Sacred Rest

Mar13

I did another ancestral puzzle last week, Bookstalls on the Seine, from 1931. Almost a hundred years have faded the subtle shades of green and the ecru background, and dozens of fingers have rubbed the wood soft and left their stain.

There’s no picture on the cover of the tattered box. I tried to start with the edges but found the bridge railing easiest to decipher, and then the buildings with their perspective, the windows’ sizes and shading. Mixed in there a few of the people came together.

There was a poignant contrast between the gentlefolk on the street, and the huddled figure on the step. Though assembling the puzzle was a rest of sorts, my mind certainly buzzed the whole time with comparisons of the world and humanity between a century ago and now.

Despite only having 325 pieces (not a one lost in a century!) it took about five days to complete, partly because it was so hard and partly because it wasn’t as compelling as a colorful Liberty puzzle. But it offered its own unique muted pleasure which suited my mood.

I’d forgotten the 5 Calls app for awhile, relying on other sources to decide what to say to my reps when I call, and I’d dropped calls down to about once a week to each of them after finding myself unable to leave a civil message. But I started using 5 Calls again, and really it makes it so easy, and by setting a mindful intention to stay calm and stick generally to the given script, I’ve kept my temper in check and added to the congressional tally of discontented voters on numerous issues through the days.

On Tuesday I met with my Grateful Gathering group to discuss the importance of sacred rest. From time to time throughout the day, or once a day or once a week, a secular Sabbath or a spiritual one; or a longer rest, a residential retreat, a backpacking trip. How restorative it is to make time to unplug, step outside the usual routine of a busy life, step back in time to pre-super computer in your pocket days, not even a hundred years ago, for me just twenty. It was inspiring. I realized it had been too long since I’d walked to the canyon, between the mud, snow, wind, work, the distraction of pain and absorption in obligations and external events.

So I did that on Wednesday. I walked slowly, picked my way along the trail pausing many times, looking around, breathing, inhaling the still peace of the forest. I recalled my relationship with the trees, the ease with which I walked here thirty years ago, a big dog at my side or far ahead. Some years two dogs or three, two or three cats as well, and no phone in my pocket. A complete rest, of sorts, absorption in the forest.

During this time burdened by worldly ills and evils, on a day that I felt I’m not doing enough, I came to the edge of this canyon and I recalled, I’ve saved this land from subdivision, this forest from being recklessly cut, cleared for fields or harvested for firewood or artful tabletops or lamp stands… I saved this land because of its inherent right to exist as it is, a living system just like me, only bigger, and infinitely more complex. An organism in itself and a host to multitudes. A small wild patch in an ever-diminishing patchwork of wild land. Neighbors perpetually cutting trees, shooting wild animals for trophy or food or sport or nuisance. I did something good, and I reminded myself that I try to do good every day. And that’s enough.

After the morning’s sacred rest walking the woods I felt reconnected enough with my true nature to make the drive to town a pleasure, and to delight in a visit with my doctor. Leaving, I saw a dear friend in the waiting room, she and I the only people masked in the whole building. I don’t know if I was more surprised to see her, or to see a little dog follow another woman in and automatically take his place under her seat. The drive home through the gorgeous spring afternoon felt light, and back in the yarden I sat with my little dog who exhausted herself with her frenzied greeting and then lay down to rest in the warm grass.

Motivations

Mar3
Finally finished my hat! heehee… and had leftover yarn so have knitted a few red hat resistance badges for friends who live in warmer climes.

Many days the one thing that motivates me to get out of bed in the morning is the thought that I get to drink a homemade latté. The latté is a fairly recent twist but ever since 9/11 the promise of coffee has been the prime mover in getting me up, and some days it’s the only inspiration I can muster to face the day. I don’t think I’m alone in this; I do think it’s a symptom of a huge societal problem.

On 9/11 I was visiting my parents who lived near the Pentagon. I could die here, I thought when the Pentagon was struck, without my dogs, away from home, away from all that I love…This is the beginning of World War III. I wasn’t wrong about that, it’s just been a slow burn, a ‘forever war.’

