I’m grateful for meditations at the pond, with the frog chorus building to a crescendo and then resting, the blackbirds calling, mountain bluebirds and nuthatches coming to the edge to drink, spring winds rising and falling, sun or shade as needed on one side or the other depending on the time of day.
I’m grateful for getting onion sets planted before a couple of good rains; red, yellow, and white onions from Afton’s, and a round container of shallots.
I’m grateful for golden mashed potatoes with buttermilk and chrysanthemum salt; and more potatoes the next day sautéed with oyster mushrooms and onions, half hot the first night with a soft-boiled egg, and half cold in a salad the next day.
I’m grateful for signs of life on the poor apricot tree. Though the leaves are dessicated and brown, there are tiny tender green shoots beginning below them. Fingers crossed they survive tomorrow night’s hard freeze.
I’m grateful for the simplest sandwich I’d never thought of before: peanut butter and jelly with mayo and potato chips. So delicious! I grew up on PB&J and learned young to stuff my chips inside for a fun crunch; and later the Colonel persuaded me to try peanut butter and mayo on a cracker. After my initial aversion to the idea of it, I found it delicious. But somehow I’d never tried them all together.
I’m grateful today for an opportunity to explore the Buddhist concept of no-self, which in its simplest interpretation means recognizing the influence of ego and releasing it. A miscommunication in the morning left me with hurt feelings, but once I’d expressed that in a reasonably mature way I was able to let the emotions move through pretty quickly. Instead of ruminating over it all day, I used the incident to practice letting go.
I quickly let go of attachment to outcome, and I eventually let go of the story. Emotions don’t last more than a couple of minutes, but like many I tend to repeat the story over and over thus regenerating the emotions again and again. I’m finally learning to say “Oh well!” and really mean it. It’s no big deal. I still felt the upheaval of disappointment like an echo in the background of the rest of my day, but I didn’t participate in it. Instead, I dug deeper into the dharma and nurtured my better qualities.
This is the actual Big Deal. I was able to find gratitude for the opportunity to learn and grow from an unpleasant event. I was able to use an emotional challenge to deepen my understanding of liberation through no-self; to see clearly how suffering is generated by an unruly mind; and to recognize and release some of my habitual thought patterns more quickly than ever before. I’m grateful for the teachings, the teachers, and my own dedication to the practice.
The wild plum has rained the last of its petals in the winds, and now following the apricot erupts with tender green leaves. But last week, I caught a few lovely pollinators in its fulsome flowers, including many painted ladies…
I remember asking Marion one time, decades ago, with a distinct whine, “Isn’t anything ever not a lesson?” She was older by thirty years and wiser by far, but I don’t recall her response. All I know is that I’ve learned in the interval that every living moment is always a lesson, or can be.
… one gorgeous sphinx moth…
I’m grateful that the Colonel gave me a solid foundation in using tools and the gene to enjoy solving engineering type problems, and the confidence to tackle all kinds of household situations. I’d suspected a propane leak at the tank for a few weeks when I noticed a faint odor as I walked past one day in late fall but I promptly forgot about it. A few weeks later I was home when the tanker driver arrived with the next monthly fill, and asked him to please check for a leak. I watched his bubble solution, and I didn’t see anything either, so we left it at that. But by the end of January I wasn’t convinced, and when a different driver came I mentioned it to him. He did a bubble spray test and confirmed that there was a tiny leak at the very old regulator, and said “I’ll send M to replace that.”
… a single Great Purple Hairstreak, which is almost impossible to catch with open wings…
Last week I started wondering if M had ever come by and meant to call the company to inquire, but once again I forgot. I did not inherit the genes for executive functioning. So yesterday when T returned, I was outside reading in the freakishly mild weather, and went over to greet him. “I see M hasn’t been here yet,” he began, and we chatted for a long time, only partly about the leak. He mentioned that the price per gallon went up, and I said, “That’s what we get with war… and a government in chaos,” which I think I get political action points for saying, and he didn’t respond. He still didn’t think the leak was bad enough to be affecting my bill, “only if you’re baking a lot of cookies every day,” he said… Little does he know.
