That day in the nursing home, when I visited my mother for the last time, enfolded the most precious moment I ever had with her. For an instant, our eyes met and pure Love dissolved all the barriers and gulfs we had ever felt between us. I knew her and she knew me as the Beloved. There were no words. They had passed from her ability quite a while before. The space of Love took over and we both knew it.
My memories of my mother are so sporadic and yet so rich. I idolized her. She was so beautiful and glamorous, sitting at her dressing table, putting on her makeup and perfume to go out to some fabulous party in New York. Or, perhaps, she was going to the theater. She was a producer and had been an actress. I would be in awe of her presence and her grace. She had a gold overlaid terracotta lamp with two figures in terracotta emerging from the base. I loved that lamp and it represented the mysteriousness of my mother’s toilette. I have just been given that lamp.
Then there were the window-shopping strolls down Fifth Avenue from our apartment to Rockefeller Center. All the magic of Christmas came alive in the store windows. FAO Schwartz was the favorite with the moving train tracks and giant stuffed bears. The enormous Christmas tree towering over the sunken ice skating rink with all the lights was enough to make my little girl’s heart dance. If I were cold, she would wrap me into her mink coat and snuggle me up. The smell of the fur mixed with her scent was the comfort and closeness that I craved from her.
Most of the time, my longing for my mother became an overwhelming theme in my life. My parents were traveling or working and my sister and I were raised by governesses. We had our moments of being trotted out to say goodnight to them and their guests. We would curtsey and smile and then be whisked away. Always the perfect children, seen and not heard.
Well, not exactly. I wanted my parents’ attention. I managed to attract it in some not so positive ways. It seemed that I was always getting in trouble. My gentle souled father would have to deal with me before bedtime with the hairbrush for my bottom and an apology in his eyes.
“Remember, this hurts me worse than it does you.”
My sister and I were very different. She was the shy and beautiful one with the long auburn sausage curls, Miss Goody Two Shoes. I was feisty and gregarious with a mop of unmanageable blonde curls. When no one was looking, she would do some really mean thing and then be a picture of innocence when I would react.
I actually have a photo of us sitting on a wall at my grandparent’s house. I remember the incident so clearly. Opa was about to snap the shot and she pinched me. I turned and scowled at her. The shutter clicked and for all time, there she is smiling at the camera, and then there is me, frowning at her.
My mother really wanted her girls to be in the best schools in New York and be groomed into debutants. We started early with our ballroom dancing school training. We would sit on the gilt chairs lining the ballroom with our white gloved hands folded in our laps and our patent shoed feet crossed at the ankles. Desperately hoping that the young boy that would come to ask me to dance didn’t have two left feet, I would appear demure and proper while, all the time, wishing I could dance the way I wanted to. I was, after all, a dancer.
My mother would take us out to the fanciest restaurants and then proceed to get angry with the waiters and yell at them in the middle of the dining room. We wanted to disappear into the floor, we would be so embarrassed. It was about then that I began to notice how much she drank. There were the cocktails, the wines, and the aperitifs every day. She also smoked a great deal. The doctor told her that she was killing herself but she insisted that she didn’t want to live passed sixty-five anyway.
As I grew older and became more independent, our relationship had a great deal more conflict. When I went away to camp and boarding school, I would tell everyone that I was homesick…sick of home. Yet, I longed for a word from my parents. Mail call was so painful, as I never received letters. Life became very lonely. (But, that’s another story for another time).
So, there I was, seeing my mother for the last time. I had my own children by then and had put her intense criticism behind me. I was just with her as she was. She had started to have strokes at age sixty -four and now, as she had determined, it was time to go.
What a miracle that Love cuts through all the histories and failings into the space of Oneness.
“I love you, Mommy.”
Prema Rose
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Prose: Kindness
Writing about kindness conjures in my mind an image of a hand gently cradling a cheek. One person extending that gentle hand and cupping another’s face. It’s an act of love, a reaching out beyond one’s own circumstances, beyond one’s moods and thinking process to be thee for someone else’s situation or to extend love.
I wasn’t always kind. I was interested in the truth of the moment. I dealt with things as they came up, including being of service where it was requested.
