Prema’s Famous Bunny Cake
I started making this cake so many years ago, when my children were little, that it has become a family tradition every Easter dinner. Now, I cannot get away without making it. Since so many others have partaken of its delectable goodness over time, it has become quite famous in certain circles.
I start preparing the evening before Easter with mixing oodles of melted chocolate into a huge bowl of cake batter. I make several cakes, actually. Since I am not one to stick to a recipe, it is always somewhat of an improvisation. The morning after it has been baked and cooled, I cut it into the necessary shapes and start building this three dimensional bunny on my serving platter. Three half round pans make up the body. They are all side by side, stuck together by perfectly whipped whip cream. Then I cut out two smaller quarter rounds for the head, one little one for the tail, two haunches and back legs, and two ears. The whip cream glue is the perfect medium for holding it all together. I may need a couple of toothpicks to hold the ears somewhat erect. Then I slather the whipped cream over the whole form. Then comes the fun part of sprinkling and, in some side places, throwing shredded coconut over it all. It is a furry bunny, after all. The final touch is a chocolate covered almond for the nose and two pink Sunspire candied peanuts for the eyes. I clean up the platter and place strawberries and foil wrapped chocolate eggs around the whole sculpture. It is truly magnificent, if I say so myself.
Of course, some years it turns out better than others. There are always bits and pieces of cake that got cut away in order to create the form. Dipping them in extra whipped cream is part of the ritual. Now I get to pass on this Easter dinner staple to my grandchildren. Maybe, someday, they will learn to make it.
Prema Rose
5/30/09
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Gene’s Wedding
Struck by the warmth and simplicity, my heart opened more as I gazed upon my oldest son and his about-to-be wife. They stood facing each other, she in a long dark red dress with sequins here and there…he in a black tux, white shirt and dark red bowtie and cummerbund.
It was warm in the small Christian church, air-conditioning at a minimum in the unexpectedly humid, eighty-five degree May day. Sweat beaded on Gene’s upper lip and temples, and Elsa leaned over and dabbed his face with a tissue. It was a kind gesture. The pastor, standing up close to them, his bald pate beaming along with his round face, smiled at them both.
I had been greeted at the door by Pastor Pat, hugged fiercely to his barrel chest, and proclaimed ‘Mom!’ I had been previously warned about his hugging proclivities.
Gene used his own tissue and wiped a tear escaping Elsa’s eye as the pastor continued the wedding ceremony.
Breaks for singing accompanied the standard biblical passages about a man and woman leaving the parent’s house and cleaving to each other. Gene’s brother, Lanai, and I were asked to read these passages and we each rose at our prompt, stood at the reader’s podium, and read to the twenty-five people gathered for the noon marriage.
With the exchange of rings and vows, I glanced over at my other son, Nick, and his wife and two young daughters. All eyes were glued on the couple at the altar.
The ‘you may now kiss the bride’ statement elicited sighs from both of the happy couple, with applause following.
One last guitar piece with vocal duet, and the newly married extension of my family became a reality. Elsa and Gene, along with her five children all dressed in white dresses or small black suits, followed them out of the church doors into the early afternoon sunlight. Cameras flashed, congrats given, and smiles warmed each face as they stood in a greeting line.
Elsa hugged me and called me mom.
We headed off for a catered Asian food reception. Conversation flowed from all three large tables as the dishes made their way to each tables’ lazy-susan in the center.
I looked around at my now extended family and was amazed at how large it was becoming.
I was so glad Gene and Elsa had found each other, and were helping the other heal wounds from past relationships, and creating a new family for themselves.
It was a day of new beginnings for many of us there.
Jyoti
It was warm in the small Christian church, air-conditioning at a minimum in the unexpectedly humid, eighty-five degree May day. Sweat beaded on Gene’s upper lip and temples, and Elsa leaned over and dabbed his face with a tissue. It was a kind gesture. The pastor, standing up close to them, his bald pate beaming along with his round face, smiled at them both.
I had been greeted at the door by Pastor Pat, hugged fiercely to his barrel chest, and proclaimed ‘Mom!’ I had been previously warned about his hugging proclivities.
Gene used his own tissue and wiped a tear escaping Elsa’s eye as the pastor continued the wedding ceremony.
Breaks for singing accompanied the standard biblical passages about a man and woman leaving the parent’s house and cleaving to each other. Gene’s brother, Lanai, and I were asked to read these passages and we each rose at our prompt, stood at the reader’s podium, and read to the twenty-five people gathered for the noon marriage.
With the exchange of rings and vows, I glanced over at my other son, Nick, and his wife and two young daughters. All eyes were glued on the couple at the altar.
The ‘you may now kiss the bride’ statement elicited sighs from both of the happy couple, with applause following.
One last guitar piece with vocal duet, and the newly married extension of my family became a reality. Elsa and Gene, along with her five children all dressed in white dresses or small black suits, followed them out of the church doors into the early afternoon sunlight. Cameras flashed, congrats given, and smiles warmed each face as they stood in a greeting line.
Elsa hugged me and called me mom.
We headed off for a catered Asian food reception. Conversation flowed from all three large tables as the dishes made their way to each tables’ lazy-susan in the center.
I looked around at my now extended family and was amazed at how large it was becoming.
I was so glad Gene and Elsa had found each other, and were helping the other heal wounds from past relationships, and creating a new family for themselves.
It was a day of new beginnings for many of us there.
Jyoti
Friday, May 29, 2009
Tree
Standing in a sea of eternity
The tree cast nets of shadows.
Then pulling in the dusky night
O'er velvet waves of grass
Brought home our firey souls
To rest on fettered shores.
Jesse
The tree cast nets of shadows.
Then pulling in the dusky night
O'er velvet waves of grass
Brought home our firey souls
To rest on fettered shores.
Jesse
Thursday, May 28, 2009
A White Cowboy Hat
One week ago today I got up in the morning, took a shower, got dressed and drove to the airport. I had worked long hard hours to get my schedule clear so that I could spend time with you. Who knows? I had thrown my white cowboy hat in the back seat yesterday so that I wouldn’t forget it. I was wearing it in the only picture that you have seen of me. And I have one tiny picture of you in a tightly buttoned grey shirt. But today you said that you would be wearing a green shirt as you traveled across the country.
At the airport I pulled out my notebook as I waited for your plane to land and jotted down ideas and observations:
I am wearing my old white cowboy hat so that a man I have yet to meet ~ will recognize me. I feel amazing calm. Months of written conversations and talking on the phone nearly every night….. waiting and wondering …. what’s next? Goddess only knows!
Airports are great for people watching. Sometimes the folks waiting and the passenger arriving look so much alike that even I could match them up. Watching a persons face light up as they recognize their loved ones, followed by hugs and kisses. The look of others as they desperately search the waiting crowd for a friendly face. I wonder what face I have worn in the past. I wonder what I look like today?
Uh Oh! The airport greeter, the woman standing at the top of stairs to answer questions and keep people moving, is wearing a White Cowboy Hat! There are several guys in black cowboy hats, that won’t confuse my long awaited traveler .... but Miss Congeniality, that might do it. I wander up to the dividing barricade and get her attention as the last batches of incoming passengers are absorbed into the awaiting crowd. I look at her with mock seriousness and tell her that I am a little worried. “Oh” she says with warm concern, “what are you worried about? I will try and help you.” she says sweetly.
“Well, I have a situation. I am picking up a fellow here today that I have never met in person. He's wearing a green shirt. I know his voice but I am not at all certain that I will recognize him, and he is looking for a woman in a white cowboy hat. Now I am worried that he is going to see you first and ……..“ I scrunched up my shoulders and placed a question mark on my face.
She looks at the grin on my face and senses the lightness of this conversation. Smiling, she leans towards me and nearly whispers, “You should be worried. If a nice looking young man approaches me first, attracted by my cowboy hat, I don’t care what color shirt he’s wearing, I am so out of here ~ and I’m taking him with me!” Our eyes meet and acknowledge my humorous predicament.
I notice that the gentleman to my left, with his forearms leaning on the barricade, is intently watching the unmoving floor tiles in front of him, but his shoulders are shaking with silent laughter as he leans towards the two of us so as not to miss a word. “Okay then, I guess I had better pay close attention.” I laugh softly as I begin to move away, “I’m going to be watching you!”
“Good luck” she waves at me as she heads back to her station; we both are wearing silly grins with our white hats. I had just checked the Arrival Board before my conversation with Mrs. Congeniality, and it indicated that the plane I am waiting for is ‘In the Area’ but not on the ground. Humm, it seems that his plane is going to be late. I look down and rummage through my cowgirl handbag for my cell phone to check the time…..again.
I feel someone standing in front of me. I look up and there he is, smiling. He found me.
You are finally here. Bless the Goddess!
* annette.
