String Figures
what do you do when you want to learn something
and there is no one to teach you?
I remember from the grainy shadows of my youth
two girls passing a string back and forth
a string formed in changing patterns, cat’s cradle.
the cavernous anthropology section of the university library
row upon row, stack upon stack
I run my finger along the book bindings
not looking down I stumble
reach out for support
grab a book as I fall
“Aboriginal String Figures and How to Make Them”
That book became my teacher
I tie a length of string together
and go through page by page
“Jacob’s Ladder”
“Apache Door”
“Many Stars”
Follow the words
do opening “A”
step one
step two
drop the string off the little finger
insert the thumb
now do a Navajo Leap
So easy, but then I get to step five and I have to turn the page
I look at the book
then at my hands
the tangle of string trying to make a getaway
open my mouth
stick out my tongue
and go onto step six.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Agnus Dei, Magdalena Montagne, June 10, 2011
Agnus Dei
My mother taught me fear
which began on Sundays, the first day, in the Church.
Agnus Dei, Lamb of God.
A forbidding Father we could never lose.
No place unseen. Unheard.
Still as tears after falling.
Agnus Dei, she would implore.
Take away all sin.
But worse than sin,
there were bridges
and cars and trains.
Escalators and elevators
that could take her children
all the way to the top
of the Empire State Building.
Trolley cars in San Francisco
Buses out of Newark, New Jersey
Subways under Manhattan.
But worse than bridges,
there were boys.
Boys who would become men.
Boys like our father,
who would grow to despoil us.
Agnus Dei, she would mutter
as she saw our own father
enter my sister’s room nightly.
And I,
left to consider fragments of Italian stardust
found relief
from swelter of heat
and passion
the godliness of chaos
a disordered universe
I stretched to see
the cold night sky
from my window
wild, inexplicable.
Both darkened by night
and illuminated.
My mother taught me fear
which began on Sundays, the first day, in the Church.
Agnus Dei, Lamb of God.
A forbidding Father we could never lose.
No place unseen. Unheard.
Still as tears after falling.
Agnus Dei, she would implore.
Take away all sin.
But worse than sin,
there were bridges
and cars and trains.
Escalators and elevators
that could take her children
all the way to the top
of the Empire State Building.
Trolley cars in San Francisco
Buses out of Newark, New Jersey
Subways under Manhattan.
But worse than bridges,
there were boys.
Boys who would become men.
Boys like our father,
who would grow to despoil us.
Agnus Dei, she would mutter
as she saw our own father
enter my sister’s room nightly.
And I,
left to consider fragments of Italian stardust
found relief
from swelter of heat
and passion
the godliness of chaos
a disordered universe
I stretched to see
the cold night sky
from my window
wild, inexplicable.
Both darkened by night
and illuminated.
Three Bowl Club, Emily Bording
Karin’s hair curled every which way. Winsome loops escaped every attempt her barrettes made to hold them captive. They strayed casually like a spring stream flowing beyond it’s banks. She stood before the stove and whisked the fragrant onions in a shallow pool of buttery oil. Intermittently, she instructed Anne & I with her musical voice, “We do not fry, we braise the onions.” This was our first time at Karin’s Three-Bowl Club. Anne & I watched and listened and even helped Karin to prepare a meal designed for the Orioki bowl set. The gems on the clip above her ear sparkled from the steam that rose from the pot.
Karin’s delectable accent made my ears twist then turn to sort the familiar from the foreign. I felt like such a klutz whenever my brain failed to grasp her message. Maybe it was her dialect or maybe it was the speed and enthusiasm that swept through each sentence. Either way, Karin seemed to have an endless reservoir of patience for my requests to repeat herself.
Stirring three pots simultaneously then disclosing, “Normally, I would add a broth to the pea soup, but since Anne is gluten sensitive I will just add water and more salt”. Karin read the tiny Japanese characters on the ingredients label of the package of Yuki shio (snow-salt) pastries. Since it contained some rye flour, Anne chose to nosh on sliced pears and roasted nuts instead.
Anne arranged three bowls in order of size for each place setting. The largest one on the far left is called the Buddha Bowl and the smallest on the far right is called the third bowl. Karin cooked a hearty risotto for the Buddha bowl. She stewed it in garlic, lemon and broth then garnished it with basil. Later she informed us that shitakes have a small amount of protein. The dried mushrooms were soaked in water then stir-fried with Chinese broccoli and her prized home grown kale. She covered the pan and set it aside to be used later for the third bowl.
