Nourished

I recently watched two of my favorite movies, 'Like Water For Chocolate' and 'Chocolate'. While I could joke about the fact that the word chocolate is in both titles, a realization struck me: each is about strong, feminine women who live outside the expectations of their society, and each features heroines who cook. And my preference for the two particular movies makes me contemplate their deeper meaning-there's something powerful about the ability to nourish. There's an inherent sense of renewal in preparing a meal; without food, our bodies wither and die. So much is wrapped up in the idea of eating-it's rhythms, flavors, consequences-that many thoughtful movies have featured it as their crux. 'Babbette's Feast' is another. In fact, it would be interesting to determine how many movies use food as the main vehicle for their characters and plot. Good cooks, top chefs, bad cooks, people who like to eat, people who don't like to eat.....
I used to be a good cook, and I used to enjoy eating. When I was married, I was driven to feed my family well-balanced meals. The process energized me. I would sing and dance around the kitchen, listening to the Gypsy Kings while I chopped onions and fried fish. My iron skillets were my favorite instruments to create edible joy. The sound of my wooden spoon tapping against the side of the mixing bowl was added texture to the theme songs of my kitchen. Now, although I still have children to feed, I utilize the microwave more than should be considered proper. I usually manage to cook one full meal a day, but very few dirty pots and pans find their way into the sink. I no longer sing and dance my way through meal preparations; instead I sigh a lot and tell the kids to get out of the kitchen. My theme song is the persistent beep of the microwave, telling me the frozen entree and canned peas are done.
Why did I lose my zest, my sense of strength? I don't know; I just know the culinary joy went out of me. Feeding and eating seem more a chore than anything. There is no beat to sway to. I've tried to regain some dimensionality, but everything just tastes flat. Cooking wears me out, and I despair when I open the cupboards and imagine standing in front of the stove for even a few minutes. I've even tried tricking myself by inviting friends over; it's no use.
The one exception seems to be when my oldest comes home to visit. He lives with his father, and left a few months before the divorce became final. He's been gone from our regular routine for five years now, visiting on Thanksgiving or Christmas and during the summer. I feel sometimes that he's an old acquaintance with whom we've kept touch, but have to learn again. I know him and love him, but we're not a regular part of each other's lives. But when he comes, I begin to plan menus and grocery shop for fresh vegetables, rather than processed food. I enjoy the sound of my fry pan sizzling with heated oil. It's a glimpse of what used to be.
You may assume that my joy waned because I no longer cooked for a husband. The irony is that even in those days when I had a husband, when I propped a toddler on my hip while stirring the sauce and admonishing the other two to "Stop that fussing and set the table!", my husband was only home once in a while. He's in the military, even now, and we were 'geographically separated'. It was more than that, really, but that's another story. The children and I only saw him on the average of once every three months. Our lives seemed full enough without him, and he was a visitor to be on our best behavior for when he did come home. When he left, the family returned to its natural rhythms. Those were the ones we understood and were comfortable with.
So what caused my ardor for properly nourishing my family to cool? I guess it was losing my child. The ingredients that simmered together to create the savor of my life lacked a vital spice; the heating coil became detached from the source of power....use whatever analogy you like. The long-distance relationship with my husband that had grown so distasteful to me that I severed it, foreshadowed the relationship I seemed predestined to have with my son.
He's here with me for the summer now. I've cooked three meals today. When the kids asked for seconds, I breathed in a little deeper. And the aromas which greeted my nose strengthened me. We were nourished and I felt good. Tomorrow, I'll dig out my iron skillet. Maybe I'll even sway to the sounds of them getting to know each other again, the sounds of solidarity, the rhythms of laughter and music coming from my kids enjoying each other's company.

These are a few.....