At the airport I pulled out my notebook as I waited for your plane to land and jotted down ideas and observations:
I am wearing my old white cowboy hat so that a man I have yet to meet ~ will recognize me. I feel amazing calm. Months of written conversations and talking on the phone nearly every night….. waiting and wondering …. what’s next? Goddess only knows!
Airports are great for people watching. Sometimes the folks waiting and the passenger arriving look so much alike that even I could match them up. Watching a persons face light up as they recognize their loved ones, followed by hugs and kisses. The look of others as they desperately search the waiting crowd for a friendly face. I wonder what face I have worn in the past. I wonder what I look like today?
Uh Oh! The airport greeter, the woman standing at the top of stairs to answer questions and keep people moving, is wearing a White Cowboy Hat! There are several guys in black cowboy hats, that won’t confuse my long awaited traveler .... but Miss Congeniality, that might do it. I wander up to the dividing barricade and get her attention as the last batches of incoming passengers are absorbed into the awaiting crowd. I look at her with mock seriousness and tell her that I am a little worried. “Oh” she says with warm concern, “what are you worried about? I will try and help you.” she says sweetly.
“Well, I have a situation. I am picking up a fellow here today that I have never met in person. He's wearing a green shirt. I know his voice but I am not at all certain that I will recognize him, and he is looking for a woman in a white cowboy hat. Now I am worried that he is going to see you first and ……..“ I scrunched up my shoulders and placed a question mark on my face.
She looks at the grin on my face and senses the lightness of this conversation. Smiling, she leans towards me and nearly whispers, “You should be worried. If a nice looking young man approaches me first, attracted by my cowboy hat, I don’t care what color shirt he’s wearing, I am so out of here ~ and I’m taking him with me!” Our eyes meet and acknowledge my humorous predicament.
I notice that the gentleman to my left, with his forearms leaning on the barricade, is intently watching the unmoving floor tiles in front of him, but his shoulders are shaking with silent laughter as he leans towards the two of us so as not to miss a word. “Okay then, I guess I had better pay close attention.” I laugh softly as I begin to move away, “I’m going to be watching you!”
“Good luck” she waves at me as she heads back to her station; we both are wearing silly grins with our white hats. I had just checked the Arrival Board before my conversation with Mrs. Congeniality, and it indicated that the plane I am waiting for is ‘In the Area’ but not on the ground. Humm, it seems that his plane is going to be late. I look down and rummage through my cowgirl handbag for my cell phone to check the time…..again.
I feel someone standing in front of me. I look up and there he is, smiling. He found me.
You are finally here. Bless the Goddess!
* annette.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Alright
Flinging myself into the unknown corridor
I half cringe not knowing what lies beyond
I half celebrate the faceless unmapped moments
What could be more hidden
than each undetermined minute
revealing and resolving in its time
faces and feelings overlooked
unnamed and yet to be traveled
I awaken to a lullaby
of willow trees and soft winds
of summer about to begin
And then I remember
it is alright
Mary
I half cringe not knowing what lies beyond
I half celebrate the faceless unmapped moments
What could be more hidden
than each undetermined minute
revealing and resolving in its time
faces and feelings overlooked
unnamed and yet to be traveled
I awaken to a lullaby
of willow trees and soft winds
of summer about to begin
And then I remember
it is alright
Mary
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
My Dream Kitchen
When I bought my house, I said, “oh well”, to the kitchen. The smallness of it didn’t matter anymore. Life was down to me, having cooked for others for so many years. I thought I was relieved the kitchen wouldn’t be my reason for being at this time of my life. I was wrong, my focus will always be preparing food, something nourishing just for myself or joyfully for others also.
My true dream kitchen would be outdoors. In the summers especially, all the cooking would be outdoors. Cooking with nature amidst the vegetable garden, a close extension with the Mother seems extremely gratifying. I haven’t even grilled outside in several years, laziness, paranoia of a gas grill, but have great hopes of changing that this season.
I think of colonial times and how the kitchen was separate from the house, and sometimes even outdoors. How civilized! To be sealed up in a house while cooking is really quite confining. Food odors linger, especially clinging to older homes. Not many of us have a kitchen that is open to the outdoors, where we can open all the windows and pretend we’re in nature. The next best thing is an outdoor shower.
Patricia
My true dream kitchen would be outdoors. In the summers especially, all the cooking would be outdoors. Cooking with nature amidst the vegetable garden, a close extension with the Mother seems extremely gratifying. I haven’t even grilled outside in several years, laziness, paranoia of a gas grill, but have great hopes of changing that this season.
I think of colonial times and how the kitchen was separate from the house, and sometimes even outdoors. How civilized! To be sealed up in a house while cooking is really quite confining. Food odors linger, especially clinging to older homes. Not many of us have a kitchen that is open to the outdoors, where we can open all the windows and pretend we’re in nature. The next best thing is an outdoor shower.
Patricia
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Burgundy Shawl
When I first wore the burgundy shawl it was Christmas, 1978. It was a gift from Frannie, the office manager at the investment firm I worked for. I delivered stocks in downtown Denver. Knowing I was a free spirit, she figured that I was a person who would wear shawls. She was right.
Since then, this 3’by3’ woven square of wine-colored woolen yarn has served me well. It has sheltered me through 3 marriages, 2 divorces, 2 childbirths, countless menstrual moons, as well as menopause.
It reminds me of how my Grandpa Johnson complimented me whenever I wore red.
Worn around my neck in the winter it’s protected me from chills. Worn around my waist, I am a gypsy. Worn as a head scarf, I am a Muslim or Audrey Hepburn. Held in my hands, it can unfurl into a moving cloud of color, I am a belly dancer. It has been a blanket for picnics and sudden sex.
Countless meditations have been marked by wrapping it around my body, to cocoon the flesh and allowing my inner self to merge into oneness.
As my prayer rug, I have prayed in the Muslim tradition as a Sufi, facing Mecca.
As an altar cloth, it has served as I have honored my ancestors and celebrated the pagan high holidays, both outside under the stars and inside in solitary rituals.
The fringe around the edge still quavers in the breeze.
This shawl is steeped in the many flavors of my life. It carries forward what I once was into what I am now, reminding me of that inner fiber that is always the same no matter how it is styled and used from day to day.
--by Terra Rafael
Since then, this 3’by3’ woven square of wine-colored woolen yarn has served me well. It has sheltered me through 3 marriages, 2 divorces, 2 childbirths, countless menstrual moons, as well as menopause.
It reminds me of how my Grandpa Johnson complimented me whenever I wore red.
Worn around my neck in the winter it’s protected me from chills. Worn around my waist, I am a gypsy. Worn as a head scarf, I am a Muslim or Audrey Hepburn. Held in my hands, it can unfurl into a moving cloud of color, I am a belly dancer. It has been a blanket for picnics and sudden sex.
Countless meditations have been marked by wrapping it around my body, to cocoon the flesh and allowing my inner self to merge into oneness.
As my prayer rug, I have prayed in the Muslim tradition as a Sufi, facing Mecca.
As an altar cloth, it has served as I have honored my ancestors and celebrated the pagan high holidays, both outside under the stars and inside in solitary rituals.
The fringe around the edge still quavers in the breeze.
This shawl is steeped in the many flavors of my life. It carries forward what I once was into what I am now, reminding me of that inner fiber that is always the same no matter how it is styled and used from day to day.
--by Terra Rafael
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Chocolate
Chocolate! What is a day without it? I have had a love affair with chocolate ever since I can remember. Maybe it started with the candy dish that was inevitably placed on the coffee table in both my grandparent's and my parent's living room. The very thin "Thin Mints" came in square paper pockets. They were arranged in a circular fan so that, if I snuck one, I had to rearrange them so that you couldn't tell that one was missing. Ah yes, guilt crept int my consciousness. The dish with the assorted chocolates filled with mysterious centers, chewy caramels, fruity cremes, or various nuts, allowed me a playful indulgence. I woiuld not stop eating them until I found the one that I really liked. Then I was honor bound, to myself, to resist having another.
Later, in boarding school, I worked in the little store that was only open for an hour or so right after classes I was a slave to temptation and would buy (with vouchers) an assortment of candy bars to get me through the evening. I loved Mounds and Hershey's with Almonds, Snickers bars and Butterfingers. If it wasn't chocolate, I wasn't very interested, although you could twist my arm to eat just about anything sweet.
As time went on, I got my fixes in a variety of ways. I even swore off the habit several times.
Yesterday was Mother's Day. I was in the grocery store and there was a sale on ChocoLove bars. I bought two. Then one of my children brought me a bar and then another brought me four. I am swimming in chocolate! Life is good.
Prema Rose
Later, in boarding school, I worked in the little store that was only open for an hour or so right after classes I was a slave to temptation and would buy (with vouchers) an assortment of candy bars to get me through the evening. I loved Mounds and Hershey's with Almonds, Snickers bars and Butterfingers. If it wasn't chocolate, I wasn't very interested, although you could twist my arm to eat just about anything sweet.
As time went on, I got my fixes in a variety of ways. I even swore off the habit several times.
