Sprouted Seeds

December 28, 2011 at 10:08 pm (Uncategorized)
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What was that? 

Although I have known it to be true forever, it just occurred to me like I heard it for the first time that there will be no going back.  We progress forward for good or bad, and time wasted is just that.  So what am I to do with an age in years more beyond fifty than I want to admit and a whole new life to live?  

There is a seed in me that has germinated and wants to grow.  She doesn’t know age or time.  She knows only that she has sprouted and must either grow or die.  She trusts me, or she wouldn’t be tapping me on the shoulder and urging me to take up my pen and write. 

It is up to me to decide the fate of this new sprout.  No, I’m not with child, at least not in the biological sense, but there is the spirit of a young woman in this skin and she’s eager to fly. 

Today she told me this:  Regret serves us nothing.  It merely feeds the monster called bitterness.  

I like her way of thinking.  Eyes forward.  No stopping this time.

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August Moon

August 20, 2011 at 7:42 am (Moon, Night Sky, Uncategorized)

I had been especially looking forward to two things this past weekend, aside from the chance to relax and spend time in the company some delightful friends and JT.  One was assured, and that was to swim in the lake, rain or shine.  The other, knowing there would be a full moon, was to spend some time basking in her blue radiance.

On Saturday night, the moon was not only full, but there was a thin ring around its edge that was intensely bright.  It looked like she was wearing a circlet.  A humble crown, something she was allowed to wear only occasionally.

Four of us had sat on the dock after dinner, first facing west to watch the sunset, which was pretty but not spectacular.  It was partially obscured by our tiny island, and the sky is not as big on a lake as it is by the ocean.  No matter.  Once the sun had set we turned 180 degrees to face the east in hopes of watching the full moon rise.

How is it that in the same small sky it can be clear in the west and cloudy in the east?  I don’t know, but it was cloudy in the eastern sky and with a few “oh wells” two people folded up their chairs and headed back to the house to join the party.  I lingered and TT lingered with me.  I mewed with disappointment a few times even though I knew there was nothing he could do about the moon and clouds, and even though it seemed apparent that she would not be allowed an appearance so early in the night sky, I watched and hoped.  Finally I took the hint, folded my own chair and made my way off the dock, up the stairs and back to the house where folks were drinking after-dinner tea and enjoying friendly conversation.  Two were playing solitaire.

I made a cup of tea in one of the brown mugs.  It had a long story to tell from its decades of being on this island.  How many times had that mug been chosen from the line of them hanging on hooks at the front of the glass-faced cabinet?  How many lips have kissed its smooth edge to sip a hot cup of tea?  How many times had this mug been the vessel which carried a morning brew or a moonlight elixir?  Hands had held this mug close to someone’s chest for warmth.  It wasn’t a beautiful mug, but it was a faithful one, never jumping off its hook or off the edge of the table because it wasn’t good enough or as beautiful as the other mugs.  Truth be told, none of the mugs were beautiful, so this one had no worry on that account.

On Saturday night this mug knew my disappointment when the full moon failed to appear, and it let me sooth my chilled lips on its glazed rim.  The cup didn’t know I was watching the sky as I caressed its bumpy exterior with heat-seeking fingertips.  It would not have known that as I sipped, my sights were over the far rim and set on the eastern sky where the moon was hiding.

Undress yourself, Moon!

I want to see you naked and smiling.

Pay no mind to the others, for they don’t even look at you or wonder at your mysterious pull on the waters, your power over our imagination.  And I, who loves you, see only your radiance paying no mind to your mottled, scarred surface.  My own body, in your muted glow, is flawless, no longer human, and free from the marks of birthing a child.  The gravity which draws my aging breasts toward their mother earth, is suspended in the light of your fullness.

You make me sigh, Miss Moon, and you make me wonder at what is beyond what we know.  You lead me to a place of quiet inner song.  And just between you and me, Miss Moon, you have been the twinkle in many a father’s eye and the source of many a mother’s sigh, with your crystal blue light showing the way for egg and sperm, then your tidal pull drawing many a newborn babe through the waters onto the hard rocky terrain of our planet.