Karin wiped her hands on her worn jeans, offered us her reassuring smile then announced, “I’ll be right back!”. She dashed out the kitchen door without an apron or a sweater and headed for Jikoji’s hilltop garden. She pushed open the squeaky wooden gate, shooed the clucking chickens away from the kale, then snipped a bunch of bright green chives.
In the mean time, Anne and I commented on the colorful ranunculus flowers in the vase on the table. She chopped carrots and I nibbled on nuts. Karin soon returned acknowledging how much she enjoys cooking with fresh foods from the garden. The pockets of her blue jeans were stuffed with chives. Long thin stems bent over her pockets just like the the hair that overflowed from the barrette on the back of her head. She thanked Anne for doing such a nice job cutting the veggies on a diagonal. After scooping up the bright carrot chunks, she boiled them with the buttery onions and salty water.
Karin peeked into the pot and sniffed the soup while it boiled. She was pleased with the scent and continued to add sprinkles of salt. “It’s time to blend!” she announced. The powerful pulse of the churning motor whipped and tossed the carrots into a smooth puree. The last ingredient added was a package of thawed peas. The three of us watched the colors in the glass pitcher change from bright orange to vivid green.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. It had never occurred to me to simply thaw a package of frozen peas so that in only minutes I would be enjoying a scrumptious soup. In my mind, pea soup was served only after soaking rock hard peas all day, coaxing them to relax with comforting lullabies, boiling them for hours, then letting them soak long into the night . Even then, there were those few stubborn peas that refused to give up their armor making it necessary for me to strain, mash and murmur tasteless words.
It took less then ten or fifteen minutes of prep before Anne and I were asked to sample the soup. To our surprise it was rich with flavor. The onions merged into the creamy texture as the salty surface offset the buttery bottom. This was the most satisfying pea soup either of us ever tasted. Karin cradled the steaming pot on one hip. She didn’t bother with pot holders claiming, “My hands are used to heat!” While ladling pea soup, first one guest arrived then another an another. Passers by must have been compelled by the tantalizing aromas broadcasting Karin’s culinary craft. Karin searched the cupboards for more bowls.
The table was soon covered with over 21 bowls. Karin served all six guests generously. Delicate green pea soup was poured into the second bowl. She added a dollop of creamy white coconut milk into it’s bright green center, sprinkled chives on top, then topped it off with a single round pea for texture. She also prepared miso soup as an alternate for second bowl. After everyone was served we offered a short Japanese prayer, then bowed before our three bowls filled with just enough.
The following week I felt all abuzz with Karin’s contagious creativity. I decided to offer my husband and daughter her seemingly effortless pea soup. Carrots spilled into the pot from the cutting board like marbles off a tilted tray. With shear pleasure, I emptied a package of peas into the blender. I gave it a spin then I dipped my spoon in search of that distinct favor. The one flavor that would turn my attention inward, the way a grape is drawn in toward its own sweetness. I kept searching all the way until dinnertime. Despite my failed attempts to find “it”, I felt confident that my family would appreciate my soup.
The day was just as cold, the frozen peas were just as thawed, the carrots just as orange and the chives just as fresh, yet something about the color just didn’t seem right. I assured myself that looks were deceiving and picked up the pot with my bare hands, ”Ouch!”. Instantly, I grabbed the stained potholders off the hook and served the pea soup.
After one swallow my husband and daughter cocked their heads, looked sideways at each other, and twisted up their faces . Something was missing I thought. “Maybe it needs a little more salt”, I suggested. They both decided a bowl of rice was more then enough.
Now I realize that even the simplest recipe can stump a cook. Despite the fact that I followed explicit instructions, my pea soup was no match for Karin’s. A ancient ingredient must have dropped from the aged redwood rafters and into her soup. Perhaps a chill wind carrying a secret season from fields far away, slipped through the kitchen door, a hiccup spewed a spice overboard from a neighboring pot and into her deep green peas. More likely a subtle element gets birthed the moment the cook heats the kitchen, the guest meets the bowl, the tongue reaps what’s been sown. An element that’s too elusive to be measured by spoon, cup, or even a smart meter. No matter how it manifests, it’s not the ingredients, the recipe, nor the ease of it’s repetition that satisfies, but the way it invites us to simmer in it’s mysteries.
Karin’s delectable accent made my ears twist then turn to sort the familiar from the foreign. I felt like such a klutz whenever my brain failed to grasp her message. Maybe it was her dialect or maybe it was the speed and enthusiasm that swept through each sentence. Either way, Karin seemed to have an endless reservoir of patience for my requests to repeat herself.