Yesterday was Mother's Day. I was in the grocery store and there was a sale on ChocoLove bars. I bought two. Then one of my children brought me a bar and then another brought me four. I am swimming in chocolate! Life is good.
Prema Rose
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Comfort Foods
Popcorn accompanied me on many trips back and forth to New Mexico.
Organic oatmeal with milk, no sweetener, and toast is something I make for myself at the end of a long travel day. Just returning from the east coast visit to grandchildren, being aboard a plane for several hours, with the accompanying rides to and from airports, I’m usually tired and want something grounding yet light, as I come home. A bowl of oatmeal with a little milk or yogurt just seems to be that simple food, that comfort at the end of the trip.
When I think about comfort food from my childhood, I remember the éclairs my mother bought us at the Jewish Bakery up the street, along with the black and white cookies, also called half moon cookies. Something she made for us as snacks was cut up bananas in sour cream, with a dash of sugar. My sister and I would sit outside in the side yard, concrete all around, the sun slanting in, in late morning, and she and I sitting on chairs my grandfather would have set up for us.
Coming from a German/Austrian background, dairy was always part of my diet growing up. During the times I’ve eliminated most dairy, I miss it. I miss the sour cream or yogurt with fruit mid-morning. Yet butter I never let go of. I’ve used ghee, mostly in cooking, but really appreciate the taste of butter, whether on rye toast, cinnamon bread, or melted in vegetable with rice or noodles. And if it’s on toast, I like the butter to be cold, not warm and soaking right into the heated bread, and to be spread out to the edges, not left as a smattering in the middle, suggesting it might reach the corners.
Because I’ve changed my diet over the years, from vegetarian, raw fooder, mostly veggie with chicken as I eat now, some foods that were important as a comfort food, no longer fit in.
And something I realized in writing this…The idea of comfort food is something I never really thought about. Usually when I’m working through something, I don’t eat. I walk. Eating while upset doesn’t occur to me. I just put my shoes on and head out to a bike path or a neighborhood street so I can think and try to see what’s going on.
Yet I love a lot of different kinds of foods including those above, plus mashed potatoes and ice cream. Maybe comfort and favorite are pretty close.
Jyoti
Organic oatmeal with milk, no sweetener, and toast is something I make for myself at the end of a long travel day. Just returning from the east coast visit to grandchildren, being aboard a plane for several hours, with the accompanying rides to and from airports, I’m usually tired and want something grounding yet light, as I come home. A bowl of oatmeal with a little milk or yogurt just seems to be that simple food, that comfort at the end of the trip.
When I think about comfort food from my childhood, I remember the éclairs my mother bought us at the Jewish Bakery up the street, along with the black and white cookies, also called half moon cookies. Something she made for us as snacks was cut up bananas in sour cream, with a dash of sugar. My sister and I would sit outside in the side yard, concrete all around, the sun slanting in, in late morning, and she and I sitting on chairs my grandfather would have set up for us.
Coming from a German/Austrian background, dairy was always part of my diet growing up. During the times I’ve eliminated most dairy, I miss it. I miss the sour cream or yogurt with fruit mid-morning. Yet butter I never let go of. I’ve used ghee, mostly in cooking, but really appreciate the taste of butter, whether on rye toast, cinnamon bread, or melted in vegetable with rice or noodles. And if it’s on toast, I like the butter to be cold, not warm and soaking right into the heated bread, and to be spread out to the edges, not left as a smattering in the middle, suggesting it might reach the corners.
Because I’ve changed my diet over the years, from vegetarian, raw fooder, mostly veggie with chicken as I eat now, some foods that were important as a comfort food, no longer fit in.
And something I realized in writing this…The idea of comfort food is something I never really thought about. Usually when I’m working through something, I don’t eat. I walk. Eating while upset doesn’t occur to me. I just put my shoes on and head out to a bike path or a neighborhood street so I can think and try to see what’s going on.
Yet I love a lot of different kinds of foods including those above, plus mashed potatoes and ice cream. Maybe comfort and favorite are pretty close.
Jyoti
Friday, May 22, 2009
Dog
The dog with the blue velvet eyes
Ate lies, the gentle beast.
We loved him the more for his appetite
As he lead us to our bread and butter beds
To cook a sleepless night
Jesse
Ate lies, the gentle beast.
We loved him the more for his appetite
As he lead us to our bread and butter beds
To cook a sleepless night
Jesse
Thursday, May 21, 2009
A Robin's Lesson
Glorious day. Lying in bed it seems like the little bird outside my window is confirming all my happy thoughts for this day. I formulate an idea and she chirps happily. I am thrilled that we concur on this day’s promise. Pulling on my old sweats against the chill of the morning, I check my email and there is a new one. Ya Hoo!! That’s the reason I looked first thing in the morning, isn’t it? Yes. I promise myself to stay open, honest, curious, willing to communicate, ready for whatever happens next. Really? Easier said than done. I write him back and hit the send button. In a few days he will be here and I still have so many things to do … like polish my toenails.
I put water on for coffee and go outside to feed the horses. It is a slendiferous morning! The sky is soft blue; the color deepening as it touches the tops of the snow covered mountain peaks. I look again and there is a spot of red in the sky. A hot air balloon is riding the air waves under thin wispy clouds. My horse gently knickers at me to get a move on. She cares not for the clouds, or the sky or the hot air balloon, she wants breakfast. “That’s why I’m here” I tell her as I crawl through the fence and greet her soft eye. “Your wish is my command, and I hope you are as willing later in the day when we saddle up for a jog around the loop!”
Horses fed, the evening meals ration laid aside, I stroll out and bury my face in the lilac blossoms. Wet with dew, they please all the senses. I glance at the garden that I finally got planted yesterday. It is full of promise, brown crumbly earth free of weeds, tipi’s in place ready to support the pole beans and snow peas. As I walk to the house ready for a warm brew, I paused to soak in the stillness. A fat robin flies right by me and lands on the patio. He drinks from a small pool left by last night’s watering. Then he runs across the concrete into the grass. Wondering if he can hear a worm, I watch him cruise over to a patch of dried grass and begin sorting through today’s offering. Without turning my head I notice another plumb little robin land high up on the gutter. Her skinny little legs carry her quickly across the shingles until she stands at the edge of the roof looking down as her partner shops for building materials. Finished, he flies a graceful arc around the corner of the house and heads toward the large pine tree in the font yard. She parallels his flight and, although I can no longer see them in the thick branches, I hear them discussing the home improvement project. I am sure, with her help, he will do a fine job.
They have it all figured out. Work with what you have. Help one another. Spread joy. Sing when possible.
* annette
I put water on for coffee and go outside to feed the horses. It is a slendiferous morning! The sky is soft blue; the color deepening as it touches the tops of the snow covered mountain peaks. I look again and there is a spot of red in the sky. A hot air balloon is riding the air waves under thin wispy clouds. My horse gently knickers at me to get a move on. She cares not for the clouds, or the sky or the hot air balloon, she wants breakfast. “That’s why I’m here” I tell her as I crawl through the fence and greet her soft eye. “Your wish is my command, and I hope you are as willing later in the day when we saddle up for a jog around the loop!”
Horses fed, the evening meals ration laid aside, I stroll out and bury my face in the lilac blossoms. Wet with dew, they please all the senses. I glance at the garden that I finally got planted yesterday. It is full of promise, brown crumbly earth free of weeds, tipi’s in place ready to support the pole beans and snow peas. As I walk to the house ready for a warm brew, I paused to soak in the stillness. A fat robin flies right by me and lands on the patio. He drinks from a small pool left by last night’s watering. Then he runs across the concrete into the grass. Wondering if he can hear a worm, I watch him cruise over to a patch of dried grass and begin sorting through today’s offering. Without turning my head I notice another plumb little robin land high up on the gutter. Her skinny little legs carry her quickly across the shingles until she stands at the edge of the roof looking down as her partner shops for building materials. Finished, he flies a graceful arc around the corner of the house and heads toward the large pine tree in the font yard. She parallels his flight and, although I can no longer see them in the thick branches, I hear them discussing the home improvement project. I am sure, with her help, he will do a fine job.
They have it all figured out. Work with what you have. Help one another. Spread joy. Sing when possible.
* annette
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
All This and Stillness
Crisp morning air,
sun’s warmth reaching to meet my skin.
Hummingbird darts past,
trilling his way to his turn at the feeder,
as chipmunks, looking for seed, scatter beneath me.
The pigmy nuthatch lands just inches from my head to eat.
Rocks smile, holding their sacred space.
As the songs of many birds fill the air
and my ears.
The air moves slightly to remind me
it’s not yet summer. It’s coolness
contrasts the sun’s embrace-just enough.
Sun’s soft light slowly illumines and warms each rock and tree,
moving down the mountainside as it
travels upward.
Bridges between stillness and all this,
between all this and stillness.
Mary
sun’s warmth reaching to meet my skin.