Wren and I spent some time in the garden the past few days spring cleaning, and found her a treasure.

War news has been the backdrop to my whole life. To your whole life. I grew up in the sixties watching the Vietnam War on TV during dinner. It ended. Then there was another war. And then more wars, though eventually the government learned to censor photos and video of US casualties and coffins returning home, since those unsettled Americans.

We planted a bunch of old seeds to see what comes up and what might survive whatever weather comes our way in the next six weeks before true planting season begins.

And here we are again. It makes me sick; and, it reinforces the message of the Walk for Peace: Peace begins inside each one of us. Pema Chodron says that War also begins inside each one of us, in a book she wrote twenty years ago:

“War and peace begin in the hearts of individuals,” declares Pema Chödrön at the opening of her inspiring and accessible new book. In Practicing Peace in Times of War she draws on Buddhist teachings to explore the origins of aggression and war, explaining that they lie nowhere but within our own hearts and minds. She goes on to explain that, remarkably, the way in which we as individuals respond to challenges in our everyday lives can mean the difference between perpetuating a culture of violence or creating a new culture of compassion.

With war and violence flaring all over the world, from Iraq to Darfur to London, most of us are left feeling utterly helpless. In this audiobook Pema Chödrön insists that our world will begin to change when each of us, one by one, begins to work for peace at the level of our own behavior, our own habits of thought and action. It’s never too late, she tells us, to look within and discover a new way of living.

From Shambala Publications description of Practicing Peace in Times of War.

We started unfurling hoses and laying out some soakers like this one around the little cherry tree. Wren investigates the bug bath.

It’s ingenuous to ask why it doesn’t change, why is there always war, when will we ever learn? I practice and meditate and inquire and investigate all day long every day, and I still experience anger or despair frequently.

I’m also simultaneously grateful for living off the grid and far from the madding crowd. On our walk the other day we spied some good tracks in the mud. I can’t tell if they are from a coyote or a domestic dog. They’re smaller and rounder than the usual culprits’ tracks, the big white dogs up the road who roam freely. Getting outside more again on these warming days, walking among trees, getting my hands in the dirt, grounds me in what is good and true. I find peace in Nature.

But it’s been a constant struggle to cultivate inner peace when for months I couldn’t separate who I am from the nonstop pain and festering resentment of the dentastrophe. Only in the past month has the constancy abated enough to allow moments of awareness free of mouth pain. Then I got a second opinion last week. My perceptions that the bite is wrong were validated, which lifted a burden; but, a weightier burden was added: Mercury toxicity. The US lags behind the global understanding that dental mercury amalgam is a cumulative neurotoxin implicated in Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, ALS, MS and various other systemic ailments. Last summer, because I didn’t know any better, I allowed two large mercury blobs to be ground to toxic dust inside my mouth with absolutely no precautions. How does one find peace when one feels wronged? I’m seeking it through meditation and polite insistence that the offending dentist drop the remaining balance on my account.

But others choose differently. We know how the President seeks relief from feeling cornered: by escalating aggressive distractions, from domestic ICE assaults to now an illegal war in the Middle East.

“Every leader facing accountability has understood what a war provides. It is the oldest move in the history of power: when the walls close in, find an enemy abroad. A shooting war restructures the entire political landscape. Opposition becomes unpatriotic. Criticism becomes dangerous. Emergency powers that were already being stretched past recognition suddenly have the one justification that has historically silenced opposition in every democracy that ever fell: wartime necessity. And the emergency never ends, because ending it means facing consequences.

A wartime administration that was already stripping Clean Water Act protections from millions of acres of wetlands, already opening 40 million acres of national forest to logging and drilling, already letting coal plants dump toxic ash into groundwater, already withdrawing limits on forever chemicals in drinking water now does all of it behind a wall of smoke and patriotic obligation. “Support the troops” becomes the shield behind which everything else gets done. They are generating attacks on the constitutional order faster than any existing institution is processing them, and they know it. And the ten months between now and the midterms just became ten months of a wartime presidency operating without constraints, with a proven willingness to ignore the judiciary, and with every incentive to keep the emergency going as long as possible.”