I wished as I sipped my tea.

Gratefully I can report that my disappointment was taken into account, and after a while I noticed a shift in the color of the sky, and I quietly crept down to the dock, chair in hand, not wanting to scare her away.  TT followed, and without words, we reclined on the dock in our low-slung chairs, and without so much as a sigh, the lunar maiden of the night began to blow the clouds away from her face and there she hung in the black ink sky.

It’s hard to say if she could see this audience of two, but we saw her, and she slowly let the light splay out before her. She sent beams of light toward the lake, and they danced on the water with their shimmering reflections.  It was a dance unaccompanied by any human sound; they moved to their own cosmic rhythm, a little unsteady in its beat.  The water looked as if it were being tickled by the soft fingertips of the moonbeams.  I listened to the beating of my heart and the hush of air passing through my throat, gently in and gently out.

There’s something about the silence of the night sky.  It cries out for music, yet any earthly instrument seems discordant, and I was grateful that for those few minutes no one on the lake had their volume set so high that others could hear it.

The breeze finally grew cooler than my jeans and sweatshirt could deflect, so after a while we folded our chairs and worked our way back up to the cabin, returning to the hum of soft laughter, good cheer, and gentle friends.

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A Disjointed, Fragmented Collection of Words on the Subject of Listening

May 29, 2011 at 8:56 am (Listening)
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Years ago our Pastor took a 12 week sabbatical and being a Deacon at the time, I had the opportunity to lead a worship service and deliver a sermon on one of those Sundays.

With the assigned scripture in hand I set about writing around it, hoping to build the essay into something worth hearing.

It wasn’t long before I realized that the joke I had made at the Deacons’ meeting during which I had volunteered would look me in the eye.  Won’t it be nice to be able to talk for 15 minutes without being interrupted?   Uh-oh. This is big – these people will be actually listening to what I have to say.

Every word began to carry the weight of a shoebox full of lead, and it occurred to me that there is a built-in safety feature to not being listened to, a margin of error, a space for sloppiness.  But is that really true?

If once-spoken words cannot be retrieved, and the spoken words are harsh and hateful, but the intended recipient doesn’t listen, so in fact does not hear them and thereby deflects them, then where does that spiteful sentiment end up?  Does it fall on some innocent, unsuspecting child who is just getting his or her bearings, a tiny one who believes everything they hear and takes it to heart?

When we think of listening is it not usually within the context of having others listen to us?  Might we want to listen to our own words before we say them?  How often do we think about how well we listen to others?

When we listen to a rushing river or birdsong or to the stories trees give up when prompted by the wind, could it be that we are listening to God or the Universe tell us that we are the Beloved?  And by our stopping to listen, even for the shortest moment, to let that music wash over us, I think we are returning that love through the simple act of listening. We allow the vibration of those sounds enter us and become part of us.

When two or more of us are gathered, and we all listen to the same sound, are we all joined into one being by virtue of the shared experience?

During a brief Twitter conversation with a friend on the subject of listening, I suggested that listening is an act of humility.   We put our own self aside for a moment and allow the other the simple grace of being heard.   I don’t mean to imply that we ought to allow ourselves to be trapped by those who make noise for the sole enjoyment of hearing their own voices, but even then there is an underlying message to be had if we are willing to listen for it.  Perhaps it is that their need to be heard is a desperate one.

Can we hear the words that dare not be spoken if we don’t stop and really listen to what is being said?

From a sales perspective listening can be a learned skill.  If we don’t listen carefully and follow up with questions, then we can’t find out what the customer or client wants.  If a prospective or active customer calls and tells me they want a two-inch filigree butterfly and I send them a 10-millimeter bead cap, the evidence makes it clear that I wasn’t listening very well.  It probably won’t result in a single sale, let alone a long-term business relationship with that person.  Let’s cut to the chase within this context – the only message the customer wants to convey is this question:  How can your product or service help me succeed?  How well we hear and respond to that one question will determine the success of our own venture.