Hummingbird darts past,
trilling his way to his turn at the feeder,
as chipmunks, looking for seed, scatter beneath me.
The pigmy nuthatch lands just inches from my head to eat.
Rocks smile, holding their sacred space.
As the songs of many birds fill the air
and my ears.
The air moves slightly to remind me
it’s not yet summer. It’s coolness
contrasts the sun’s embrace-just enough.
Sun’s soft light slowly illumines and warms each rock and tree,
moving down the mountainside as it
travels upward.
Bridges between stillness and all this,
between all this and stillness.
Mary
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
A Child's Clothes
I was an only child, maybe more appropriately I was my Mother’s only doll. At the time of course, I didn’t realize this was the theme. I was usually cleaned and dressed twice a day. My Mom loves to boast that my best friend’s Mom next door would say when Jane and I played together, she always came home dirty, while I was still clean. I played in the dirt, climbed trees, rode my tricycle, rarely did the dirt cling to me. Skinned knees were more my thing.
My Mom is an incredible seamstress. She put so much energy into making me beautiful dresses. They were made from organdy or fine cotton batiste with lace and tucks and puffy sleeves. There were pinafores with eyelet and then pique fabrics, which has made a comeback after leaving us for so many years. Then the patent leather Mary Janes in white or black, just the right socks, even the panties were special. Were we wealthy? No, it was just the opposite.
So I would play hard in the mornings, but after naptime or by mid-afternoon, it was time to get cleaned up and dressed again. After all, Daddy was coming home and we had to look refreshed. This was a lot about living in the south in the summertime before air-conditioning.
I wish I could remember when all this stopped. I’m sure starting school was part of it. My Mom going to work was another piece. I feel there’s also another deeper aspect, maybe our dreams change as we lose control of how we thought things would be.
Patricia
My Mom is an incredible seamstress. She put so much energy into making me beautiful dresses. They were made from organdy or fine cotton batiste with lace and tucks and puffy sleeves. There were pinafores with eyelet and then pique fabrics, which has made a comeback after leaving us for so many years. Then the patent leather Mary Janes in white or black, just the right socks, even the panties were special. Were we wealthy? No, it was just the opposite.
So I would play hard in the mornings, but after naptime or by mid-afternoon, it was time to get cleaned up and dressed again. After all, Daddy was coming home and we had to look refreshed. This was a lot about living in the south in the summertime before air-conditioning.
I wish I could remember when all this stopped. I’m sure starting school was part of it. My Mom going to work was another piece. I feel there’s also another deeper aspect, maybe our dreams change as we lose control of how we thought things would be.
Patricia
Monday, May 18, 2009
Tea House Readings
Come join us for Tea and Readings.
Purchase tea and dessert and listen to stories
and poetry. New material also.
Dushanbe Tea House
June 8, 3-5PM.
Our book will be available for purchase.
13th and Canyon in Boulder.
Please RSVP to jyotiwind2@gmail.com
Patricia Jordan, Annette Price, Mary Randall,
Terra Rafael, Prema Rose, Jyoti Wind,
and Jesse Wolfe.
Comfort Soup
Soup is my cool weather comfort food. As a child, soup came in a white and red labeled can. At that time, my favorite was cream of tomato. Stirring the white milk into the red glob that fell out of the can would set my mouth to watering. A grilled cheese sandwich on the side with its toasty, buttery crusts and slowly dripping melted cheese center was the perfect complement.
I still indulge in soup. My soups are mostly home made now, with the help of packaged organic chicken broth or canned tomatoes. It could be a chicken noodle soup with plenty of veggies or minestrone with chunks of organic sausage bobbing in the tomato broth. Or maybe a red lentil dal or chicken and andouille gumbo. All of the flavors of the world can be comforting when served as a bowl of soup.
It was delightful to find out that my love for soup as a soother is supported by Ayurvedic medicine as well. Soup with plenty of fat, oil or butter can calm a spinning, overwhelmed mind or grieving heart , and renew a depleted body.
--Terra Rafael
I still indulge in soup. My soups are mostly home made now, with the help of packaged organic chicken broth or canned tomatoes. It could be a chicken noodle soup with plenty of veggies or minestrone with chunks of organic sausage bobbing in the tomato broth. Or maybe a red lentil dal or chicken and andouille gumbo. All of the flavors of the world can be comforting when served as a bowl of soup.
It was delightful to find out that my love for soup as a soother is supported by Ayurvedic medicine as well. Soup with plenty of fat, oil or butter can calm a spinning, overwhelmed mind or grieving heart , and renew a depleted body.
--Terra Rafael
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Discipline
Discipline
Discipline, for many people, is a dirty word. It brings up connotations of punishment, harsh means to achieve illusive ends, or strict regimes that have no room for variance. For me, discipline is a word that holds the key to understanding the deeper meaning of a spiritual life.
If we look at the root of the word, we see that it is closely related to the word, “Disciple”. To give one’s attention unwaveringly to living the precepts of a life of Love and Godly aspirations requires a fortitude of character and a persistence that cannot be derailed. This becomes the foundation upon which perseverance and compassion can grow. Life becomes the testing ground. Each seeming obstacle increases our strength to overcome, each hurdle gives us the ability to be flexible, and each joyous moment allows our hearts to soar. In time, the conglomeration of experiences brings us to a place of objective understanding that we could not have known without walking through them. Our intention to find the most valuable lessons in every circumstance becomes the powering force to transform the challenges into wisdom. When we are devoted to this path, we become aware that all individuals are seeking to learn these lessons in their own way. Otherwise, the events that propel their lives would not be happening. As it is for ourselves, so it is for all. Some may be more aware of this than others but the journey is the same. Through our collective perception, a glimmer of compassion is awakened in us.
Transformation does not happen in an instant, although we may have flashes of illumination. In order to establish the higher frequencies of balanced Beingness, we must return moment by moment to the fulcrum point that holds the equilibrium between the pull of opposites. By taking a breath, bringing the mind to silence, something can be born that is beyond our habitual reactions. Through this consistent willingness to put aside all preconceptions and see other possibilities arising out of the circumstance, a new thread is woven into our lives that binds our efforts into strength and commitment. This thread, spun out of the desire to be all that we can be, is Discipline.
My own walk with Discipline began as a child when my love for the ballet spurred me to choose the rigorous practice in the studio to other more childlike games. I wanted to dance like my idols on the stage and I knew that I had to set my standards high to achieve those goals. The work became fulfilling in itself. Now, to be sure, I saw my inherent laziness. Sometimes I succumbed to that indulgence and sometimes it created a wish to work harder. I see how these early influences established in me a foundation that has served me throughout my life. It was a necessary element in my career in the theater, essential to my work as a midwife, and indivisible from my spiritual path.
When I went to live in Auroville, India, several of us were given a parcel of land to cultivate and establish a new community. Geographically, Auroville is a large area consisting of small collectives who have come together to create a common intent. We wanted to be in the “Green Belt”, growing food for the whole and reclaiming the erosion of the land from years of misuse. These small communities were interspersed between Tamil villages and each had a name. I chose ”Discipline” as the name of our cluster of houses that we were building. With hard work and inner discipline, I knew that we would have the ability to serve Auroville. Discipline is still there, thirty-five years later. It is now a garden oasis when it was barren and dry when we started planting.
Seeds of Discipline have sprouted in every area of my life and I am forever grateful to the powerful force that it carries.
Prema Rose
Discipline, for many people, is a dirty word. It brings up connotations of punishment, harsh means to achieve illusive ends, or strict regimes that have no room for variance. For me, discipline is a word that holds the key to understanding the deeper meaning of a spiritual life.
If we look at the root of the word, we see that it is closely related to the word, “Disciple”. To give one’s attention unwaveringly to living the precepts of a life of Love and Godly aspirations requires a fortitude of character and a persistence that cannot be derailed. This becomes the foundation upon which perseverance and compassion can grow. Life becomes the testing ground. Each seeming obstacle increases our strength to overcome, each hurdle gives us the ability to be flexible, and each joyous moment allows our hearts to soar. In time, the conglomeration of experiences brings us to a place of objective understanding that we could not have known without walking through them. Our intention to find the most valuable lessons in every circumstance becomes the powering force to transform the challenges into wisdom. When we are devoted to this path, we become aware that all individuals are seeking to learn these lessons in their own way. Otherwise, the events that propel their lives would not be happening. As it is for ourselves, so it is for all. Some may be more aware of this than others but the journey is the same. Through our collective perception, a glimmer of compassion is awakened in us.
Transformation does not happen in an instant, although we may have flashes of illumination. In order to establish the higher frequencies of balanced Beingness, we must return moment by moment to the fulcrum point that holds the equilibrium between the pull of opposites. By taking a breath, bringing the mind to silence, something can be born that is beyond our habitual reactions. Through this consistent willingness to put aside all preconceptions and see other possibilities arising out of the circumstance, a new thread is woven into our lives that binds our efforts into strength and commitment. This thread, spun out of the desire to be all that we can be, is Discipline.
