Piles, clean desk & a restless sleep.

Piles of papers, receipts, store clothing tags, earrings, a dollar bill, old bills, new bills, rubber bands, small books, a compact camera in a baggie, a hairbrush, dust—all of these things were becoming too much. I have gotten behind in sorting through the desk where the computer stands that I used to sit at and type into. Lately, I’ve been using my laptop, away from the desk. I didn’t plan on writing anything this morning. I put most of the odds and ends into a large bag to sort through later. I’m able to sit here now and I must say it’s a nice change to be able to sit with my legs crossed under each other in the chair. My joints feel as though they’ve been oiled. For a long time I couldn’t bend one of my knees under, but for several weeks, it’s been easier, less of a crunching sound. I love the light in here, in the bedroom, where the miniature desk sits as I type and hear the man blowing leaves outside and the NovaLatino CD streaming “Latino moods and Brazilian beats” out from the living room, reaching back to me. I can see the brightness of the sun on my screen from the window and my cup of tea sits there at my left waiting to be finished.

Yesterday I felt a little more tired than usual. This often happens by Thursday. I think it’s more mental tiredness than anything. I went and laid down early—about 8:30 p.m. and slept until about midnight. Since I slept for a good chunk of the early part of the night, I had trouble sleeping during the later part of the night. I looked at the clock: 1:36 a.m. I just sat there, enjoying the silence. I could hear the non-sound of outside because no cars were passing, no man blowing his leaf blower, no birds—and where do the birds go at night to sleep? But then I heard off in the distance a flock or maybe it was a pair—Canadian Geese. Ah, how lovely, I thought. Black webbed feet holding up a rotund bunch of light mocha and cream feathers, attached by the most slender and graceful black neck. Oh how I would enjoy watching them and feeding them at the park as a child and also as an early adult. I was surprised to hear them at these wee hours, but then again, perhaps they like to travel at early morning hours too.

Sheep. 1…2….3.  A yawn. 4…I reached 10 and counted beyond that, but I don’t know that it put me to sleep. I did feel more soothed. Next time I woke up and looked at the clock it was about 3:30 a.m. or thereabouts. The moon had come around again, bright and large. I perched up and looked outside. The clouds! Amazing puzzle pieces—illuminated puzzle pieces against a midnight blue aglow that made me think of the classical piece by Erik Satie, Gymnopopedie No. I. I cannot tell you why—only that it is a feeling. Even though this piece has a melancholy feel to it, at the same time, it is both peaceful and feels filled with imagination. This image—of those clouds—illuminated puzzle pieces, dancing with the moon—it was the highlight of my restless evening and when I did look out in amazement, the first words from my mouth were an ever so quiet, w-o-w. I felt like a child looking at the night sky for the first time. Careful not to make too much noise, I tucked myself back into bed and slept soundly through the morning.

Gymnopedie No. I

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Xe2Rft62Kg

Memories of Mother and Sustenance

Different memories have been stored away of when my mother passed away. Memories of how I adjusted—different compartments that I placed her within my 13-year-old self—different memories that sometimes seem to barley scrape the sides of each other as though they are fractured, yet whole.

What really brings me to a standstill is when I realize that 13 years is such a short time when it begins at birth—to know someone. But when the bond is between mother and child, daughter in this case, the bond seems to bend time into something more profound. Some of my memories include trying to get a sense of who she was to me—who was this person—this woman—my mother? I have many memories, some stronger than others but to wrap my mind around it—the best that I can do is continue knowing my mother through my own self, through the flickering memories; and through the ways in which I think about her and continue to nurture her in my living life.

I always enjoyed being in the kitchen when my grandmother cooked and I helped out by making the tortilla dough into balls, but I didn’t help her cook anything else. My mother wasn’t a very good cook—at least I don’t think she was. She never prepared any Mexican meals. She made a potato soup that I loved. My stepfather seemed to do most of the cooking and some of his meals were from his days in the Army. Shit on the Shingles is one I remember because of the name, of course. He cooked a lot of pork and beef dishes, and oh how I adored his scalloped potatoes. I’ve never tasted anything so heavenly. My aunt, who lived next door at the time, cooked and baked. I would help her bake cookies. She didn’t make them from scratch, but I enjoyed the process of going to the store with her to select a cookie mix and go back to her kitchen and get to work.

