The Better Things in Life

I don’t believe in Poltergeists, but there is a spirit painter that hangs about this old house and slaps up canvases that are as tender and touching as the celebration of sound of a live pianist in my living room.

Only once, just once, a visitor came by who was an accomplished pianist and switched my electric organ to ‘piano’ and played, while I prepared afternoon tea, a selection of solitary piano solos ---“Somewhere my love”, “Autumn Leaves”, and some other of the great songs. Whether it was the instrument, the skill of the pianist, or the acoustic resonance of the higher ceiling in my living room, I cannot say. What I will say is that I never forgot how beautiful that was. How beautiful it sounded. How, in an instant, it changed a dull house to a fine old castle full of reverence, and awe, and beauty and romance.

And if excess and luxury means extravagant paintings and sweet music, I maybe don’t often have the music, but I do have the art. My invisible painter comes by, when the snow is deep and the world quite plain and the trees so bare, and paints with delicate hues of pink, rose, white, and blue, sweeping valleys, villas, and mountainous scenes of uncanny realism in the sky. Sometimes he paints abstract stuff with dark purple animated monster-looking things with bulbous eyes, and domed foreheads that mercilessly chase smaller entities of sweet innocence clothed in auras of sunshine, and dresses of white.

In the last few days, he has discarded many colors and in the process splashed all the trees with various Monet-like dabs of brilliance. He’s covered the green lawn with golden dabs and poured out a deep rich luminous burgundy paint on the dog wood tree. The other day while waiting for the appropriate time to touch up the landscape with fall colors, he mischievously painted a rushing river where there was none.


So although I have no paintings of worth on my walls, I have a collection that rotates quickly and invites me to have another look out my window at his latest masterpiece.

But, as mistress of this place, to preserve the ambiance of formality and flushing dignity, I really must buy some piano selections— (Liberace, perhaps), for topping-off special moments when friends come over, and I don my lace apron, and the china comes out for ‘high tea’, and the latest paintings are hung, and the afternoon light is just right and ‘housekeeping’ – (that would be my robot vacuum cleaner) has just dispelled all dust from the corners of this ancient estate.

I guess I’m in this special frame of mind because right now I’m reading that old English Classic first published in 1881, “The Portrait of a Lady” by Henry James. And jangling in my mind is that very first sentence, so simple and so lovely—that tells me this will be writing at its best:

“Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. There are circumstances in which, whether you partake of the tea or not – some people of course never do, — the situation is in itself delightful.”

I have the circumstances. I have the tea. I have the art. And all I need now is the music (and for me that is piano – without violins, without horns, without anything but the clarity of each left-hand resonating chord and right-hand winsome note.

_______

Of course later, Hub will shut down my music and go to the Lone Star Channel (with all that gunfire erupting and horse hooves rumbling and graceless verbal interchange), and my painter will fold up his palette, and I will return to a plebeian existence. I will descend from my throne, shake out my hair, and bumble around in faded jeans and a stained cotton tee, engaged in the servile task of preparing supper for Hub, my puppies, and me.

Derailment

Head bowed she moves slowly
Planting and shuffling each faltering step
While grasping with white-knuckles the precious cart
That came as a self-extricated gratuity.
Her other prize – a loaf of day-old bread
Bought with a coin left by a harried customer.
In the coin slot of the grocery cart,
tipped and carelessly derailed.

She bends over the cart in usual hunched form
Studying the filthy sidewalk through the wire grid.
All of it a blurred and rippled vision
With only the exceptional clarity of the
Bold lettering on one solitary bag in the cart.
While others in domestic comfort read cereal boxes,
She feels a happy completeness in the sustenance
Promised by these words - “Liberty Bread”.

She smiles and raises her Medusa-spiked hair,
Smooths with gnarled hands her dingy robe.
And unfolds a derelict body into a
spasm of honorable uprightness.

And then in that moment of poise, she cries
Like a trumpet blast to the bustling streets and busy throng…

1.“Keep, ancient lands your storied pomp…
Send …homeless, tempest-tossed, to me…”

She reattaches herself to the cart,
Folds again, and moves on

Laughing…while we weep.

1. Italicized text is from Emma Lazarus’, “The New Colossus”, written for inscription on the Statue of Liberty.

Pig Latin Pulses

This short one-Act play is your mind bender for today. See if you can decode the pig latin phrases, do the math, think of more potato uses, and maybe tell me about the days in your youth when pig latin was your special way of communicating with your friends.

ACT I

[Hub and Roberta and the little twins from next door are sitting at the kitchen table after walking the dogs. Earlier Hub and Roberta picked all the potatoes.]

Hub: Woman, why do you always insist on planting so many potatoes?

Roberta: I want to make sure we won’t run out.

Hub: If we do, you can buy some. At the store, at the farmer’s market, at a neighbors.

Roberta: I don’t want to do that, it is too inconvenient. And they never taste the same. Rocks in the bags, tasteless, and smutty spots everywhere.

Hub: But look at all those potatoes. Did you do the math?

Roberta: Y—e—h. Three small pails per week, 36 weeks, 4 potato meals per week, 120 potato hills, averaging ¾ small pail per hill –oh, never mind – I did the math! And anyway, I need extra potatoes for days when I have company, for perogies, for potato bread, for soups, french fries, potato salads, and seed potatoes for next year. So, don’t even suggest it. There are NOT too many potatoes.

Hub: I suppose you’re right. We’ll also need some for Christmas decorations, dog toys, carved stamps for printing letters or logos on envelopes, dried potato heads, potato guns, for heartburn, and for batteries for my potato clock.

Little Twin Girl [with a broad smile]: ee-tay, ee-hay, ee-tay, ee-hay!

(She and her brother have been practicing their Pig Latin while we are on dog walks. And pretty much everything she says is in that dialect.)

______

I roared with laughter at that bit. But that is not all. I’m still laughing about Twin Boy’s antics when we were out walking the puppies. He tried to topple a dead tree and when it eventually came loose and he saw it was going to topple across the trail, he yelled:…. “imber-Tay!”

And to our astonishment, even though Hub’s attempts at Pig Latin are impossible to decode, and completely dyslectic, he scrambled out of the way with the rest of us. The twins told him they were “oud-pray” of his “a-way-om-cay-ish-lay-ent-may!”

Hub said when they left, “It’s too bad that the twins’ arents-pay and isters-say on’t-day owe-nay ow-hay uch-may un-fay ee-thay ins-tway are-way.”

I laughed and nodded.

The Psychology of Gizmos

I’m so not good at waiting. It is distressing. It makes me anxious, and uneasy. It is worrisome and unpleasant. But yet, with my gizmo in my pocket or purse, I can endure endless hours of waiting, without nervous energy spinning me into a state of nausea.

How do I do it? I have the primordial gizmo of all time. The ‘adam’ of the species. It is a button and a bobby-pin. And how do you play with it? You put the bobby pin in the button, you squeeze it, bend it, unbend it, and twirl the button and create unique b & b associations.