My own walk with Discipline began as a child when my love for the ballet spurred me to choose the rigorous practice in the studio to other more childlike games. I wanted to dance like my idols on the stage and I knew that I had to set my standards high to achieve those goals. The work became fulfilling in itself. Now, to be sure, I saw my inherent laziness. Sometimes I succumbed to that indulgence and sometimes it created a wish to work harder. I see how these early influences established in me a foundation that has served me throughout my life. It was a necessary element in my career in the theater, essential to my work as a midwife, and indivisible from my spiritual path.
When I went to live in Auroville, India, several of us were given a parcel of land to cultivate and establish a new community. Geographically, Auroville is a large area consisting of small collectives who have come together to create a common intent. We wanted to be in the “Green Belt”, growing food for the whole and reclaiming the erosion of the land from years of misuse. These small communities were interspersed between Tamil villages and each had a name. I chose ”Discipline” as the name of our cluster of houses that we were building. With hard work and inner discipline, I knew that we would have the ability to serve Auroville. Discipline is still there, thirty-five years later. It is now a garden oasis when it was barren and dry when we started planting.
Seeds of Discipline have sprouted in every area of my life and I am forever grateful to the powerful force that it carries.
Prema Rose
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Comfort Foods
When I think of comfort food what immediately comes to mind is chocolate and apple pie. Yet as I let that concept settle in, I think of popcorn, a handy road food that has accompanied me on many trips back and forth to New Mexico.
Organic oatmeal with milk, no sweetener, and toast is something I make for myself at the end of a long travel day. Just returning from the east coast visit to grandchildren, being aboard a plane for several hours, with the accompanying rides to and from airports, I’m usually tired and want something grounding yet light, as I come home. A bowl of oatmeal with a little milk or yogurt just seems to be that simple food, that comfort at the end of the trip.
When I think about comfort food from my childhood, I remember the éclairs my mother bought us at the Jewish Bakery up the street, along with the black and white cookies, also called half moon cookies. Something she made for us as snacks was cut up bananas in sour cream, with a dash of sugar. My sister and I would sit outside in the side yard, concrete all around, the sun slanting in, in late morning, and she and I sitting on chairs my grandfather would have set up for us.
Coming from a German/Austrian background, dairy was always part of my diet growing up. During the times I’ve eliminated most dairy, I miss it. I miss the sour cream or yogurt with fruit mid-morning. Yet butter I never let go of. I’ve used ghee, mostly in cooking, but really appreciate the taste of butter, whether on rye toast, cinnamon bread, or melted in vegetable with rice or noodles. And if it’s on toast, I like the butter to be cold, not warm and soaking right into the heated bread, and to be spread out to the edges, not left as a smattering in the middle, suggesting it might reach the corners.
Because I’ve changed my diet over the years, from vegetarian, raw fooder, mostly veggie with chicken as I eat now, some foods that were important as a comfort food, no longer fit in.
And something I realized in writing this…The idea of comfort food is something I never really thought about. Usually when I’m working through something, I don’t eat. I walk. Eating while upset doesn’t occur to me. I just put my shoes on and head out to a bike path or a neighborhood street so I can think and try to see what’s going on.
Yet I love a lot of different kinds of foods including those above, plus mashed potatoes and ice cream. Maybe comfort and favorite are pretty close.
Jyoti
Organic oatmeal with milk, no sweetener, and toast is something I make for myself at the end of a long travel day. Just returning from the east coast visit to grandchildren, being aboard a plane for several hours, with the accompanying rides to and from airports, I’m usually tired and want something grounding yet light, as I come home. A bowl of oatmeal with a little milk or yogurt just seems to be that simple food, that comfort at the end of the trip.
When I think about comfort food from my childhood, I remember the éclairs my mother bought us at the Jewish Bakery up the street, along with the black and white cookies, also called half moon cookies. Something she made for us as snacks was cut up bananas in sour cream, with a dash of sugar. My sister and I would sit outside in the side yard, concrete all around, the sun slanting in, in late morning, and she and I sitting on chairs my grandfather would have set up for us.
Coming from a German/Austrian background, dairy was always part of my diet growing up. During the times I’ve eliminated most dairy, I miss it. I miss the sour cream or yogurt with fruit mid-morning. Yet butter I never let go of. I’ve used ghee, mostly in cooking, but really appreciate the taste of butter, whether on rye toast, cinnamon bread, or melted in vegetable with rice or noodles. And if it’s on toast, I like the butter to be cold, not warm and soaking right into the heated bread, and to be spread out to the edges, not left as a smattering in the middle, suggesting it might reach the corners.
Because I’ve changed my diet over the years, from vegetarian, raw fooder, mostly veggie with chicken as I eat now, some foods that were important as a comfort food, no longer fit in.
And something I realized in writing this…The idea of comfort food is something I never really thought about. Usually when I’m working through something, I don’t eat. I walk. Eating while upset doesn’t occur to me. I just put my shoes on and head out to a bike path or a neighborhood street so I can think and try to see what’s going on.
Yet I love a lot of different kinds of foods including those above, plus mashed potatoes and ice cream. Maybe comfort and favorite are pretty close.
Jyoti
Friday, May 15, 2009
Potatoes
It must be in my Irish genetic code. I adore potatoes. Mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, oven fries, twice baked potatoes, potato chips, potato crisps, mashed-rolled-into-a-ball-then-fried potatoes.Tatter tots? No, tatter tots don’t count. They aren’t really potatoes, just something that used to be white that got fried. And, pom frites. I love the way the French speak of potatoes… pom de terre… apples of the earth. It sounds so pretty and edible. Like eating a potato is a gift from Gaia presented on a tilled garden platter of plenty. So delicious. so satisfying... Apples of the Earth. Lovely.
The Scots are particularly good with potatoes. I thought I had died and gone to heaven one cold winter day in Edinburgh when I stepped into a shop for a cup of tea… it was about three o’clock in the afternoon, the shop was just setting up for tea as only the Scots do. Tea in Scotland is really dinner, just earlier in the day. I looked around letting myself adjust to the dim light. There before my grateful eyes cafeteria style were trays and trays of every kind of potato one could imagine. There were sausages too and one meager tray of something green but they were insignificant. It was the potatoes people were coming for. I filled my plate and sighing with deep satisfaction drifted to a table and chair.
Jesse
The Scots are particularly good with potatoes. I thought I had died and gone to heaven one cold winter day in Edinburgh when I stepped into a shop for a cup of tea… it was about three o’clock in the afternoon, the shop was just setting up for tea as only the Scots do. Tea in Scotland is really dinner, just earlier in the day. I looked around letting myself adjust to the dim light. There before my grateful eyes cafeteria style were trays and trays of every kind of potato one could imagine. There were sausages too and one meager tray of something green but they were insignificant. It was the potatoes people were coming for. I filled my plate and sighing with deep satisfaction drifted to a table and chair.
Jesse
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Coming Down Out of the Mountains
Surviving the Divorce. March 1990.
Before I moved us into our new house, which was actually almost 100 years old, my brother Ed drove out from Kansas City to help me get it ready. When I had first looked at the house I saw that it had potential ~ it had ten foot ceilings and there was a dark wood archway from the entry into the small living room that reminded me of old farm houses in Missouri. But most of the walls in the house were dated wood paneling of three shades of brown in varying widths, the ceiling was dingy acoustic square tiles, and the shag carpet was really old, a brown and orange hideous mess.
With credit card in hand I bought fresh paint and blinds that matched, plus a semi-gloss for the ceilings. I found shear draped curtains that reminded me of Grandma Goldie, for the large west windows. I had been warned that the interior surfaces that I planned to paint might not work too well, but the way I saw it I had no other choice at the time. So I bought a case of beer, painting supplies and turned up the boom box. Ed and I painted for two days and the change was remarkable. I contacted an old neighbor of mine who had a carpet store and my good luck continued. He had just laid an off-white Berber carpet in a lady’s home and she decided she didn’t like it. They went into her house and tore it out and brought it over to my new house and installed it again. I got a great deal on one week old carpet! High on paint fumes, Ed and I agreed that we were make-over geniuses. It did look sweet. I think we took one day to recover and have a little fun and then we went to the storage unit and moved my furniture in. I cried, it was so beautiful.
And then there was the bathroom. It had this incredible wall paper, turquoise flamingo’s and black swamp trees ~ with silver glitter accents. The knee wall of plastic turquoise tiles completed the tiny room. Ouch! Calling it art deco, I decided to keep it as is, besides, I was afraid to spend more money. I bought two gnarly corded white throw rugs at K-Mart that felt marvelous on my bare feet and called it good. The kitchen was ugly but functional and the enclosed back porch had washer and dryer hook-ups.
We had set up house keeping in Lafayette ~ Walker and I were city dwellers.
