Writing into Wholeness

One life changing experience came with a not so great moment in a college composition class.  I had failed my first attempt at the local community college and decided to give it another try. I felt dejected by the instructor’s comments to my face. I was trying to express my feelings—incomplete thoughts, typos, run on sentences, grammar horrors. It wasn’t her fault I was producing sub-par work. I was the type of student an English instructor abhors where the expectation is for students to know the basics of good writing. That was the beginning. It didn’t improve. I was at about a “D” in the course. The instructor suggested I drop. I did. I felt bad. Was I ever going to be able to get through these damn English courses?

I waited out the semester and I enrolled the following semester in a course that would focus on writing improvement. The new instructor seemed much more supportive from the get go. She didn’t have an air of superiority as I felt the other one did. She was down to earth and seemed like she really wanted to help. I didn’t do great, but there were improvements in my overall writing and expression. I was at least able to produce “C” work.

At some point between the first and this second experience, something in me said, I am going to make it my life goal to conquer writing. I am going to master it. I didn’t give up. I began taking more community college courses with no direction whatsoever and learning on my own, staring at the pages in grammar books, trying to make sense of the rules.  It began small and then took over. Progress came. I started to love the learning process and I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to take all the English classes that I could. I toyed with ideas of majoring in English with a minor in philosophy; and then I thought about majoring in Psychology, no wait Health Science. I didn’t know what I wanted to do except to take interesting classes, write, learn, and explore.

I ended up being a student of life and finding the “expresser” in myself through writing, especially through the English classes because I was introduced to so many types of reading and ideas, and I savored writing about my reactions to the material. And when I received positive comments, I glowed inside. It was a long process and once my expresser was awakened, I took to my journals and I traveled wherever I wanted to go in my thoughts and imagination.

Through a series of synchronistic events, one of which lay dormant for at least a decade, I decided that I would work on a liberal arts bachelor completion program through John F. Kennedy University. My emphasis would be humanities, which since I attended there has changed a bit. I never did finish the program and I have a huge debt that I will be paying back for a long, long time. I have gone back in my mind asking if it was worth it and I sometimes waver between a meek no to a resounding YES! I’m in no position to finish for several reasons, but I feel that I got what I needed and I gained so much out of the program. It was truly a spiritual writing journey. Part of the reason I chose this school is because of the emphasis on writing. The tutors there were spectacular and I remember in a writing workshop for students new to the program—there was an English major there whom had switched her major to something—I don’t remember what.  And though she was an English major, she still somehow needed help with her writing. I felt there was hope for me.

The courses that I took were interesting and varied and I still think about them till this day. I was encouraged through the instructor’s comments on my writing and gradually I think deep down I began to realize that I was becoming a writer. I don’t know that there was any one strong moment where I thought, I want to be a writer; rather, there were a series of intersecting moments that I realized I needed to express, and writing happened to be the container for a woman who doesn’t speak up much in person—and still doesn’t. My main voice is through the words on the page. For that, I am thankful.  If not for this mode of expression, I would still be unconnected pieces without a voice. I write. I express. I am whole.

Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day was always one of my favorites. As a kid in school, I looked forward to selecting Valentine’s Day cards, not individual cards, but the boxed variety with miniature envelopes and a selection of Valentine messages. I remember in elementary school making the pouches and decorating them with stickers and our art, hearts, lots of hearts and lots of red and pink. These would be our Valentine’s Day school mailboxes for the day.

It’s a little bit last minute, but I’m going to try and get a few Valentine’s Day decorations for the apartment. My significant other and I were going to go out for a special Valentine’s Day dinner, but at the last moment—yesterday—, I suggested we save a little money and have it at home in our cozy apartment. I would cook something—what I didn’t know. “Any requests,” I asked. “All that matters is that I’m here with you,” he said. I kissed him and told him that I feel the same and that I would think of something.

I see hearts wherever I can find them—in leaves, in the clouds, in the cement. I don’t necessarily look hard for them, but I do find them. The photo I posted is a heart I found in February a few weeks ago on one of my walks. I had my camera with me, prepared this time. As soon as I saw the image, I was taken. I knew that I would post it today, Valentine’s Day. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed a heart in a tree before. What a treat.

I wanted to prepare something different for dinner than the usual and I saw a soup recipe in Cooking Light that I’m leaning toward. I’m nervous because it will be the first time, but I think I’ll take a chance. It’s Spicy Thai Coconut Chicken Soup. The photo in the magazine looks delicious.

“No flowers or chocolate.” That’s what I told my significant other as he was leaving for work this morning—meaning that I don’t want a Valentine gift—because we have each other and we’ll be cozy at home this time, instead of in a restaurant. Even though I said no flowers, I think I will pick a small bunch of freesia or other fragrant flower to put on the table, if I have time. If I lived near a field of pretty wildflowers, I’d rather pick those for our table.

So in my mind’s eye, I’ve set the table with red placemats and fragrant flowers in the center; a few chocolate kisses spread like rose petals; a tall candle, to dine by candlelight, and a little sugar and spice offered by the soup on this Valentine’s Day.

Cozy, loving simplicity, with a dash of pizzazz: A perfect recipe for an intimate Valentine’s Day celebration.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

MOOn Moment ~ HOwl Talk

Today the muse is Keiko Amano, her blogs and our exchanges. It came to me at work in a moment. It felt playful and fun. I quickly took a pencil and scribbled quickly on a post-it note in pencil and slipped it into my satchel.

**

All this talk about Howl

       SOund of Haru

Is making the mOOn

       Achoo

Moon dust everywhere.

       Aroo, Owwooo,

Ow, ow, ow, Aroo.

       MOOn.

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