Within the framework of time being measured in linear fashion, when we listen to someone we are giving them some of our most precious commodity.  But have you ever spent time with someone and looking at the clock, been astonished at how late the evening had grown?  In that timeless time, is it possible that we had briefly participated in the infinity of no-time?  Rarely do we regret those occasions.

For me it boils down to this.

Listening is an act of love.

 

And I’d love to hear what you have to say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4 Comments

Every Debt is Paid – Richard Russell

February 20, 2011 at 6:48 pm (Books, Borders, Small Business)

I am not a business expert.  Most of what I have learned about being in business has come to me the hard way – by making mistakes and reaping the rewards of those mistakes through my bank balance.  What I can tell you is that paying for one’s own mistakes makes the lessons very dear.

From this vantage point, meaning my reading chair, set in a sun-filled New England living room on a bright February afternoon – a chair that I re-upholstered from the frame up by the way, which was a long adventure in tedium, frustration, precision cutting, sewing, and more tack hammering that I ever thought I’d do in a lifetime, but which resulted in a custom-built chair that turned out better than I imagined, and worn as it is, I doubt there will ever be another to fit like this one. So I keep it tucked in the corner and use it as my base of operations at home, namely for reading, studying, thinking, meditation, and pretending to write.

The reading chair aside, Borders has me thinking about some of the things I have learned in the 30-plus years of being involved in manufacturing.

This Borders thing is really bothering me.  I’m not sure why. I don’t have any particular affinity for the store.  In fact, the last time I went into a Borders store, they didn’t have what I was looking for, so I left empty handed.

I just fibbed.  I know what’s bothering me about this.

I’m sorry for Borders that their plans were foiled by the perfect storm of increasing costs of doing business combined with fixed prices and an ever increasing field of web-based and electronic competitors.

I would like ask, though, didn’t they see it coming?

And if they did see it coming, why did they continue to expand their bricks and mortar stores in a declining foot-traffic based retail market?  I have looked at their list of stores which are being closed and can’t help but wonder if they may have oversaturated some of their market.   What do I know?  Maybe I really do need to have eight Borders stores within 25 miles of my home.

Snarky, sorry.  In manufacturing we call it being “over capacity” and it isn’t a happy sound.  I like quiet in my back yard, not on the factory floor.

I’m sorry for the publishing companies who are out millions upon millions of dollars.  I’m sure it will take you all a while to absorb the loss, if you can.

I don’t know anything about how publishers and book sellers write their contracts, so I risk looking like a fool when I ask this – didn’t the publishers see that their receivables were slowing down?  Who didn’t notice that Borders wasn’t paying their bills on time?  Who let it slide?  Who didn’t read their annual reports and look at their cash flow and debt ratios?  Who produced and shipped their orders even though things weren’t looking so hot?  These things don’t happen overnight.

Any order that comes into my company and the customer is more than 30 days past due, the order is stopped until we can evaluate the risk.  It doesn’t make it off my desk until my business partner and I agree to move it along.  Most customers don’t know this, because we watch for patterns, and we know that payment for past invoices is soon to arrive, but being aware of the patterns is imperative to prudent risk exposure.

And I’m sorry for the employees who lost or will lose their jobs.  Jobs that they may have just recently gotten after a long hard search due to the last lay-off thanks to the crash in the financial markets.

I’m sorry for the developers who built shopping plazas who will now have to go without the rent that was coming from the Borders stores.  And for the communities who will have to look at another vacant retail location until a new business comes along and leases the space.

I’m sorry for Seattle Coffee, who loses a concession with the loss of every store.  And the already struggling newspaper and other periodical publishers who have lost yet another outlet with which to reach consumers.

How about the carpet manufacturers and installers?  The folks who make the book shelves and tables and counters for these stores just lost that portion of their business. The music industry and the sale of their CD’s.  The maintenance workers who every night, while we were all sleeping would go in and clean those very convenient bathrooms, vacuum the carpets, wash the windows, and do whatever else is necessary to keep a store looking good just lost some sweet cleaning contracts.

What about the authors  who are now facing a decreased distribution of their books?

For the consumer?  I guess I can feel a bit sad that you have lost a big book store near you.

May I suggest you find your nearest independent book seller and give your business to them?

