Profusion.

A flower that struts its pale bloom or drips vibrant with pouting lips, the bird that sings with its soul perched within its throat, how we strive to hold their beauty to our hearts. But despite our impassioned senses or perhaps because of them, how despairingly we fall short of gleaning the true divinity within that pale blossom and that song that thrills.

I find that after a few moments, I have to look away because I am unable to take it in. It becomes incomprehensible, overwhelming. That rather miniscule drop of divinity that I presume to be within me responds to that beauty. But the rest, the undiscerning and abjectly blind human, shies away from it.

It has to be taken in tiny sips, tiny and sweet and fragrant, that suffuse the mind and lull it into a slow languorous state of grace. The way a drop of ink bursts upon water, the blush and the marigold, the verdant and the azure burst upon the liquid mind and seep into the soul, curling curling their painted fingers around one’s heart. I have to close my eyes for fear of drowning. And yet it is not enough. ‘ere my eyes have closed, they fly open again to drink in some more of this riotous madness of spring that dances madly, profusely upon my drunken vision and puts me in the propinquity of all that is divine.

Vitriol?? …..some.

I am going to be deliberately general and vague about the event and the names because this post is not about pointing fingers or naming names….it is more of a thinking out loud exercise. Its just one of those things that needs to be said, to clear the air so to speak, if only for myself.

So! Our son recently participated in a competitive event. Its an individual sport but he is part of a team and so we attend these events as a team. Now I have to say that thankfully, all the team parents are very down to earth people who take losing in their stride. If we see that our child has not performed their best or if there is another child who is better, we accept it and move on to the next event. And thankfully, our children are the same. They are learning to accept defeat gracefully. After the event, we talk to our son, discuss what needs to be improved and encourage him to do better the next time. We do not praise him needlessly because life usually isn’t that way. One has to work darned hard at it all to earn even a semblance of an award. And at the risk of sounding flippant, the sooner he knows that, the better off he will be. But when he does well, we do give him his due. We celebrate his success with him. Its all about balance.

But what should happen when the defeat is unfair? When you can see, hands down, that your child is the best or at least the second best of that group of competitors and yet, he is not recognised for it? And not only your child, but the whole team??!!

We heard that the organisers were promoting those in their circuit. They wanted them to keep coming back and so were giving them a reason to in the form of a medal. Now I honestly do not know the veracity of that statement and an upset parent will grab at anything to make sense of it. And it wasn’t even a question of winning a medal. It was the question of right and wrong.

I am not the least bit confrontational. Frankly, it gives me the hibijibbies. Confrontations are the stuff of nightmares. But, in situations like this, shouldn’t we at least express our doubts and concerns to the people running the show? Can we not express our dissatisfaction using sane and articulate sentences? Yes, life is unfair, yes, things go awry, sometimes, for no particular reason that we can perceive but that surely does not mean that we need to be quiet about it does it? Should we just teach them to walk away from it blindly?

And the bigger question to my mind is, in questioning the true motives behind the defeat, are we teaching them to be wimps? Are we teaching them to look for excuses to explain away their ‘failures’? I personally do not think so. I think we can teach them that life is indeed unfair and that you can definitely call it out when it is so. And once you have done so, pick yourself up, brush yourself off and move on and then work that much more harder in the future.

I think we can safely teach them to call a spade a spade without feeling the need to throw in the towel or raising a tempest.

A day of lessons. Back to back and overlapping.

Patience and I
parted ways
before my life
counted be counted in days.
She stayed behind
to grace the Heavens
while I wander this earth
ardent and impatient.

Sitting atop a crumbling wall of stone, cold to the touch but bearable because of the warm sun on my face and the general happy, peaceful atmosphere that pervaded that little space, I closed my eyes and began to meditate. I knew that I was just beginning and had a lot to learn, a long way to go before the rewards manifested themselves. And being the kind of person who when she needs something, needs it now, I knew I had to work on my patience too. So at the end of my meditation, with the deep rooted fervor of a novice, I begged the energies of the Universe to teach me to cultivate patience and the love required to be kind to the person or situation causing the delay in gratification.

Having finished my prayer, I looked forward to the unfolding of the day. And…HA! Little did I know.