Christopher Armitage, “The Regime Just Entered its Most Dangerous Phase“

(Read further in the essay and you’ll find inspiration and encouragement. We can stop this. We have to.)

Tonight’s supper snack was a mushroom paté made with baby bellas, onion, garlic, fresh sage all sautéed in of course butter, puréed with some cream cheese, with more melted butter poured on top, then chilled. I added a sprig of sage blossom. So simple, so delicious!

Trump is what’s called in Buddhism a hungry ghost. He dwells in a special Hell realm, as do his henchmen and women, and many of his billionaire cronies. They are so empty inside that they will never have enough of anything, and live in a state of constant grasping. Call your representatives. Demand impeachments and unredacted Epstein files. Show up for protests. Channel your anger into action.

Please be one of these people.

Red Hat Day

Feb26

I posted on Feb. 1 that I could hardly wait for the red yarn to arrive. It did shortly thereafter, and I’m grateful that I got two hats knitted and delivered in time for Red Hat Day. I’m curious to know if either hat went out in the world on those dear heads today. I stayed home and worked, meditated for inner and outer peace, and gardened. Tonight I continued to knit on the third red hat, the one I’ll get to keep.

Red Hat Day marks the day in 1942 that the Nazis outlawed red hats in Norway. Joyce Vance quotes their proclamation in her Substack yesterday, The Other Red Hat. I started the first hat on an old plastic circular needle that I found in my mother’s trove of knitting supplies. I haven’t had to buy needles or notions in twenty years. But I don’t like the feel of plastic needles or how the yarn moves over them, so I indulged in the purchase of a new circular needle with metal tips which make a satisfying click as I knit. The top of the hat, though, decreases to the point that I have to switch to DPN, double pointed needles, to finish it, and the last inch or so gets tricky.

The current Red Hat resistance was born in a yarn store in Minneapolis last month after Renee Good’s murder by ICE agent Johnathan Ross, who has yet to face any consequences. By the time we started our red hats a few weeks later our first yarn choice was sold out and wouldn’t be in stock again til April, and red yarn was flying off shelves virtual and actual so fast that there was a nationwide shortage. Despite regime claims that ICE has downsized in Minneapolis, it’s not by much and atrocities have continued unabated. Both immigrants and citizens continue to be arrested, and detainees are released at all hours with nothing but what they’re wearing. Haven Watch has volunteers meeting detainees with phones, food, blankets and other support as they walk out of the Whipple Building. Reports indicate horrific conditions inside.

I found this Norwegian perspective on both the original and the current Red Hat Resistance at the Red Hat Factory, which includes a link to the Needle & Skein pattern that has raised well over $600,000 to protect and support victims of ICE in Minneapolis. It’s beautiful to see the resurrection of a Nazi resistance tactic from Norway taking root in the US eight decades later, and to see the world embrace it again in solidarity with us.

Cousin Melinda verifies receipt of the first hat.

I may be finding a new direction in Craftivism, which seems to suit my introverted nature better at the moment than taking to the streets weekly at our local Honk ‘n Wave. I’ll still participate in the next No Kings Day on March 28, and hope millions of others will as well.

Amy models the second hat she received yesterday.

The two skeins Amy bought came with “free ball winding,” and I didn’t quite realize what that was til they arrived. I was grateful for it! A yarn skein often comes as a large, loose loop that’s been twisted tightly into a handy size for selling. But a twisted skein is not handy for knitting from; in fact, it’s impossible. So you have to wind the yarn into a ball before you can use it. The third skein from a different seller arrived in a twist.

I’ve rarely had to roll a skein into a ball, and the few long-ago times I did there was always someone to hold the loop around their wrists, elbows bent, arms outstretched with just enough tension to hold the loop on, as I pulled one strand after another off it, rolling a messy round ball that I unraveled from the outside in as I knitted. But there’s another way to wind a ball, center-pull, and YouTube provided instruction. I untwisted the skein and draped the loop around my knees, careful to keep it out of Wren’s hair. It was fun and meditative to wind the ball this way, leaving a tail in the center and winding neatly around my thumb until the ball was so big I had to pull it off and hold it. I’ve been gratefully and neatly pulling the yarn from the center of the ball as I’m knitting my hat on my pleasing new metal needles.