… and many magnificent Red Admirals.
“Funny you should mention that,” I said, then asked if he’d like a cookie, and he kept chatting, about how he seen a coyote over there one time and too bad he didn’t have his gun then, and from there it devolved into how many coyotes he’s shot through the years, “seven in one day!” he proudly proclaimed; he spoke about cattle camp and losing calves to coyotes, then moved on to speak about a lion no one ever saw who was hunting deer on a particular ridge. All the while, my heart was sinking further, and my lungs were choking on exhaust from the truck, and I was starting to wish I hadn’t offered him one of my last cookies.
“That’s interesting,” I said, “but I can’t breathe the exhaust any longer, so I’m going in to get you a couple cookies, and I’ll be back in a minute.” When I took him the cookies he said he thought he might have enough dope in the truck to replace the regulator right now, and he’d just have to turn off the gas to the house for a little while, and did I have an on-demand hot water heater? No, but I figured if I didn’t use the hot water it should be ok, but really that was a lesson right there, which I keep learning over and over again, which is to ask more questions, don’t assume I know anything about something I know nothing about.
I had just been coming in to make lunch when he arrived, so I went back in to start that. The last of the curried cauliflower cold with mayo, plus an egg and some bacon, yum, I was looking forward to it. The bacon was cooking perfectly until it wasn’t, almost done, but then no flame. Duh. Again with the executive function issue. I knew not to use the hot water and was very careful as I washed my hands after putting the bacon in the pan to use only cold, but I failed to make the obvious connection that I couldn’t use the burner either. I went back out to see how things were going, and to ask if I’d need to do anything with the stove once the propane was back on, and we had another incomplete conversation which reassured me.
This week’s Birthday Cake Challenge started off well!
After he left, the burner lit effortlessly and there seemed to be hot water. Although it did seem a little less hot, but I let myself ignore that symptom, because every time I turned it on to wash my hands or a dish or two it was still hot enough. Surely the boiler couldn’t keep it that hot overnight if it wasn’t fueled. But after a couple hours of yard work this morning, I had to face the truth as I stood under a warm shower gradually cooling. I’ve never had to light that particular pilot, and thankfully it didn’t require getting down on the dirty utility room floor and contorting myself to stick a match inside a small opening whilst pressing and holding the red button. Grateful it was also a piezo starter. It lit right away, and flared up when I turned the dial, and it’s been happy hot water all afternoon.
The batter looked perfect in the pan.
But the other water heater, the one that provides the radiant floor heat, that of course was also out, and that’s the pilot I didn’t want to face, so I just turned it off til fall, grateful that there’s plenty of firewood since it’s going to get cold again for the next week, and grateful in a perverse way for the freakishly mild spring that’s likely to resume after that, and grateful either way for the forecast moisture. I never thought I’d be grateful for Mud Season, but here I am eagerly awaiting it.
Sadly, more lessons were learned after baking…
So many lessons in the last two days! Excellent practice listening to his murderous pride with as little judgment as possible and much more open-heart than I could have before mindfulness, understanding his perspective, feeling kindly toward him, feeling grateful that he fixed the leak. And then letting it all go once it was over, rather than perseverating. But wait, oh, it was after that that I walked in grief the rest of the day. Okay, so but at least I didn’t feel blame or anger or hatred, and I did cultivate compassion and loving kindness, so that’s progress.
… including perseverance!
