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art by OffTheHookbyLora

On happiness: question reality, perception is everything

Knowing life is short, enjoy it - day after day, moment after moment.

     - Suzuki Roshi

Let everything happen to you

Beauty and terror

Just keep going

No feeling is final

     - Rainer Maria Rilke

Cultivate a good heart.

     - Pema Chodron

These are among my key points of study and contemplation lately. What use is irritability, fear and thoughtless reaction? Nothing but misguided protection mechanisms. Protection from...a slow or "idiot" driver? Someone with a sour disposition? People with shall we say, challenging (or plain fucked up) communication styles? A series of unavoidable bills? These are the kind of things I've found myseslf reacting to with rage and frustration.

Most of us are reacting to these types of situations the same way, and for some, extremely frustrated, or even violent reactions to situations and circumstances with even less charge and intensity seem to be more and more commonplace. Understanding how this exaggerated, dramatized, reactionary modus operandi is at the root of both personal suffering and interpersonal, even global strife, compels me to want something different.

On giving

It's a dark, blustery late November morning and I'm not sure I'm really up for writing on the subject that's present on my mind: dissolution and loss. I've recently heard that the marriage of someone close to me is in trouble. Thanksgiving is tomorrow and I am aware that for many the air is thick with the idea that everyone "should" have a happy holiday of family love and good cheer. But what if your family is unravelling?

As I've grown up and begun to see differently, begun to see new aspects of family life, I've been slowly facing my own sense of loss. It's a loss of the idea that there is some certainty and ultimate safety in the world/life. It's coming to the understanding that parents (or adults in general) are not gods possessing all the answers.

When we see life falling to pieces all around us, family comes down to simply BEING THERE for others. I have this image in mind of people holding tight to each other as the world crashes down around them. There's no where else to go, nothing left that can be done, nowhere better to be. Love is all that is left.

Today my sense of unravelling goes deeper and broader than immediate family. It's also about the human family.

In Passing

How swiftly the strained honey
of afternoon light
flows into darkness

and the closed bud shrugs off
its special mystery
in order to break blossom

as if what exists, exists
so that it can be lost
and become precious

- Lisel Mueller

Ebb and flow

It all ebbs and flows - a recent subject of meditation lately. Also I see that I'm losing contact with the stillness and presence I relaxed into while camping at Craine Prairie.

It's so hard to stop the rushing forward once it gets started up. At Craine Prairie it was easy to be still and present, totally immersed in the moment. One reason for this is it was such a precious period of time. I wanted to savor every second. And yet isn't my entire life such a precious period of time?

Reflections on keeping sane

Back to work today after a peaceful and restorative camping trip in southern Oregon. As the trip approached I noticed more and more how full of words, fragments and looping nonsense my mind is. My intention for the vacation was to simply DROP IT all and BE in the present moment. To savor every drop of the experience. It was phenomenal and I want more!

The closer to Portland we got on the drive back - as soon as we entered more familiar landscape along the Dalles-California Highway - I noticed some of that mental chatter begin to pop up. All of the WORDS I began to see everywhere from billboards and commercial enterprise after commercial enterprise, stirred it up. But I'm managing to still hold on to the centeredness, serenity, groundedness and presence I felt throughout our vacation.

As I observe my thoughts I notice much of the mental noise is imagined what-if scenarios and responses to them, imaginary conversations and narrative planning. Is this insanity or what is becoming of the mighty human mind as a result of our utterly disconnected from nature existence? I guess I'm as sane as the next person so I tend to see this type of thinking as an attempt to alleviate the anxiety of not knowing how it will all unfold. Life that is. So we hold desperately onto the little stuff, trying to make it all just right. It's impossible so we struggle, endlessly and unnecessarily.

Fur Free Friday 2010

Today I marched in the Fur Free Friday demonstration in downtown Portland. Justin had to make soap all day today but I rode the bus into the city and stood alongside 200 or so other compassionate individuals dedicated to acting up on behalf of the 50 million beings who each year are bred and slaughtered in some of the most gruesome conditions imaginable so that sickeningly selfish and obtuse people can wear their furs.