It seems my prayers were to be answered sooner than expected. Apparently, I wasn’t required to have much patience to commence the lessons in the ‘Art of Patience’. And I’ll tell you why.

(You can skip the next few paragraphs. I wont mind. I promise. Or you can continue reading and think of it as a small and tedious exercise in patience. )

After the walk, I buckled down to take care of some business. Taxes. That, in itself, I am sure you will agree, requires the patience of a saint. But much to my delight, I skipped through the first dozen or so lines with nary a stumble until I reached number 13 (hmm..number 13, I should have known). I did not just stumble here, I flat out fell on my face and got a bloody nose (figuratively of course). I could not make head nor tail of it. So I called the concerned authorities, to beg for mercy and help, and after 15 minutes of futile and utterly unrewarding pen tapping on my side, an agent answered my call. After another 30 minutes of running loop-di-doo around the point, we came to the conclusion that, after all, she could not help me. My information, it seems, was incomplete.

Just as I had hung up, my son called from school complaining of a stomach ache, a headache and a sore throat. Could I pick him up please? Of course! Mama’s on the way, honey! I brought him home, tucked him in bed and got the next available doctor’s appointment. My poor baby!

After waiting an hour and a half and veritably talking to a laptop (while I am thrilled that the doctors are using the latest technology, I am not quite sure how I feel about talking to one who is too focused on a computer screen and the typing pad. But she IS a good doctor and I suppose I need to move ahead with the times?), we figured it was only reflux and a mild cold. Thank Heavens!

But by then, we were a good 15 minutes late for our piano lesson. So I rushed him there, went home to fetch his piano lesson books and his clothes for the next activity that was lined up, rushed to the piano lesson where he barely had time to use the said books, finished the lesson and on to the next activity. WooHoo! Almost there!!

While at the next activity, I realised that I had to pick up water and non perishable items to be donated for the victims of the hurricane. So I rushed to the store, got the necessary items, got done with the activity, came home, helped the sonny with homework, made dinner, gulped it down, put him to bed a tad bit earlier than normal because his poor body needs to rest and huffed a sigh of relief as I patted myself on the back for a job well done. I, Mesdames et Messieurs, had won the first round.

Because through it all, as I fought tooth and nail to stay ahead of time, nary a word of frustration nor a signal of defeat escaped my lips even though a few choice words were ready to spring forth or should I say froth forth from my mouth and a hissy fit was dancing in my heart and at my fingertips.

But, I did not give in. At every turn and overlapping corner, I drew a deep breath, reminded myself that I had asked for this, that I was being tested and I calmly moved on as best as I could. Some days are going to be tougher than others, right? Throwing a hissy fit about it isn’t going to achieve much other than get you more flustered and out of sorts.

Can it really be as simple as that? I really don’t know. Only time will tell I suppose. Time, practice and more lessons, perhaps?

Drops of wisdom
blood of life
within my reach.

A day that was let go.

There was no precursor to the mood I would wake up in. If anything, it should have been light, a bit dreamy, definitely on the road to a reverie awash in tones of sepia. I thought the mood would carry over from last night, from watching ‘Midnight in Paris’ by Woody Allen. Its a wonderful movie that leaves one gushing and day dreaming about a bohemian Paris.

Generally, mornings are quiet yet frenzied movements of going from chore to chore until the tea is made and drunk on the go, the beds are made, the lunch is packed, the child is dropped off to school with last minute instructions to behave and goodbye kisses…. But interspersed within these moments are the ones where one gazes out the window in wonder of the dawning day and stands in awe at all the fluttering movements without.

But this morning was different. Looking through the window, I saw snow on the ground and my only reaction, hmm..guess it snowed last night. My eyes did not take in the sublime whiteness that stretched outward as far as the eye could see nor the tint of the pale blue sky mirrored in its myriad facets. The trees and bushes were fluffed up with its white down that was balanced in precarious towers over their ragged surfaces but I could not be bothered to take it in. The stillness of the scene did not steal into my soul and fill it to the brim with awe. I was left untouched.

Dawn broke slowly over the the roof tops that glistened with snow and through the smoking chimneys that puffed out smoke which smelled of old wood and deep forests. The sky blushed peach and pink with unabashed pride as it haled the ruling star into the court, all fiery and magnificent in russets and gold. But all this, I did not see.