It’s a diversion. The same kind of diversion as that provided by high-tech gizmos. It is a diversion for easing the discomfort of idleness. It works to quell the irritation of feeling alone in the crowd or the oblique thought that I am waiting for something, without the slightest notion what I am waiting for.

But bobby-pins are scarce, hard to find, and I’m not too sure everyone has a button jar anymore. So while I calm and sedate myself with my button and bobby pin, you go ahead and get downtown (if you must) for the latest gizmo.

P.S. If you want to be resourceful, you might want to try a piece of velcro and a barrette.

Love on Demand – Part V (Conclusion)

Finding Sensibility

Discussions with a neighbor lady with a broken heart in a pre-arranged marriage have validated what I already believe – I cannot give love on demand. So how can I save my sinful soul without going down the path of a loveless and pre-arranged union with God?

With or without a love relationship with God, I can’t deny that I have always been awe-struck at nature’s perfection and at the creator of it. But despite that, I have not found a path to loving God. From the stories told to me by the lady down the road, I understand that it is impossible to give love on demand because that kind of love is too false to be soul-saving. Serving a God of truth by a brazen lie is so not right.

But my problem is even bigger than that. How can I make myself love someone who so often seems to turn deaf ears on my prayers? Yet, admittedly, at other times, responds at lightning speed with a wealth of blessings, quite unexpected?

It remains puzzling to me that somehow, though not until some time later, in all this storm-tossed sea of doubt, somewhere along the way, without conscious endeavor, my subconscious mind was coddled, and warmed, and seduced into a positive belief that told my conscious mind, “You have not pressed me or overrode my authority. You have not forced me with insubordination. And so now, it’s okay to believe. I’ll go along with it.”

But that is me, and so as I consider these things, I realize it is not fair for me to judge others. And it is also unfair for me to expect everyone to love God because it is the better thing to do. Or because I am sure he exists. Of course it isn’t fair. Not with love being a helpless condition over which we have no control.

It takes more than conscious willingness. It appears there are no conscious arguments or convictions good enough, or even strong enough, when it comes to love, to force the sub-conscious into agreement. Surely even the Job in the Old Testament, who endured so much sorrow, must have consciously wanted to reject God, but his sub-conscious mind exerted its own authority and would not let him.

And so even young couples who contemplate marriage, carefully taking into account all practical considerations, and faithfully attending marriage counseling, are in fact jumping into a pre-arranged marriage, if the sub-conscious mind objects. You see long courtships are not just an old-fashioned notion. They are necessary for feelings of love to be honest exchanges rather than superficial notions.

So, isn’t it silly for preachers to compare heaven to hell to force a kind of pre-arranged union? To demand that we find redemption through a pre-determined subset? And, in the same way that it is unfair for me to judge the atheist, or the agnostic, isn’t it equally silly for these same, whose subconscious mind is not yet ready for God-love to scoff at religion as being nothing more than evidence of human weakness and a keen imagination?

In conclusion, I think there will always be those who make a pretense of religion and God-love, but if they are honest with themselves, it seems to me that regardless of how hot hell burns, if the sub-conscious mind does not give in to such a notion and provide unanimous agreement and support, loving God is not possible until the soul eventually whispers to the head – “this is truth and it is time”.

Love on Demand - Part IV

Finding an Answer

I am afraid. The minister says I must love God or be eternally damned. But I don’t know how to give love on demand. Physically, I can choose to do anything I want to do. I can completely ignore the authoritarian control of my subconscious mind. But not emotionally. So, the dilemma of turning love off or on, is the dilemma that I seek to resolve.

Then I remembered. I remembered stories told to me by a lady who lived just up the road and who immigrated to Canada shortly after she was married. Often she told me stories of the ‘old country’. And in these stories it became apparent to me that although outwardly she seemed no different than other neighbors, in her home, all was not well.

Her stories were so sad. Each time she spoke to me of her youth and her marriage, she wept with heartbreaking pain. And at the root of that pain was the story about how she had been so wrongly convinced by others that she could give love on demand.

And her dilemma seemed pretty much like my own. There was even the same interplay of redemption or destruction – only her choice was a different kind of heaven and hell. Her choice, if one can call it that, was to find security through a pre-arranged marriage (love on demand), or face a lifetime of loneliness as a forgotten spinster.

Unfortunately she thought she could give love on demand. And so she married and in her conscious mind she told herself she loved the man chosen for her. But her subconscious mind held fast in disagreement.

So that tells me I am right. The administrator of the sincerity of love is not the head. It is the heart. And because her heart could not be coerced into agreement, her soul remained in agony.

So without all the complexities I have written here, I still figured out, as a child, that it is not possible to give love on demand. And there would be no sensibility in me trying. So here I am, headed straight to hell, because I cannot love God or give him love on demand to save my wretched soul.

NEXT POST: The Conclusion of this story – Finding Sensibility

Love on Demand - Part II & III

Scare Tactics – Part II

Now initially I thought you had to be a person of excess to be a sinner. My mother extricated herself from sinners and all of those that she avoided lived lives of excess. Too much smoking, drinking, eating, womanizing, lazing around, or talking dirty.

So what had I to fear? I had no excesses. I was too woefully thin, too woefully shy, too woefully poor, too woefully frightened, to be excessive in anything. Too limited in every way to be a sinner. But now I’m sitting here in the front of the church with the graduated pews and the preacher has his beady little eyes focused straight on me and he is telling me I was born a sinner. Born a sinner? What the h…?

And if that wasn’t enough now he’s telling me that if I reject God, I may look around me and feel out of favor now, but it is going to get a whole lot worse. The bottom line is the only way I can expect to have blessing in this life, and escape from hell’s burning flames in the next, is to love God with all my heart and soul and mind.

Oh, but just hang on a minute here. I have a problem with that. I can say ‘I love God’ but if I don’t sincerely love him, that is the worst kind of lie. And I cannot give love on demand. I just cannot. I am not responsible for who I love. It is out of my control. And I absolutely cannot love someone because I am told I must – whether that someone be mortal or immortal, all powerful, or weak as a newborn kitten.

I have a subconscious mind and it forms commitments and purpose quite removed from what I wish or want or will. My subconscious mind made me love my parents without me choosing to, wishing to, or wanting to. So love is not an option that I can decide to choose or decline. It runs much deeper than that.

So it seems to me one can’t seek redemption through fear and still retain the fitness and propriety, some call it ‘grace’, that must accompany that conversion. Cause God is all-knowing. He knows more than what we tell him. So it goes without saying that he knows if we want him in our lives to simply curb our fears or because we truly love him.

So what to do? How to save myself? There is no sensibility in the minister demanding that I love God cause no matter how the preacher man has motivated my conscious mind with fear and panic, love controls reside in caves and tunnels buried much deeper than that.
________________

At the Root of the Fray – Part III

So you see the problem. Never in my lifetime, as a child, or even as an adult, has my subconscious mind allowed me to give love on demand. Even yet, I cannot affectionately accept notions because of social or political pressures.