Practicing Patience

Some wise soul said “Patience is a virtue” and after years of deliberate practice it is now abundantly clear to me why. In our super-fast, win-or-die goal-oriented Western culture we so easily forget that life is a journey, rather than a competition or race toward some end prize. The true prizes are to be found along the way, but if we’re caught up in a cyclone of “busyness” it’s hard to really see and receive the wisdom and joy to be gleaned along the way.

Autumn roses, the Pittock legacy and the spirit of Portland

Last week in a warm gusty day the sun and earth aligned just so; the autumnal equinox

Among my favorite places to visit in Portland is the Pittock Mansion. Another of my favorites, this time photographic subjects, are flowers. These roses are from the garden at the Pittock Mansion. I'd like to imagine they may be some of the very plants that sparked the Rose Festival, a Portland tradition Georgiana Pittock is credited with originating.

A dynamic and community minded couple, the Pittocks played major roles in the development of Portland's spirit. Henry Pittock took ownership of the Weekly Oregonian in 1860, changing its format to the daily paper we read today. He was also one of the first to ascend Mount Hood and he ultimately built a large commercial empire that included everything from real estate to mining. Georgiana helped carve a way for women's independence in the early days of the Rose City. She helped found the Ladies Relief Society in 1867, whose Children’s Home provided care, food, and shelter for needy children. Georgiana also worked with the Woman’s Union, and played a key role in building the Martha Washington Home for single, working women.

And I think of my dynamic couple-ship - the mufftastic Siosal union. What we intend to create -

Legacy - a noun; as in a legacy from a great aunt

A legacy or bequest, inheritance, heritage, endowment, gift, patrimony, settlement, birthright;

formally, benefaction.

Questions for the Universe

Often in meditation I go inward seeking an answer or clue to a question that thinking will not deliver. As I close my eyes on this earth,  my inner eyes open into the universe. All around me stretching forever, trillions of stars sparkle like diamonds against velvet and fiery, milky galaxies bob in the myriad dimensions. I let words go and slip into mystery, I am a soul poised to take flight, heading out into the real information superhighway in search of pure knowing.

To blog, or not to blog

As the number of weeks and then months increased since I last made an entry on this blog, I began to question why I started this blog to begin with, and what I wanted out of the experience.

Growth

As I approach my birthday and the end of 2009 I am in awe at the profound transformation that has quietly (and sometimes not so quietly) breathed through my life this year. Last December I never would have guessed that in 12 months I'd be back in Portland and an entrepreneur bringing to life several creative projects. As I survey my somewhat unexpected harvest from the year, I come to this blog, which I'd begun as a kind of annex to my freelance writing business as well as an avenue to discuss the things that are important to me, and share some creative work.

I knew I wanted to be here but wasn't exactly sure all that it was going to entail. The most surprising thing required was to simply endure great stretches of what felt like nothingness, doldrums, being stuck.  Frustrating patches of time where nothing seemed to be moving forward. Mostly what I needed to do was relax and allow many ideas and perspectives of the past fall away, making room for new energies and opportunities to enter my life and take root.

Plot of Origin

If you were to ask me where I come from
I would say without hesitation it’s not a story of birds and bees,
mothers and fathers, even seeds and soil.
I come from the time before time, when the nascent elements
were chemical fire dust of minerals molecules
and love. This is the primal answer, the truth.

But today, for a more immediate frame of reference
I come from the garden,
where my tomatoes have been rendered inert;
dozens of ghostly green fruit frozen in time.
As gardener, midwife to the plants, I withdraw my shears
and begin cutting away the abundance of lush green foliage;
sacrificing the fragrant leaves and doomed yellow blossoms.
As I sever the tough, gristly stalks the iron sky drops rain
dappling my bare feet, my blades, my plants cut down in their prime.
And I see then it’s of no use, an insulating membrane of plastic;
my tomatoes are destined for an unconventional recipe.