It was as though I was still asleep or wrapped in a cocoon of indifference. It was strange. A little disconcerting. I struggled against the constraints to break free, to open my eyes, but it only tired me. What strange whimsical beings we are. How frantically we claw at the fabric of life to find something magical in each day, as if our life depended on it.

And then I remembered something a dear, dear friend of mine had said to me,

Chop wood, carry water…each moment is not the crest of the wave.
Chop more wood, carry more water…the eyes are resting and the heart is gathering.

And when I remembered those words, I let go. I let it be. Maybe today was for resting, for gathering and for knowing that that is okay too.

I suppose some days are just for letting go.

Re-inventing ‘self’ through Lunch.

I love how we re-discover ourselves every so often. How we find ways to keep our selves entertained or find ways to add a dash of spice to an otherwise mundane day, week.

Re-inventing ourselves, that is the true spice of life dont you think? That and variety of course.

When we open our minds to possibilities, it is amazing how they come flying in through every crevice and opening, be it a window or a door or a crack in the wall, until one has to say, stop, let me catch my breath. Let me savor every opportunity in and of itself before I drown under it all and am swept away upon the tide of bewilderment and excess.

I had already been flirting with the idea of meditation (at the risk of sounding a bit batty, I have been getting these messages from all sides, through people and reading of course, that I should take up meditation), Yoga which is always a good thing to take up and eating healthier, when, last year, our son brought home a packet from school, selling magazines for a fund raiser! See how that works? I promptly opted for the Yoga Journal and the Vegetarian Times.

And I wasn’t disappointed! The Yoga Journal has a lot of articles on the benefits and ways of meditation, about different styles of Yoga…Its an all round feel good kinda magazine. Just reading it makes me feel so restful and at peace.

The Vegetarian Times has a lot of slurp-a-licious and tempting recipes.

So, feeling inspired, I took it one step further. I decided to try at least two new recipes per week for lunch. It allows us, my husband and I, to add even more varied vegetables, herbs and beans to our already diverse menu. And it is such a thrill to see fresh green and red chard, blushing turnips, the delicate curve of an endive, popping yellow pepper, shy tomatillos, fresh herbs etc, in one’s shopping basket isn’t it? And then, I thought, why not blog about it? So, here we are.

Today, I poached an egg!! For the very first time!! I had never even seen anyone poach an egg forget knowing how to do it. But you never know until you try right? And try I did! (Told you I was inspired!) And guess what, call it beginner’s luck or what have you, I poached an egg! I did it!! Even my sweet hubby was impressed!

So we had poached eggs over Asparagus, a slice of Ancient Grain bread with Aged Swiss and a sweet Pomelo for dessert.

And here’s how I cooked it.

4 tbsp olive oil, divided
12 1/4″ thick slices baguette (We had toasted Ancient Grain bread instead)
1 clove garlic, halved
2 tbsp distilled or white wine vinegar
1 tsp salt
4 large eggs
1 tbsp snipped chives

1. Pre-heat oven to 400 F. Place paper towel lined plate next to the stove.
2. Spread 2 tbsp of oil over half of baking sheet. Arrange baguette slices in single layer on top of oil, and press down to coat one side with oil. Flip the slices over on baking sheet, and toast in the oven for 8 to 10 minutes, or until golden. Rub each toasted slice with garlic.
3. Bring 1 inch salted water to a boil in a skillet over medium heat. Add asparagus; cook 3 to 5 minutes, or until crisp-tender. Drain, and keep warm.
(Here, I heated up some olive oil in the skillet and stir fried them for a few minutes. Just before removing them from the skillet, I sprinkled them generously with lemon-chilli spice mix from The Gourmet Collection.)

4. Bring 2 qt. water, vinegar, and salt to a boil in a 9 inch saucepan over medium heat. Crack one egg, and drop it into the water, holding shell as close to surface as possible. Rapidly repeat with remaining eggs. Bring to gentle simmerr. (Small bubbles should break surface around edges, not bubble up from bottom of the pan.)
Reduce heat to maintain temperature. Poach eggs 3 minutes. Transfer to prepared plate with a slotted spoon.
5. Divide asparagus between 4 plates. Top each serving with one egg. Drizzle with remaining olive oil. Season with salt and pepper, sprinkle with chives and garnish with toasted baguette slices.