And because this is true, though not generally examined or understood, there are those who say I am opinionated and close-minded. Some even may suggest that I am bigoted. But what my critics fail to understand is that allowances must be made for my subconscious mind – that little piece in my heart or head, I know not which, that houses my conscience, my soul, my love, and my spiritual convictions, over which I have no control.

And so, because of the conflict in my head with the other, there have always been popular social concepts that in no way affect me personally, but yet my subconscious mind refuses to accept them. And on the other hand, there have always been other abstractions that directly affect me, and even though in my conscious mind, I am theoretically convinced, my subconscious mind chooses to remain obstinate.

For example, I know global warming will eventually have dire effects but I can’t get my subconscious mind to accept that it is happening. Obviously, though many think otherwise, there is no straightforward correlation between the conscious and the subconscious mind.

So I sat in church that Sunday morning, wondering how to find a solution to an impossible dilemma. And then I did what kids always do. I searched within the context of my own limited knowledge for a solution. And surprise, surprise. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had some exposure to the validity or invalidity of the expectation that one can offer – love on demand.

NEXT POST – Finding an answer.

Love on Demand & Pre-Arranged Unions

Ruled by the Sub-Conscious Mind (Part I)

There was something rather unusual about the church I went to when I was a child. When new pews were installed, the front pew was small, but as you moved down the aisle the pews got larger and larger.

My mother told me how this happened. She told me that when the pews were built, the builder used the pattern of the first pew to cut a second and the pattern of a second to cut a third. He didn’t even notice what was happening until all the pews were built. And that is when he realized that each successive pew was bigger than the previous. And so, it only made sense to line them up in order. From smallest to largest.

But what I found most surprising about the graduating seat size was how the congregation reacted. Seat-size seemed to dictate to the subconscious mind of the congregation where they should sit.

I watched them each Sunday wandering down the aisle and sorting themselves according to their particular breadth and depth and length. I also watched the small lady and the large lady that were such good friends that they always sat together, debating at length over where they should sit without easy or quick compromise. And with the installation of the new pews, they no longer sat together.

It was evident that some people entered the church with a mind to sit in the front, but though this may have been their intent, their sub-conscious mind overruled, and without even thinking about it, they moved to the seat that offered, for them, the best fit and comfort.

I tell you this little story to offer just one weak example how subconscious thinking can alter a conscious choice.

NEXT POST: "Scare Tactics" - more serious situations arise that are over-ruled by the tremendous power and authority of the subconscious mind.
…to be continued…

A Fable of the Future

Once upon a time, far, far away, in the time of Post-Global Warming and Post-Political Correctness, an ancient woman could be seen staggering along the broiling pavement in insulated boots. Her head was protected from the harsh heat by a teflon scarf. Her body; by a robe of micro-fibre. Still the heat was unbearable and so she sought refuge in a nearby park. Here she slumped in the shade to rest, and as she sat there, a group of children approached.

They too were seeking shade. And so they seated themselves on the fringes of the small thicket of man-made turf and sculpted palms. The island of shade and refuge was so small it was impossible for the children to find space apart from the old woman. They just hoped the frightful old hag wouldn’t speak to them and would soon depart. But the old woman, though aware of their discomfort, wasn’t going anywhere and so she endeavored to put them at ease through a simple, yet intriguing introduction.

“Hello children,” the ancient woman said. “I am the wise old sage of Natural and Social History. Tell me, if you like, what you want to know and I will tell you how it was.”

A very tall youngster eventually said with an obvious sneer, “Tell me about Global Warming and why the grass and trees could not be saved.” Another said, “You must know how it was before God died.” And then, from some invisible spot a wee voice from the back of the little group said in almost a whisper, “If you please, could you tell me about the ‘L & S’ thing?”

The ancient woman looked about at the group and said, “The story about Global Warming is a long and depressing story. I could tell you about God but he is still alive and can tell you himself if you listen for his voice in your inner soul. So that leaves the L & S thing and I will tell you about that.

I can’t, of course, say the words. The words are disallowed. They are too coarse, too vulgar, for your genteel generation but still since time began, youngsters know and privately use vulgar words and probably most of you know what those words mean.” A few heads solemnly nodded.

Then, as she prepared to continue, a fidgety little fellow broke the silent anticipation of the group. “I said it once. Man, was I in trouble? My mom gave me time out for a week, my sister phoned the police, and Dad took away all my electronic toys and put up a satellite barricade so that I couldn’t talk, or text message, or watch television.”

“Do you want to tell us about it?” said the ancient woman.

The little fellow was more than happy to do so. “I got a new nose-pod to go with my eye-pod and ear-pod for my birthday but it wouldn’t work. I wanted so much to smell all the things of the Pre-Cosmic Burn Age – roses blooming, hay fields freshly cut, gentle rain, lavender fields, and most of all – fresh air!

But when I turned my nose-pod on, all I could smell was rotten eggs, sulfur gases, and shit frying in the sun. I was so angry and so disappointed that I flung the thing on the floor and stomped on it with my insulated boots and yelled, “Lick it! Spank it! Bloody Lickin’ …” here he quickly covered his mouth and mumbled, “I’m sorry. Please don’t tell anyone. I didn’t mean to say that,” and quickly sat down.

This brave admission increased the intimacy of the group and they huddled together closer as the Old Woman began her own story about the ‘L & S’ thing.

“I only can tell you this because I was there. I am a hundred and forty years old, thanks to the magic of stem-cell research,” she said. So I know, and know well, about the ‘L & S’ thing.

When I was a child,” she said, “every child was well acquainted with the ‘L & S’ thing. But at the same time, there was method to the madness. This is how it worked. It was similar to the ancient fairy tale about three wishes.

A mom would say to a child when he spit at his sister, 'I wish you wouldn’t spit at your sister anymore.' One wish gone. And, if he did so again, again his mother would say, 'I really wish you wouldn’t spit at your sister anymore.' Second wish gone.

And if he did, yet again, his mother would save, 'I wish I didn’t have to do this, but I do.' And she would give him a serious smacking on the bottom that he would not soon forget, and, as a result, all wishes done. But now, magically, wishes one and two, and of course wish number three, as well, came true. And that brought an end to it. He did not spit at his sister anymore.

I’m sorry if you’re disappointed. That doesn’t seem like much of a story, but that is it. That is all there is to tell.”

(Here Hub interrupted to say, “Now I suppose I will hear the horror story of the monsters the Old Woman created. Kids pummeling each other, hair pulling, blood flying.”)

But ‘No’. Here Tiny Tim, the somber-faced little fellow that had asked about the “L & S” thing smiled with pleasure. “That is such a good story,” he said.