A few of my favorite things: (not in order of importance)

1. A good, hot bath with scented oils.
2. Feeling red and gold all over
3. A massage done by someone with strong hands and a light touch
4. Being in Italy; the air, the light, the people, the food, the shoes....the texture of the place makes me feel more real.
5. My kids, because they're so genuinely real
6. Expressing myself (writing poetry, drawing, painting, taking photographs)
7. Helping someone (i.e. going to Taco bell and giving my Baja Chalupa to the one-legged guy on the side of the road)
8. Latin music-listening and/or dancing to it
9. Reading and discussing Bible stories
10. Expanding my horizons (but not my waistline!)

.....and because I'm not good at imposing limitations on myself,

11. Having a table and a waiter who knows me at one of my favorite restaurants. He brings me my drink w/o even having to ask what I want. Usually, I don't like the idea of being so predictable, but sometimes a settled feeling has its rewards.
12. Time with friends; time by myself

To Purvis and Back Again, Part 1

Purvis, Mississippi is a very small town near Hattiesburg; it's also about 60-90 minutes north of New Orleans. To get there from here, we have to drive west through Mobile, then turn north on Highway 98. Once we leave the interstate system, it's a two or four lane highway of slightly hilly, mostly bucolic country. It's then we begin passing signs like "Hot Boiled Peanuts" and restaurants with names like "Bar-B-Q-in' With My Honey." My favorite is simply called "Bobo's Good Eats." You also pass churches with names like "Holiness Fire of God" and "The Living Waters Tabernacle."
Our purpose in traveling to Purvis was to visit with friends and watch one of our boys graduate from boarding school. The special occasion merited the one day round trip that lasted well into the small hours of the morning. We started late, and made it in time for the end of the baccalaureate speech and Senior Power Point presentation after a small mishap at a gas station which is not worth mentioning. We congratulated ourselves on getting there in good time, and found a seat in the back of the church sanctuary located on the campus of our Academy. We've all spent quite a bit of time there for various educational and church conference functions, and are very familiar with the campus lay-out. Or well, what's left of it. The school campus there in the Lumberton/Purvis area was devastated by Hurricane Katrina, and is in the haphazard state of repair one finds all over the Gulf Coast region. Our town is still recovering from Ivan almost two years later.
So that is how our day of graduation festivities began. After a mercifully short service (for us, at least), we stood under the awning, greeting and hugging graduates and various old friends. The best was yet to come, because all our people (there were several car-, van-, and SUV-loads of people from our town) met up at Grandmother P's house for mid-day dinner. Grandmother P is a well-known cook, and loves to feed her family's friends. There was squash casserole, candied sweet potato wedges, roast beef, turkey hash. Butter beans, macaroni and pimento cheese casserole, fresh shelled creamed peas from the garden, and so much more. I ate my fill and then some, then had to find room for desert. Our hostess's famous chocolate mousse and coconut cream pies left me gasping for air like a guppy because I was so full. We lolled around chatting, catching up on news, and making new acquaintances.
The graduate's daddy (we'll call him HP) offered me a ride on his motorcycle, and I accepted. Wearing the same skirt and heels I'd worn to church, I gingerly climbed on to the seat and grabbed hold of his waist. Using his feet to back us out of the driveway, which was packed with cars from Mississippi and Florida, HP got us to the road. We sped along straitaways, and I learned that you lean into curves if you don't want to be the 'Today's Special' at the Road Kill Cafe.
The problem with the helmet I was wearing was the visor: it didn't cover my face. As we hit 65 mph on one stretch of Highway 11, I found tears streaming down my cheeks, which were billowing slightly less than my skirt from the force of the wind. I grinned and resolved to pick any bugs out of my teeth, should the need arise. I'd already given up tucking my skirt under my legs and decided to just enjoy the ventilation!
At one point, we had to stop for a few minutes to let a train go by. I'd never been that close to all that power rushing by. The wooden tracks bent under the pressure of the great metal wheels, and I remembered Pirsig's 'Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance'. It made more sense now. As the sun shone down on our heads and shoulders, I found myself philosophizing about the rush of life and how much we miss. HP listened patiently.
On the way back, some kids playing in front of their trailer waved at us as we rode by. I shouted 'hey' and waved. We returned about 45 minutes after we'd left, having taken a tour of the local county roads. I was invigorated and suffering from a serious reverse case of helmet hair-my hair had become a wild mop of frizzed out curls, daring a brush to come near. It was almost time to pile in and caravan to the graduation site. I tried to fix what I could, then gave up. My shoes were cute enough to overcome the other flaws, I decided.
The graduation was full of recognitions, accolades, tears, and triumph. The speech was humorously and wonderfully done in under ten minutes. We did our part to show our pride when my former student walked across the stage (no cow bells, but lots of whistling and screaming did the trick). After the new graduates tossed their mortar boards in the air, we said our good-byes, which lasted longer than my friend was happy with. She wanted to get home. We made our way to Sonic, since we were dying of thirst (the gym was packed and not well-ventilated) and hungry. Several car loads full of people also coming from the graduation showed up there during the time we waited for our order to arrive. Every time we saw someone new, I'd drag my bare feet off the dashboard, put my shoes back on, and run over to say hello.
Finally, we got on the road. It was 11:15 p.m. by this point, and my friend was in a hurry. The ride home is the stuff of legend, and deserves its own post. Ok, well maybe not the stuff of legend, but it sure was memorable.
To be continued.....