Some other lessons revolved around the Year of Birthday Cakes Challenge, among them that I really need to practice bake ahead of time for each new cake I try. Today’s epic fail was technically a Technical Challenge rather than a Signature or a Showstopper, as the birthday girl asked for a specific kind of cake. It seemed easy enough: a lemon bundt cake with raspberry filling. And in Bake Off Technicals there’s no tossing a failure into the bin, you have to present something to the judges. So when (after following instructions to the second) I turned the cake out after ten minutes leaving the bottom fifth attached to the bundt pan, it turned into a salvage operation. One lesson was “ten minutes exactly” isn’t enough time to cool a cake in that pan. Maybe it would have held together after another five or ten minutes cooling in the pan. Or, maybe not. Other lessons I’m learning are non-attachment to outcome, and humility.
The final offering, of which I kept half and made her promise not to share it with anyone else. I gave a verbal IOU for a good cake some other time.
Among today’s successes, I count maintaining equanimity, compassion, and good humor; recognizing repeatedly that I am not my thoughts; and creating an absolutely perfect loaf of sourdough.
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.
It’s felt both lovely and freaky to sit down at the pond for awhile almost every day this birthday week. Meditating, reading, sipping tea, pondering the implications of this dry, warm January. It doesn’t bode well for summer, but it does encourage savoring the present moment.
The future of the planet feels urgently precarious these days, more than ever before, with its fate literally in the hands of a tragically mad tyrant. How is it possible that no one seems able or willing to stop him?
From Instagram
Much love and many fun things came on my birthday, including stickers both whimsical and political.
I got the best laugh when I brought down the mail on my birthday, and in the first package I opened found this adorable card—and there was another one in the next envelope! What are the odds? I felt seen and known.
There have always been mad tyrants, but it’s the exponential scale of the chaos he’s sowing that’s existentially terrifying. Quotidian delights feel both less relevant and more precious. It takes sustained effort to hold awareness of national and global events, participate in resistance, and still experience inner peace and stability. I guess the good lord never gives you more than you can handle, or at least that’s what they say. Maybe that’s why I’ve been obsessed with personal discomfort, it’s easier than focusing on international calamity.
Celebrating various angles on this spectacular orchid as the sun lights it through the day.
I confess to feeling a little disappointed. I had pinned my hopes for some relief on an appointment with a new dentist tomorrow, which got canceled this afternoon. I’ve been waiting six weeks for this. The incremental improvement that has crept along for six months more or less plateaued around the holidays, and I’m left with several areas of constant and distracting discomfort, plus occasional pain and some anxiety about longterm tooth health.
The house sparrows continue to roost in the wild rose, challenging Wren’s equanimity or delighting her, not sure which.
Teeth are hitting and clacking that aren’t supposed to. Chewing, especially soft foods, is the sensory equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard. The lower jaw remains stiff and forward of where it should be, with tension along the lower right jaw; at rest my mouth won’t close without effort. My tongue feels too big for my mouth, and a hundred times a day I consciously release it from twisting and pressing into the upper right front teeth; internal pressure in that jaw fans up into my cheek and eye bones, into a low-grade headache most of the time. And some other stuff.
The tame roses that came for my birthday continue to delight me with their vibrant colors.
I just wanted to tell all this to someone who might be able to explain and help. For six weeks I’ve been documenting symptoms and rehearsing/trying not to rehearse what I would say to the new dentist. Maybe writing it down here will help me quit rehashing the narrative in my head, and free me to simply live each moment without the burden of story.
Pickled red onion has become one of my favorite condiments. For so long it was a hasty afterthought, but this week I planned it and made a whole pint so I could use it generously in sandwiches and salads.
The original dentist who did the crowns left the practice, and her partner did a couple of follow ups but then quit. She told me in December that whatever is going on with me now has nothing to do with her partner’s work, “it’s been too long.” None of these symptoms is new: they have all been ongoing since July, and have fortunately decreased with time. I have resisted paying the balance on work that I believe was badly done. We are at a mutually resentful impasse.