“I wish things could be different. Other kids are so nasty to me. They push me, shove me, call me names. I hate school. I can’t wear my new backpack because they will steal it or hide it. I can’t take my pods to school because they will shell them or hide them. Sometimes I think they take my stuff because they are in the midst of ‘time out’ at home. So they take my stuff home and obediently go to their rooms where they stay all evening locked away but still carrying on with the same amusements they normally have – but now it’s with my stuff!

If things were how they used to be (big sigh), these kids’ parents would share with their kids their three wishes. They would tell them how they wish they wouldn’t treat me like that once, and then they would tell them how they wish they didn’t treat me like that twice. And then they would tell them how they wish they didn’t have to, but they must give them a damn good ‘L & S’!”

And once again, before he even realized it, he was again yelling loudly, “Oh Lick! Oh Spank! Wouldn’t that be Lickin’ Great!! Cause then I would love to go to school. I could expect to be treated fairly; the same as everyone else.

Truth is,” he continued, “if I had three wishes that could come true, I would wish for the smell of fresh air and gentle rain without a nose-pod, and a damn good ‘L & S’ for meanies!”

After one hundred and forty years, the old woman knew full well there will always be those indignant about her observations and those in hearty agreement. This morning she smiled with relief at the indignant ones – those too entrenched in social convention to find credence in anything an old woman might have to say. But the indignation of their gasps and sighs stirred slight ripples of air that mimicked a breeze in that arid land.

The others simply smiled with gentle pleasure at how things had been before the sun burned down like a black hole in the sky erasing every oasis with such ferocity and leaving inhabitants too parched to spit.

What are You Laughing At?

Has the world really become that somber? I mean, I’ve noticed it before. The glum faces in malls and on the street. Faces blank. Lips drawn into straight lines. No pleasant crinkles dotting the eyes.

Yesterday I was in a busy store waiting for Hub. A young mother parked her shopping cart with her little guy sitting in it next to me. The little fellow was about three years old.

I find such pleasure in the beauty of children. Looking at them makes me smile and kind of bubble up inside. Looking at this little fellow, I broke into a smile, as I always do. I don’t generally speak to children because a) if they are extremely shy, it could upset them, and b) many parents aren’t comfortable with strangers forcing an exchange. So I simply glanced at him and of course seeing him made me smile.

But he was obviously not a shy boy. He looked at me directly and promptly said, “What are you laughing at?”

Rather caught of guard, I responded. “I’m smiling,” I said, “because you are such a handsome little man.”

His mother overheard and told him to say “Thank You” for the complement.

“Thank you,” he said, routinely, and then in a very serious tone, “But why are you laughing?”

Obviously my smile perplexed him, and for this I was sorry. But at the same time his response equally perplexed me.


Hub was done by this time and we left the store with me wondering if the world has become so somber that children think smiling is some kind of odd, suspicious, behavior.

Now as one plunges through life to the frailty of old age, many joys are minimized. The joy of rich food – or hot and spicy. The joy of physical exertion – shopping, sports, or even holidays. The joy found in competitiveness, challenges, and busy days. All these joys plummet. But the joy in children never minimizes one iota no matter how feeble, senile, or forgetful, one may become. Children are joy and they always bring joy. On my most worrisome day, when I am in a total funk, I still laugh and feel such joy when I see the grandchildren coming up the walk.

But still this occasion left me wondering. Surely wee children are not being led to believe that smiling is linked to laughing. And laughing is linked to ridicule. And because smiling and ridicule go hand-in-hand, everyone must take constant and sober care not to smile.

A Democracy of Fables and Fantasy

As a Canadian, people often ask me why I watch American News Channels as much as I do. In response, I have to say that once upon a time Canadian News was an accurate reflection of Canadian determinations. But that is no longer the case. In the last few years, Canada has become a reflection of the U.S. and what little there is to impart logic, representation, and understanding of Canadian governance comes more accurately by viewing the rippled image in the pond of U.S. governance. And I guess that explains why, as a Canadian, I’m going to rant about American politics rather than affairs within my own country.

Now yesterday when I came to the kitchen for morning coffee, Hub was watching television. And what he was watching was George Bush expounding the grand merits of democracy and how, because Iraq is now a democracy, everything is so idyllic. Iraqis are in this grand place where they can choose who their next leader will be.

Now hold that thought while we randomly connect the dots. I have to tell you that I am under a staid impression that the president’s wife is fascinated by fairy tales. I can’t help but feel this way after characters of these tales were center-pieced as Christmas decorations for the White House a few years ago.

It seemed to me an odd choice. Even when it was explained the study was for emphasis on reading and literacy. Cause in my mind there are a limitless number of literary works that promote reading, understanding, and knowledge far more than make-belief. (But then maybe part of the purpose of that theme was to get Americans in gear for the fantasies of good and evil that could and would, like fairy tales, magically morph into reality.)

And what was more distressing in this choice was I thought that perhaps Laura’s fascination would lead her to do what I do with my favorite stories. I often read them aloud to Hub at bedtime.

I hope not, because hasn’t it been said, that ‘what you read, is what you are’? I think she has been reading them because truly that presidential speech about democracy that I found myself listening to yesterday morning sounded more like a fantasy tale than any revelation of real truth.

Now, without question, I have never heard such a grand exhortation of the wonders of democracy, and when I was right at the brink of trembling conviction, something untoward hit me. What I thought was that if right now, the speech was suspended for a quick game of “Democracy” on the White House Lawn with cheer-leaders in formation around the star player yelling a pre-game cheer…“Who do you want and why to you want him?”…what would happen? Would the boo’s be as loud as I think they would be?

And then when the ball was tossed out, and the game began, I am quite convinced that this pick-up-spontaneous-game of Democracy would end before the first inning. Because before that first inning was complete, the game would have such a margin of defeat, there would be little point in continuing. But Democracy doesn’t work that way.

People in a democracy can choose who they want but when they find the selection was disguised and not at all what it appeared to be, nothing can be done in response to a change of mind about the choice that they made. Even when they discover that the leader they chose is different than he used to be. There is no remedy. It has a similarity to Snow White too late discovering that the sweet old lady with the basket of delicious juicy red apples was really a witch in disguise, with a basket of death treats.

I think if the real intent of Democracy is to be upheld, it should be a game played more frequently than every four years. In fact, maybe it should be played at undetermined times, like an unplanned pick-up game on a green field or ice rink. Rather than pulled out of the attic at election time and then stashed, ignored, and allowed to collect dust until the next round.

In the meantime, all it does is provide a fixed resolve for a period of time where nothing can be amended and we are held captive in that dark dungeon, even long after we have discovered the apples are toxic. Democracy loses much sweetness when I think how in real life, democratically-elected leaders can be ‘booed’ but no matter how much they are booed they do what they want, how they want, cause they know full well they cannot be ‘booed’ off the field. That there is no need to remain in game-mode. That there are no ‘out of bounds’ penalties to worry about.