When my mother passed away, I had what must have been one of her paperback sized Betty Crocker cookbooks, and in the inside cover I remember writing the date of her death. I didn’t visit her in the cemetery for a long time and when the cookbook disappeared, I lost the date and as odd as it may sound, no one seemed to remember the exact date either. I knew it was October—we all did— but couldn’t remember the day.

I’m not sure when exactly; a strong sense that it was sometime after her death, I would watch cooking channels like they were cartoons. I loved Julia Childs; Yan Can Cook with Martin Yan; “The Frugal Gourmet” with Jeff Smith. I started looking in cookbooks and trying out recipes.  I would cook a meat meal for my grandfather and I could tell the meat was too tough by the way he was slicing into it. I made cream puffs, cookies, and cakes. I even tried to make a dessert that looked so beautiful but it involved gelatin and I really didn’t have a clue. It was a circular form and had white wine it in, layers and layers of grapes cut in half would set into the gelatin. I don’t think it ever worked out, but I still remember the picture in the magazine. I also tried my hand at candy—divinity, penuche, taffy. As I dig into these candy memories, I wonder was it the names that got me. The letters side by side are enough to entice a young girl, the sounds of the words taking me into another realm. I don’t know. I do know that I did not have a candy thermometer, so I ended up with a bad mess. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be in the kitchen, experimenting, losing myself. No one helped me. I think this is one way that I felt complete and I’ve always loved food.

Food has been there for me—in my grandmother’s wonderful Mexican dishes and her love; my aunt’s cookies and her kindness; my stepfather’s interesting concoctions and his sugary sweetness because he worked in a large bakery; and even my mother’s potato soup, ah dear mother—especially her soup because it seems to be one memory that connects me to her through cooking. Now I see even more so why the potato is one of my favorite foods. I will eat anything potato—the gracious, versatile, nourishing potato.

I’ve mostly cooked and some baking here and there, on and off, through my adult years. I’m nervous to use our small oven in the apartment because it’s gas and because it seems to get so hot. I don’t fully trust it. 

Now I have the Better Homes and Gardens Cook Book, which I love consulting and searching through.

Recently I prepared a recipe from the Moosewood Restaurant Low-Fat Favorites: Flavorful Recipes for Healthful Meals. On Sunday I made one of the recipes: Southwestern Hominy Stew. It reminds me of Posole, a pork and hominy type soup, my grandmother used to prepare and that I know my mother loved. I enjoyed it very much and my significant other gave the thumbs up as well. Last week, I made a chicken curry with peas and spinach and coconut milk. It was pretty good, but I feel like it needed some heat to counterbalance the sweetness of the coconut milk. I used an already prepared curry powder from World Market.

Here is the recipe for the Southwestern Hominy Stew:

1 cup chopped onions
3 large garlic cloves, minced or pressed
2 medium potatoes, cut into 1-inch chunks (about 2 ½ cups)
2 cups frozen lima beans
2 teaspoons ground cumin (I used a lot less so that the cumin wouldn’t overpower the stew)
1 teaspoon salt (seemed to be enough sodium already, so I waited to salt my individual bowl)
3 cups basic vegetable stock. (I used an organic prepared container)
2 cups undrained canned tomatoes, chopped. (I used fresh tomatoes and added water)
1 roasted green bell pepper, seeded and coarsely chopped
1 roasted red bell pepper, seeded and coarsely chopped
1 roasted fresh green chile, seeded and minced. (I used a jalapeno)
1 tablespoon finely chopped cilantro

(I roasted the peppers on a flat cast iron skillet)

Combine the onions, garlic, potatoes, lima beans, cumin, salt, and vegetable stock in a 3-quart soup pot. Cover and bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer gently for about 5 minutes. Add the tomatoes with their juice. Stir in the roasted bell peppers, the roasted chile, and the hominy. Simmer the stew, covered, for about 15 minutes more, until the potatoes are tender. Add cilantro and serve.

For the condiments, I warmed corn tortillas until they got hard and then loosely cut them up for adding into the individual bowls. I also chopped onion, more cilantro, and avocado. I imagine cheese would be nice too, but I liked it this way. Because we like meat, I cooked up a small amount of pork tenderloin with onion and garlic as a topping.