Kindness came later. I remember one day, one of my kids was goading me, digging his heels in, being stubborn and somewhat disrespectful. I grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt and brought him close to me and said, “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, pal. I’ve learned to be kind.”
And I had. My last two children, especially my daughter, fairly demanded kindness from me in situations where I might have been more strident, tougher.
How did I get that tough? Was I ever not tough. I think it was a mixed bag. I learned to be tough to not be walked all over being short, being female, being married to a Scorpio who broke my innocent heart.
Underneath, there was always a kindness to animals, small children, any of nature’s creatures, old people, or when someone was sick. My daughter helped me find ways to bring that kindness in and around and through the toughness that single mothering of four sons sometimes demanded. I could go neck-n-neck with them.
With her, it was work to not automatically go there. As triple water, she was more sensitive and needed other things from me. From my relationship with her, I began to be kind.
Jyoti
I wasn’t always kind. I was interested in the truth of the moment. I dealt with things as they came up, including being of service where it was requested.
Kindness came later. I remember one day, one of my kids was goading me, digging his heels in, being stubborn and somewhat disrespectful. I grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt and brought him close to me and said, “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, pal. I’ve learned to be kind.”
And I had. My last two children, especially my daughter, fairly demanded kindness from me in situations where I might have been more strident, tougher.
How did I get that tough? Was I ever not tough. I think it was a mixed bag. I learned to be tough to not be walked all over being short, being female, being married to a Scorpio who broke my innocent heart.
Underneath, there was always a kindness to animals, small children, any of nature’s creatures, old people, or when someone was sick. My daughter helped me find ways to bring that kindness in and around and through the toughness that single mothering of four sons sometimes demanded. I could go neck-n-neck with them.
With her, it was work to not automatically go there. As triple water, she was more sensitive and needed other things from me. From my relationship with her, I began to be kind.
Jyoti
Friday, November 28, 2008
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving was one of those holidays I didn’t think much about until I didn’t have it. I thought West Texas was foreign and far away until I moved to the high Andes Mountains.
There were no grocery stores but there was an open market where I bought fruits and vegetables. The fly-covered meat and poultry hanging in the hot sun was just a bit much for me. The place was filthy and it stunk. Mind you, I loved that market. I really did.
Every week was a new experience. I had two huge market baskets that I would drag along as I bought my week’s worth of produce. There were probably ten potato stands selling many varieties of potatoes, potatoes I had never seen before. The Potato Ladies, as I dubbed them, were an arrogant raucous group of women who fought over customers. They were arrogant because potatoes were a staple in the Andean diet so they knew people would always buy potatoes before other foods. I bought potatoes for the challenge.
Entering the area of the market where the Potato Ladies held forth I would mentally pull up my guard and keep my head down as the yelling started, each one competing for my business. Hesitation was not allowed. I’d do a quick look through the bins of potatoes and make my choice. Pulling out my money I’d run up, grab my potatoes and make the transaction while the other Potato Ladies would yell curses at my vendor.
It wasn’t over yet. Bravely I’d turn to face the wild potato vendors who, having used up all their swear words for the moment, would begin lobbing potatoes at me as I ducked my head and dragged my baskets past them into the main part of the market. If I got hit as I ran the gauntlet there was huge laughter.
As I said, I did it for the challenge. These women were democratic. They threw potatoes at everyone and they were genuinely sad when I left. I got hugs from all of them the day I went to say goodbye.
Each Thanksgiving as I prepare the mashed potatoes I smile thinking of the Potato Ladies. I love potatoes.
Jesse
There were no grocery stores but there was an open market where I bought fruits and vegetables. The fly-covered meat and poultry hanging in the hot sun was just a bit much for me. The place was filthy and it stunk. Mind you, I loved that market. I really did.
Every week was a new experience. I had two huge market baskets that I would drag along as I bought my week’s worth of produce. There were probably ten potato stands selling many varieties of potatoes, potatoes I had never seen before. The Potato Ladies, as I dubbed them, were an arrogant raucous group of women who fought over customers. They were arrogant because potatoes were a staple in the Andean diet so they knew people would always buy potatoes before other foods. I bought potatoes for the challenge.
Entering the area of the market where the Potato Ladies held forth I would mentally pull up my guard and keep my head down as the yelling started, each one competing for my business. Hesitation was not allowed. I’d do a quick look through the bins of potatoes and make my choice. Pulling out my money I’d run up, grab my potatoes and make the transaction while the other Potato Ladies would yell curses at my vendor.