Now, all I’m telling you in this rant is what I was thinking. So now to go to some wildly disconnected dots as I continued to watch the speech about the beauty of democracy in Iraq while in my head I contemplate that other – the ugliness of democracy that we choose to ignore.

I only surf politics, I am a casual skimmer. Not big into that sort of thing. And the other thing I am not into is stock market investments. But having watched this speech which left me so close to conviction and then so utterly disgusted and unimpressed, I felt like doing something quite out of character for me. I felt like smashing my TV.

And then I thought, if I, as a casual bystander, who so pride myself on letting it all run off my back, have this sudden urge to smash my television, then right now at this very moment, it is time for me to buy stocks in television manufacturing. Because if I feel this way, those politically-minded people, in Canada and the U.S., and I know there are a goodly number, will be smashing televisions this morning at an unbelievable rate. And then they’ll all be scurrying downtown next week to buy another. I must buy shares in television manufacturing immediately. It couldn’t be a surer bet.

So I turned on my computer to look for a buying site and that’s when I realized something that totally crushed all my dreams of sudden wealth. The program I was listening too was on the Republican Channel!! I think you know which one I mean. The one with all that spin, enough spin to spin straw into gold.

Puzzled, or Paranoid?

I have other stories to tell, but in the meantime I have something else on my mind – Collapsed bridges, floods, and the uncanny draw that causes a driver to suddenly swerve off a dry, smooth road into a lake, dugout, river, or bog.

That latter bit happens so frequently, it hardly seems purely coincidental. I can’t help but wonder if there is an interplay, or some dynamic of water, tide, and planetary magnetism that we fail to understand that actually leads to these disasters. Something as puzzling as the forces that leash minds and play games with pilots in the Bermuda Triangle.

I am tired of newspapers and broadcasters telling me that someone died in a pond or body of water because they were trapped in a vehicle. I want to know more. I want to know why they were trapped.

Obviously with water pressure, it is well know that opening a door is pretty much impossible. So that leaves only one other method of escape—through the windows. So my question is ‘Do power windows still function when a vehicle is underwater?’ It concerns me.

I can’t help but think, with such extensive flooding, with the compromised quality of so many bridges, with the inability of mankind to understood the curious dynamics of the roadside-wetland-draw, that this is a question that needs to be debated.

Surely if a vehicle plunges into water, roll-down windows would be more dependable…or would they?

Writing...Right

It is so often said that writing is a lonely business, and I truly believe that. When I am feeling isolated, it seems as if words tumble unassisted out of my ‘Word Scrumble Bag’ into a sterling and meticulous arrangement. And with seemingly nothing more than a gentle tap on the ‘enter key’, the words are set in motion and ripple across the page like the smooth tide of dominoes tumbling against each other in measured sequence.

But at the moment, without that isolation, the garbage can in every room is full of feeble attempts that I have been forced to scrap. You may be thinking, “What the hell? You could have published those on your blog. There must have been something in that mess, some small tidbits worth digesting?”

But…No, that is not true. There is nothing there except reams of paper with 350 words per page that hold less fascination than smears on toilet tissue.

I mean, let’s face it. You know me well enough that if there was even a remote likelihood that something I had written might provoke thought, I would have salvaged it. Or, if any of it had done the other things I expect writing to do, I would have retrieved those bits as well.

But I seek a level of compliance. What my writing must first do is touch my own heart, mind, or soul, in some undeniable way. And then, in order for it to be passed on to you it must do more. It must be seductive, grounded, and objective. I know it seldom is, but that in no way alters my conviction of what it should be. I want it to pinch or cradle your heart. I want it to uplift or plunge your soul. I want it to enliven your mental state or calm your spirit. And barring all that, I want it, at the very least, to make you cry or smile. A tall order – but that is my conviction.

It is all so easy, when I am feeling solitary and alone cause that is when writers can really write the way they want to write.

Now the dictionary wrongly leads us to think that loneliness is all about the absence of other people. Big, bad error.

‘Loneliness’ is not the result of being in a solitary place, with no one around. The most extreme and austere feeling of loneliness more often occur in the midst of a mob. In crowded airports or busy shopping malls. I was never so lonely as when I lived in the city in a large apartment building. So, you see, it is not a solitary existence that causes loneliness. What causes loneliness for me, and I expect for most people, is the perception that no one in the crush around me, personally cares about me.

And so that brings me back to the difficulty I am currently having with writing blogs. I can lock myself in the bedroom or even take my laptop to the furnace room but I still have difficulty writing. It is because Hub is here, and in an exceptionally good mood which he has been in for weeks now. And in the midst of his good mood, through ESP, he is transferring to me a ‘caring aura’ that makes it quite impossible for me to feel isolated enough to write.

But I want to write, need to write, and since I cannot write in this climate of acceptance, love, and belonging, today I am determined it is going to end.

Now other people, in a similar position, who take their writing far too seriously, might want to piss in Hub’s cornflakes. Relax, I’m not going to do anything that extreme. Although, I am thinking about how disgusted he would be to find warm milk on his cold cereal. I’m also thinking of shrinking his favorite sweater, waking him up from his nap to talk to a pre-taped solicitor-conversation on the telephone, or putting margarine in the dish designated for butter. Not anything really nasty but still strategies that might work.

Silly, relatively harmless stuff that will make Hub cranky and impatient, and as a result of this impatience, I, being naturally insecure, will begin to doubt that he cares about me. And as soon as that doubt grips my thoughts, loneliness will be hard on its heels, and then I will go to my laptop and just write happily and unencumbered.

I mean obviously, if you love to write, and want to write, the way I do, sacrifices have to be made and drastic measures taken. Right now I am making a nice cup of tea for Hub with lukewarm water.

So chins up, out there in Cyberland, don’t blink. Cause if you do you’ll miss all those thought-provoking blogs that are going to come blasting in rapid succession into this space in the next few days.

Objections to a Second Round

Sometimes I question whether life in the hereafter will be a paradise in heaven or a reincarnation that will replant me on this earth for another round as a newborn. I hope it isn’t reincarnation as a newborn, cause I find no appeal in that thinking. And I’ll tell you why.

Too much change. All I can think is that first of all I will be confined for far too much time in solitary confinement in a darkened nursery. Without even the benefit of leaf shadows trapped in a beam on sunlight on the wall to dance for my amusement. Room must be dark. I don’t know why, but it just must be.

And if I scream in protest against this blank environment, without sensory perception and the sweet smell of she who conceived me, with dry pants, and a recent feeding, I’ll be left to scream. No one will ken to my cries between scheduled maintenance. That would throw painfully-held-to routines off schedule. No, it is time for me to ‘go down’ and ‘go down’ I must.

And I’ll get no small firm pillow like I did the last round. And instead of soothing warm sweet milk that I got the first round, I’ll probably get a room- temp bottle with cool gawd-awful gross-tasting formula.