* annette
Before I moved us into our new house, which was actually almost 100 years old, my brother Ed drove out from Kansas City to help me get it ready. When I had first looked at the house I saw that it had potential ~ it had ten foot ceilings and there was a dark wood archway from the entry into the small living room that reminded me of old farm houses in Missouri. But most of the walls in the house were dated wood paneling of three shades of brown in varying widths, the ceiling was dingy acoustic square tiles, and the shag carpet was really old, a brown and orange hideous mess.
With credit card in hand I bought fresh paint and blinds that matched, plus a semi-gloss for the ceilings. I found shear draped curtains that reminded me of Grandma Goldie, for the large west windows. I had been warned that the interior surfaces that I planned to paint might not work too well, but the way I saw it I had no other choice at the time. So I bought a case of beer, painting supplies and turned up the boom box. Ed and I painted for two days and the change was remarkable. I contacted an old neighbor of mine who had a carpet store and my good luck continued. He had just laid an off-white Berber carpet in a lady’s home and she decided she didn’t like it. They went into her house and tore it out and brought it over to my new house and installed it again. I got a great deal on one week old carpet! High on paint fumes, Ed and I agreed that we were make-over geniuses. It did look sweet. I think we took one day to recover and have a little fun and then we went to the storage unit and moved my furniture in. I cried, it was so beautiful.
And then there was the bathroom. It had this incredible wall paper, turquoise flamingo’s and black swamp trees ~ with silver glitter accents. The knee wall of plastic turquoise tiles completed the tiny room. Ouch! Calling it art deco, I decided to keep it as is, besides, I was afraid to spend more money. I bought two gnarly corded white throw rugs at K-Mart that felt marvelous on my bare feet and called it good. The kitchen was ugly but functional and the enclosed back porch had washer and dryer hook-ups.
We had set up house keeping in Lafayette ~ Walker and I were city dwellers.
* annette
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
American Dipper
If you haven’t seen an American Dipper in action you are in for a treat. All you need is a mountain stream, some good timing and little information to locate this little fellow. The stream in which you may find this sooty grey, robust bird may even be as high as tree line. You might see him perched on a rock, along side running water, though not for long. He spends most of his time wading and diving under water.
I’ve been coming across these birds for many years and still they do nothing sort of astonish me. There is nothing quite like the first time you see one slip under water. You can’t quite believe what you’ve just seen. Usually, they stay fairly close to the side of the stream, jumping from rock to rock, with a quick dive in and out, lasting 3-4 seconds, but going completely underwater. But the one I saw last week in Boulder Creek was bravest by far. The creek, in one of it’s heavier flow periods with spring snow melt and rain, is rocking. This little fellow just flew out to mid-stream and dove straight in. He flew through my past perceptions of what they were capable of and of how long one could stay submerged. I’ve often seen them jump off a rock and pop in and out, but this guy had amazing stamina. The way he just slightly opened his wings before disappearing under the churning waters, looked slightly like a dark cape, giving the impression of batman on a secret mission. He would stay under up to 10-12 seconds emerging with his catch, a dark worm-looking thing, then sort of swim over to the side and sit on a rock and eat. But he spent way more time diving down and under than sitting.
He’s only seven inches with fairly non-distinct characteristics except when you see him diving into the flowing waters and, in my case, wait and wait and wait, till he reappears. It was extremely impressive. You know you are watching a highly skilled being doing what they are here to do. I can’t imaging how he isn’t taken downstream while under water but every time he pops up and wades over to the side.
I highly recommend this outing, searching for him or just happening upon one. His aquatic nature will endless surprise and delight you.
Mary
I’ve been coming across these birds for many years and still they do nothing sort of astonish me. There is nothing quite like the first time you see one slip under water. You can’t quite believe what you’ve just seen. Usually, they stay fairly close to the side of the stream, jumping from rock to rock, with a quick dive in and out, lasting 3-4 seconds, but going completely underwater. But the one I saw last week in Boulder Creek was bravest by far. The creek, in one of it’s heavier flow periods with spring snow melt and rain, is rocking. This little fellow just flew out to mid-stream and dove straight in. He flew through my past perceptions of what they were capable of and of how long one could stay submerged. I’ve often seen them jump off a rock and pop in and out, but this guy had amazing stamina. The way he just slightly opened his wings before disappearing under the churning waters, looked slightly like a dark cape, giving the impression of batman on a secret mission. He would stay under up to 10-12 seconds emerging with his catch, a dark worm-looking thing, then sort of swim over to the side and sit on a rock and eat. But he spent way more time diving down and under than sitting.
He’s only seven inches with fairly non-distinct characteristics except when you see him diving into the flowing waters and, in my case, wait and wait and wait, till he reappears. It was extremely impressive. You know you are watching a highly skilled being doing what they are here to do. I can’t imaging how he isn’t taken downstream while under water but every time he pops up and wades over to the side.
I highly recommend this outing, searching for him or just happening upon one. His aquatic nature will endless surprise and delight you.
Mary
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Prose - The Mourning Cloak Butterfly
For years, as the snows melted, the crocus and purple hyacinths would appear, the ornamentals and fruit trees would bloom, sometimes impossible to hold their bursts of energy before one more snow would fall. The tulips would begin their reign, promising spring, even if they were peeking above snow.
The sign I counted on the most, that, yes, spring had truly arrived, was the appearance of the mourning cloak butterfly. The Nymphalis antiopa, as its known in higher circles, has also been called grand surprise or white petticoat. This velvety black butterfly with its two-inch wingspan has a bright yellow band lining the entire edge of its jagged wings, with a row of iridescent blue spots just inside the showing petticoat. A true beauty you wanted to follow around as long as you could. There would be many, promising an abundant spring.
The past springs have been absent of mourning cloaks, or maybe only one or two will appear. Where have they all gone? This is one butterfly that overwinters as an adult, having a greatly extended life span, up to ten to eleven months, the longest span of any North American butterfly. They secrete a natural anti-freeze, such as sorbitol, into their bodies to survive the winters as adults. Maybe they are coming before the flowers bloom, holding their nutrients from them, leaving them no choice but to get their nutrients from horse droppings. I keep looking, wondering what to use as my gauge, as global warming has us all confused.
Patricia
The sign I counted on the most, that, yes, spring had truly arrived, was the appearance of the mourning cloak butterfly. The Nymphalis antiopa, as its known in higher circles, has also been called grand surprise or white petticoat. This velvety black butterfly with its two-inch wingspan has a bright yellow band lining the entire edge of its jagged wings, with a row of iridescent blue spots just inside the showing petticoat. A true beauty you wanted to follow around as long as you could. There would be many, promising an abundant spring.
The past springs have been absent of mourning cloaks, or maybe only one or two will appear. Where have they all gone? This is one butterfly that overwinters as an adult, having a greatly extended life span, up to ten to eleven months, the longest span of any North American butterfly. They secrete a natural anti-freeze, such as sorbitol, into their bodies to survive the winters as adults. Maybe they are coming before the flowers bloom, holding their nutrients from them, leaving them no choice but to get their nutrients from horse droppings. I keep looking, wondering what to use as my gauge, as global warming has us all confused.
Patricia
Monday, May 11, 2009
Tea and Readings
Tea House Readings
Come join us for Tea and Readings.
Purchase tea and dessert and listen to stories
and poetry. New material also.
Dushanbe Tea House
June 8, 3-5PM.
Our book will be available for purchase.
13th and Canyon in Boulder.
Please RSVP to jyotiwind2@gmail.com
Come join us for Tea and Readings.
Purchase tea and dessert and listen to stories
and poetry. New material also.
Dushanbe Tea House
June 8, 3-5PM.
Our book will be available for purchase.
13th and Canyon in Boulder.
Please RSVP to jyotiwind2@gmail.com
Childhood Shoes
Shoes and underwear were the only articles of clothing that I consistently got brand new when I was growing up. I always savored a new pair of shoes, even if they were plastic sandals.
At about nine years old it became obvious that I was pigeon toed. My left foot toed in as I walked. This was embarrassing when it was called to attention—being an oddity. Often times it came up at the shoe store, since everyone was carefully observing how I walked in the potential new shoes. I'll never forget one kind salesman who gently mentioned my toeing in and said that I walked like an Indian. He told me that they could walk in their moccasins, silently and surely through the woods, partly because they tended to toe in a little. This mythical story served to connect me with those noble Native people as well as to feel better about my unique walk.
In fifth grade my parents were somehow convinced that having corrective shoes would cure my way of walking and that that was a good thing. So much for stealthily moving through forest and meadows. My feet were carefully measured. My walk was analyzed. And then I received the ugliest pair of clunky, burgundy-colored, out-of-style shoes to wear on my dear little feet.
How I hated those shoes and yet my parents had used plenty of their hard-earned money to “help” me in this way. So I wore them.
They really didn't help my toeing in at all. Over the years, without focusing on it, my gait has evened out some through bodywork. I hope that children are not shamed and weighed down with useless corrective shoes any longer.