*This story is now very poignant for me because HP suffered a heart attack Monday, and has not regained consciousness. Barring a miracle (which we're all praying for), he's not expected to recover. I keep thinking back to that day and how happy it was.

"Pomp and Circumstance"

I watched another one of my former students graduate from high school tonight. My friends and I drove to Mississippi this morning, spent the day with friends, attended various graduation-related functions, then waited patiently until it came his turn to walk across the stage. We hooted and hollered (because that's what you do in Mississippi) and stomped our feet. And he knew that his momentous occasion was momentous for more than just him-it meant something to us as well. After a full day, and an evening made longer by the stifling hot gym and hard wooden bleachers, we drove back home. That drive deserves its own story. But I digress....
Because I teach three grades, I often get the priviledge of becoming an integral part of my students' lives. Not everyone I teach makes that connection with me. For whatever reason (usually parent-related), we just don't make that bond. But the others: these are the kids that come back to see me year after year. These are the kids that are now over 18 or over 21, and relate to me on a quasi-adult level. These are the kids who are mine. Forever.
If that sounds a little creepy, it shouldn't. I know their parents; in the case of several of my kids of the years, I've been close friends with their parents. I've been to their homes, eaten with them, watched tv with them, even traveled with them. They become a part of my heart, and I am blessed to be able to say that. My heart is larger because of them. I'm a better person because of what they've taught me. It all sounds so trite, but it's true. So when I watch another one graduate with honors, another one who's on the cusp of something gloriously real like the rest of his life, I feel a tug. His accomplishments are my accomplishments. And I know there are more to come. And I will get to see enough of them that I will continue to feel the twinge of pride and responsibilitity and hope.
I guess I'll even embrace the sadness that will come when life teaches him some of the lessons that just don't come from books. Those are the lessons that aren't generally accompanied by cheering friends and fancily scripted papers touting great achievements. They are the ones where we hope the damage won't last too long. Those are the times when we don't want anyone to see. But I guess how we respond is a measure of our success. I know my former student will respond with insight and grace. And I will be proud of him still.
There will be others to watch march down to Elgar's "Pomp and Circumstance." Time seems to march very well to that song.

