about what they may want on their food. This company has combined spices (their choices), cheeses (their choices) and bread crumbs (simplicity itself to make).

Spices. Cheeses. Bread crumbs. All in one convenient (petrochemical-based plastic) package.

I watched the happy family gathered around the (perfectly) golden brown and delicious Spice/Cheese/BreadCrumb encrusted chicken breasts, and wondered if it is truly possible to know perfection if you refuse to try and define it yourself.

Because the contents of that bag were defined by market research and focus groups, and 'cheese' as generic monikers, combined with the seemingly insatiable appetite for convenience. Letting a faceless group constantly define the edges of taste and experience means giving up discrimination and control; it means giving up the ability to self-generate one's true likes and desires. If you give up that ability, then you will probably never know perfection. The hollow feeling in your stomach that you believe to be hunger is really the maw of an appetite that will never be fulfilled.

Turning off the television, I resolved again to seek my own perfection, away from the false promises of a Very Large Company. The search will be more work, but the result will be my own.

Ebb and Flow

2012-04-05T00:01:00.000-04:00

Much of the conventional wisdom I hear regarding writing is that to be a successful writer, one must write even when one feels no inspiration. Part of me knows it to be true, part of me fears it to be true. I do not take issue with that assertion.

I do believe, as so eloquently stated by the architect Le Corbusier, that "creation is a patient search". Words that resonate in my soul as an architect and aspiring writer and photographer. This patient search can sometimes be at odds with the imperative to write at all times. I suspect that the tension between those poles has more than once been the fuel behind by creative bonfires. It can be productive but draining.

Occasionally I find myself in the grip of a story I feel I must write but find something holding me back. It is the feel of the mind straining at the leash, but the heart pulling it back and commanding it to "Sit!". I have been at the end of that tether since the beginning of the month of April.

Tonight I ate dinner out on my porch. A lovely evening, tinged with blue light and optimism after a splendid day goofing off with my daughter. But the whispers were there. I heard the conversation between heart and mind, felt that impulse to rush to the keyboard to hammer out the story that has been nipping at me for days. I nearly gave in, even began some research as I dished up a fine bowl of ad hoc jambalaya.

But I couldn't do it. The table on the porch beckoned, the evening breeze a smile from a pretty lady, and my heart commanded my feet to carry me outside. The taskmaster in my head growled with resignation, and turned off his desk lamp before shuffling off in a huff.

I myself let go of the tension and bade myself, Eat. Rest. Be.

The story is still there, dear readers, as I knew it would be. I know my heart is right on this one. Yes, we must write as often as we can, and I will. But I will also respect my developing sense of patience, listening to my heart, because sometimes the right time for something is only known by itself. We must allow for patient creation.

Breaking The Smith

2012-03-30T00:01:00.000-04:00

Tobias watched his hands shake, considering again the dread he felt facing the forge. His breath steamed in the crystalline air of an early winter. The cold outside sent sluggish spikes of pain through his belly, belying the intense heat of the almost white-hot coal. The smith picked up his hammer and tongs, spitting into the blaze.

"Another winter of this," the rugged hulk of a man muttered, "and I'll throw myself into that forge." He sighed heavily in a sort of barking cough. The knot in his belly failed to disappear.

Tobias hefted the tongs in his left hand. The Jovian weight of the hammer tugged at his right hand and arm, but was no match for the bulging muscles shaped by years of pounding metal. Hands rough and large, scarred by embers and red-hot iron. The smith stared at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. The resentment he felt for his hands flared bright in his mind. Today it felt like hatred.

Tobias choked back an oath. His hands were always dirty. No amount of scrubbing with sand or, when he could get it, pumice could seem to clean his hands. Nails perpetually grimy and creases in the skin like trenches filled with graphite. He simply wanted clean hands.

If he never again had to breathe in the fumes of smoldering coal and burning straw, Tobias reckoned he could be a happy man. The only way he knew to fix that was to find another trade. The village, he knew, wouldn't let him. They needed the things he made, that was true. But not as many of the villagers were willing to help out now and again. Not as many would want to get soot ground in their skin to do something useful. The smith scratched the back of his head with the tongs, wondering at the willingness of others to have someone else be saddled with the dirty work.