Veg Fest 2009

Yesterday Justin and I went to Veg Fest at the Oregon Convention Center. I'd been anticipating this event since August and found the cool, drizzly fall morning to be a perfect backdrop for a Saturday of free vegan food, cooking demos, classes and info booths from some of the coolest companies on the market right now. We got the entrance of exhibit hall A and waited in a line for about 5 minutes. It was exciting to see so many people eager to be exposed to veggie culture. In fact on our way out 2 hours later there was still a steady line at the door! Once we got inside and it became clear that everyone's main priority was downing the free food. Having attended Expo West, the massive annual natural products trade show in Anaheim, for the last two years I was prepared for crowds of sample hungry people but this scene was truly comical in its unapologetic crush for free yummy treats. So we dove right in.

Ransom Poem

September Garden

 

The corridor on the south side of the house (where my magnificent tomato plot resides) is lined with dahlias and roses. The flowers reach beyond their beds and wrap me in a fragrant embrace as I make my way through to water, harvest or simply admire. 

I wasn't sure if this pumpkin plant was going to yield any fruit. This only child emerged in the middle of August much to our delight.

Almost ripe! Their intense color and fang-like shape makes me think HOT, but these Banana Peppers are sweet and will temper a spicy chili.

Looking for some folklore on Amaranth this story from Aesop's Fables continued to surface:

Rose and Amaranth are often found blossoming side by side. Amaranth says to her iconic neighbor, "How I envy your beauty and your sweet scent! No wonder you are the universal favorite." Ever gracious, Rose then replies, "Ah my dear friend Amaranth, my bloom is but for the summer season. Come fall I wither and die. But your flowers never fade, even if they are cut; for they are everlasting." 

My feminism notes how these anthropomorphized (female) flowers are portrayed as competitors for the affections of the masses. Amaranth the country mouse, practical housewife or bespectacled best friend and Rose the city mouse, model or homecoming queen. I've got to get my hands on a feminist retelling of the great fairy tales. Or write them myself... in any case I see a bouquet in my future.

A brilliant bouquet...

At this rate we will have fresh tomatoes through October. Another tomato tart for dinner tonight. I'll never tire of them!

From my notebook

I go through periods of time when poetry or its seeds rise brilliantly from the mud and I begin to write spontaneously. But when I sit down with an intent write poetry - inspired by some inner tickle to say something- and the images and ideas don't coalesce into words I stop trying and take a more playful approach. Lately I've been coming up with little assignments and prompts for myself. One of my favorites involves flipping through a dictionary and writing down the last word on the page it opens to and doing a quick stream-of-consciousness writing using these words. This afternoon I flipped up a couple of really interesting lists. The first one:

bludgeon
eat
heresy
heart
locks
nostalgia
peek
rumba
superstition

And here's my free write: 
 

                   I turn to any page and my word is
                    bludgeon, something heavy and unforgiving
                    too much to eat.
                    My heresy is a heart that locks,
                    a caution my friend
                    against nostalgia, though I invite you
                    to peek as my satin hips rumba,
                    cross yourself in superstition
                    against the sin you cannot erase.

The next series of words was:

bourbon
dreadful
drama
fornicate
joker
magnify
odious
shade
spasmodic
temporal
virus

Love this list! And the free write:


            bourbon spills down to the floor
            covering ground like this dreadful drama.
            garish darkness hyenas fornicate
            and a joker howls to the moon whose light will
            magnify the odious shade of evil
            glowing in spasmodic delight,
            a temporal virus eating us alive.

Swimming

For millennia people have taken to water to both clean and infuse themselves with the healing properties of this ubiquitous element. Appropriately named Matsya after the fish incarnation of the Hindu Lord Vishnu, I have always sought the solace of a hot, fragrant bath at the end of a long day. Swimming has also always been an especial joy to me. As a child I plunged right into icy creeks, Oregon coast waves and plastic-rimmed swimming pools whenever the opportunity arose. Needless to say it has always felt like a decadent treat to go swimming, which for me only enhances the activity's magical, restorative properties.