In the words of the late Jeff Smith when he would close his “Frugal Gourmet Show,”

I bid you peace.

Sunday Walk

Near dusk—at top center, a half slice moon spills out to the gentle blue sky. Birds tweet. I crane my head to look up as if I'm upside down; I stay that way taking in the Tree—branches above me splay outward—strong motherly arms revealing leaves brittle with winter that appear as white lace and dried feathers silhouetted against the mauve and silver blue sky at the horizon. As I bring my head back up, I see the other trees—tall bamboo, oaks, pines, and juniper shrubs—I don’t want to leave. I’ve ceased walking. But I must continue. All is still this Sunday, drenched in the light of the moon and blue sky.

Following where my Soul Leads

“Natalie Goldberg reveals Clio’s primary secret about why we are motivated to put our experiences into writing: ‘The deepest secret in the heart of hearts is that we are writing because we love the world.’

From The Nine Muses: A Mythological Path to Creativity

—Angeles Arrien

2-1-12: What a beautiful number combination. It’s hard for me to believe that February is already upon us. Though winter is teasing this year with clouds that look like rain, yet rarely produce the stream that we need, spring grows nearer and already I anticipate the longer days of sunlight and Spring fragrances flitting through the air.

Goddesses are at the forefront of my mind. It began with a memory of a wise woman that long ago came in and out my life— in a way that demonstrates the movement, change, and non-permanence of this mortal world. She loaned me a book. She said, I had to read it. She held it like a Bible:  Goddesses in Everywoman: A New Psychology of Women by psychoanalyst, Jean Shinoda Bolen. She told me that Artemis was definitely the Goddess she identified with: Artemis (Diana), the Goddess of the hunt, wildlife, and independence. I was eager to scan the pages to find out which, if any, of the Goddesses resonated with me most. I didn’t take my time with the book, but through skimming the chapters, I found that the Goddess that best seemed to fit me was Hestia (Vesta), Goddess of the hearth and home.

The female figure and spirit in its essence is beauty. One of my favorite representations is of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus.

Thinking of the wise woman and the book she had recommended so many years ago somehow entered my space and has in a way reawakened my desire to revisit the book. Another connection is that on a recent dental appointment, even though I had noticed the beautiful Goddess statue in the waiting room many times before, on that day the beauty of it and of her whole office left a stronger impression on me. There was also a fresco style scene on a large area of the wall between two sets of seats. My visual senses were taking in every bit that I could. My dentist is of Indian descent, but I cannot recall the part of India she told me she was from. She also has smaller Indian pieces placed on the filing cabinets behind the reception desk, as well as a small scroll of the Dalai Lama’s The Paradox of our Age on another wall in the waiting area.

My dentist has a calm demeanor that immediately puts me at ease. She was 30 minutes late for my appointment, but I was happy sitting in the waiting room, taking the time to soak in the beauty in images and words; I was equally happy to see her unrattled and ready with a warm smile.

As usual new memories and remembrances or new findings always bring me back to my bookshelves—to the books that I have kept, even though sometimes I feel like getting rid of all of them and living with fewer objects, but I simply cannot part with them because I know at some time, I’ll want to look for them; I also fear one day they may become extinct. As much as I adore my Kindle, it cannot compare to the pages, ink, paper, and the art— of what it means to be book. And that is when I pulled the two Goddess books I have: Conversations with the Goddess: Revealing the Divine Power within You by Agapi Stassinopoulos and The Nine Muses, which while flipping through it this morning, I randomly started reading and that is when I found the Natalie Goldberg quote and it said it all: “The deepest secret in the heart of hearts is that we are writing because we love the world.”

**

This is a  photo I took in 2010 when I went to New Orleans. As I was trying to find a different photo to include with this blog, I saw this one and remembered that day, taking the street car into the Garden District for a visit to the zoo; walking through the park afterward, I saw many lovely statues. This is but one and seems to fit the space here today.

To a Happy Day and may we each find the power of the Goddesses and Gods within us when we need them.

**

I dedicate this blog to that wise woman, full of so much spark and energy—and all the women, men—humans and other beings of the natural world, with legs and without, in flesh or in writing—that have crossed my path and touched my own life in a way that will stay with me always.