To the independent book sellers, from one small business person to another, I hope you find this shift to be to your advantage.

I know what it’s like to be strung out by a customer only to open the mail one day to find out that our investment in time, materials, overhead, and labor are about to be flushed down the toilet because the customer, instead of paying as they promised to do, has filed for protection from creditors under Chapter 11 of the Bankruptcy laws.

Translation?  No lunch for you, sucker.  Every debt is paid, by someone, sometime, somehow.

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The Eagle Returned

January 8, 2011 at 10:20 pm (Journey)
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The eagle returned.

 

It circled at the top of the cliff,

Eyeing me, wings spread full and wide

Circling closer

It watches my face as I watch it,

Beckoning it closer still

Please! Come closer I silently ask

 

It wants me to fly

 

I see the branch upon which I sat

The one I held once,

waiting

That one – there – over to the right

And near the top, see? Where I clung just before

We let go and didn’t fall, but sailed.

Through the air it comes toward me again and I remember

Riding on the eagle’s back into the abyss and back out again

 

It reminds me of the time I flew alone, fearless,

As only an eagle can

Following the river to its opening.

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Chili Verde

January 2, 2011 at 9:36 pm (cooking)
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Someone I of whom I have grown very fond mentioned in passing liking a regional style of green chili, and while I had successfully tried making white chicken chili and enjoyed it, “making chili”  always referred to the beef, bean, peppers and tomato style I first made for friends umpteen years ago.

Chili con Carne. Not too hot.  My first bite of Chili was at the Wendy’s on Congress Street in downtown Portland, Maine on a cold January Saturday afternoon decades ago.  I had to crumble the Saltine crackers into it in order to take the heat.

My mother was a classic New England home cook with a narrowly developed palate.  She could roast a piece of beef and make gravy that would bring you to your knees, but she found my culinary curiosity frightening to the point that she openly expressed concern over my desire to learn how to make Lasagne one summer Wednesday afternoon in my 19th year.  On the other hand, she could wolf down Finnan Haddie with the best of them, a dish I can’t even gaze upon without wondering how anyone could consider eating something that looked so grotesque.

We were at our cottage on Cape Cod, and my sister and three nieces were visiting for the week, and since my dad wasn’t there, an attempt at making Lasagne was deemed a safe experiment.  She was probably thinking we could go out for fish and chips if the Lasagne turned out to be a disaster, scary as that fragrant and cheesy pan of bubbling deliciousness seemed to be.  I digress.

Back to Chile Verde.  When I noticed it being mentioned, I decided to take a stab at making it.  With a friend coming over for a New Year’s Day dinner, it seemed like a perfect time to experiment with something I’d never before made.  What are friends for if they are unwilling to eat our culinary experiments?

Ten web-based recipes and an hour or so of pawing through my 142 cookbooks later of looking for a formula, I decided that nothing of what I found seemed quite right, so I took the hint and came up with my own recipe.  It was a hit all around the table, and my tried and true friend, who would honestly tell me if it were off the mark, swooned.  JT & KC who love spicy food found it to be delicious and a nice balance of flavor and heat.  TT simply refilled his bowl as a slight flush from the heat bloomed on his cheeks.

Forgive me for being so bold, but as I was recording how I prepared it, I thought it might make for a different sort of blog post.  The garlic was some of the last of our homegrown.

And thank you to the person who inspired this.  You have been inspiration for more than you may ever know.  Namaste’.

Andrea’s Chili Verde (Green Chili with Pork)

Expect about 1 ½ hours to prepare and a long slow cooking time, can be adapted to pressure cooking – about 20 minutes with a few minutes to cool and thicken a bit after cooking

This recipe is a perfect fit for my 5 quart LeCruset Dutch oven.  Makes 8-10 servings.

Ingredients:

3 pounds pork loin, trimmed of most of its fat and cut into ¾” cubes  (tenderloin can be substituted or used to make up the third pound, as pork loins often run about 2 pounds, or use boneless pork chops to make up the difference)

2 medium to large onions, peeled and chopped

4-5 Poblano chilies  (I chose the largest ones I could find – about 2 1/2 cups chopped)

1 large Jalapeno – about 3 tablespoons, finely chopped.  I remove the membrane and seeds but if you want the extra heat, leave them in to taste.