But my disappointment at the cancellation was tempered in the same instant as learning of it. “The doctor has a medical emergency she needs to take care of,” the message said, “and she’ll be out of the office for a few weeks.” I called back to offer well wishes and reschedule. “We’ve got a lot of calls to make,” she said. “We don’t even know the extent of it yet.” My heart sank for the dentist, for her staff, for her family. Was it herself? A child, a parent? It could be anything. Compassion rose immediately, eclipsing disappointment and curiosity. And I’m grateful for that.
Little Wren warming by the pond this morning.
There was a time when disappointment about my personal situation or fear about global unrest would have been the defining emotion of my day, but mindfulness practice has transformed my perspective. The two boundless qualities of equanimity and compassion have truly found a foothold in my heart, balancing the more afflictive emotions that still reside there.
From Instagram: Venerable Samma Maggo has left the Walk for Peace to return to his dwelling place in France. He walked bent over his hiking poles, keeping pace with his brothers, with deep concentration. At rest stops, he radiated peace with the most beatific expression. May I emulate his courage and commitment.
Amy and I planned a cheesy-potatoey bake for our zoom cooking last weekend because I wanted to use up the sprouting purple potatoes in something I could freeze in portions for later.
I was dismayed when I dug into the box on Sunday to find that all the potatoes had sprouted, not just those in the top two layers. So much for a big dish and lots of leftovers. I repacked most of the potatoes in brown paper in a new box to save for planting, and knocked the sprouts off of just over a pound so I could make dinner.
Amy made half the recipe by choice, I by necessity. For that amount of potatoes, we mixed together ⅔ cup of heavy cream, a couple tablespoons butter, and a garlic clove minced, and poured it over the potatoes one layer at a time, with a little salt and pepper on each potato layer. It might look like a lot, but the potatoes were tiny, and the dish is only about four inches wide. We baked at 375 degrees F for about 50 minutes.
Then the piéce de résistance, half a small wheel of Brie with an olive oil drizzle, and another 15 minutes in the oven. So simple, so delicious! Rich enough that I got three meals out of it. I might just dig into that potato box again before planting time.
The Walk for Peace monks are finally getting the coverage they deserve, at least in local media. Their stop in Columbia, SC drew thousands of supporters along the route and around the State House, where Venerable Bhikkhu Pannakara spoke at length about the motivations and aspirations for their journey, then offered a blessing. The event was covered live by local TV station WLTX, and I was grateful to get to hear their message in greater detail. (Photos from Instagram)
Tomorrow they cross into North Carolina as they continue their arduous pace to DC, with the White House their apparent destination. God bless their everlovin hearts. With each day and each thousand people they reach with their message of peace, loving kindness, cooperation, and compassion, my curiosity grows around their reception in Our Nation’s Capitol.
And Puzzle Season continues to keep me grounded with a bounty of options flowing around the community…
A friend loaned me her Maui puzzle over New Year’s. It’s extra large, gloriously vibrant, and layered with whimsy and meaning.
There’s often a natural starting place with these Liberty puzzles that calls to me, in this case the octopus.
After the first few obvious segments were assembled the puzzle revealed its unique strategy which was to complete the sea first, the sky and volcano next, and then fill in the town in between. It took almost a week to do, and provided joy through some otherwise bleak days.
The little swimmers in the top left revealed themselves only when that section came together. The whale grew in one part of the sea based on similar colors, but found her home on the opposite side of the puzzle.
The several sea turtles brought back mixed memories of my one trip to Hawaii decades ago. The highlight for me was swimming close to a sea turtle on our last day.
Throughout the puzzle were moments of pure delight like this one.
It was like three puzzles within a puzzle.
A little part of me died hearing about the murder of Renee Nicole Good. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, encountering the wrong person, a scared and angry veteran ICE agent. Before we knew as much as we know now, Dan Rather’s account summed up the horror clearly the next day. Since then we’ve all seen variations on the truth of who she was and what occurred, and perhaps just as many variations on the lies the regime concocted instantly to obfuscate guilt: their own, and the murderer’s. We can cleave to the truth, amplify it, hold her and her beloveds in compassion in our hearts. A GoFundMe for her family has raised more than 1.5 million dollars and appears to have paused donations. There are many other ways we can support them and honor her memory, and the memory of Keith Porter killed by ICE on New Year’s Eve, the two Portland victims of an ICE attack on January 8, and the many more lives lost and disappeared by the bully regime’s illegal enforcement arm.