A couple inches of snow, warm days, a drizzle, nourishing the spring bulbs. What a joy it is to see them bloom! How my heart aches for the exquisite beauty of this planet, how I weep for the wild world plundered and sundered by human greed. How grateful I am for daily engagement with a tiny slice of it.

Finally I was quick enough with the camera to catch Topaz upside down in her basket almost before she rolled over. I keep trying and thought she must have some sixth sense, as despite my stealth she always mrrrrps and rolls suddenly just as I get the camera in place. But no, she simply sleeps with one eye open.

Caketastrophe!

Feb19
Their time in DC was amazing. The number of people they gathered along their route to the Lincoln Memorial lifted my spirits, and the crowd that stood and listened to the closing ceremony was impressive.

I’m still following the Walk for Peace on Instagram, and reading articles about it as people including the monks reflect on what it meant for them, what it means for us. I enjoyed this article in Mindful.org, ‘An Invitation to Reimagine Where Peace Begins.’

“…the longer we resist offering our attention to these unhealed places, the more we will keep living through the reverberating echoes of those same wounds over and over and over again. Different possible futures are only made possible by first giving our loving awareness to what’s happening right now—even (maybe especially) when it surfaces sorrow, hopelessness, or anger that we’re not sure we can handle in the moment.”

It’s a good thing I’m practicing inner peace every day. In my Quest to bake birthday cakes, today’s has been rough! I started last night baking the cake and the cookies with which to decorate it. I got excited because the beaten egg yolks looked so perfectly aerated that I forgot to whip in the sugar before adding flour, so I had to add sugar last. I think it resulted in a slightly heavier batter that didn’t rise as much, but overall the cake itself was okay and the orange shortbreads were perfect.

The first attempt at white chocolate mascarpone frosting went horribly awry. I thought at first it was because I beat the butter and cheese at too high a speed: the recipe said the only thing you can do wrong is overmix it, and to beat it on medium til light and fluffy. Or maybe because the butter and cheese were different temperatures. But in retrospect I think it failed because I used the whisk attachment in addition to high speed. Anyway, I set that mess aside, grateful that I had another cup of mascarpone and another stick of butter. But that started to split too! Though the finished white frosting tasted delicious it looked rather like cottage cheese if you’d blended it just enough to make the curds really tiny. I was afraid to beat it longer to try to thicken it, in case that just made it split even worse! Piping was pointless, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t try, and gooped up the silicone piping bag for no reason. There’s not much more challenging baking tool to wash than a piping bag; I see why people use disposables but can’t bring myself to waste plastic like that.

The lemon curd for the filling between layers turned out beautifully, though. And to salvage the split white frosting I whipped up a quick chocolate ganache, grateful that I had not used all the cream and that I had dark chocolate on hand. However, that also started to split! What? I think I know what happened there too: I added the chocolate to the hot cream in the hot pan, instead of adding hot cream to chocolate in a cold bowl, and the heat caused the chocolate to seize. I was able to salvage it, though, by tossing in a tablespoon of soft butter and whipping it, but that made it too thick to pour a thin layer over top. So the cake ended up with too much frosting of two kinds of chocolate that wouldn’t hold on the sides, and I was grateful I had the shortbreads which I’d planned to stick on there anyway. I took my tithe portion before frosting the cake and filled that missing space with shortbread also. I’d have been sent home from Bake Off with that cake, but instead of feeling I’d failed I chalked it up to practice. And isn’t that what this Birthday Cake Quest is all about, learning new skills? I learned a lot, and the Head Bitch at the Bad Dog Ranch was delighted with all the “many fun layers of yummies!” which is all that really matters.