And if I do get a blanket, which is unlikely, as blankets in cribs are no longer recommended, it will not be a lovely breathable fluffy cotton one. Instead it will be some kind of downy soft but yet so miserable acrylic or micro-fibre similar to a plastic bag covering – freezing cold in winter, a humidity trap in summer.

And I will definitely not get those blessed times when I was placed on a soaker pad in the raw and the skin on my little bum allowed to drink in sunlight for a few moments – a brief time of freedom to bath in unadulterated exposure to cool atmospheric breath. I shudder to think that in the next round I will be solidly and consistently wrapped in a stretch-wrap diaper contaminated by plastic or man-made materials and hermetically sealed against the escape of contents from the inside and the injection of air from the outside.

I fear too, if given a second round, I’ll not be swaddled firmly and tightly. I found that so comforting the first time round because it so closely replicated the close, warm, and snugly place I was in for nine long months. Instead I’ll be dressed in nothing more than the stretch-wrap I have already referred to with all my limbs flailing and my head flopping and my little soul so anxious and traumatized without the snug all-encompassing body-wrap security I had grown so acclimatized to while in the womb.

And when traveling, I’ll be put in a car seat and compelled to stay in that thing folded up in an unnatural position feeling no less comfortable than when I tried to sleep in a bean-bag-chair when I was seventeen years old, the first time round, and five foot seven. The car seat wouldn’t be so bad if my head was not unnaturally forced up completely out of alignment with my spine.

The first time round, yeh, agreed, I traveled in vehicles on my mom’s lap which was so not good. But my road trips were very few. For the most part, I traveled safely on hips magically spread during birthing for that very purpose. To provide a hip-saddle for me to straddle. First time around that was my transport. My mother did all she needed to do throughout her busy days with me riding on her hip, one hand around my waist, while I burped up gas readily and eyed from my perch the floor for the most part and occasionally the path ahead. My father used to say, “Woman, don’t you think that child is uncomfortable slung over one arm like a sack of potatoes?”

But my mother knew. She knew how much I loved to perch there despite the sudden pitching and jolting and yawing that came with her picking up things from the floor, reaching high into cupboards, and making beds. I was there for the ride and you can have your Drop of Dome, or Roller-Coaster thrills, cause my thrills were in this accommodating place. And the sudden pitches often left me giggling like any ride at an Amusement Park.

And if reincarnated, I just know I wouldn’t be allowed to gum up buttery toast long before I show promise of a first tooth. No longer allowed to practice the wondrous art of chewing on an almost, but not fully, stripped, turkey drumstick at Christmas or a juicy, but still warm and buttery, bare cob of garden corn. But going back to the toast, I have to be conciliatory about that criticism because God knows commercial bread does not hold together like home-made bread. Even yet, with my false teeth, as soon as I take a bite it clums to the top of my mouth and sticks there like glue. No, you’re absolutely right. One can’t be giving a young babe that stuff to sage the desire they may have to work toothless gums.

But worst of all, I guess, are the plastic chairs. The car-chairs, the lounge chairs. I know if I had a second round I would end up in a plastic lounge chair on the floor in some kitchen in the middle of the winter where the temperature at the floor is ten degrees colder than room temperature (despite sophisticated central heating) but no one would be aware of that except me. Me with my tiny back against shockingly cold plastic augmented by what is foolishly expected to insulate. Can anyone adequately personify how I feel with that acrylic, man-made fiber, or plastic-based fleece that just grabs the cold and fires it into my back and kidneys like a cannon?

If I am to return for another round, I want lounge chairs and car seats padded with wool or cotton or down – even straw would be a better insulator against cold and heat than all those layers of synthetic resins.

And always, and always, to lie on my back. To vomit while on my back. Yuck. I admit, I can’t dispute that it is dangerous to lie a baby in a crib on their stomach or side, because I am no scientist. But the first time around I lived in nest that moved from room to room as my mother moved from room to room. I laid on my stomach or side with a monitor imaging, not only me, but my rate of breathing, the regularity of chest movements, body temperature, posture, and stomach gurglings. A monitor that was more efficient than an electronic device with its beepers and instant digital screen-imaging. My mother monitored me by hovering over my bed like a guardian angel when I wasn’t on her hip bouncing through the day.

And though I may wail, I probably still wouldn’t get a soother. And of course, under no circumstances would I be allowed to alternately soothe my frazzled nerves with my thumb. Cause babies get crooked mouths by sucking thumbs, and soothers. Besides, both are so grossly non-hygienic.

And of course I would not be allowed to partake of vegetables and meat pureed into a smooth warm satisfying elixir until I had completed my probationary sentence of 5 months, 9 months, or whatever my mother’s all-wise Baby Doctor (without children) insisted upon. No thanks, I don’t want to deal with that either. That’s far too much harsh controlled behavior for me to be me.

And since the latest research indicates that colds are caused from exposure to others with colds rather than winds or chilly temps, there is little understanding that a tiny body needs so much more warmth than a big body. And little note taken of the relationship between colds and chilly floors, plastic wrap, brisk winds, and a tiny body.

So no, I don’t want a reincarnation with another run. Not with these kinds of inconveniences and miserable discomforts to deal with.

But was all as grand the first round, as I claim it to be? Maybe not, cause that first round included corporal discipline. The sting of a wooden spoon smartly applied to my bottom when I reached the age of understanding. But you know what? With that kind of self-sacrifice and complete attentive devotion, there was no risk of psychological damage. I was held too long and too close to the breast for me to ever doubt my mother’s love.

So I guess there is something more to be said about discipline. If you take away a child’s blanket, trap them in plastic, feed them cool milk or insufficient sustenance despite their quest for more; and if you ban a soother or a thumb, and regularly isolate them from the body scents that wrap them in security, you best not be slapping them on the bottom with anything. Obviously psychological damage is right there knocking at the door before they have even reached the age of understanding.

I sometimes wonder if all this interchange of cold and separation does not cause the chilled spirits, frigid souls, and unfeeling connections that young people of today possess that so distresses parents. Maybe we are completely off track when we assume it is the result of exposure to violence on TV and the sterility of gizmo-facilitated relationships.

Rushing to Paradise

On Thursday I did something I haven’t done for years and years. Hub and I, and ED (eldest daughter) spent the afternoon on a large secluded property where we picnicked and walked the dogs. And after lunch on a quick hike ED and I picked what we could of blueberries calling out to us as we threaded our way down crude horse trails.

Hub, of course, picked no berries for the pail. He has a problem, always has, always will, that when he gets a handful of berries, his elbow bends and his mouth flies open. ED tried to trick him by slipping our pail as close as possible to him and saying, “you’re going to drop those soon if you don’t empty your hand,” but all to no avail. Again the elbow would bend as if to drop them in the pail and then of course the mouth would fly open and that would be the end of that.