It pleased me to recognize the Hawaii state bird, the néné, once critically endangered but brought back from a low of 30 birds in the 1950s to several thousand now. This goose has the smallest range of any goose species. We did not see néné on that trip.
Though we didn’t visit Maui, it was poignant to recognize as it emerged in the puzzle the Lahaina banyan tree that famously survived the historic wildfire that decimated the town two years ago. What a shock that was! Who ever thought that could happen there?
Part of our species’ problem is the “can’t-happen-here” delusion. I’ve never understood how people can say, in this day and age, “I never thought it could happen here.” School shooting? “I never thought it could happen here!” Vehicle assault on a parade? Domestic terror attack at CDC? Vengeance assassination at a newspaper office? Even a natural disaster out of place or out of season due to climate collapse, like Hurricane Helene’s devastation in the Appalachians; or the freak wildfires that demolished Lahaina and other towns on Maui. Anything can happen at any time, and more worse things can happen in more unlikely communities now than ever before, due to human cultural conditions and climate influences.
Then there was the moment of mythical recognition when I realized that all the weird swirly pieces near the top created the portrait of the volcano goddess Pele. And of course there was a lei or a floral crown around the peak.
There was a suspected (and unlikely) fatal mountain lion attack in northern Colorado last week. Honey Badger asked if I knew the chances of being killed by a mountain lion (which is minute) and our conversation flowed from there naturally to the chances of being killed by an ICE agent. This is currently relatively small but growing. As many people have been shot dead by ICE in the past eleven days in the US as have been fatally attacked by a mountain lion in Colorado in the past 26 years. I’m grateful that I live where my chances of being assaulted by a mountain lion may be slightly higher than my chances of being attacked by an ICE agent. I feared for my city friends this weekend who took to the streets in masses in Indivisible’s ICE Out for Good protests. I honor their courage to assert their First Amendment rights!
The scrumptious colors throughout the puzzle carried a batik vibe.
Little parts of me die daily, beyond the cells and neurons. Little parts of my soul. I think this happens with most people who feel empathy deeply, or who care about the natural world, or who trust in our government; and in people who are ill or care for ill or dying beloveds; or who suffer the atrocities of war torn areas they cannot leave, climate catastrophes that force them to flee, and so many of the tragedies that over population, power concentration, resource extraction, and other horrors born of human greed, hatred and delusion just keep on ramping up.
Working the middle section from the beach upward and the tree downward, the giant Maui puzzle came together. Another delightful surprise was finally fitting the first of four odd pointed pieces into place to reveal that the two beach walking figures were holding surfboards. Duh!
But little parts of me are reborn each day also. The beauty, kindness, and courage I see in people around the world every day flickers to life the same qualities in me. The awe of nature that surrounds me renews my spirit and freshens my cells. The wisdom of teachers and elders stabilizes my perspective. While working on a new puzzle this weekend, I listened to a podcast from the Plum Village monk Brother Phap Huu, The Way Out Is In. In the current episode ‘Calm in the Storm,’ he says that the practice of generating joy every day is foundational work. He goes on to discuss skillful introspection, and the infinite variety of ways that we can cultivate joy, from our own hobbies to appreciating the joy of others.
For me, it’s Liberty puzzles while listening to dharma talks, or starting a bake with a clean kitchen, or teaching, or and always taking pictures… And more than ever, being present for friends and students who want or need to talk, and listening deeply, genuinely caring about the lives of others. And this caring brings with it the weight of their unique sufferings, and the cycle continues. Hold what I can hold, generate joy through the practice of gratefulness, do what I can do in any given moment with the wisdom available at the time. Let me remember to be grateful every living moment of every day.