Stirring three pots simultaneously then disclosing, “Normally, I would add a broth to the pea soup, but since Anne is gluten sensitive I will just add water and more salt”. Karin read the tiny Japanese characters on the ingredients label of the package of Yuki shio (snow-salt) pastries. Since it contained some rye flour, Anne chose to nosh on sliced pears and roasted nuts instead.
Anne arranged three bowls in order of size for each place setting. The largest one on the far left is called the Buddha Bowl and the smallest on the far right is called the third bowl. Karin cooked a hearty risotto for the Buddha bowl. She stewed it in garlic, lemon and broth then garnished it with basil. Later she informed us that shitakes have a small amount of protein. The dried mushrooms were soaked in water then stir-fried with Chinese broccoli and her prized home grown kale. She covered the pan and set it aside to be used later for the third bowl.
Karin wiped her hands on her worn jeans, offered us her reassuring smile then announced, “I’ll be right back!”. She dashed out the kitchen door without an apron or a sweater and headed for Jikoji’s hilltop garden. She pushed open the squeaky wooden gate, shooed the clucking chickens away from the kale, then snipped a bunch of bright green chives.
In the mean time, Anne and I commented on the colorful ranunculus flowers in the vase on the table. She chopped carrots and I nibbled on nuts. Karin soon returned acknowledging how much she enjoys cooking with fresh foods from the garden. The pockets of her blue jeans were stuffed with chives. Long thin stems bent over her pockets just like the the hair that overflowed from the barrette on the back of her head. She thanked Anne for doing such a nice job cutting the veggies on a diagonal. After scooping up the bright carrot chunks, she boiled them with the buttery onions and salty water.
Karin peeked into the pot and sniffed the soup while it boiled. She was pleased with the scent and continued to add sprinkles of salt. “It’s time to blend!” she announced. The powerful pulse of the churning motor whipped and tossed the carrots into a smooth puree. The last ingredient added was a package of thawed peas. The three of us watched the colors in the glass pitcher change from bright orange to vivid green.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. It had never occurred to me to simply thaw a package of frozen peas so that in only minutes I would be enjoying a scrumptious soup. In my mind, pea soup was served only after soaking rock hard peas all day, coaxing them to relax with comforting lullabies, boiling them for hours, then letting them soak long into the night . Even then, there were those few stubborn peas that refused to give up their armor making it necessary for me to strain, mash and murmur tasteless words.
It took less then ten or fifteen minutes of prep before Anne and I were asked to sample the soup. To our surprise it was rich with flavor. The onions merged into the creamy texture as the salty surface offset the buttery bottom. This was the most satisfying pea soup either of us ever tasted. Karin cradled the steaming pot on one hip. She didn’t bother with pot holders claiming, “My hands are used to heat!” While ladling pea soup, first one guest arrived then another an another. Passers by must have been compelled by the tantalizing aromas broadcasting Karin’s culinary craft. Karin searched the cupboards for more bowls.
The table was soon covered with over 21 bowls. Karin served all six guests generously. Delicate green pea soup was poured into the second bowl. She added a dollop of creamy white coconut milk into it’s bright green center, sprinkled chives on top, then topped it off with a single round pea for texture. She also prepared miso soup as an alternate for second bowl. After everyone was served we offered a short Japanese prayer, then bowed before our three bowls filled with just enough.
The following week I felt all abuzz with Karin’s contagious creativity. I decided to offer my husband and daughter her seemingly effortless pea soup. Carrots spilled into the pot from the cutting board like marbles off a tilted tray. With shear pleasure, I emptied a package of peas into the blender. I gave it a spin then I dipped my spoon in search of that distinct favor. The one flavor that would turn my attention inward, the way a grape is drawn in toward its own sweetness. I kept searching all the way until dinnertime. Despite my failed attempts to find “it”, I felt confident that my family would appreciate my soup.
The day was just as cold, the frozen peas were just as thawed, the carrots just as orange and the chives just as fresh, yet something about the color just didn’t seem right. I assured myself that looks were deceiving and picked up the pot with my bare hands, ”Ouch!”. Instantly, I grabbed the stained potholders off the hook and served the pea soup.
After one swallow my husband and daughter cocked their heads, looked sideways at each other, and twisted up their faces . Something was missing I thought. “Maybe it needs a little more salt”, I suggested. They both decided a bowl of rice was more then enough.
Now I realize that even the simplest recipe can stump a cook. Despite the fact that I followed explicit instructions, my pea soup was no match for Karin’s. A ancient ingredient must have dropped from the aged redwood rafters and into her soup. Perhaps a chill wind carrying a secret season from fields far away, slipped through the kitchen door, a hiccup spewed a spice overboard from a neighboring pot and into her deep green peas. More likely a subtle element gets birthed the moment the cook heats the kitchen, the guest meets the bowl, the tongue reaps what’s been sown. An element that’s too elusive to be measured by spoon, cup, or even a smart meter. No matter how it manifests, it’s not the ingredients, the recipe, nor the ease of it’s repetition that satisfies, but the way it invites us to simmer in it’s mysteries.