This weekend when I woke to a wet, grey day the urge to go for a bike ride or a hike was buried beneath sheets of cold, dark rain. I considered the weekend in bed with a book but my commitment to exercising is pretty strong. Honestly my sanity depends upon it. So I've been going to the gym and swimming laps in the turquoise blue pool. 24 Hour Fitness is a far cry from a marble bath replete with hookahs, exotic fruits, and incense but in the bright tiled windowless room I somehow descend into a peacefulness perhaps transmitted by the welcoming embrace of a body of water. As I swim I notice myself in a very present, meditative state. I'm not the strongest of swimmers so I do have to focus to get successfully down my lane. I'm also reminded of yoga as I naturally focus on my alignment and experiment with micro-adjustments (primarily in my core) to achieve greater (or keep) balance, kick stronger and move forward faster.

With September and October (perhaps my favorite month) stretching before me I do see many more bike rides and hikes among brilliant foliage, but for now I'm a little thrilled with the idea of swimming through the winter. Here's a somewhat related post I wrote for Touchstones of the Sacred, ME2 Challenge: Exercise and Seasonal Change.

Poems from the forest

Two weekends ago I had an amazing experience at Opal Creek in the Oregon wilderness. With a group of 7 other women I set off into the woods for 3 days of yoga, writing and simply being in nature. The workshop was offered by Becca Deysach's Ibex Studios and was rejuvenating and magical beyond my wildest dreams. An orange butterfly walked calmly onto my finger and sat with me until our hike continued away from one glimmering opal pool to the next. If that's not an auspicious omen or creative blessing I don't know what is. Also with all the gifts of the experience, I busted through a persistent creative block I've been carrying around for a long time. Gillian's opening, grounding and strengthening yoga classes, Becca's intelligent writing prompts, and the experience of sharing writing with a group, was the holistic medicine I needed. The majesty and peacefulness of our surroundings, the easy friendship and natural pace of living were also profoundly healing and inspiring. I wrote more on the experience in a blog post titled "Retreat", for Touchstones of the Sacred.

Anyway, on Skull & Quill I want to share some of the writing that came out of the workshop. Both of the following poems were culled from the writing that came out in free writes after Becca's prompts on the second afternoon of the retreat. After a blissfully slow morning of tea, sitting in the sun and yoga, we hiked through the forest and sat in a circle on the earth. The ground was unbelievably spongy - thousands of years of fallen trees accumulating moisture, moss and vast cities of minute creatures. A perfect nest for the 8 of us, within earshot of the creek.

Normally I don't share my poetry until I've gone over it with ever-finer toothed combs (about 25 times). Here I'm going to share both the stuff that came out of the free write and these first draft poems. I suppose I am cultivating openness with process. Friends and strangers, I welcome your feedback on the poems and will share future revisions here.

Free write prompt: we were asked to find a place alone in the forest and looking through a lens no larger than our two hands held in a spyglass circle, find a place that spoke to us. After some time alone with our place, we began writing by describing what we saw through our lens. 
This hollow goes deep beneath an ancient tree. Deep to the center of the earth. If I were an inch tall this hollow would take me into a dark, mysterious cavern. Spiderwebs with lacy patterns glisten in the sun - angelic stained glass. This hollow is gilded with light, death, decay and new growth. Draped across the silent hollow the webs of light catch what drops down, returning to the earth. If I could put my heart in this hollow it would rest in the cool silent dark, until the steady infinite pulse of life seized my weariness, my fear, my hope. Beating now with a simple, timeless rhythm. Have I ever sat still before? Time passes, water flows, the forest decays and is reborn, and now my heart rests at peace with time, decay and rebirth. But the buzzing of yellow jackets, flies chase me from my peaceful retreat. So what is this hollow? A space big enough for my whole heart. And the ceaseless buzzing of thought comes upon me in massive waves flooding the cavern with noise, energy, darkness.

Poem draft
Contemplation in the forest, Opal Creek OR
This hollow goes deep beneath an ancient tree
to the center of the earth.
Draped across its silent mouth spiderwebs glisten in the sun
like angelic stained glass. The luminescent strands
catch what drops down, the returning descent to the earth
interrupted.

