Beauty

I seek the beauty
in the far flung hills
in the temple of my soul
in the silence of the dawn

I seek the beauty
in the song of my people
in the thread of a prayer shawl
in the dusk of the sky

the beauty seeks me
through a veil of darkness
and finds my eyes a mirror
to reflect back the splendor

I have found the beauty
in the breath that I draw
in the minor chord of sorrow
in the echo of the hills

The House of Tomorrow

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children." 

And he said: Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you. 

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of to-morrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. 

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. Let your bending in the Archer's hand be for gladness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Copyright @ Kahlil Gibran.

image: Picasso

I read this passage from "The Prophet" many years before I became a mother.

I probably identified more with the role of the child at the time; these words confirming my belief that I was destined to separate from my parents' home, as well as their values and sensibilities.

Now I find solace in this poem as a parent. 
Here is my poem:

Broken hearts  broken dreams

God's arrows shot through me

to a world beyond mine

Their pain isn't mine

though I feel it in my bones

Their triumphs belong to them

yet I inhale them as a balm

The cord is cut
again and again

Though I yearn to cast a line
and fish them back to me
they belong to "Life's
Longing" for itself.

messianic musings

Messiah

"Anglicization of the Hebrew, "mashiach" (anointed). A man who will be chosen by G-d to put an end to all evil in the world, rebuild the Temple, bring the exiles back to Israel and usher in the world to come. It is better to use the Hebrew term "mashiach" when speaking of the Jewish messiah, because the Jewish concept is very different from the Christian one."
(http://www.jewfaq.org/defs/messiah.htm)

Is the mashiach for real?

Is the "world to come" the precursor to Christianity's "heaven"?

Can we look at the concept of a mashiach as metaphor?
As we examine the "pharaoh" within, the parts of ourselves that keep us in psychological bondage, can we embrace the mashiach within too?

Must the anointed refer solely to a flesh and blood human?
Could the chosen be something less tangible, such as an intention, a kavannah, that resides in the here and now?

Let us partner with the possibility of a better world, today, for our tomorrows may not be ours to behold.

                                                                 🌿

Chicken Fiction for the Soul

There was a chicken named Barbara who would fight with the rooster. She eventually stopped laying eggs after many years of laying them. She would still go to the same spot everyday to lay and warm her imaginary eggs. She would sit on the other hens' eggs and they would get mad. One month there were no worms for Barbara so she started pecking at the farmer's plant. She ate at his magic bean stalk and began to get very sick and turned blue. This is because she didn't say the magic words before eating the beans. The mouse saw that Barbara didn't say niskeiya sheyvatama so she got sick instead of well from the beans. Barbara said the phrase and she woke up the next morning, and immediately she could now lay golden eggs. All the worms were back and the rooster has became an old kind hearted rooster because the world had humbled him while she was in her years long slumber.

Written this morning at my request by my beautiful son, Spencer Jordan. Thank you Spence for indulging me. I have always admired your imagination. Unbeknownst to me you have a chicken....featured prominently in your photo.

I read recently somewhere that there is more truth in fiction than non-fiction.

Truth isn't only about facts; dates and places...it is also about what the inexplicable can say to the soul. 

My own personal love of fiction ranges from classic novels to the HBO series Ray Donovan. I feel transported, much the same way drugs took me on trips, but without the negative side effects.

It seems we humans tend to bury our deeper fears and emotions in order to function in society, but something dies in the process, so we revive the drama, chaos, passion and whimsy by plugging into our favorite book, music or show. Our control is put on the back burner as we delve into enchanted lands, and feel feelings in a big way.

If miracles can happen in fiction, then maybe our own lives are less anchored to mundanity than we think.

my Creator's Prayer: a revised Lord's Prayer

 Our Creator , who art in the heavens, and within us, hallowed be thy name.

May your wholeness come, may our wills be one, in ourselves as it is in your holiness.

Thank you for this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, against ourselves and others, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

Lead us not into temptation, and teach us to deliver ourselves from defilement. 

For yours is the creation, the power of at-one-ment, and the glory of love,

Amen 🌿

Me And My Immersion Blender; A Short Love Story

I was first introduced to an IB when working as an au pair, circa 1982, in the village of Chamonix, France.

Mdm. Ettienne (a fictitious surname, the original long forgotten) was in the habit of concocting a wonderful soup at week's end, making use of leftover vegetables.
My favorite of these was a dish she dubbed "soupe de racine", or "root soup".

Just as it sounds,  Mdm. gathered a miscellany of edible roots from her cold storage: carrots, turnips, parsnips and the like.  After a sauté of aromatics, such as garlic, shallot or a basic mirepoix (diced onion, celery and carrot) she added liquid to the pot. Water is great, as is vegetable or chicken broth, filling the pot to about the 3/4 mark, or enough to cover the roots to be added. Large chopped chunks of the veggies sufficed, as they would soften with boiling.

Now comes my favorite part: the immersion blender. She whipped out this device I had never seen in my mother's American kitchen, and proceeded to stick it right into the hot pot!  What was once a rather unappetizing pot of glop morphed into a silky smooth potage, which she then topped with shredded gruyere and pepper.

My charge, little adorable yet fussy Else, was two-ish, and cared not for vegetables....you see where I am going.  So thanks to French mamas everywhere, French kids get their veggies.

I have my very own IB nowadays,  as do most Americans cooks, and I blend till my heart's content.  What vegetable doesn't lend itself to blending?  Today it was butternut squash. Tomorrow it may be asparagus...you do the math.

Recovery from addiction is a daily experience, and I have found that dwelling on the "what ifs" or waiting for the next shoe to drop is no way to live.  My life is NOW...so I'll make soup.