"No more," Tobias grunted, "no more. The hammer and the anvil about near to killin' me, and I reckon I've had my fill." The words sounded loud even above the low roar of the forge. Red highlights flickered on the burnished iron of the anvil, impish eyes beckoning the smith from where he stood. The anvil. Tobias squinted at in a sudden burst of desperate inspiration. He had been between the hammer and the anvil near all his life since he became a man, and his heart was sick from it. The horn of the anvil seemed to glow, and Tobias knew what to do.

He walked over to the anvil, dropping the tongs and transferring the hammer to his left hand. The right hand he laid on the face of the anvil. The cold iron stung the palm of his hand, which trembled slightly as he raised the hammer high over head. His breath held when the hammer reached the apex of the arc. Slight spasms coursed up and down his arm.

Tobias drew in a lungful of the freezing winter air. The hammer began to swing down, slow at first then blurring into a dark silver arc. The hard steel crashed into the back of the smith's right hand. The cracking of bones mimicked the crackling of the coals. Tobias bellowed, a gored ox falling to its knees with blood spraying out to stain his apron and coal-dust blackened snow on the ground around the stump on which the anvil sat. The big man fell to his knees, screaming and crying, with tears tracking silver runnels through the coal dust on his face. He began to smile. Blinding pain laced with sweet relief flooded through his gut. The smile turned into a laugh.

"I'll not be a smith no more, Lord, I'll not be a smith!" he shouted, "I'm free!" He passed out.

Folks from the village began to crowd around, drawn by his screams, and frightened by the enigmatic smile of the giant with a ruined hand.

Weak Tea

2012-03-28T00:01:00.000-04:00

There is a peculiar taste to tea brewed from the second or third pot on old leaves. Copper, fear, regret, blood: all things that pass over the tongue, sometimes choking them down. Other times, swallowed with a sigh and dreaming of fatter times and headier brew.

How thin can it be cut? How slow can it be poured? The kettle heats, the water over the leaves, again and again in a Zeno's paradox of liquid. The second thinner than the first, the third thinner than the second. There is no fourth cup. The spirit has not the resolve to even try, because the heart could not endure it. Staring down the prospect of a fourth cup from old leaves spikes the mouth with bitterness before the hand could think to raise such a travesty to the lips.

Yet...

There are days where bleary eyes and trembling hands consider such a thing. Because the tea leaves can only be spooned out so far. Dividing half by half by half is absurd in the light of abundance, but abundance doesn't last. It gets lost under a mounting wall of bills. The cheap and plentiful becomes costlier and scarcer not because it ceases to exist; it is because the sluicing effects of money diminish when that revenue stream dries up. The flood becomes a trickle. The trickle becomes elusive.

It is the cold, grey light of diminishing that shines on the tea tin, pot, and cup. Mental calculus of how many more cups can be extracted from smaller amounts and repeated boilings. There is metallic-sounding laughter in a far corner of the mind, with a voice saying "Two brews, same leaves, means no new tea bought until the end of the month." This offers cold comfort.

This is what it comes to, sometimes. Weak tea, staring at the bottom that is not usually seen. Not usually, in those weeks of Fat Tuesdays. But the tea gets drunk, all the same, because that is all there is in the cup. That, and the memory of strength.

We Are All Mona Lisas

2012-03-21T00:01:00.000-04:00

I had some thoughts today, of the Life/Universe/Everything variety, and as I don't have much room in my head these days for extra thoughts (big though my noggin my be) I thought I would lay them upon you, dear readers.

Out and about today to run errands and shove some groceries down my neck, I was privy to some intriguing insights as I trolled the aisles of the big box and later as I chewed thoughtfully on my beans and rice.

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and genders in between, insofar as I can claim any sort of life wisdom I humbly offer the following for your edification and delight:

For men: If a lady smiles at you, don't automatically assume they want to engage in carnal relations with you. While that is within the realm of possibility, it almost certainly of low probability. You should, however, smile back. As a minimum she was being nice, and you should return the courtesy. Your day will be better for it.

For women: If a gentleman smiles at you, don't automatically assume he wants you to engage in carnal relations with him. While that is within the realm of possibility, it almost certainly of low probability. You should, however, smile back.As a minimum he was being nice, and you should return the courtesy. Your day will be better for it.

For adults: If a child smiles at you, smile back. Wave if you can. It matters not why the child smiled at you, only that they did. The universe has chosen to favor you with a kindness. Enjoy your good fortune. Smile.