But I digress. What I wanted to tell you is that when I got home and cleaned my meager three cups of wild berries Hub wanted them fresh with ice cream. But I couldn’t do it. Something was pushing me to do jam. Silly thought with so few berries. But I had four apples in the fridge so I peeled and diced them to make more fruit. And a while later I had two small jars and a desert dish of fresh jam. When it cooled I buttered some fresh home-made bread, made a cup of tea, and slathered my jam on that bread.

Now this is where words fail me. How can I begin to describe the pleasure of sinking teeth and lips into that jam? I fought brutally against that first overwhelming desire to cram it all in one great gigantic wad into my mouth. I must savor it all – take it little by little.

I sniffed the delicate aroma. So soft and sweet and barely discernible. The color – as beautiful as sapphires blended with navy skies. A sparkling blue that has yet to be duplicated in a world with 11,070,014 colors and 854 shades of blue and 4 falsely labeled ‘blueberry’ blue.

I took a bite and pressed it against the top of my mouth allowing it to fornicate with my tastebuds in that small dark space. I moved it to the back of my throat and succumbed to its caress. With no will of mind involved, it stroked my mind, my throat, my tongue, my heart, and pressed delicately through every vein. My life flashed before me. Childhood, games, hikes, special moments, a dear Mother, and all blessings that followed me, descended on me, visited me, and harbored me.

But then when I swallowed it, something quite unexpected happened. I felt it working, resolving that business of the food anxiety I’ve had for far too long. That rotating and disturbing thought of need and want. Of standing confused and undecided in front of a fridge door that offers nothing that appeals to me. Chronic hunger without knowing what I crave. Eternal longing for something nameless. But with that first swallow of wild blueberry jam, I knew immediately this is what I longed for, this is what I craved. This was the emptiness within.

It felt so good, feeling it doing its work of tenderness and benevolence. Blowing new life into healthy cells and crushing malicious ones. Rushing at a mad frictionless-pace through every physical and emotional atom of my body and renewing it. Redemptive deliverance.

Oh God – give me more!

Making a House a Home

Okay. So this morning Hub and I began recycling this same conversation that keeps coming up so frequently in the last few weeks. Hub is searching for a way to find motivation in his retirement; an environment where all has changed and all is different.

There are no longer defined tasks. There are no promotions, no monetary rewards, and often no verbal accolades. So, in his attempts to come to grips with a lifetime of working as a Big Boss in the workplace, every once in a while he sinks into the muck of ‘why do I groom my lawn if it is only for sporadic visitors and a few close neighbors?’

And it’s a good point. With retirement we are suddenly out of our element. We have moved beyond the corporate world of competition and tangible rewards. And that sudden jerk in our reality has left us bereft of the purpose, meaning, and motivation that life once had.

So in desperation, and I do believe this IS desperation, he looks at the lawn and says to me, “If one of my old girlfriends happened to stop by, I could not let her see my lawn looking like this!”…and then away he goes to groom the yard.

I laugh, but finally this morning, I said. “That ‘old girlfriend’ thing you so often use for motivation has me stymied. So first I have to ask, When are you expecting her to come?”

He laughs and says, “That’s just the problem, I don’t know.”

I laugh too. And secondly I say, “I have to ask, if you go into a really clean spotless house or a well manicured yard, do you think more of those who live there?”

He was totally honest. “No,” he said. “I don’t. But I definitely think a whole lot less of those who don’t make an effort.”

That was a response agreeable to me. So that settles the yard issue, so I already knew where we would be going next – to the house discussion. And I was right. I’ve got pretty good intuition after all the years I’ve spent with this man. But its not all old hat, because usually with the expected comes some kind of new surprise. The surprise was I found his comments on the house agreeable as well.

“I like a clean house,” he said. “But I like it to reflect that it is lived in, that it is a comfortable home. Like my Mom’s always was. Neat and tidy, but homey with that bit of knitting by her chair, recipe magazines near at hand, and some extra cake in the pan on the counter.”

So there you have it – free advice from the Expert…on how to find motivation to groom the lawn and how to make a house a home.

So in conclusion, I guess I won’t be dusting or vacuuming today. I just realized there are cookies on the counter but there is no knitting by the chair.

Silk Reflections

I wonder if the spider, with the new awesome web I saw in the garden this morning, is like me when I am sewing. I’m wondering if he’s back in his special hiding place under that curled leaf, examining his web and thinking “Oh drat, look at that. I have a hitch, a bloody mistake, on that far corner. And what’s more it’s too late, I’ve gone too far. I can’t fix it now.”

And so he continues on, but he’s so painfully aware of the flaw in his existence, the misappropriated thread—an irksome thing that digs deep into his mind.

But still, what’s done is done and he must go on living with the realization he could have done better. It can’t be remedied now cause he knows full well that the much-depleted bolt of silk remaining in his pocket-pouch is only enough to shrink-wrap the sustenance he will need to survive. And that one ligature involves a thread that is too essential to structural integrity to remedy with a patch or a bit of darning. And furthermore, if he could patch it, would it then become a web of deceit?

And so he doesn’t have the luxury of starting over with lessons learned and expert application of that learning.

And Toothpaste Matters?

Oh, aren’t we in such a state over countries that would copy the packaging of our toothpaste and then import it here with unsafe ingredients? And so distressed about designer purses, gizmos, and food stuffs from outside sources that look like, but are not, authentically what they claim to be. This kind of wicked mimicry is such a mortal sin that we scream for politicians to do something and now we’re reading labels judiciously and looking real hard for spelling mistakes or manufacturing sources to see if we have the real thing? What’s with that? Why are we surprised? Seems like, we’re all in this together?

Let’s start with the small stuff. Dry chicken soup or bouillon cubes. Did that stuff ever see a chicken? My mother used to say, “They grind up chemicals into a powder, then wave a chicken over it, chanting ‘chicken, chicken, who’s got the chicken?’ and with that magic act, it becomes authentically something derived from chicken. Can that be denied, when Marcel who works at the manufacturing plant is asked “what do you do?”

And she readily replies, “Each and every day, I bring in THE chicken –through the front door and out the back.”

And beans and bacon in the can? What is that speck of white on top? That’s not bacon. That is simply a scrap of some gluttonous discarded thing. And some sludge bottom-feeder fish is dressed out prettily in firm white strips with pink highlights and sold as crab meat. And does a fast-food hamburger taste like a real hamburger? Not.

But no one can deny that this is what we want. Don’t we clamor for faux fur, faux leather, and faux meat? And fake breasts, fake eyelashes, and fake lips.

Returning to the food fakery, I think the whole mimicry thing is exploding beyond reason when even vegetable protein is fraudulently disguised, and this disguise so welcomed. Manipulated in sacrilegious ways to mimic hot dogs, hamburgers, sausages, etc? What’s with that? If you don’t like it, don’t want to eat it, shun it, then why yell with delight over this kind of mimicry?

But it goes deeper than that? Our leaders make speeches all the time that pose as their own heartfelt passions and convictions, but who wrote them? Not them. So no wonder when their words come back to haunt them, they insist, “I didn’t say that.”