After the cake was picked up, I dumped the split mascarpone/butter mix back into the Kitchenaid, and used the beater attachment to try to salvage that. It worked, sort of smoothing it, which is how I figured out that while the whisk might work for creaming butter and sugar, it doesn’t work for creaming butter and mascarpone. I was grateful that I have a flourishing herb garden in pots in the sunroom, where I harvested a handful of rosemary, oregano, parsley, sage, chives, and a little tarragon, which I minced and mixed into the butter blend with salt and pepper. All those fresh herbs left only a hint of vanilla from when it was destined to be frosting, and it turned into an adequate spread for toast for lunch, and topping for a baked potato for dinner. A busy and educational day in the kitchen!

I’m grateful, too, that we got a little snow the past few days, with more up in the mountains, but Colorado (the state and the river) are in dire drought this year regardless. That’s the real ‘tastrophe, as explained in this article from The Atlantic. Just before the snow fell I caught the first crocus blooms, and enjoyed a few sessions counting birds for the Great Backyard Bird Count. Never mind that there were hardly any birds over the weekend, at least it got me and Wren outside. So just a few more things I’ve been grateful for this week:

Prosocial Emotions

Feb10

In our gratitude group this evening, top two mentions went to Bad Bunny and the Walk for Peace monks. We didn’t even touch on the Olympics, but the games have certainly played into my sense of “prosocial emotions” the past few days. The most poignant moment for me so far came tonight watching Max Naumov in his Olympic debut in the men’s short figure skating program. After a beautiful routine he held up a photo of him as a toddler between his parents of his very first time on ice. His parents, Olympic skaters themselves, were killed when that Army helicopter crashed into a passenger plane over the Potomac River just nine days into the new regime. (Remember the ‘official’ spin on that?)

When I woke up a little grumpy about mouth pain, I quickly recalled that the monks were crossing into DC, pivoted to gratitude, and came downstairs to watch their livestream. They were greeted on the Virginia side of Chain Bridge with a bow from a DC police officer, and escorted across the bridge over the Potomac River by a line of bicycle cops in neon yellow vests.

The procession continued down the center line of Canal Road. Snowbanks edged each side, bare trees arched over from the C&O canal on their right side, and climbed the hill on their left. The road was closed to traffic so there were few spectators, and I imagine this must have incidentally supported the sacred nature of this crossing expressed by Bhikkhu Pannakara.

I was impressed by the slow-cycling cops’ ability to match the pace of the brisk-walking monks as they navigated into the city and made their way to American University. People appeared on sidewalks as the monks continued down the center of closed roads. I was grateful for the massive presence of peace officers surrounding the peace monks. A few nuns and monks fell in behind from the sidelines wearing fresh bright orange robes easily distinguished from the well-worn travelers’ robes. Greeted at AU by a diversity of clerics along a path strewn with flower petals, they settled in for a short rest and a public talk.

Then they resumed their walk through DC among, at last, crowds shouting their thanks.

At Washington National Cathedral thousands gathered out front where the monks were introduced by Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde. Bhikkhu Pannakara spoke for about half an hour to a rapt audience. The cathedral’s livestream caught it all.

After Secretary of State for DC Kimberly Bassett presented a proclamation from Mayor Muriel Bowser (“I vow to practice peace every day”), our monks and a hundred or more gathered clergy and faith leaders from all traditions went inside to talk about their commonalities: loving kindness, peace, and compassion. As they entered, the sweet camerawoman live-streaming for the monks walked through crowd cooing greetings and filming smiling faces, waves, and signs amplifying the monks’ message.

As sun streamed through the high stained glass windows of the cathedral and lit the vaulted ceiling in teal, pink and gold, flags from every state waved at the tops of arches. With music softly playing and my eyes and nose streaming, our intrepid monks took their seats in an arc on stage while pews filled with orange robes. The Dean of the Cathedral said it was one of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen, and Bishop Budde welcomed all of “our interfaith friends and siblings of one human family.”

Questions were invited from the assembled, and the first was from a Muslim cleric: “How do we reconcile the belief that we must be at peace, with our duty to act in the name of justice?” Bhikkhu Pannakara invited Bhikkhu Bodhi up to answer the question and escorted him up the short stairs onto stage. “I’m 81 years old and I grew up in the Sixties… and now what are we facing? I have to say sadly it’s almost a reign of terror…

“We have to balance this inner peace with what I call a strong commitment to conscientious compassion: compassion inspired by a sense of conscience, a responsibility for the welfare of all our fellow citizens, all the residents of this country, and indeed a universal compassion for all human beings around this world, and—do we have Aloka here?—all sentient beings around this world.”