1 can fire-roasted green chiles, chopped, with their liquid

3 cups (a generous pound) of fresh tomatillos, skins removed, washed and chopped

1 good Tablespoon minced fresh garlic

2 Tablespoons ground cumin

¼ teaspoon ground coriander

Dash ground cloves

A pinch of oregano

2 ½ cups Chicken stock

Flour for dredging pork, about 4 tablespoons

Salt and pepper to taste

Olive oil

Garnishes:

Sour cream

Thinly sliced scallions

Fresh cilantro

Toss the cubed pork with the flour while you heat over medium-high heat a heavy pot large enough for all ingredients.  I use my 5 quart cast iron Dutch oven.  When the pan is hot, add about 4 Tablespoons olive oil, let it heat up to a shimmer, then add about 1/3 of the cubed pork.  Brown lightly on all sides and remove from pan.  Add a bit more oil and repeat until all of the pork has been browned.  There will be a fond on the bottom of the pan.

Add the onion, chiles with juice, garlic, spices.  Cook 3-4 minutes over medium heat, stirring occasionaly until the vegetables begin to soften.  Add about ½ cup of the chicken stock and scrape up the fond from the bottom of the pan.  Add the browned pork, the chopped tomatillos, and the remaining chicken stock.

Bring to a boil stirring occasionally, reduce to a simmer, cover and cook on low heat for 3-4 hours, until the pork is very tender.  Do not taste or adjust seasonings until it has been allowed to cook for an hour or so.

Serve with sour cream, thinly sliced scallions, and fresh cilantro to garnish as desired.  Hot crispy corn bread on the side is a nice accompaniment.

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I’ll Make the Popcorn

December 13, 2010 at 10:30 pm (Life Goes On, Walking)

So I was almost hit by a car tonight while out on my walk.  No worries, though.  It was only TT coming home from a girls’ high school basketball game.  No harm done.  He said he didn’t see me, because he noticed my car in the driveway, realized that I had gotten home from going to hug a friend at the visiting hours for her grandfather’s funeral, and he was thinking that he was glad to see that I was home.

Wouldn’t that have been a mess?  Glad to see me home, and then thunk!  Oops, sorry honey.  Bummer.  I wouldn’t even be able to stand by his side as he faced the vehicular homicide charges, because I’d be dead.  And then his insurance premiums would run sky high, and that would be a drag too.  Not to mention the guilt, and having to tell JT.  Shudder twice.  May neither of us ever even come close to experiencing anything like it again.

That aside, since that little ditty happened a couple of hours ago, just as I was starting out on my walk, literally in front of my own home, it gave me a little something to think about while walking.  Ah, life’s little gifts.

I think it was Norman Vincent Peale who suggested that when we’re feeling overburdened with our business problems or feeling like we have too many responsibilities in life to take a walk through a cemetery and notice all of the grave stones.  From his perspective, it’s a great way to remind ourselves that life goes on.  To me that truth is both comforting and cruel.  I recalled how I accused the sun of having a lot of nerve to rise the morning after my mother died, 23 years ago.  And how dare those people drive by my house on their way to work as if nothing had happened!   But, on the other hand, life did go on without her.

And it occurred to me that if the awful thing had happened tonight, right in front of my own house, there would be people in my own neighborhood of only 16 houses who wouldn’t hear the news, and not even notice something was amiss, ever.

What does that say about us?

Maybe it’s time for us to watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” again.  I’ll make the popcorn! Who wants butter?

 

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Thanksgiving

November 25, 2010 at 2:58 pm (Uncategorized)

For twenty-nine years, maybe more, save for two or three, due to heavy rain or a good walk spoiled by a round of golf with TT and my dad one unseasonably warm Thanksgiving day, I have taken a walk, usually around mid-day, and I spend the time in a mood of gratitude. When lucky enough to share the walk with JT, TT, or maybe even both of them, we chat of anything that comes to mind, and that is gratitude in and of itself.   It might have been another way, but since learning about the graces of a grateful life, I humble myself with gratitude whenever possible.