It wasn’t over yet. Bravely I’d turn to face the wild potato vendors who, having used up all their swear words for the moment, would begin lobbing potatoes at me as I ducked my head and dragged my baskets past them into the main part of the market. If I got hit as I ran the gauntlet there was huge laughter.
As I said, I did it for the challenge. These women were democratic. They threw potatoes at everyone and they were genuinely sad when I left. I got hugs from all of them the day I went to say goodbye.
Each Thanksgiving as I prepare the mashed potatoes I smile thinking of the Potato Ladies. I love potatoes.
Jesse
Thursday, November 27, 2008
CRANBERRY SALAD
It is Thursday morning, an entire day set aside for giving thanks. Yesterday I made a batch of home made egg noodles; the first batch I have made in many years. And I must admit it was a little trickier than I hoped. I had called my brother Gary (an incredible cook, he could be the Emeril of KCMO) for a few tips and got his recipe. I got the noodles made, rolled out and cut, and I think they will be fine.
And then I made my first batch of cranberry salad for this season. It is red and beautiful and I had to test it this morning ~ it is great!!!!
On the eve of every winter holiday, you could walk into my parent’s small kitchen and there they would be. The kitchen looks similar from year to year, only the outfits change, and I took the same photograph every time I was lucky enough to share this moment. Mom and Dad … standing side by side, cutting the fruit, sorting the berries, and grinding everything into that scrumptious red delight. My Mom said that she originally got the recipe off the back of the cranberry bag, but I have never seen it there. They made at least a double batch every Thanksgiving. My sister and I set in front of the TV on Friday night and we ate bowls of … not ice cream, but cranberry salad. We fought for the last bite every year; you may imagine that I am kidding, but I am totally serious. The first thing I remember asking my parents for Christmas after I left home, was my own grinder to make cranberry salad. It was necessary to carry on the tradition.
And so I would like to share this recipe with you on this day, quickly, as I must get my turkey in the oven.
Cranberry Salad
1 qt. fresh cranberries ( two 12 oz. bags)
3 oranges – leave peel on one
2 apples
2 cups sugar ( I only use 1 cup now)
1 cup black walnuts
1 pkg. cherry jell-o
Set up your grinder. (I am using an antique model that my sister found at a flea market for $5.) Make up your jell-0 with one cup of hot water and set aside to cool. Wash through berries and discard the soft ones or any with bad spots. Cut the apples and oranges into 6 to 8 slices each. Do not peel the apples but cut out the core. Feed the fruit into the grinder, it is fun … the cranberries pop and the oranges juice up. I do not put my walnuts through the grinder; I chop them up into little pieces and add to the mixture. Stir in the sugar and liquid jell-o. Refrigerate overnight. It gets better every day … and then it’s gone. I freeze some every year to pull out in the middle of summer and then I eat it mostly frozen. It is almost pure Vitamin C.
Enjoy. And thank you, Mom and Dad. I will always love you.
* annette
And then I made my first batch of cranberry salad for this season. It is red and beautiful and I had to test it this morning ~ it is great!!!!
On the eve of every winter holiday, you could walk into my parent’s small kitchen and there they would be. The kitchen looks similar from year to year, only the outfits change, and I took the same photograph every time I was lucky enough to share this moment. Mom and Dad … standing side by side, cutting the fruit, sorting the berries, and grinding everything into that scrumptious red delight. My Mom said that she originally got the recipe off the back of the cranberry bag, but I have never seen it there. They made at least a double batch every Thanksgiving. My sister and I set in front of the TV on Friday night and we ate bowls of … not ice cream, but cranberry salad. We fought for the last bite every year; you may imagine that I am kidding, but I am totally serious. The first thing I remember asking my parents for Christmas after I left home, was my own grinder to make cranberry salad. It was necessary to carry on the tradition.
And so I would like to share this recipe with you on this day, quickly, as I must get my turkey in the oven.