**

The Paradox of Our Age

We have bigger houses but smaller families;

more convenience, but less time;

We have more degrees, but less sense; more knowledge, but less judgement;

more experts, but more problems; more medicines, but less healthiness;

We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor.

We built more computers to hold more information than ever, but have less communication;

We have become long on quantity, but short on quality.
These are the times of fast foods but slow digestion;

Tall man but short character;

Steep profits but shallow relationships.

It's a time when there is much in the window, but nothing in the room.

—His Holiness the 14th Dali Lama

Mountaintop

This morning the mountaintop
was cloaked in a great white beard; its face
the colors of autumn leaves of russet and dusty rose.
In these spring-like days of winter, crisp air
sends chills through my bones. The rain has come, at last.

Beating Hair to Death – Last Thoughts

It feels like a lot of small things are whizzing through my mind this morning. Maybe I will eventually accept that this is true of most mornings and in some way, by stating it, committing the statement to the page—day in and day out—is my way of finding the door and maybe one day I won’t need that door—on second thought, I need the door; maybe sometimes I won’t be inclined to keep it there and I’ll cut it. For now, that’s my way in.

**

I did get my haircut yesterday and this time the whole process was draining in how I went about it, fretting about the insignificant. There are two hair stylists that I like going to, but I took at least a three-month break from one when I went in pursuit of another. This is also something that I’ve done in the past. I like change in some things more than others. I was happy that the stylist wasn’t upset that I had tried someone else out and glad that she was able to take me on short notice. When she saw me, she thought I was going to be her other client with the same name since she hadn’t seen me in so long. She was glad to see me. I told her I’d gone to someone else. I felt like I was cheating on her. She said it’s good to try others out. She said, ”You get bored. Even I get bored of cutting the same hair.” I laughed.

For me it’s not boredom. I think its familiarity that makes me want to try a new stylist. There is a certain comfort that causes something—disinterest?  I noticed that times I’ve gone back, less was taken off when I wanted more, or that the cut just looked different than the last time. And I don’t always like to speak up. Sometimes I will but it feels bad.

The hair stylist’s job seems very challenging. To have a client sit down in their chair and ask for a cut that they truly don’t think would flatter the client. How does one handle that? Or to take a photo in of a favorite celebrity haircut and want it, not taking into account the texture of one’s own hair and how it’s not going to look exactly the same. Stylists in some ways seem like miracle workers because hair really is a great part of our being.

I like knowing there are two stylists that I like very much and whom have different styles. When they work my short cut, to me, it feels like I get two different results, both to my liking—mood being the final decision maker. This time, I decided to go to my other stylist because I think I might be growing my hair out a little and I like the roundedness that she creates, which adds more femininity to such a short cut. The other stylist is used to cutting men’s hair and she is not afraid to take my hair the shortest possible, yet trying to maintain the femininity. I like them both, but feel bad for not choosing one or the other. I’m too scared to go to Supercuts because I’ve had a couple not so good experiences there. Once I did find a stylist at a Supercuts and I kept going back because I really liked how he cut my hair. I had a feeling he would move on, probably to San Francisco. Next time I went, he was no longer there.

I’m usually a quiet client, sitting with my eyes closed. Speaking, only if I have a question. I enjoy listening to the others around me. Some people are very chatty while they are in the chair. I like the quiet. If the stylist asks me questions or chit chats, that’s fine with me too.

I’m reading a book that I found in the .99 cents store. It’s told from the point of view of Nic, a thirteen year old whose mom is an atheist and astrophysicist. He starts hanging out with a friend that introduces him to bible study. I’m about a quarter of the way through and entertained by Nic’s voice and the bantering back and forth between him and his mom and also the thoughts in his head. The book is called Believe Me by Nina Killham. I re-picked it up this morning and I thought how funny to be reading this line now. In this scene he is talking about how he finally went to a real barbershop—“no more mom cuts for me,” recalling a memory of a horrendous haircut of his first barbershop haircut. She’s sort of sassy and says to him, “What are you going to do, call in a bad hair day?” And then Nic, talking in his head, well narrating, says:

“But hair, I don’t know, it sets you up. It’s like a canvas everything else is painted on. It’s the first thing you notice. It’s the difference between acceptable and deviant behavior” (pg. 59).