If I were an inch tall
this hollow could take me whole,
into a dark mysterious cavern
where I could live in quiet refuge,
a solitary Thumbelina. Instead I sit beside this hollow,
gilded with light and death and decay, my warm hand pressed
into the textures of the tree,
spongy moss, rough lichen, damp powdery bark - united.

Ignoring the frantic buzzing insects, anxious
that I might take from them
their brief existence. Thoughts buzzing too, afraid
I may no longer need their hollow sustenance.

Time passes, water flows, the forest decays and is reborn, nursed by its own fallen grandmothers.

If I could put my heart in this hollow, it would rest
in cool, silent dark
until the steady, infinite pulse at the center of life
seizes up my weariness, my fear, my hope
in a great resuscitating breath.

Then the beating of my heart would match
the simple infinite rhythm, at peace with timelessness
and continuum.

Free write prompt: after creating a (vexing) chart that depicted the poles in our life, and our current place of balance between them, we wrote about our experience of polarity.
What would it mean to surrender - to drop the tension between being and doing? And plunge face first, heart first running through the river running quietly through my life? I am tired of writing about it, tired of thinking about it. Can I just be with this question? I don’t have the answers and it makes my blood itch. I don’t have the time but the hour is here. A gentle rain gathering. I cannot remember the first great surrender when my mother’s womb quickened and the time for being became a life of doing, but I think this is where I must begin. At the beginning when all was unknown and my feet were bare, my trust infinite, my curiosity without purpose. Clouds becomes rain becomes river becomes ocean and this is my blood. Don’t tell me what I should do, must do, cannot do. Amid the chaos, a gentle intelligence emerges speaking another language entirely. The language of water, soil, blood. Let me carry you it whispers. Let me take you there. Where? Curiosity without purpose, mystery without knowing. Being. Forget what you know, swimming will not get you there.







 
Poem draft
Contemplation in the forest II, Opal Creek OR
What would it mean to surrender
and drop the tension between being and doing,
to plunge heart-first into the river that runs quietly
through the center of my life,
to embrace curiosity without purpose, mystery without knowing?
How would I release the confines of physics
and take the helm of my heart, and be carried safely
down this eternal waterway?

I cannot remember my first great surrender -
when my mother's womb contracted and no longer fit,
when my time for being grew to be a life of doing
but this is where I must begin.
A gentle rain is gathering, promising transformation
with the breaking of water.
Clouds become rain becomes river becomes ocean
and this is my blood.

Deep in the forest now, so far 
from the chaos of emerging on that first cold, bright, deafening day
there is a whisper that speaks another language entirely -
the language of water, soil and blood.
Let me carry you, it whispers.
Forget what you know, swimming will not get you there.

Recipes from my August tomato harvest

This August we have been well-fed from the garden, especially from my beloved tomato plants. Tomatoes have two interesting colloquial names: love apple, which comes to us from the French pomme d'amour. This is a phonetic derivation of Italian's pomo dei Mori (apples of the Moors), as 16th century Europe was supplied with tomatoes from North Africa.


My favorite ways to enjoy tomatoes are sliced raw on my morning toast, diced into salads or simmered all afternoon into a ruby-colored chutney. Last week Justin made one of his amazing curries with naan. He makes the dough and forms each piece of bread by hand, grills it on the stovetop and finishes it off in the oven. It is so freaking good. The tomato plants were really producing and the neighbors had given us some of their tomatoes too. I couldn't bear the thought of any of them spoiling. To round out our Indian inspired feast I made a hot chutney with some of our giant heirloom tomatoes.