Cranberry Salad
1 qt. fresh cranberries ( two 12 oz. bags)
3 oranges – leave peel on one
2 apples
2 cups sugar ( I only use 1 cup now)
1 cup black walnuts
1 pkg. cherry jell-o
Set up your grinder. (I am using an antique model that my sister found at a flea market for $5.) Make up your jell-0 with one cup of hot water and set aside to cool. Wash through berries and discard the soft ones or any with bad spots. Cut the apples and oranges into 6 to 8 slices each. Do not peel the apples but cut out the core. Feed the fruit into the grinder, it is fun … the cranberries pop and the oranges juice up. I do not put my walnuts through the grinder; I chop them up into little pieces and add to the mixture. Stir in the sugar and liquid jell-o. Refrigerate overnight. It gets better every day … and then it’s gone. I freeze some every year to pull out in the middle of summer and then I eat it mostly frozen. It is almost pure Vitamin C.
Enjoy. And thank you, Mom and Dad. I will always love you.
* annette
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Giving Thanks
Sun streams through pine trees
long spindles of light
golden rays reaching
bathing each one in its warmth
illuminated mountainside.
Opening eyes
on this day
Opening heart
illuminated
with blessings and thanks.
Mary
long spindles of light
golden rays reaching
bathing each one in its warmth
illuminated mountainside.
Opening eyes
on this day
Opening heart
illuminated
with blessings and thanks.
Mary
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Essay - Our Sugary Autumn
This is an autumn that merits much admiration. The days have been brilliant, more than I can ever remember.
With temperatures in perfect harmony for nature and humans to experience their sugars, albeit we’re in global warming, it still has been an outrageous season, with many gifts.
As the trees and plants dance their photosynthesis, allowing the chlorophylled leaves to flow deeper, sinking into the branches, trunk and roots, it brings the life force inward.
The external beauty of this process reveals the yellow and orange pigments from the tree for our delight. The more sugar, the redder the leaves.
Connecting Autumn with the Five Element Theory, the Air Element shows itself. This element moderates the essential rhythms of life – our outflow and intake. Staying aware as we move throughout life our need to exhale before we inhale. Trees have to let go to start the deepening of the chlorophyll process. We, at the same time have to release our grip on the old to be receptive to the new. The emotion we hold at this time is grief and loss. As we grieve, our emotional rhythms are thrown into confusion, diminishing our capacity to let go. Our internal organs ruling this process are the lungs and large intestines. Our outflow and inflow, same as with trees and plants.
As we learn to become One with nature and All That Is, to start the turning in process the season presents, death takes on a more pure and sacred meaning. We begin to gather in our own green leaves, our essence we’ve collected since spring, lessons learned, as the warmth of spring and summer gave us much light. We may even allow the riches of this process to strengthen our core, letting the sugars begin to come forth to share with all who sees.
Patricia
11/24/08
With temperatures in perfect harmony for nature and humans to experience their sugars, albeit we’re in global warming, it still has been an outrageous season, with many gifts.
As the trees and plants dance their photosynthesis, allowing the chlorophylled leaves to flow deeper, sinking into the branches, trunk and roots, it brings the life force inward.
The external beauty of this process reveals the yellow and orange pigments from the tree for our delight. The more sugar, the redder the leaves.
Connecting Autumn with the Five Element Theory, the Air Element shows itself. This element moderates the essential rhythms of life – our outflow and intake. Staying aware as we move throughout life our need to exhale before we inhale. Trees have to let go to start the deepening of the chlorophyll process. We, at the same time have to release our grip on the old to be receptive to the new. The emotion we hold at this time is grief and loss. As we grieve, our emotional rhythms are thrown into confusion, diminishing our capacity to let go. Our internal organs ruling this process are the lungs and large intestines. Our outflow and inflow, same as with trees and plants.
As we learn to become One with nature and All That Is, to start the turning in process the season presents, death takes on a more pure and sacred meaning. We begin to gather in our own green leaves, our essence we’ve collected since spring, lessons learned, as the warmth of spring and summer gave us much light. We may even allow the riches of this process to strengthen our core, letting the sugars begin to come forth to share with all who sees.
Patricia
11/24/08
Monday, November 24, 2008
Eating Meat
Growing up we had meat at least once a day-- sometimes it was in the form of bologna, hotdogs, or the tiny morsels of chicken in some Campbell’s chicken noodle soup—but it was always there.