A representative of The United Tribes next asked, “What is your message for children in our next seven generations?” Bhikkhu Pannakara responded with the same message he’s been sharing along the way: we’re way too dependent on technology!

And then they were on their way again, walking down Embassy Row, and the livestream stopped. I was wrung out. I got a text from my dear friend who had been in the crowd outside the cathedral, with the message, “It could have been one of your Mindfulness classes! You should market all over DC because it was such a moving speech, breaking all barriers of religion, race, age, socio-economic background. I think DC people would sign up for classes if they knew about you!”

Bless your heart Doodles, I wish they would! But we have all had a crash course from one of the very best, an extraordinary young monk who had an idea one day and followed through with passionate dedication. In 108 days he’s done more for mindfulness than anyone I can think of. The culmination of their journey this week in DC is the antidote that so many of us needed after the year we’ve suffered. Bouyed these past few days by the monks on one coast exemplifying the path to peace, on the other coast by a young Puerto Rican pop star epitomizing joy as resistance, and in between by the creative, resilient solidarity of a huge community defending itself with love in Minneapolis, it was an easy week to practice gratitude.

All images today are photos or livestream screenshots I grabbed from the Walk for Peace USA Facebook page, or from the National Cathedral’s livestream on YouTube. My favorite: that courageous Bishop Budde loving on Aloka the Peace Dog. A close second: that resilient Venerable Maha Dom Phommasan who lost his leg in the accident near the beginning of the journey, followed by the sweet French monk with walking poles, Venerable Samma Maggo, both of whom returned for this sacred conclusion after leaving the walk earlier.

Walk for Peace

Feb9
Sandra shared this illustration that someone sent her, knowing I would appreciate it.

Today the monks walked along US Rt. 1 from Woodbridge, VA to Alexandria. I watched some of it live on Facebook, and wept most of the time. Just before they stopped for lunch they walked past the apartment complex where I lived while I was helping my mother die, and shortly after that past the Home where my parents lived. After lunch at a Buddhist temple I never knew existed (and may not have back then) they walked past the fenced and multi-gated Fort Belvoir where my father worked at one point, and where I’ve spent time occasionally through the years since my childhood. People lined the road for miles, offering flowers, fruit, prayers, and other symbols of heartfelt thanks. Amy chanced to drive near there and reported “Traffic is insane. Police everywhere blocking off roads. People are leaving their cars and walking to get close to them. It’s very festive!”

The tears I shed were tears of pure emotion, mostly joy. Tomorrow they walk through a very dense part of Northern Virginia from Alexandria to Arlington, normally perhaps a twenty minute drive. And on Tuesday, they cross the Potomac River into the belly of the beast. Their full schedule for DC is here, and includes an interfaith ceremony at Washington National Cathedral, followed by a Unity Walk along Embassy Row. I encourage everyone to watch live as much as possible of their walk into our nation’s troubled capital: This needs to be witnessed. I have some anxiety about the official welcome they’ll receive.

Wednesday morning they’ll walk to the Peace Monument (after my time?) and Capitol Hill. After lunch they’ll walk to the Lincoln Memorial for a peace gathering and concluding ceremony, and from 4:30–7:30 PM ET they’ll lead a global peace meditation which will be live-streamed on their Facebook page. You can be sure I’ll be tuned in for that. Thursday they’ll cross into Maryland, speak at the Maryland State Capitol, and leave early afternoon to return home to Fort Worth, TX. What an astonishing thing they have done!