Spicy Heirloom Tomato Chutney
1 c coarsely chopped sweet onion (go for Walla Walla's)
2 1/2 c fresh, chopped heirloom tomatoes
14.5 ounce can of diced unsalted tomatoes (omit if you have more fresh tomatoes)
1 tbs olive or coconut oil (for a sweeter chutney)
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 tsp dried, ground ginger
1/4 tsp ground coriander seed
1/2 tsp ground cumin seed
1/8 tsp cayenne pepper powder
1/4 tsp whole fennel seeds
1/4 tsp whole cumin seeds
2 tsp crushed red pepper (cut to 1 tsp for a medium-spicy chutney)
1/2 tsp ground allspice
1/2 tsp garam masala
2 tsp kosher salt
2-3 tbs agave nectar


Heat the oil over medium heat and stir in the onions. Sautee until they are well coated in the oil and begin to soften. Reduce heat to low and add the garlic cloves and all spices (except salt and agave). Stir well so the onions are coated with the spice paste and continue to cook for a few minutes. If the spices begin to stick to the pan add a few tablespoons of water.


Add the fresh tomatoes, stir well, add canned tomatoes and increase heat to bring the mixture to a boil. Once it is at a healthy boil reduce heat to low. Leave the chutney to gently simmer for 2-3 hours, stirring occasionally. Stir in the agave nectar toward the end. The chutney is done when it's reduced by about half. If you happen to have enough fresh tomatoes to omit the canned (about 5-6 cups fresh) it may take a little longer to reduce. Keep a close eye on it especially if you are using an electric stove. I've noticed how much the heat settings on electric stoves vary. The 1950's relic I'm cooking on now will scorch rice and sauces even on the "warm" setting if you leave them alone for too long.


Monday morning there was a massive ripening of cherry tomatoes. Enough to do something really interesting with. That day the Oregonian ran a recipe for a Southern Tomato Pie and inspired this fresh, light vegan tart. The absence of heavy dairy-based ingredients really allowed the flavor of the tomatoes to shine. Inspired by our tiny bumper crop I made up this recipe for an Heirloom Tomato Tart and served it with our runty, misshapen corn harvest and the 5th wave of snap peas, served raw with a homemade balsamic-tahini dressing.
*A raw foods variation on this entire recipe is to make the tart filling as directed below (you may want to reduce amount of garlic) allow it to marinate for a few hours and serve as is. It also makes a good bruscetta topping, raw or grilled.


Tart Shell:
20 phyllo dough sheets
1/3 c melted Earth Balance
The phyllo dough will need to thaw at room temp (takes about 2 hours) before you begin working with it.
For Filling or Raw Salad:
3-4 c sliced heirloom cherry tomatoes (I supplemented the cherry tomatoes with another variety, chopped)
4-5 large garlic cloves, minced
1/4 c raw pine nuts
2 tsp kosher salt
1 tsp fresh ground black pepper
1 tsp dried thyme
2 tsp Spike
2-3 tbs chopped fresh basil
1 tbs chopped fresh rosemary


Pre-heat your oven to 350 degrees. Place all filling ingredients into a bowl and stir well to thoroughly coat all tomatoes with the seasonings and disperse garlic and pine nuts. Melt the Earth Balance. Carefully unroll the phyllo dough.


A few words about phyllo dough: The directions on my package said to immediately cover it with plastic and then a damp towel and always keep it covered while working with it. This sounded a bit hysterical to me and I'm not down with using plastic on my food nor do I generally try to make "pretty" dishes. So I threw caution to the wind and left my phyllo dough vulnerable to the air. So it's up to you, follow the directions or don't. My tart was a little soft on the bottom and had a rough, peasanty edge to it. When cut with a sharp knife it held together pretty well. My vision was for a round tart, a savory-sweet moon of flaky dough and a warm, slightly saucy center. So I defied the logic of using a rectangular dish to match the shap of the papery thin phyllo sheets and made my round tart.

Once you've selected your baking dish, layer sheets of phyllo dough with a brushing of the melted Earth balance until you've built a layer of 7-10 sheets for the bottom of the tart. Because I used a round pan I carefully ripped off the squared excess and formed a somewhat jagged perimeter, flush with the rim of the dish.


Once you've built up the bottom of the tart, pour the filling into the dish and repeat the phyllo/Earth Balance layering to form the top. I really like the super-flaky effect from ripping the edges of the dough sheets. Next put it in the oven for 30 minutes and allow to set for another 25-35 minutes on a cooling rack before serving.