Serves: 4
Per Serving: 330 Cal; 14 G Prot; 17 G Total Fat; 33 G Carb; 3 G Fiber; 1 G Sugar

BON APPETIT!!

The long and winding road…

The long and winding road that leads to your door…

Come, meet me by the wall, where the sweet Robin comes to call. Arm in arm, side by side, we shall walk, by and by.

I went for a walk today. The cold, soulless machines were forsaken in favour of the long and winding road. It was bright and happy outside. Even the birds seemed to think so because they were flitting about, probably looking for tidbits of golden hay or wisps of cotton or long forgotten pieces of yarn that could be used to pretty up their little nests for the wee ones. They seemed to be happy, going about their business, singing, chirping, sharing stories with one another, perhaps gossiping. I saw one of the smallest nests I have ever seen, a remnant of last spring.

I wonder which one of the fair feathered species called this a home.

There are as many types of houses as there are homes.

And just as many types of boarders.

The birds weren’t the only happy campers today.

There were fair daffodils….

crocuses dressed in purple….

and yellow droplets of sunshine,

pretty white flowers that look like little maids in skirts

and wild bunches of periwinkle-ed flowers that had collected quite a fanfare of buzzing bees. Unfortunately the bees were too tiny to be captured on my cell phone camera. So I let them be.

It was a lovely walk. Past rooftops, now visible through the leafless trees, with their winding and secretive driveways that leave one wondering whither they might lead, hide as they do behind the thick foliage of the summer trees. Even now, they leave much to the imagination. It is strangely soothing to imagine all the interconnected lives under those peeking rooftops and behind the walls of the houses that have left their damp and cool corners to step out in the sun and shake off the winter cold.

I wonder how it would be if I lived inside this house or that. Will I be a different person with different tastes and friends. A writer perhaps or an acclaimed chef. I might have a huge garden with fresh vegetables and herbs and I might throw grand parties with pretty lanterns twinkling on the pergola and lush mimosa and hydrangea spilling over the wooden deck and the lusty perfume of hundreds of roses. I will cook with all the fresh produce from my garden and serve it on rustic tables, the meal and the mood a sensory delight.

Within those few moments I live as many different lives, each one nestling in that part of my heart which desires it the most. Pretty musings. Entangled wisps of imagination that are picked up and then left quivering in the sun as I head home where my whole heart, my true heart, lives.

(Our son drew this for us. )

A Sunny Sunday.

Its a sunny Sunday. I am trying to make short work of my chores, which, being a Sunday aren’t that many. Just a bit of pick-me-up-here, tidy-me-up-there kinda stuff.

The sun has cut a big swath of warmth across our deck that beckons and promises an afternoon of coffee and books and sweet laziness. And I cannot wait to hop on over and make the most of it.

The book I am reading, The Club Dumas by Arturo Perez – Reverte, is puuur-fect for this afternoon. Its a book about books which is a genre that I simply cannot resist. And as you have rightly guessed, this is based partly on Dumas’s famous novel, The Three Musketeers, which incidentally I read a month or so ago and so is fresh in my mind. I love how these things work sometimes, don’t you?

Anyway, the book begins with a death that is shrouded in deep mystery. The detectives have been unable to determine whether its a murder or a suicide and therefore the reader is in the dark. The protagonist, Corso, has been handed a part of a manuscript supposedly written in Dumas’s own hand and he has to authenticate it and at the same time another plot unfolds about a book called The Book of the Nine Doors of the Kingdom of Shadows written by none other than the dark, the evil, the fallen, Lucifer himself. Ooooh…how intriguing!

But what makes it down right fascinating is that there seems to be a connection between the two mysteries. Double whammy!!

There are a lot of juicy tidbits about Alexander Dumas, Rochefort, Richelieu and D’Artagnan sprinkled through out the first half. And there is a vague suspicion that some of the characters from the literary past have stepped through the pages of the book and time, smackdab into the middle of 1930′s. Could the mysterious stranger with the scar on his face indeed be Rochefort? And if he is, what could he possibly want from Corso and even more perplexing, why is he trying to kill him? And what could all this have to do with the book that contains a method to raise the Devil?

Dark, rich and utterly fascinating, the book is steeped in the occult and I cannot wait for it all to unfold so that I may breathe again.