Sound and (Re)Vision

It's been a strange week here in the militantly bucolic Republic of Gumbostan.  A veritable seesaw of angst and elation, laced with a soupçon of contentedness, topped off with a small schmear of being completely in the middle of everything.  The crowning moment was the Mexican standoff in my backyard, between two cats and the rotund groundhog that lives under my shed.  The cats were crouched in the flowerbeds, triangulating on the shed.  The groundhog hardly dared to show his face.  It was so surreal I decided they deserved a toast in the form of a wee dram of Scotland's finest.*

Later, I decided to try a little experiment and turn off all noise-making devices.  More accurately, I turned off the noise-making portions of the devices.  This act of rebellion included the streaming audio on my trusty laptop**, which many of you may know is akin to taking away the cell phone from a securities trader.  I don't often do this.  Silence is something that I want and fear in equal measure.  Without aural input, I am too often forced to face up to the noise in my head.


As anyone who has been there can tell you, the noise in my head sometimes ain't pretty.


Tonight I felt the pull.  I was listening to the radio for a while but something clicked over and I was seized by a sudden desire for quiet.  It must have been the end result of excess input, where the desire for sonic rest overwhelmed my fear of listening to the "freq" in my head.  So off with the radio.  I picked up a book***, some cushions and headed put onto the porch to sit and exercise my eyeballs.


The weather here has been great this week, and today was the best yet.  I know some of my bloggy friends****  have been dealing with rain of Biblical ferocity, so I have been extra thankful that it has been so sunny and comfortable here just outside of Mobtown.  And the a/c is off tonight!  Extra special in the land of wet-hot-towel-around-the-face summer days.


Out on the porch, I sat and read my book, quietly, not unlike Ferdinand***** and his flowers.  The breeze was blowing and it was almost completely serene.  It was then I noticed more of the sounds I normally don't hear because I'm so busy listening to the radio or TV.  Crickets.  Birds.  Leaves brushing on leaves.  The faint sounds of traffic from nearby streets, which really were more soothing than annoying.


Later, inside the house, with the windows open,  I made a pot of tea.  The act itself was very Zen, charged with a 'wabi sabi' vibe running through it.  The simple acts of filling the pot with water and getting out the teabags (it was for a big pot of iced tea) had their own simple and unique sounds.  I especially enjoyed the dry crackle of the paper surrounding the tea bags.  It sounded just loud enough against the low hiss of the gas flame on the stove and the crickets outside.  It sounded like just what I needed.


So as I let the glass go empty, cocking an ear to the wind outside my window,  I felt my mind empty as well.  Not empty as in my brains fell out; empty as in cares and concerns, stresses and worries, thoughts collapsing under their own weight in such a huge pile, they drained away.

"The thirty spokes unite in the one center; but it is on the empty space for the axle that the use of the wheel depends. Clay is fashioned into vessels; but it is on their empty hollowness that their use depends. The door and windows are cut out from the walls to form an apartment; but it is on the empty space that its use depends. Therefore, whatever has being is profitable, but what does not have being can be put to use."  (From the Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu, as translated by James Legge.)

This came back to me, in that moment of crumpling the tea bag papers in my hand.  The rasp, the crunch, the dry slither of the material on my fingers.  I tossed the ball of paper across the kitchen, aiming for the trashcan.  Watching it arc into the container, I knew in that instant, even of only for an instant, I had achieved peace of mind.

It was beautiful.

*In this case, represented by the Isle of Skye's gift to humanity, 10-year old Talisker.  C'est bon, c'est tout!  And to my friend Rich, he who bestowed upon me a generous gift in the form of 10-year old Laphroaig:  Just a little comparison tasting, to keep myself calibrated. Cheers!
**Surprisingly, the jonesin' isn't that bad.  I only shake...a little.

***"How to Read a French Fry" by Russ Parsons.  A good read, but it made me hungry. 
****Janie, Stiletto, here's hoping you weathered the storms! 
*****Ferdinand the Bull is probably my favorite childhood book, EVAH.  I have a copy that I read to Wee Lass almost every weekend she is with me, and sometimes she reads it to me.  I am blessed. 