In between watching the monks and spending the afternoon and evening with televised sports spectacles like a regular American, Wren and I did a little spring cleaning at the pond. I was very careful not to disturb the frog that Wren didn’t notice, while she enthusiastically sought to disturb as much as she could. I didn’t see any other signs of life besides the one frog, but she may have. I used the marvelous SunJoe hedge clippers to cut back some of the rushes and grasses, but this is a before picture. Then we rested up with the Super Bowl sandwiched between Olympics. I tuned into football largely for the commercials (which weren’t that great imho) and for the marvelous halftime show, but also enjoyed watching the Seahawks trounce the Patriots. Maybe because I haven’t watched a Super Bowl in years, maybe because Bad Bunny put on a spectacular and moving show, maybe because everyone at the Olympics seemed happy (until Lindsey Vonn crashed) I surrendered all my “should dos” and worries, whipped up some onion dip, and thoroughly enjoyed escaping for the whole day into the illusion that everything is just fine. Tomorrow, it’s back to work strenuously cultivating inner peace and saving democracy.

Honeybun Fail

Feb7

We’ve been savoring morning coffee in the sunroom and busy in the kitchen the past few days. Choosing to attend to what brings peace and not the things I can’t control. Though I did make some calls to or email my elected federal representatives each day making my preferences known: impeach Trump, fire Noem, defund ICE, release the full unredacted Epstein files immediately, etc… oh, and thanks for supporting public lands, because thankfully all three of them seem to be doing at least that for Colorado.

The week’s sourdough rose beautifully and turned out perfectly.

But the honeybuns failed spectacularly. I’d been craving those gooey childhood sweet rolls for awhile, and Amy’s been helping hunt for a good recipe, but I used the first one I stumbled on because I liked the idea of rolling the dough into a snake for each bun instead of rolling it flat and then into a log and slicing it. They looked like they might turn out ok as they rose.

But they did not turn out ok at all. They baked tight with a hard crust, the exact opposite in every way of what they should have done. I’m grateful that with mindfulness, I get less upset and less often about the little things, like a honeybun fail. It didn’t upset me at all, just surprised me, and so I made the best of it. It wasn’t worth making the glaze but I had some leftover frosting in the fridge, which melted into a glaze on top, and then I sliced the buns open and spread frosting inside to invent a brand new sandwichcakebun. They’ll work well enough for me for a few breakfasts.

I’d also made some meringue because I needed space in the freezer so I had to use up the mini-phyllo shells and the frozen lemon curd. Those turned out pretty well, but then I had a lot of leftover meringue so I folded in some mini-chocolate chips but by the time I could get those in the oven the meringue had softened too much to pipe well. Oh well. They still tasted good.

Inspired by Cousin Mel talking about vegetarian chili I made a big batch of that with a simple recipe I found online, but which I can’t locate again and it was just common sense anyway. Chopped up onion, carrot, celery, and bell pepper small, minced garlic, mixed with chili powder, cumin, oregano, salt and pepper…

… chopped up some frozen roasted green chilis (more space in the freezer! but not much!), threw in a can of chopped tomatoes and three cans of beans with some water and cooked it down a bit…

… added a can of sweet corn and cooked some more, then served it with sour cream and grated hard cheddar for a hearty dinner.

I’ll be eating chili for a few days and watching winter Olympics, taking a mental health break from the cares of the world, and spending some time reading, meditating, and spring cleaning a little bit in the garden before the next snowstorm later this week. Practicing with cognitive dissonance. Eagerly anticipating the arrival of the Walk for Peace monks in Washington DC in three days, where they’ve invited monastics of all traditions to join them for various talks and walks in our troubled nation’s capital. I’m holding love and curiosity gently balanced as I wait and see what happens. May all beings find peace in their hearts.

A Small Cremation

Feb2

I woke to a startling warning text from Amy. I didn’t doubt her but wanted to know more. Eew. It didn’t take more than a minute reading to decide what to do next. I don’t want to see its invariable change. So I gently lifted it off the stem…

Eew. Sticky! Where did she come from? Will winter kill any others that might have laid their cottony egg sacs outside? It says they can hatch 600-800 eggs in a few days in summer but take a couple months in winter. Thank goodness I didn’t wait to see what happened!

Eew. Very sticky!

I tried to lay it on a paper towel but it was so sticky I had to spread it to get it off the tool. I couldn’t see any eggs so I used the handy zoom feature on my pocket supercomputer.