Which in truth, they didn’t. It was just a mimicked utterance from the lips of another with an understanding so diverse from their own, that they don’t even get it.

And certainly, when it comes to one of the best and most basic gratuities of our existence -- I’m talking sex now, since it’s also part of the fraud – sure, the righteous-minded rant against paper, film, and video displays of sexual matters. But I don’t hear anyone yelling, “Fraud!” because the mimicry is such a bad copy that manifests brutality and cruelty rather than what should rightfully manifest the delicacy of lace and the sweetest of heart-felt emotions.

A few are calling out “exploitation of women” but even that is not the case. Whether “exploit” is used as a noun, meaning “a masterpiece or work of genius” or a verb meaning ‘to take clever advantage of a situation’, this kind of stuff is far more fraudulent mimicry than exploitation could ever be.

Shakespeare and Chaucer were close, in the hot zone, when it comes to the authenticity of sex and the integral connection with true romance. I guess the biggest reason I shudder at sex-education of children is because I assume, and quite safely I expect, there is no real attempt to convey the real essence and meaning of the act. No Shakespeare or Chaucer element. Which means the instruction is similar to explaining the workings of a windmill without taking into account the force and necessity of the wind.

But in my heart, hope springs eternal. And with that hope, if, and when, sexually-explicit materials find the path to genuine authenticity, I am positive-certain that with that new cultural mindset, “Gone With The Wind” will have another round of even greater popularity than previously. We might even end up re-examining remakes of the romantic liaisons of Captain Kirk of "Star Trek". And children in Sex-Ed classes will weep with wonder at a story not yet told, rather than react with hysterical laughter at details fraudulently disguised as nothing more than fascinating physical maneuverings.

Makes me wonder why toothpaste even matters.

LIVING THE SIMPLE LIFE

Since I retired it seems like everyone who visits me leaves emotional problems at my door. I don’t want them but I still get them. It’s true that with less physical participation in the world around me, reflection is my prime occupation. So with this being my current thought agenda, of course that is what visitors, in all graciousness, are going to discuss with me.

Certainly, we could discuss more practical things, but as a retiree, no longer propelled by the forces associated with rung-climbing, financial gains, or glowing acknowledgments of progress made, I’m not exactly in the loop. And furthermore, it seems to me, that I am suddenly finding that an age gap of a meager 10 years readily explodes into a gap of gigantic proportion when I engage with my juniors in conversations that focus on the dynamics of competing in the work-a-day world. I guess the forces that used to push me to play at politics by subduing my real spirit, or applying the right spin, or speaking with wary reservation, have fallen into disuse, and thus pretty much caved to my failing memory.

But in discussing emotional problems with others, I have discovered something surprising. There was, and never will be, a generational gap in the basic needs of the human soul for love, hope, happiness, and courage no matter how successful or famous we may become. These needs remain for all time, and for all people, as fundamental as our physical need for food, shelter, and clothing.

Ultimately the basic essentials of life, whether physical or emotional, never change even in a world strained by shifting tides, seasonal changes, and weather that coddles one area while badgering another. A world, where almost daily, our surroundings are altered in unexpected and spectacular ways. Where issues of tolerance stagger far past or fall well short of the equity mark. Where environmental concerns raise us to a panic level. Where moral conflicts drive us to utter distraction. Makes one long for a simpler life, doesn’t it?

And so, it seems to me, if we can return to a simple emotional life in the way so many people long to return to ‘the simple (physical) life’, everything will become mighty fine. Simplifying might allow us to find soul space outside of the rushing tide of greed, competitiveness, and pack-thinking about money, success, notoriety, self-fulfillment, and self-enhancement. And in that new freed-up space something else can take root and thrive – something soft and gentle and comforting.

I’m thinking maybe peace and solid appreciation for each new day. Like the consequences of industrial effluent on the climate, too much emotional effluent creates a sea of toxins in the soul. A massive thing called corruption.

Yes, our physical environment needs protection, but so does our emotional environment.

Where is the Aspic?

Today’s blistering heat has me thinking about salads. But unfortunately, the lettuce in the garden is dismal. Most of it didn’t even come up. And so, without lettuce, and my determination not to make the dreaded trip to town, I’m going to have to be creative.

Still, even without lettuce, I’m thinking salad. Maybe carrot salad. Haven’t made that for a long time. The kids loved it when they were young. Grated fresh carrots with a few raisins, some salt and pepper, and mayonnaise dressing. Yum. I could make that.

And then jelly salads come to mind. It’s been even longer since I made a vegetable jelly salad. Jelly fruit salads, I make often, but I have almost completely forgotten about the other – vegetable jelly salads.

Oh, at one time they were all the rage. Every community potluck supper had scores of vegetable jelly salads. They were cool, colorful, and as delightful on a hot day as a big juicy slice of watermelon. I still remember though, how the men complained at community picnics that there should be more meat and gravy and less jelly salads. But, to women, they were art. Creations and blends of color and texture cool to the taste and wondrous to the eye.

Meanwhile the men mocked those who ate them. And looked with utter disdain at the long line up of jelly salads winking at them with knowing eyes from their sparkling beds of cool smooth flesh with the semi-solid resilience of firm breasts. I swear when the men walked by those jellies even quivered a bit just to tease.

As I reminisce about those days, I remember one jelly salad that was ever popular. It resembled solidified regurgitation. Tasty, but visually an unattractive concoction of lime jello, cottage cheese, mini-marshmallows and walnuts and maybe some other things. Can’t know cause I never made one but if you shut your eyes and didn’t think about how it looked, it was exquisite.

As for Hub, he wanted none of it, with one exception. He couldn’t get enough of the tomato aspic laced or mounded with cooked shrimp and kicked up a notch with fresh green pepper. The rest of the men refused to touch the aspic. They scoffed and said they didn’t want anything that probably should be eaten with ‘an ass pick’ instead of a fork.

But ass-picks or not, I made shrimp-tomato-aspic frequently and a host of other vegetable jelly salads starting with a base of lemon, orange, or lime jello with a tablespoon of vinegar and some salt stirred in. Then the combinations one could add were only limited by one’s imagination. Grated cabbage and carrot, diced apple or green pepper, salmon flakes, chicken bits, tiny onions, finely cut radishes, cucumber, peas, beans, even corn, shrimp or olives. And crowning complementary fruit bits such as fresh apple, orange segments, or tart cranberries.

Today I’m thinking that it is hot enough I wouldn’t mind a taster’s choice of jelly salads to choose from. And also I can’t help wondering what happened that made vegetable jelly salads fall into such disfavor. Maybe it was because the kitchen was becoming too cluttered with cupboards overflowing with Tupperware and jelly molds of every size, shape, and description. I can’t believe it was solely because of the ambiguous connotation of ‘aspic’.

So shall we have a vegetable jelly salad today? Grated carrot and apple or would you prefer an aspic?