Moments of joy came throughout the week from connections with friends. Jennifer sent this marvelous photo last weekend of a redtail hawk perched on her fire escape in downtown San Francisco. I’m grateful for friendships through the years and across the country, new and old, simple and complex, in person and online. With the common ground of mindfulness and gratefulness, I’ve formed meaningful friendships with people I may never meet in person.
I had hoped to be generous with the three leftover lemon tartlets, but only managed to give away one of them. The other two I savored for breakfast last weekend. I found a little pot of leftover cream cheese frosting in the fridge, so I topped the first tart with that and the last raspberries.
The final tart cried out for a little leftover lemon curd since there was only a lonely dollop of icing left. I’ll definitely make these again.
My Colorist friend sent this gorgeous Christmas card she created. She explained that the passion flower represents “the Passion of Christ in all its beauty and terror,” with Mary “looking adoringly at and embracing the end of Jesus’s earthly life instead of the beginning” as in traditional nativity scenes this season. And of course, the sumptuous colors.
She also introduced me to the Hugo Spritz in her comment on my last post. I made mine without the prosecco using soda water only for the bubbles to give it less of a kick.
I’m grateful that grownup vitamins come in gummies too.
I sometimes wonder where the day goes, these short winter days. It seems like I get the bare minimum done and then it’s dark. One fun task each day is feeding the birds, and an especially meditative part of it is spreading the Bark Butter on various limbs and posts. Bark Butter, created by the founder of Wild Birds Unlimited, is a “spreadable suet” that includes peanut butter and corn. I put it out for the nuthatches who love it, but the jays come to devour it too.
A local friend sent this picture of an anomalous goose down in Delta with a flock of Canada geese (genus Branta). INaturalist identifies it with 100% certainty as belonging to the Grey Goose clan (genus Anser). A delightful conundrum.
This week’s sourdough, with a seasonal star.
I’m grateful for the great healthcare I receive from Delta Health, one of the many rural hospitals threatened by the Republicans’ healthcare plan which Andy Borowitz says is “Move to Canada.” I had a late afternoon appointment with my PCP for a checkup. I love her. She’s quick, thorough, listens well, trusts me with decisions, and we have had some hearty laughs, especially last week. And then the drive home from town was exquisite. I’m so rarely out of my little hollow at sunset, it was a treat.
My friends Ted and Cathey live about 80 miles north of Selma, Alabama, where the Walk for Peace monks stopped midday today, then walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge. My whole day was infused with the joy of knowing my friends were there, carrying a little piece of my heart with them. Ted posted this and more photos on his daily blog, and will share more tomorrow.
This week of savoring friendships included some great phone conversations with friends from Florida to Virginia to Oregon, all of which also included some hearty laughter, such balm for the sorrowing soul in these dark times. Tonight’s small new moon/early Solstice gathering wrapped up this past week like a gift. The bonfire was slow to start but quick to burn, and safe in the bottom of an empty, muddy irrigation pond.
Grateful to feel safe in the bosom of my found family, I yet held in my heart the sorrow of those who lost beloved children, parents, friends, and family in mass shootings this week, to murder, to starvation, to climate catastrophes like floods and landslides, and so many more ways the ravages of human depravity manifest.
May I grow in understanding and compassion, and may my thoughts, words, and actions contribute to peace in this world. May all people grow in understanding and compassion, and may their choices contribute to peace in this world.
At the height of our ritual fire, the FedEx truck came down the driveway and a pack of dogs from three households ran barking off to greet him. He’s a great guy, we’re all grateful for Scott, and so are the dogs because he gives them treats. I whistled for Wren and she didn’t come, I got up and called and finally yelled for her, and still she didn’t come—but then I looked to the left and saw her trying to get to me through the fence—poor baby! She had probably come right away, but she came the wrong way and got stuck on the other side of the studio. I stepped through and gathered her up and held her close the rest of the evening. She’d had on her parka, but still got chilly, and has been sleeping next to me or on the heating pad ever since we got home.