Today’s walk included the enjoyment of seeing chickadees resting on the bare branches of a maple tree.

I noted how low in the sky the sun was hanging and gave thanks for its light, though muted with a cloudy sky.

I saw cars parked in front of many neighbors’ homes, and though no aromas of roasting turkeys had yet found their way out of doors, I knew it would be just a matter of time, and gave thanks for a day of rest and the community of a meal shared among friends and family.

The roadways were so quiet, all I could hear was the swishing of my jacket and my feet as they met the pavement and rolled, heel to toe, as I walked and sighed with the miracle of how the body works.

Solitude continuing when meeting other walkers would be the norm, I gave thanks for being allowed to be alone, and free from loneliness, quite a feat for an extrovert like me.

For two more birds, brown and gray, whose name I do not know, sitting in a dogwood engaged in the low chatter of a private conversation.

For the car with Florida plates which passed by quietly, occupied by a couple of retirement age.  Glad to see they made it home to New England to see their family one more time, with who knows how many more opportunities awaiting them.  This, I surmised.

For greenery in pots and on front doors heralding the coming Advent.

For the upright bush in some one’s back yard, with its small yellow leaves still clinging to it, I am thankful.  At first it looked like Forsythia, maybe a cruel joke to some, but to me it is a reminder that although winter fast approaches, spring is coming right behind it at the same rate of speed.

For the two boys playing catch with a football in the front yard of my next door neighbor, and for the flash of memory of so many touch football games played between the two telephone poles on the street in front of my house, with the neighbor’s fence post being the 50-yard line, and for having a childhood filled with neighborhood friends and memories like that, worth keeping.

And now, as I shower and ready myself to spend some hours with my sister and her family, I am thankful for hot running water.  And layers to wear, since I won’t know warm her house will be.

And as I sit at her table, I will be thankful for the bounty that I can so gladly call my life.

As the table, laden with so much food, becomes our meeting place, I will stop a moment, eyes on the turkey, and give special thanks to that golden and fragrant bird, which unwittingly lived its whole life, and then sacrificed it,  in service to our sustenance.

Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Oh, Tess!

November 25, 2010 at 6:47 am (Uncategorized)
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The heroine has just been executed, probably by hanging, given Victorian England as a setting for the story.  And I too feel betrayed somehow, just as she was betrayed.

In simple good faith, I opened the book and hoped to find a love story.

It is a love story, a beautiful one at that, and I am thankful for the one week of passion the heroine and her husband are able to share in the country house they stumble upon while on the run.  But the rest of it?

Hour upon hour, word upon word, of injustice, misunderstanding, high-brow piousness, class division, exploitation, and the sacrifice of a beautiful young woman, who succumbs to the pressure of her mother and leaves her home in an effort to make a claim of kinship with a wealthy family several hours’ distance from her village.  And every time she allows herself to trust, no matter who, her mother, the man who sullies her purity, and therefore, her future prospects, even the man she marries, the rug is pulled out from under her.

I like to think that this heart-breaking, beautiful book was written and offered as an indictment of those who presume to judge others, individually and as a culture.   I can clearly see the sacrificial lamb, the Christ, in the heroine:  Rude beginnings, pure in heart, a life’s mission of redemption, homeless, misunderstood, loved but always separate, and finally, hung for destroying her destroyer.

And what I had hoped would be a twisted plot with hand-wringing, worry and angst, ending in  finally requited love has revealed itself as dark and tragic, and leaves me perplexed and saddened.

Oh, Tess!

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Dream Walk

November 21, 2010 at 3:21 pm (Uncategorized)
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Have you ever stopped to wonder what people who are out walking are thinking about?

I didn’t either, until today, while I was out for a Sunday afternoon walk at my usual aerobic pace and suddenly found myself caught in such a delicious daydream that it nearly took my breath away.

The walk ended in a slow meandering stroll so as to stay in the dream.

I can only hope for others that their walking time can be spent in such sweet reverie.

 

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