Green Grass

We had a bicycle rodeo at school today. After lunch, kids lined up on bikes of various sizes, pink and blue and black and green plastic helmets gleaming in the sun, and paraded around the back parking lot. The sun was shining, but it was a kinder, gentler brand of sunshine than the kind we're used to in July, August, and September. This was a sun happy to see people absorbing its radiation; it has not yet lost interest after looking down on bathers and gardeners and grass too green not to invite a beating down. A breeze made it a gracious moment.
This is the last week of school, and the faculty decided to have a Spirit Week; we need the encouragement. We've almost reached the finish line, but have discovered we're just about out of gas. (It's not just an expensive commodity at the pump!)
My students and I sat on the sloping hill next to the black asphalt and watched the younger ones peddle furiously as they began the first race. One boy, American flag lashed to a stick which was duck taped to the back bar, honked his horn as wheels spun. The red, white, and blue flapped jauntily in the breeze he was creating. We cheered him on, calling out his name and others'. It wasn't so stifling that we didn't have the energy to encourage others. Another boy careened by the patriotic wheeler, almost knocking into him. We shouted, "Watch out!" They both came out of the turn, and went on, never heeding the possibility of a crash. Bicycle crasher went on to outstrip everyone and won the race. We cheered for him but clapped and hooted wildly for the last child who hadn't been able to keep up, or even get her bike going for that matter, as she crossed the finish line. "WOOHOO!!"
After the initial excitement for those of us watching-none of my students had brought their bikes, being too old and "cool"-we most of us flopped back on the grass. It was so green and warm and springy. We ignored the little black and orange striped bugs that would land on our legs or arms, then hop onto a nearby blade of grass. I leaned my head back, sniffing the fresh green scent and looking at the poodly-type clouds that hung just overhead. Someone sprinkled blades of grass which had been pulled up by their roots in my hair. Another student discovered a large brown spider and suggested that it might be "a Brown Recluse, maybe!" We all watched it with revulsed fascination. I was glad they didn't decide to place the spider in my hair as well.
Too soon, it was time to go in. All the bike contest participants smiled sweaty, (mostly) gap-toothed grins as they wheeled their transportation inside the building. It was a sweet mom and flaky crust apple pie kind of moment....the kind that gets lost in news reports of earthquakes and fuel barrel prices and body counts. Sitting with my students under the blue sky in the silky breeze and warm sunshine was something spectacularly real, uncontrived, and therefore, glorious. But I think my favorite part of the whole experience was the green grass. Its color and texture and scent were what kept me anchored to my spot. It was a time that was planted and will maintain roots deep in my memory.

Cycle of the Sun

In the Spring, the sun is like a young person, who is excited about all the possibilities that the world has to offer. Just look at the green grasses and vibrant hues of flowers that respond to it's attentions. It's a young mother of a firstborn child, sensitive to all the cares of her infant, totally attuned to that which will cause the baby to flourish.

In the Summer, the sun is like a parent of a teen-ager: it's strong, firm, responding to the demands of those intent on utilizing every last ounce it can give. It glares at those children who want to lie on the beach, wearing too little.

In the Fall, the sun is that middle-aged person, on the verge of retirement. It has moments that point to a time of weakness, of vulnerability. But that time has not yet come, and the wiser moments prevail and shine, and cover others with its offerings-a cornucopia of harvested effort. Thoughts and feelings come to fruition.

In the Winter, the sun has finally decided to shuffle off to the South, where it's warmth can be bundled in moments of joy captured from the times before. It's glory is now reflected in snow and ice; crisp light is frozen clear as crystal. It's a brittle salute at time, before it sinks into oblivion.

Nurturing, preserving, punishing, withering: the sun joins in life's cycle, and is one of us.

Momentous

There's something that needs to take form: words, ideas which will help me understand.
Ideas unformed have started creeping about furtively in the recesses-
all the experiences which, collectively, decide who I am, how I'll choose.
I pick at my nail and wait for cohesion.
Taking a sip of my drink, I remember a party for which I need to RSVP.
The phone rings, but I ignore it. The person then tries my cell phone.
I ignore that too. Someone knocks on my door,
and the musing that had started to ascend the stairs
from the basement of my consciousness loses its momentum.
The expression of unsaid things slips back into the shadows of dust, and the moment passes.