My China Syndrome

One day last month, Wee Lass and I sat at the dining table with paint, paper and brushes under the light of the banker’s lamp. The paints are all watercolors, some tubes of which I bought years ago with the intention of teaching myself to paint.

I know it was because of the beauty of the colors I had seen that I wanted to paint. I was fascinated and enraptured then, and still am now, by the shades and tones and hues I saw in paintings. I bought some books about the subject, for the pictures alone.

I fell in love with Ultramarine. Viridian. Cobalt. Purple Lake. Cadmium Yellow. So pretty…

All this before I realized just how much practice it takes to get good at watercolor painting. A few small starts, and then I was distracted by the rest of the pretty, shiny things that constitute Life. The paints languished in a drawer for a long time, with me occasionally taking them out of the bag and just looking at the labels.

One of the pretty shiny things that came along was my Wee Lass. The care and feeding of such a lovely flower put a lot of leisurely activities on hold, certainly in the case of learning to paint. Still, I could never bring myself to throw or give them away. The tubes of paint and the little plastic trays I bought, along with a small number of brushes just held too much sway over my imagination.

So it has been a great pleasure and wonderful surprise to see that Wee Lass has an interest in drawing and painting. She is fascinated with markers and colored pencils (a big stash I have left from my student days), and loves to scribble and color. She was very excited to find out about the paints. We even have a ritual that must be followed: Both trays on the table, each little bin anointed with a small amount of every color. Multiple pads at the ready, each of which must have at least one page daubed with most, if not all, of the available colors.

That particular day Wee Lass was on a “flower” kick. Me, I was seized with the notion of Chinese calligraphy. Yet another subject I knew almost nothing about, yet felt compelled to try. Not unlike my fascination with Chinese cooking. Are you sensing a theme here? So we set to, her with the bright colors and broad swathes, me trying to play ancient scholar with a bamboo brush and a small puddle of ultramarine paint. Wee Lass dove in with gusto, eventually producing what I found to be a quite fetching little “flowertree”:

Tres bon, oui? For some reason I really liked what she had painted, and she did as well. Simple, unpolished but exuberant and glee-inducing. We both had a big smile once she was finished.

While she was doing that, I was sweating the details on a Chinese character, taken at random from the glossary of a Chinese cookbook on my shelf. It is the character for ‘raw’ (sheng), and I picked it by opening the book and sticking out a finger, and that is where it landed. Good thing, too, as it also appeared to be one of the simpler characters to emulate.

Simple it may have looked, but simple it was not to actually paint. Over and over and over I swiped at the paper trying desperately as elegant as the picture in the book. Wee Lass even looked over and quizzically asked, “Daddy, why are you doing the same thing again? Draw something pretty!” Gee, thanks, kiddo. I told her it was because I liked the shape and the color. It took me quite a few tries to get something approaching what I had seen:

Honestly, I didn’t even realize it was the best of the bunch until I set the pages aside to dry. Professional it may not be, but I gasped in surprise and satisfaction. I double checked the book, and sure enough, it was a reasonable facsimile. I felt that illumination of experience blossom in my head. For a brief instant, I was there.

Making these letters does not make me Chinese, and watching my daughter paint out of sheer joy will not make me five years old again. What those things can do, however, is take me outside of myself, and for a few moments I was able to see the world through a different set of lenses. The view was fresh, new and exciting.

I am Chinese, I am young, if only through paper, paint and the joyful mind of a beautiful little girl. I am blessed.

Swallowing Chinese Medicine (Cabinet)

It was not the thing for which I was looking. Not at all.

See, I have this little corner, an accidental eddy in the spaces around me that I would like to fill with…something. The natural thing, that which first occurred to me, was a writing desk. It is probably pretty obvious by now that I have aspirations to be a writer. If one is going to be a writer, therefore, it follows that one should have a place to write. From that, the inexorable push of logic says that a desk is the most likely place at which to write.

When I first sat down to get serious about writing, I almost always did it at the dining table. It was centrally located, had good light coming through the window and gave easy access to the stereo and the refrigerator. And there was also a toilet nearby, so all the basic needs were covered.