The first two I gathered by inference while people watching. The last one was by the grace of a child's smile. Here endeth the lesson.

Kitchen Goddess

2012-03-20T00:01:00.000-04:00

I dream of you standing
in the light of the windows,
I see it caress your face and know
the heat of this solitary kitchen
will transform my heart to hearth

Sunday Meditation #19: Silence and the Saint

2012-03-18T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Shona dhuit!

2012-03-17T08:28:00.000-04:00

Happy St. Patrick's Day, from my Irish heart to yours. Blessings to everyone!

Serendipity, with Anchovies

2012-03-15T00:01:00.000-04:00

What do you get when you combine spare time, a chance encounter with a recipe once forgotten, and a ten-day-old baguette?

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.

Bowing My Head, Saying Hey-Men!

2012-03-12T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

Sunday Meditation #18: Time Away from Love

2012-03-11T08:59:00.000-04:00

Struggling in the midst of chores, I wonder: why do we spend so much time not doing that which we love to do? How is it that the balance of life always tilts away from the heart?

It is the reason this meditation is so short. I was so caught up in maintenance I had little time for wonder. There is so much more I wanted to write about, but it wasn't meant to be.

If I could, I would write most of the time. I would imagine great things, and then sweep the floor.

The Heart Knows Holi

2012-03-10T00:01:00.000-05:00

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.

Making Omelets

2012-03-09T00:01:00.000-05:00

Sitting down at the battered companion he called a dining table, fork in hand, slow tears seeped into his vision. He gulped another mouthful of tea and wept in thanks at the savor of the eggs.

Sunlight waned outside in the deepening evening. The lamp on the table flickered in argentine lambency. He watched the flame dance in conversation with a breeze slinking through the open window. The omelet disappeared under the insistent bulldozer of his appetite.

Wiping his face on the linen napkin he had carefully placed on the scarred wood, the old man finished the dinner. His breath scraped over his teeth to fill his lungs. Holding it, he counted ten slow exhales and grieved over the inescapable violence of needing to live.

Road Along The Sea

2012-03-06T00:01:00.000-05:00

This life can be as a road along the sea, hugging the cliffs like curves hug a snake. The drive can be anything you want it to be, if only you know what you want and what you need. Driving with the top down at high speed when you feel confident, or maybe when you forgot where are the brakes, you round a curve at the bottom of the hill with the hood of the car pointing up and out over infinity.

You don't know what to do. You can't see a guard rail, or feel the wheels on the pavement. It gets quiet there, and slow. For a slice of infinity you ponder the Was, Now and What May Be. What is it you have done with this life, and what will you do should you find the road again? What can bring you back?

Take a deep breath. Let go of the steering wheel. On this road, there is love, if you care to look. Better yet, if you care to feel.

Love will bring you back. Love will put up the rail, stop the fall, get the wheels back on the pavement.

Love will do these things, if we let it. We just need to let it take over and drive.

Shelter for the Traveler

2012-03-01T00:01:00.000-05:00

The tick of the clock overlays the bacon-frying-sizzle of wheels over wet pavement. Train horn sounding in the distance as I sit alone in the living room of my parent's house, gazing at the Saint Christopher medal hanging on a chain around my neck. I am not Catholic or Eastern Orthodox, nor am I devout of any persuasion, so the medal seems incongruous. It is a gift from someone very close to my heart, and thereby has become something sacred in its own quiet way. I treasure it for that, knowing this gift was given out of love.

It is late evening. I have returned from a day at the hospital where I was helping tend to my ailing mother. My father is staying at the hospital with her overnight. She should be home tomorrow, if things continue their positive course. It is my wish, my hope, that she also receive blessings on her journey.

I have to pause a moment, listening to the clock and the train. My right hand steals to the medal. I run my fingers over it, the golden metal of it feeling warm and slightly slick. Closing my eyes, I hear rain falling on the roof to add its own counterpoint to the rest.

My head rests on my left hand, the medal clasped in my right. It warms to blood temperature, almost as a living thing. I breathe, I rest, and my heart grows light and warm to know that someone watches over me on this road I am traveling.

Sunday Meditation #17: Seeds for the Soul

2012-02-26T00:01:00.000-05:00

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.