Wren made a new little friend this evening when a neighbor spontaneously stopped by to check out a potential job upgrading the pond patio. Oddly, I had dreamt last night about her playing with a visiting chihuahua.
He and his little dog left just before the supermoon rose and we hurried up to the balcony to watch. Astrologically, I’m told, it’s a very special full moon in Taurus, giving us the opportunity to bring clarity and tenderness to our spirit and heart, and reflect on what we really want.
I’m grateful that Americans in many elections yesterday voted for what I really want, which is compassionate leadership. May clarity and tenderness prevail!
I started the week with a fresh loaf of sourdough, which I hadn’t made in awhile since I was obsessed with tomato sandwiches on the complicated mock wonder bread. It’s a relief to return to the simplicity of sourdough. Tuesday evening in grief, I ate a simple deconstructed cheese sandwich with the first two slices: mayo and havarti on one, butter and rosehip-crabapple jelly on the other. Yeah, the jelly is a little overcooked as I’d feared, a bit thicker than I’d like, and a little sticky to spread, but it tastes great. I had to try it before I send off the jars to the lottery winners. In case, you know, it was a total fail and I had to eat it all myself with a spoon.
With local tragedies and national catastrophes, it’s a good time to remind myself that most people are good and kind and there’s a lot of great news that just doesn’t make headlines while the bad news come so fast and furious. I don’t remember how Daily Good found its way into my inbox, but I’m grateful there’s a group of volunteers curating good news stories around the world (also, it seems that AI is working for good in this instance); 625 stories so far this month, which I trust is a drop in the bucket, simply knowing how many good, sweet connections were made just in my neighborhood this week.
Wednesday’s sandwich was a simple cheddar, havarti, lettuce and tomato, but I wanted extra crunch so I quick pickled some tiny red onions from the final harvest. Mayo and Penzeys sandwich sprinkle completed the project.
One of those good things came in a voicemail yesterday from an unknown number. Last year when I struggled so before hip surgery, I had registered to get assistance from North Fork Senior Connections, and also offered to volunteer for them in some capacity after recovering from surgery. I hadn’t done either yet, and sort of forgot about it. But there’s a new crew closer to home now, and the coordinator wanted to know if I could use help with anything next weekend on their Service Saturday. As it happens, I could! I was so grateful to be asked, and when I called back I also gratefully volunteered to bake and do other light services as needed. I’m looking forward to participating in this community building network created “to support aging with dignity, choice, and companionship.”
In more good news, I started the Bibliofillies pick for November this week, The Book of Hope, Jane Goodall’s conversations with Douglas Abrams. Abrams brought us The Book of Joy a few years ago, chronicling the beautiful friendship of H.H. The Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu. It’s perfect timing for me, and maybe for you, too. I’ll take inspiration anywhere I can get it.
Jane has been much on my mind since her death October first. I’d admired her for years before I was fortunate to meet her. I worked at Busch Gardens in Tampa, as a conservation educator in the zoo division of the amusement park. Busch housed a chimpanzee colony, and Jane had just emerged from Gombe after understanding that she needed to speak to the world about the plight of wild chimps, and the urgency of saving the species and their forest habitat. The zoo was aflutter that she was coming to Busch to speak, and would also, incidentally, be evaluating our chimp facilities. She was gracious and kind as she greeted a lucky few of us junior staff. She was not impressed with the zoo’s chimp habitat, however, which prompted a total, costly revamp which ultimately, years later, earned her approval.
She campaigned tirelessly to protect our precious world, and though her hope faltered occasionally, she never lost it, confident for four reasons: “the amazing human intellect, the resilience of nature, the power of youth, and the indomitable human spirit.”