--by Terra Rafael
Sunday, May 10, 2009
My Grandmother's Gardens
My Grandmother’s Gardens
My memories go back to the feelings and smells that surrounded me, as I took my first steps on the vast green lawn in front of my grandparent’s house in Westchester, N. Y. There is a piece of my heart that remains there in my grandmother’s gardens.
Dearma would take me out with her, as she carefully cut and placed the flowers in her basket. They would, in time, grace the tables around the living room and hold the place of honor on the dining room table.
There were the goldfish ponds with the water lilies behind the house. Stepping stones made it fun to jump over the water. Sitting on the side became mesmerizing as the sunlight played with the sparkling oranges darting in and out of the shadows.
Over by the greenhouse was a stonewall, where the pansies lifted their velvety faces to my inquiring imagination. Pretty little fragrant splashes of color filled me with wonderment. The woodland mosses made soft beds for the fairies and the insects to get cool.
My favorite garden was to the side of the house where the zinnias and marigolds grew. Oh, my! I must have been very small, as they were taller than my head. I would trail behind or skip ahead, surrounded by the brilliance of these sturdy blooms. The scents enveloped me and I was drunk with all the hues. This was sheer heaven.
Over by the patio, lived a white metal figure of a woman with a big bell skirt. She held basket pots of cascading bleeding hearts. So delicate and bold, they beckoned, with their magentas and pinks enticing me to partake of their magic.
Way out there, beyond the lawn and the row of trees and hedges, lay the mystery of the kitchen gardens. We hardly ever ventured that far but, once in a long while, I would accompany Patrick to visit the carrots and other delectables. Patrick was the gardener and chauffer, who lived in a cottage near those gardens.
The happiness I knew, enveloped and embraced by these loving plant beings, became joyous spontaneity. This is where I belonged.
Prema Rose
5/9/09
My memories go back to the feelings and smells that surrounded me, as I took my first steps on the vast green lawn in front of my grandparent’s house in Westchester, N. Y. There is a piece of my heart that remains there in my grandmother’s gardens.
Dearma would take me out with her, as she carefully cut and placed the flowers in her basket. They would, in time, grace the tables around the living room and hold the place of honor on the dining room table.
There were the goldfish ponds with the water lilies behind the house. Stepping stones made it fun to jump over the water. Sitting on the side became mesmerizing as the sunlight played with the sparkling oranges darting in and out of the shadows.
Over by the greenhouse was a stonewall, where the pansies lifted their velvety faces to my inquiring imagination. Pretty little fragrant splashes of color filled me with wonderment. The woodland mosses made soft beds for the fairies and the insects to get cool.
My favorite garden was to the side of the house where the zinnias and marigolds grew. Oh, my! I must have been very small, as they were taller than my head. I would trail behind or skip ahead, surrounded by the brilliance of these sturdy blooms. The scents enveloped me and I was drunk with all the hues. This was sheer heaven.
Over by the patio, lived a white metal figure of a woman with a big bell skirt. She held basket pots of cascading bleeding hearts. So delicate and bold, they beckoned, with their magentas and pinks enticing me to partake of their magic.
Way out there, beyond the lawn and the row of trees and hedges, lay the mystery of the kitchen gardens. We hardly ever ventured that far but, once in a long while, I would accompany Patrick to visit the carrots and other delectables. Patrick was the gardener and chauffer, who lived in a cottage near those gardens.
The happiness I knew, enveloped and embraced by these loving plant beings, became joyous spontaneity. This is where I belonged.
Prema Rose
5/9/09
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Visualizations in My Dream Kitchen: Where Dreams Are Formed and Cooked
I was handed a book, completely finished, bound, hard-covered. The old man that gave it to me, nodded his ancient white head, his rimless glasses perched on the edge of his nose, his eyes glistening in the semi-light.
Not exactly sure what the book contained, yet having a small thought of what it might be, I took the book and sat down on the bench at the long wooden table. The old man quietly evaporated in the still air as I opened the book’s cover.
Inside, I saw a list, topics of metaphysical merit and spiritual insight. It was a tome of philosophy, of the ancient variety, and my job, I saw in that moment, was to translate it into the vernacular of these times.
As I paged through the book, words stood out from the pages, like a road map moving me down a road I hadn’t know I would be treading.
As I neared the end, my intuition told me that, even though the book was solidly in my hands, I needed to remember as much of the basics as I could, because it would not remain in my possession for long.
As my eyes found the word finis on the last page, a curious smoke arose around the book, enveloping me and the table. I felt the solidity of the pages slip from my fingers and as the fog lifted, I was seated still at the table and the book was gone. No trace remained. I knew it was now up to me to recreate a modern version of what had been contained in that tome.
I arose, glancing around at all the shelves of books in the kitchen of my dreams, and headed for the door. Now it was time to find pen and paper and begin this next project, to incubate it and bring it to fruit, and see if it would feed others.
Jyoti
Not exactly sure what the book contained, yet having a small thought of what it might be, I took the book and sat down on the bench at the long wooden table. The old man quietly evaporated in the still air as I opened the book’s cover.
Inside, I saw a list, topics of metaphysical merit and spiritual insight. It was a tome of philosophy, of the ancient variety, and my job, I saw in that moment, was to translate it into the vernacular of these times.
As I paged through the book, words stood out from the pages, like a road map moving me down a road I hadn’t know I would be treading.
As I neared the end, my intuition told me that, even though the book was solidly in my hands, I needed to remember as much of the basics as I could, because it would not remain in my possession for long.
As my eyes found the word finis on the last page, a curious smoke arose around the book, enveloping me and the table. I felt the solidity of the pages slip from my fingers and as the fog lifted, I was seated still at the table and the book was gone. No trace remained. I knew it was now up to me to recreate a modern version of what had been contained in that tome.
I arose, glancing around at all the shelves of books in the kitchen of my dreams, and headed for the door. Now it was time to find pen and paper and begin this next project, to incubate it and bring it to fruit, and see if it would feed others.
Jyoti
Thursday, May 7, 2009
enter the “dream” kitchen .....
I walk through the heavily scented English garden towards the Dutch door of my kitchen. Opening it I am thrilled with my creation. The cabinets of white painted doors with clear glass panes that frame my eclectic gathering of plates, bowls and cups. The polished granite tops softly gleam. The windows look out onto the trees and gardens while allowing the sun to stream through. The ruffled yellow gingham curtains sway gently in the breeze. When I am in this space, my dream kitchen, all is right in the world.
The red enameled teapot is vibrating, about to whistle its readiness. My own excitement builds. I move towards the sink and gently let the greens tumble from my basket into cool water. Why anyone would spray dandelions to death is beyond me. These young greens were gathered with a song in my throat and love in my heart. I will gently steam them and then drain the liquid, which, once cooled I will offer to my house plants. I plan to sauté these dainty greens in a wee bit of butter for a few minutes and them sprinkle them lightly with tamari and pepper.
Every cell in my body is ready to receive this nourishment which each innately remembers. I celebrate the wildness of dandelion greens and spring nettles. If you are what you eat, then I will be wild and grow where I choose.
* annette.
The red enameled teapot is vibrating, about to whistle its readiness. My own excitement builds. I move towards the sink and gently let the greens tumble from my basket into cool water. Why anyone would spray dandelions to death is beyond me. These young greens were gathered with a song in my throat and love in my heart. I will gently steam them and then drain the liquid, which, once cooled I will offer to my house plants. I plan to sauté these dainty greens in a wee bit of butter for a few minutes and them sprinkle them lightly with tamari and pepper.
Every cell in my body is ready to receive this nourishment which each innately remembers. I celebrate the wildness of dandelion greens and spring nettles. If you are what you eat, then I will be wild and grow where I choose.
* annette.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Old Stone Well
I see the old stone ahead and immediately recognize her. I allow all the memories to flood back into my being of the day I first found her. It’s been so long, so, so long. Like today, it was a cool and sunny day, invigorating. I was in love, for the first time, and we were walking hand in hand through the forest. The newness of each moment, the sheer delight to be with someone, hearts sharing the smallest of discoveries, as if everything was special and new, made just for us. And then we stumbled upon the old stone well. Our first steps led us up to the side with an inscription barely recognizable, carved eons ago, “To Thine Own Self Be True.” We took it as a sign we’d be together forever, that our innocent eyes would find such beautiful words in the middle of the woods.
Today I pause as I approach. The years flash before me since the only other time I happened upon her. Her? Why do I say her? As I approach slowly and peer into her depths I see the deepening, bottomless-looking, clear water and relax. I remember all those years ago, how we tried to find something to take a drink, thinking it to be like a magic potion that would bless our new union and keep us together.
Today it’s as though I know from somewhere in my being exactly where a stone cup is hidden in her side. Today I will drink. A rope tucked within revels the way to her depths.
Her depths... her waters... this feminine presence opens to let me dip my cup. It’s the most natural thing in the world, accessible now as it was not when I was younger.