I considered my options for disposal of these pests. Definitely not the compost! Maybe garbage? I don’t like to kill any being, but nor did I want to risk them surviving and spreading. I decided on a ceremonial cremation, so I folded up the paper towel and set it on top of the woodstove to wait for tonight’s fire.

Wren supervised. I set the shroud on the floor to start the fire, and once it was blazing I tossed in the deceased mother and her hundreds of eggs. Goodbye, cottony cushion scale! Thanks Amy!

It Will Invariably Change

Feb1

After a foot of snow last weekend, the week has been cold and sunny, keeping the ground snow-covered.

Thursday was a good day to bake. I was out of bread, and the sourdough starter was low and feeble. So I followed dear Amy’s lead and baked these one-hour sourdough discard rolls again.

This time I made half a batch, and tucked a little pepperoni and cheese inside. I’d have put a smear of tomato sauce in, too, except there was a little mold on top so that went to the compost. I’m grateful for the process of composting, so that I feel no waste-guilt when I let food go bad: It all goes back to the garden. Still, I try to not waste food.

I love working with dough. I’ve got so much to learn. I was happy with these rolls but will refine them the next time. The way I filled and folded them, all the goodies ended up in the top half but they’re still pretty good.

I brushed the tops with an egg wash and sprinkled them with marigold salt. I enjoyed a couple warm out of the pan the first day, sliced and toasted one the next day with extra cheese on the bottom half, and the third day toasted and buttered one, served it with sweet onion jam and a fried egg.

Today I made a big batch of turkey tetrazzini with the Thanksgiving turkey that keeps on giving—more cheesy goodness. And spent some time tending the sunroom garden. It was restful self-care. I also attended the Upaya Zen Center teaching on courage and resilience, and listened to Francis Weller on caring for our souls in uncertain times. I’m grateful to have access to these supportive resources.

I’m also grateful to be able to offer resources to support others through the mindfulness course coming up on February 20, the Telesangha I lead weekday mornings, and other avenues. I’m grateful for the multiple mindfulness skills I continue to learn and practice daily which help me cultivate courage and resilience during this dark turning. It will invariably change.

I can hardly wait for the red yarn to arrive so I can join knitters around the world in making Melt the ICE hats. Amy bought the pattern from the Minneapolis yarn shop that created it and has raised nearly half a million dollars to support immigrants.

What is this curious little creature I found in the sunroom today? (The one above I mean, not the one below.) It’s doing whatever it’s doing on the trunk of the bonsai honeysuckle. I’ll just wait and see what happens, knowing it will invariably change.

The Market Square

Jan28

My generous cousin sent me a couple of ancestral jigsaw puzzles for my birthday. I love these puzzles for several reasons. This is the fourth I’ve gotten to do: The Market Square. I love the evocation of simpler times, the craft of being cut with an actual jigsaw by an individual, the way they don’t completely lock together like modern puzzles but segments slide apart at the slightest touch. They require a most delicate approach. I love that there’s no picture, just the title, so the image grows from mystery to completion. I love my great grandmother’s handwriting on the lid, and the note that one piece is missing. I love that at nearly 100 years old the pieces remain mostly in great shape.

I love that they’re small enough to do on just part of my desk so I can do a few pieces at a time on a short work break without rearranging my workspace for days at a time. I love the muted colors, the cuts that delineate color blocks adding difficulty, the illusion of bringing order to my mind as I fit the pieces. I love giving myself this little gift a few times a day as a way of surrendering to who I am: imperfect, aspiring, basically a good person despite the habitual afflictive thoughts and emotions that arise continually, despite the practice.

This is the second puzzle I’ve done this season knowing a piece is missing and not knowing which piece. It requires a looser approach and more comfort with uncertainty. It’s a good analogy for my own growth. Something’s missing, I don’t quite know what, I just trust the process and keep putting pieces together to eventually get a pretty complete picture.

I’m grateful today for the kindness of two people in this little community, one who helped soothe my struggling body and one who helped comfort my challenged mind; both provided the spaciousness to let go of a little suffering. May we all do the same for one another.