And I remember once, when I was about 5 years old, when my Grandpa Johnson butchered some chickens in his back yard while we were visiting. The chickens really DO dance around after their head is cut off. They sprayed blood around the weeds and chopping stump, as Grandpa stood with the head in one hand and the hatchet in the other. He was a professional--he once worked as a butcher. It wasn’t scary or disgusting to me. It was fascinating.
Years later, in biology lab at college, we were dissecting various formaldehyde marinated creatures, layer by layer. At lunch, I got a leg of chicken and as I “dissected” it with my knife and fork I saw the familiar structures of muscles, tendons, and ligaments attached to the bone. Maybe it was the unconscious connection to the formaldehyde or the influence of hippiedom, but after that I was a vegetarian for over 12 years. Yet somehow the smell of roasting animal flesh continued to make my mouth water.
Then my brother from Minnesota came to visit us in the land of Boulder. To help overcome our life of deprivation he bought my son & I a TV set (our first ever) and plopped a whole ham in our refrigerator. That ham was as hypnotizing as the TV. Every time I opened the refrigerator, it called to me, glowing with the aura of refrigerator light. I craved it badly. It seemed to be my destiny to eat some of it. Finally I gave in. Mmmm-nothing works like cured pork to break my vegetarian lifestyle. After that, fish and poultry came easily.
Truth be told, I was probably protein depleted by that time—depressed, low-immune system, and sleep problems. Meat may have saved my life. I connected to the earth more and grew stronger. My Scandinavian heritage contributed to a metabolism used to plenty of fish and meat, little grains & veggies. I can’t digest beans well and dairy clogged my sinuses & coated my tongue. A diet based on nuts and seeds didn’t provide what I needed to build my form and keep my chemical systems going.
I don’t apologize for eating meat any more. I do what I can to eat meat that comes from humanely treated animals. I thank them for sacrificing for my well being. May animals be treated with more & more consciousness and kindness. May humans control our numbers and our consumption to share the earth. May our nutrients return to the food chain when we die. May we be worthy of the sacrifice of animal and plant lives by bringing more love, beauty, tolerance, and truth into the world.
-by Terra Rafael
And I remember once, when I was about 5 years old, when my Grandpa Johnson butchered some chickens in his back yard while we were visiting. The chickens really DO dance around after their head is cut off. They sprayed blood around the weeds and chopping stump, as Grandpa stood with the head in one hand and the hatchet in the other. He was a professional--he once worked as a butcher. It wasn’t scary or disgusting to me. It was fascinating.
Years later, in biology lab at college, we were dissecting various formaldehyde marinated creatures, layer by layer. At lunch, I got a leg of chicken and as I “dissected” it with my knife and fork I saw the familiar structures of muscles, tendons, and ligaments attached to the bone. Maybe it was the unconscious connection to the formaldehyde or the influence of hippiedom, but after that I was a vegetarian for over 12 years. Yet somehow the smell of roasting animal flesh continued to make my mouth water.
Then my brother from Minnesota came to visit us in the land of Boulder. To help overcome our life of deprivation he bought my son & I a TV set (our first ever) and plopped a whole ham in our refrigerator. That ham was as hypnotizing as the TV. Every time I opened the refrigerator, it called to me, glowing with the aura of refrigerator light. I craved it badly. It seemed to be my destiny to eat some of it. Finally I gave in. Mmmm-nothing works like cured pork to break my vegetarian lifestyle. After that, fish and poultry came easily.
Truth be told, I was probably protein depleted by that time—depressed, low-immune system, and sleep problems. Meat may have saved my life. I connected to the earth more and grew stronger. My Scandinavian heritage contributed to a metabolism used to plenty of fish and meat, little grains & veggies. I can’t digest beans well and dairy clogged my sinuses & coated my tongue. A diet based on nuts and seeds didn’t provide what I needed to build my form and keep my chemical systems going.
I don’t apologize for eating meat any more. I do what I can to eat meat that comes from humanely treated animals. I thank them for sacrificing for my well being. May animals be treated with more & more consciousness and kindness. May humans control our numbers and our consumption to share the earth. May our nutrients return to the food chain when we die. May we be worthy of the sacrifice of animal and plant lives by bringing more love, beauty, tolerance, and truth into the world.
-by Terra Rafael
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