The pure water comes up to my lips. I sip. Knowing beauty is found in many places but today it slides inside and a deep smile ensues as I know HER.
Mary
Today I pause as I approach. The years flash before me since the only other time I happened upon her. Her? Why do I say her? As I approach slowly and peer into her depths I see the deepening, bottomless-looking, clear water and relax. I remember all those years ago, how we tried to find something to take a drink, thinking it to be like a magic potion that would bless our new union and keep us together.
Today it’s as though I know from somewhere in my being exactly where a stone cup is hidden in her side. Today I will drink. A rope tucked within revels the way to her depths.
Her depths... her waters... this feminine presence opens to let me dip my cup. It’s the most natural thing in the world, accessible now as it was not when I was younger.
The pure water comes up to my lips. I sip. Knowing beauty is found in many places but today it slides inside and a deep smile ensues as I know HER.
Mary
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Black Tea
I drank coffee for the first part of my life, until I began to feel the effects to my stomach. I’ll never forget my first black tea. It was Earl Grey. My husband and I, with 2 friends, rode our bicycles to Longmont one day. We used to ride all over the county, usually treating ourselves to brunch in one of the outlying towns. My friend, Rebecca said, “Why don’t you try Earl Grey tea?” And that was that, I’ve been a tea drinker every since.
A friend in Florida had very special black teas her son would order for her from the Internet. Being introduced to these teas expanded my horizons even more.
My Virgo tummy has had a rule, no caffeine until after food. I never thought I could take it on an empty stomach. I use to try green tea on an empty stomach, but would usually throw it up. One doctor said, maybe its too astringent for you. Things change.
Now, in the past year I’ve started having my tea first. Its become a ritual, I hear it calling me. It gets me out of bed, sometimes earlier than I would like. To prepare tea and write has become a stimulating combination.
A writing peer has brought Red Rose Tea into our lives. Its from Canada and can only be bought in the states near there. A box of one hundred bags is less than four dollars. Plus, there’s a prize in the box. Mine was a ceramic turtle. The tea is so smooth. It’s a challenge to stop with one cup. But, if I am to keep this habit going, I must. My bladder is saying I have to, or get use to dribbling pee at inopportune times. My mind would love several cups a day. Just another habit grabbing my attention.
Patricia
A friend in Florida had very special black teas her son would order for her from the Internet. Being introduced to these teas expanded my horizons even more.
My Virgo tummy has had a rule, no caffeine until after food. I never thought I could take it on an empty stomach. I use to try green tea on an empty stomach, but would usually throw it up. One doctor said, maybe its too astringent for you. Things change.
Now, in the past year I’ve started having my tea first. Its become a ritual, I hear it calling me. It gets me out of bed, sometimes earlier than I would like. To prepare tea and write has become a stimulating combination.
A writing peer has brought Red Rose Tea into our lives. Its from Canada and can only be bought in the states near there. A box of one hundred bags is less than four dollars. Plus, there’s a prize in the box. Mine was a ceramic turtle. The tea is so smooth. It’s a challenge to stop with one cup. But, if I am to keep this habit going, I must. My bladder is saying I have to, or get use to dribbling pee at inopportune times. My mind would love several cups a day. Just another habit grabbing my attention.
Patricia
Monday, May 4, 2009
Meeting the Black Jaguar
I hear familiar jungle sounds as I walk through this place teeming with life. I come to some boulders, piled high. Glowing eyes peer from a small cavern created in the rocks. The eyes of a black jaguar. Our eyes momentarily lock. I turn slowly, walking back from where I came, not remembering if I should turn my back but knowing with certainty not to run. My senses are heightened. The greens of the plants, the song of the birds, the unseen clouds of wildflower fragrance are psychedelically intense.
A short ways back along my way I cross paths with a white man in his fashionable jungle garb. When I see him, I suddenly know that the jaguar needs water and that I should bring it to her. Somehow, suddenly, I am holding a large metal mixing bowl. This is the same bowl that caught my children's placentas when I gave birth. It also is what I use to bake bread. I dip it into the nearby stream. As I carefully carry it I feel the refreshing coolness of the water transmitted through the metal bowl to my hands.
When I arrive at the place of the jaguar, she is still there, eyes glowing from the shadow. Cradling the bowl in my hands, I approach her. Then I wake up.
by Terra Rafael
Sunday, May 3, 2009
The Blessings
The Grace that I am receiving
Is all that I’ve asked for.
The Faith that tests believing
Has opened up the door.
To walk into the Unknown,
Yet knowing all the same,
That in this I am being shown
That it’s a sacred game.
The rules are really easy,
But try it and you’ll find,
That, though it may sound cheesy,
It’s all within your mind.
Hold fast unto your vision,
Through all the doubt and fear,
You may be in collision
With thoughts that are less clear.
There is a higher power
That’s pulling all the strings.
It’s often sweet and sour,
The lessons that it brings.
This power lies within your heart,
It’s force is that of Love.
It’s always been there from the start,
It is your treasure trove.
It brings your Heart’s desire
When all seems lost and dead,
It fuels the white hot fire
That’s burning in your head.
Surrender now and yet again,
‘Till thinking is no more,
The Blessings come as does the rain
To fertilize your core.
Prema Rose
The Grace that I am receiving
Is all that I’ve asked for.
The Faith that tests believing
Has opened up the door.
To walk into the Unknown,
Yet knowing all the same,
That in this I am being shown
That it’s a sacred game.
The rules are really easy,
But try it and you’ll find,
That, though it may sound cheesy,
It’s all within your mind.
Hold fast unto your vision,
Through all the doubt and fear,
You may be in collision
With thoughts that are less clear.
There is a higher power
That’s pulling all the strings.
It’s often sweet and sour,
The lessons that it brings.
This power lies within your heart,
It’s force is that of Love.
It’s always been there from the start,
It is your treasure trove.
It brings your Heart’s desire
When all seems lost and dead,
It fuels the white hot fire
That’s burning in your head.
Surrender now and yet again,
‘Till thinking is no more,
The Blessings come as does the rain
To fertilize your core.
Prema Rose
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Free Form Bio
I am a smeller of flowers. Their scents come to me even when their physical presence is not available.
I am a reader of books, someone who likes to be taken on journeys to past or future worlds and inside the mental fire of another’s use of language.
I am a lover of nature, one who lays her heart on the earth to give and receive energy from the Earth Mother.
I am a holder of humanity, cupping people’s lives and evolution, like one would hold a precious newborn pup.
I am a gazer of stars, peering far off into the heavens to divine the language I read there.
I am a catcher of souls who are coming in to this time frame, looking for a landing zone. Sometimes through birth, sometimes through love and friendship, I’ve caught them and brought them to a solid landing sight.
I am a keeper of stories, creating a nest of interest and inspiration to house them.
I am a listener of problems, dissolving those I can before they fester and grow, soothing the healing balm of hope onto those more stubborn ones.
I am a steward for the earth, holding her interests as my own, staying steadfast through mists of change.
Jyoti
I am a reader of books, someone who likes to be taken on journeys to past or future worlds and inside the mental fire of another’s use of language.
I am a lover of nature, one who lays her heart on the earth to give and receive energy from the Earth Mother.
I am a holder of humanity, cupping people’s lives and evolution, like one would hold a precious newborn pup.
I am a gazer of stars, peering far off into the heavens to divine the language I read there.
I am a catcher of souls who are coming in to this time frame, looking for a landing zone. Sometimes through birth, sometimes through love and friendship, I’ve caught them and brought them to a solid landing sight.
I am a keeper of stories, creating a nest of interest and inspiration to house them.
I am a listener of problems, dissolving those I can before they fester and grow, soothing the healing balm of hope onto those more stubborn ones.
I am a steward for the earth, holding her interests as my own, staying steadfast through mists of change.
Jyoti
Friday, May 1, 2009
My Table
I love making dinners for friends and family. This is different from “entertaining.” I don’t entertain, I make good food for good people. Simple food. Each of us has our own unique way of giving to the world community. This is my way. I call it feeding the world through great people and ideas. I set the table, invite the people, and let it happen. Our table has literally been around the world. It holds the power of a world of people, a multitude of races and cultures, the chairs have held those people. I didn’t set out to do this. It simply evolved as our lives unfolded.
My dining room table is not so special to look at. It is plain and simple with an uncomplicated wood oil finish. The cross-hatch scratches came when my daughter and I were cutting out a prom dress to be sewn. A couple of deep grooves were acquired during a move to London, it lost some of it’s dignity being used for a work bench, but over all it has served us well and still stands sturdy on four legs.
Jesse
My dining room table is not so special to look at. It is plain and simple with an uncomplicated wood oil finish. The cross-hatch scratches came when my daughter and I were cutting out a prom dress to be sewn. A couple of deep grooves were acquired during a move to London, it lost some of it’s dignity being used for a work bench, but over all it has served us well and still stands sturdy on four legs.
Jesse
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