I got a kick out of that. My stylist dried my hair, put three different products in it and started poofing it out at the sides. I had mentioned how I wear it straight, smoothed down, sometimes messy in the back. She was done and said, “What do you think?” I said, “Well, I like the cut, but I don’t like it poofed out,” and she encouraged me to fix it up the way I like it. So I took my hands and started flattening out what she had just done. She smiled and said, “There, now it’s how you like it.” It’s always good to have a stylist that can see and likes short hair on you. I’ve gone into places before where they didn’t seem too jazzed about chopping my hair off. This stylist though and the other seem to like me with short hair. She thinks I look a bit French. I don’t know. I’ve heard Italian before but never French. I do recall someone in my family saying that my grandfather’s father was part French and Spanish. Maybe that’s what she sees. Anyway, I think I’ve said enough about hair for now—maybe for good.

One last thought on hair. Stylists are artists and I think I like having my canvas worked on by a variety of these artists because even if I ask for the same cut, it will be different. I may not always like it and if I love it, I still like seeing what other artists could see and create.

I guess all I really had on my mind this morning was Hair! I’m haired out.

Bookindipity

Introvert.

1. To turn or direct inward.

2. Psychology To concentrate (one’s interests) upon oneself.

Intro- + Latin vertere, to turn;

From the Free Dictionary and American Heritage Dictionary.

**

Labels are tricky and for the most part I try to be careful with them. When the labels are applied very carefully in medical and psychological settings, they can help. However, I also believe that there is a fine line and even if appearances reveal black and white, there are still those shades in between and labels can also cause harm, trapping a person. I am also optimistic and know that there are great exceptions and, as a whole, it’s better to have ways in which to categorize if done with care, understanding, and caution—and maybe a little dash of love.

I have continued reading The Fourth Treasure and am enjoying it immensely. It leaves me with much to think about and it is also a love story. When I was done reading for the morning, I turned on my Kindle and wanted to see my Amazon “Wish List.” I had added a few books there and I was curious. When the screen flashed, it briefly showed another screen and my eye barely caught what book it showed but I saw the words Power and Introvert. I double checked to make sure I hadn’t added this to my “Wish List.” I had not. I was curious and tapped in “Introvert Power” to see if I could find the book I saw. Why had this title flashed up on my screen? I have always identified—and I’m careful to use the word identified and often substitute it for related—If my memory serves me, I recall reading something by Joseph Campbell that made an impression on me. He was speaking of how when someone identifies too strongly to something, they may lose a part of themselves in that which they identify with—this is how I remember it anyhow. My curiosity may take me to the memory later on.

Introvert, though is a word that when I first learned of it, made sense to me and I do identify with the concept. And that’s the elusiveness of concepts: there is the black and white of it and then there are the individual layers and nuances. Aside from the usually cut and dry definitions of an introvert, what stands out for me besides tending to turn inward is the energy aspect—of my understanding—that a main difference between the introvert and the extrovert is how they derive their energy. And of course, we often have the tendency toward both qualities, some leaning more one way than the other. My understanding is that introverts can be in socially stimulating situations, but they can become drained and then need the solitude to re-energize, their energy coming from inward activities; whereas, an extrovert tends to need the extra stimulation of social settings and may actually feel drained in a quieter setting. Extroverts derive energy from the buzz of crowds and activity.

Back at my Kindle screen, the three book choices that popped up were: Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking by Susan Cain; Introvert Power: Why your Inner Life is Your Hidden Strength by Laurie A. Helgoe; and The Introvert’s Guide to Success in Business and Leadership by Lisa Petrilli. The first two caught my interest and I’ve downloaded a sample copy of the second book. I’m sure I will end up purchasing the book. The Amazon Kindle price is $1.79—can’t beat that. Even though I’ve lived with the concept of what it feels like to be an introvert from my perspective and experience my whole life, I look forward to reading more about it from this author. It’s time to “empty my cup again”!

When I woke up this morning, I would not have guessed that I would be thinking about introversion and then trying to think about when did I first come across that word? I’m not sure. It took looking for one thing and having another flash before my eyes. If I wasn’t paying attention, I may have missed the moment. I’m glad I was there—now I’m running late—but I feel good; now I’m off to get ready for work.

Happy Day!