Thursday was cool and grey with glorious rain off and on all day, and snow in the mountains. It was crisp but cold outside Friday so the sandwich had to be grilled: Brie, pickled onion, mayo, and calamondin jam.
Jane told Abrams, “Hope leads to future success in a way that wishful thinking does not. While both involve thinking about the future with rich imagery, only hope sparks us to take action directed toward the hoped-for goal.” It occurs to me: Wishing is to Hope as Empathy is to Compassion: Hope and Compassion spark action. Robert Hubbell’s weekly dose of perspective Saturday touched on this same idea. He covers the White House horrors every day, yet he remains an inspired, hopeful, and inspiring activist, lifting us up daily with his newsletters and a weekly livestream pep talk.
“Hope and optimism are not the same thing,” Jane says. (Boy do I know that from the inside! As I read this I think, Hope is wishing plus Action; Optimism is wishing plus Belief. I’m grateful to be reading a book that’s making me think.) Abrams says, “Archbishop Tutu once told me that optimism can quickly turn to pessimism when the circumstances change. Hope is a much deeper source of strength, practically unshakable.”
Saturday’s sandwich was not grilled, but otherwise essentially the same: Brie, pickled onion, mayo, with the new red jelly and lettuce. And Jane, for company, in the sunroom.
Hope, Jane says, “does not deny the evil but is a response to it.” And later offers this pressing insight, “If we live in a society with a reasonable standard of living and some degree of social justice, the generous and peaceful aspects of our nature are likely to prevail, while in a society of racial discrimination and economic injustice, violence will thrive.”
Today’s cheese sandwich: mayo, havarti, pickled onion, lettuce, bacon, and apricot jam. It was a beautiful, mild day here, on this precious planet, and I savored lunch outside, with a different read, keenly aware of everything, absolutely everything.
“Facing our grief is essential to combatting and overcoming our despair and powerlessness,” she says, and adds, “Every day we make some impact on the planet. And the cumulative effect of millions of small ethical actions will truly make a difference. That’s the message I take around the world.”
I was online leading a meeting this evening so I missed the sunset, except for the layered cloud colors I could see through the kitchen window beyond my computer, and the alpenglow, which I could see behind me through the east window, reflected back to me in my square on the zoom screen. There was a pang of longing to be out in it. So I was thrilled to get a text an hour later of this gorgeous sunset over downtown Hotchkiss from my friend Mary Hockenberry who caught it on her evening walk.
Tomatoes, onion and garlic from the garden, along with a few Penzeys spices, made a nice sauce for an impromptu chili relleno casserole for lunch yesterday.
The roasted poblano chilis came from the Delta farmers’ market where I stopped last week. Five dollars for a bag of roasted chilis and five more for four big fresh peppers and two tomatoes.
I based it on the Chili Pepper Madness recipe, and added a splash of milk to the eggs based on some other recipes. So simple, so delicious!
Last night I slipped out of a zoom meeting for a few minutes to catch the full moon rising. It occurred to me that this could be the last October full moon I’ll ever see. Not to be morbid, but just realistic. Anything can happen at any time. Age doesn’t guarantee longevity, nor does genetics, nor anything else.
It also occurred to me that grief is an equally valid response to life as gratitude. Gratitude and grief go hand in hand. I attended a webinar this afternoon on how to help grieving people. It was perfect timing. I’d been thinking about grief a lot this past week, after helping a dear friend navigate a sudden, freak death in her family.
There’s also the grief that I’ve felt since childhood about the madness of humans destroying the planet, and now the exacerbating grief of a regime that’s trying to turn back time in all the wrong ways while accelerating the unbridled pillaging of the natural world for corporate profit. I’m grateful for meditation, for mindful introspection, for compassionate and wise teachers from many traditions around the world available to any of us with a few keystrokes. I’m grateful for sleep, for friendships, for the moon and the sun, for water, wild birds, golden leaves, an open heart, for the ten thousand joys and the ten thousand sorrows of being human, and for this breath.