Something Someone Taught Us, Rodney Warren, June 10, 2011
The music of how we feel as the sun falls.
Aka celestial spectacles
Words flow freely from my pen
Without discipline or purpose
After getting prompted from the muse I find
Structure and logic falling into the words on the page
Much like the music I feel as I witness the sun fall at the end of day
The reds, yellows, and mauve shades
Listen to the global sigh
In anticipation of the approaching blanket of night
With my mind trained on the memory of this spectacle of light and color
I abandon myself to the darkness of the night
Knowing, as I have learned to know
That tomorrow the light will return
Faith is like that...
Knowing that the light will return
And my artistic spirit will wait further
For the return of the falling sun
With new celestial spectacles
Ever changing
Yet always faithful to return
Return new
Always new
Can we be prescribed
Such spectacles from our optometrist?
Thankfully no
This is a gift for the living
Given freely by the Great Creator
Faithfully orchestrated on a daily basis
For all that care to witness it's splendor
Aka celestial spectacles
Words flow freely from my pen
Without discipline or purpose
After getting prompted from the muse I find
Structure and logic falling into the words on the page
Much like the music I feel as I witness the sun fall at the end of day
The reds, yellows, and mauve shades
Listen to the global sigh
In anticipation of the approaching blanket of night
With my mind trained on the memory of this spectacle of light and color
I abandon myself to the darkness of the night
Knowing, as I have learned to know
That tomorrow the light will return
Faith is like that...
Knowing that the light will return
And my artistic spirit will wait further
For the return of the falling sun
With new celestial spectacles
Ever changing
Yet always faithful to return
Return new
Always new
Can we be prescribed
Such spectacles from our optometrist?
Thankfully no
This is a gift for the living
Given freely by the Great Creator
Faithfully orchestrated on a daily basis
For all that care to witness it's splendor
Fathers and Sons, Rodney Warren
Fathers and Sons
The word cahoots comes to mind regarding this relationship.
These two strong male figures stand side by side with with secret memories of fishing and hunting campaigns.
Fears and excitements held in a common experience.
Each remembering the details of their own sights and smells from times together.
And even though there may be conflict in the retelling of the tales
Thay are in cahoots
Thay have their secret understandings, and allowances, for embellishment.
For this is the soil of their relationship.
They can allow the tales to grow in this fertile trust.
And know that their vision of the past will not be questioned
No conflict will rise from their inaccuracies
Only joy and laughter will come from their conversation
Because they are in cahoots
With a language all their own.
The word cahoots comes to mind regarding this relationship.
These two strong male figures stand side by side with with secret memories of fishing and hunting campaigns.
Fears and excitements held in a common experience.
Each remembering the details of their own sights and smells from times together.
And even though there may be conflict in the retelling of the tales
Thay are in cahoots
Thay have their secret understandings, and allowances, for embellishment.
For this is the soil of their relationship.
They can allow the tales to grow in this fertile trust.
And know that their vision of the past will not be questioned
No conflict will rise from their inaccuracies
Only joy and laughter will come from their conversation
Because they are in cahoots
With a language all their own.
Secrets as Images, Rodney Warren
Secrets as images....
Life is filled with secrets
Moments tucked away from the sight and earshot of others
Often I find these memories and events
Colored in shades of deep brown and sap green
Varnished with a yellowed and aging film
Not allowing the full image to be revealed
Due to the reflection of light upon the surface of their support
This is often an important aspect of the secret
The fact that it is not clearly discernable by the casual observer
One needs to examine and live with a secret to truly know all of the hidden bits discussed behind the glare of external light
And then that same light
Obscuring the image over time allows the holders of the secret to forget, forgive, and remember differently the events that made up the images
Put to the support of time
Life is filled with secrets
Moments tucked away from the sight and earshot of others
Often I find these memories and events
Colored in shades of deep brown and sap green
Varnished with a yellowed and aging film
Not allowing the full image to be revealed
Due to the reflection of light upon the surface of their support
This is often an important aspect of the secret
The fact that it is not clearly discernable by the casual observer
One needs to examine and live with a secret to truly know all of the hidden bits discussed behind the glare of external light
And then that same light
Obscuring the image over time allows the holders of the secret to forget, forgive, and remember differently the events that made up the images
Put to the support of time
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