It’s rare that I feel the need to check the weather before leading my practice group into savasana, but tonight I did. Knowing how long it would take the last person to get home, I checked again as everyone gathered their things. There was just enough time if we did not tarry.
After sitting for meditation and writing in my journal this morning, I went out in the garden in my slippers to see what opened after yesterday’s juicy rains. My journal-writing is feeling lonely because that was one of the times Becky (and Henrietta before her) and I always sat together. Once I was in the garden, though, my heart lightened. The beans and snow peas I planted a couple of weeks ago finally have started germinating. Some of the seedlings I planted on Saturday have already doubled in size. There are a few buds on the peppers that were not there Sunday and twice as many leaves on the basil. The clematis seems to be a foot taller; is that possible? (The okra still has not germinated; will it ever appear? I do not know, not having tried okra from seed in a container in my yard before.)
Though, as my sister said to me on Sunday, I will always miss Becky and Henrietta, I appreciate that my grieving is in the time of renewal, new life, and expanding light, and that I can spend the morning time that I used to devote to Becky and Henrietta nurturing the garden and myself in the process.
When I was going through airport security today in San Francisco on my way to Los Angeles, the security guard made me stop. She patted my hair all around my neck and then let me go. I had read an article a few weeks ago (probably in the New York Times), written by an African-American woman complaining of the hair pat-down. The author said that though she knew many woman of color who had experienced it, she knew of no white women, no matter how curly their hair. When it happened, I thought, “well, I’m a white woman who has been given the hair pat-down.”
When my blonde friend, whose hair is thick and curly, met me at the gate, I asked if they had patted her hair. It was not a surprise the answer was “no.”. My wild and frizzy, dark, ethnically jewish hair is still scarier to this society than pretty blonde, northern european tresses.
Peace and light, E — Posted with WordPress for BlackBerry.
I found a couple of plants shivering on the sidewalk last week. They seem to be recovering nicely. I divided several plants over the holiday period, and repotted others. I find the plants help me stay inside.
I witnessed and contemplated, as we drove though NY State and Pennsylvania the differences and similarities of strangers to whom I am bound by us both having given consent to the same social contract of governance.
Peace and light, E — Posted with WordPress for BlackBerry.
Last Monday I had the honor and delight to be invited to a multigenerational dinner of homemade dumplings at a neighbor’s house.
I was told it was customary for guests to shape a share of the dumplings; the hosts do everything else. As I have not grown up making dumplings as part of group family activity, that meant I needed first to be shown what to do with the already made dough and filling.
Skills used to make homemade noodles, tortillas, and pizza helped make dumpling shaping an accessible activity. It was tricky at first. Two people were showing me two different ways, which was somewhat confusing in an enjoyable way, and helped emphasize that for friendly dumpling making, ultimately, everyone needs to find their own method that works for them. Also, as with many hand skills, because it was the first first time I was being shown, I was simultaneously transposing it from right to left-handed.
It only took two tries to get a dumpling that wouldn’t explode in the pot and lose its filling. It took several more to make one that had nice pleats and blended in with the rest.
We had an interesting discussion about the difference between learning by eating several variations and then reading several recipes and then trying to replicate a version that resembled what I had eaten prepared by someone who learned from childhood as part of a multigenerational group process.
I have long contemplated, and continue to do so, how my comfort in learning anything from a book and then seeing if I can do it or something like it, has shaped my meditation and movement practices.
It’s pretty easy to see which dumplings I made. No difference in taste. I was also happy to contribute garlic chives from the garden.