Things are a little different now, but I still do most of my writing at a dining table. Problem is, it is located away from the windows, and I miss easy access to natural light. There is a spot next to my dresser that is just big enough that I could fit a medium sized library table or small desk, perfect for writing and thinking. This is the accidental eddy I mentioned. A small backwater out of the main flow of things to provide some peace and quiet.

For some reason, I got it into my head that I didn’t want a modern desk. I wasn’t that interested in sleek or shiny or tubular or glassy. I wanted something made out of wood, preferably old, purpose built and with just enough ornamentation to be interesting without being frilly. I wanted something that had seen some use, but looked “worn with care” and not just beat up or abused. I wanted an old desk with brass hardware and maybe an old fashioned keyhole in the drawer. Secret compartments would be icing on the cake.

So antiques were the natural choice. And as luck (and geography) would have it, there are quite a few antiques stores/outlets near my homestead. I availed myself of this bounty by heading for the nearest, an old mill complex that has been converted into offices, shops and (of course) antiques sellers. I went into the first (and probably largest) antique furniture store that I came upon.

I was immediately overwhelmed by the variety, quality and…prices…of some of these pieces. And the sizes! If I am ever in the market for an old wardrobe the size of a minivan, I know where to go. The writing desk selection was a little slimmer, but there were some very nice pieces. I saw from across the room, what looked like a very promising table. Right size! Wood! Multiple veneer inlays! Louis XIV style (or something like that)! Wow! I said. I imagined myself sitting there, writing the equivalent of “War and Peace”, sipping brandy and pontificating on the size of my big head. I hurried over to check it out.

I imagined writing a check for $6,500. Eeep.

Okay, so no “L’etat c’est moi” fantasies for me on that one. So I kept looking. I did find a few more tables, but they were either too frou-frou or too money-money. Very nice stuff, just a little out of my reach at the moment. I was about to leave the store when I turned a corner, and saw this beauty:



I believe I actually gasped when I saw it. It is a 19th century apothecary cabinet, apparently used by a practitioner of Chinese medicine. It is made of Elmwood, which seems a little unusual. It has 42 square drawers and 3 rectangular ones. Each one has a little metal pull, a ring of what I thought was brass or bronze. Each drawer has Chinese (I think) calligraphy on the face:



I don’t know what it was about this piece, but for some reason I found it to be beautiful, mysterious and intriguing. I was immediately taken by it, even though I couldn’t think of what I could do with it.

By now, you probably have noticed the obvious: it is in no guise a desk for writing. It is about four feet tall, there is no place to sit at it and the drawers cannot be used to store paper or books. Standing at it would be ridiculous, trying to write.

So, many strikes against it, desk-wise.

Still, there was something about, something almost magnetic that kept me staring at it…

I think that maybe it was the aura of possibilities about the chest. Possibilities of past and future uses hanging about the chest like a quantum fog. What was and what could be in those drawers? Who owned or would own such a thing? I saw it behind the counter of a medicine shop, or in a kitchen, as the visitor and the owner sat talking in quiet consultation. I pulled a drawer open, and the hand of an elderly gentleman lifted the ring along with mine…the little compartments stuffed with a powder, a spice, an herb, exotic ingredients my eyes could not identify but which captivated me all the same. In the bottom of one drawer I found a small blob of sealing wax, an imprint faint but still visible in the shiny red circle. How? Who? Why?

The Universe contained in a wooden box the size of my daughter with her arms outstretched. Forty-five drawers divided into smaller and smaller boxes, a rectangular fractal vessel of near infinite probabilities. Each volume containing the answer to someone’s question: Make me better, make me less hungry, give me strength, let me taste, feed my body, feed my mind…

…feed my soul.

I closed my eyes and breathed deep the aroma of old wood and possibilities. The elderly practitioner turned from the cabinet and brought something to the counter where I stood, waiting. He placed a small cloth bag in my hands, heavy and fragrant, and wished me good health. I smiled to thank him and moved to the door, stepping out into the bright blue goodness of a lovely summer day.

The Universe, in a chest of wood.