The Skillet Speaks of Humility and Care

You will know in your heart when it has been a good half year since the cornbread was last made. Mild shame on approaching the kitchen, reaching out a hand to grasp the smooth weight of cast iron that last felt human touch so long ago the occasion is beyond recall. The skillet has a voice. It calls to you. It is a pity that you have not answered.

Until now, that is. A bag of corn meal rested on the refrigerator shelf for at least two months. A latent desire to avoid waste was the catalyst for this latest venture into culinary redemption. A supposed absence of buttermilk on the store shelves was a flimsy excuse, a cover for impatience and laziness. You know deep down the attempts to find said buttermilk were halfhearted at best.

The buttermilk was spotted up high in a store you visited for the first time since settling in to your new home. Their reputation for higher prices held you at bay, it is true. Still that store could no longer avoided when it became clear it would almost certainly have buttermilk and other treats not easily procured at other establishments. The prophecy came true. Forty-five minutes and a much lighter wallet later, you were putting the grocery bags in the back of the car.

The accountant may not like it. The belly shouted it down. Hungers have their own imperatives. Treasures were garnered. Pitted olives, plump and spicy. Chubby jalapeño peppers confident in their glossy deep green jackets. The king of cheeses in the form of a craggy block of Parmigiano-Reggiano, the like of which had not shown its tawny face in your house for what seemed a year. The belly will not be disappointed.

The buttermilk is the key player here. The liquid catalyst to a pan full of golden-brown goodness. Memories of melting butter swirled with sorghum coating the grainy cornbread, or a chunk dropped into the ‘pot likker’ at the bottom of a bowl of collard greens, to be spooned up and savored like the taste of heaven itself. You feel these memories. Your stomach rejoices. What feels like endorphins trickling through the brain as you recall the joys of the oven and stove. It wouldn’t be right without the buttermilk.

So it is you gather the wares and the ingredients. They populate the kitchen counter like so many eager helpers waiting to please. Buttermilk. Two eggs. Salt. Baking powder and baking soda. The heavy glass bowl that has followed you for tens of years and thousands of miles, its surface hazed from countless episodes of mixing and scraping. Old friends, sights for sore eyes.

Heat will be needed, of course. You turn on the oven. Ritual demands that a dollop of lard be melted in the skillet as the oven preheats. Into the fridge, out with the small plastic tub. Scoop of fat in hand, you turn to the skillet preparing to drop it in. The skillet perches on the stovetop. A glossy black mirror of reproach and melancholy reflecting your unease at having virtually abandoned it over the summer.

Lard in the pan. Pan in the oven. Its handle feels nearly alive in your hand. Smooth, ebony, sturdy. This is a pan that has survived for over fifty years and is likely to survive another fifty years. It knows itself. It knows you. The silence remains because it understands you are making a good faith effort to patch things up. It knows you have been busy with survival outside the home.

As the lard melts, the dry ingredients are blended gently in the glass bowl. A smaller bowl holds the buttermilk and the eggs. These partners in joy are whisked together. The resulting liquid has an appeal that cannot be explained. The urge to lap it up is strong. Almost as if it were an odd health drink, a tonic to buck up a distressed stomach while revitalizing a tired liver. But you won’t drink it. You know it is destined for the cornbread. This is a nobler fate for eggs and buttermilk.

Ticktockticktock. The oven creaks and softly groans. A quick peek confirms the shallow pool of melted lard is ready. The wet and the dry are brought together in a union of soon-to-be tasty alchemy. You slip on a mitt and grab the searing hot handle of the skillet. Quickly, quickly, the batter is poured into the skillet. That music of sizzle and pop fills the kitchen. Toasted corn aroma caresses the nose as you smooth the pupal cornbread into the pan. A swift bow to the oven god and the skillet is back on the rack to complete its journey to nirvana.

Ticktockticktock. Impatience mounts. The kitchen air smells of corn and crust. Your belly growls softly. It is a tiger cub anxious to be fed. A faint thrill of anticipation arises as the skillet is lifted carefully from the rack and placed on the stovetop. It is at this point you will know if the cornbread likes you, wants to give itself up to your plate.

It is here that you shake the pan. If the bread slides easily back and forth in the pan, grace has been granted. If it does not slide...well, then it may be that penance is required. A small prayer. A shake. And another.

The bread does not move.

Another shake. Perhaps a slight change in position is registered. But the cornbread stubbornly refuses to move. Your heart sinks a little. Still more shaking and the bread tenaciously clings to the pan. Well, you are for it now. Nothing to do but put the mesh rack over the skillet in preparation for flipping it upside. Good luck and godspeed with any luck it will pop right out.

Tonight there is no such luck. The disk of cornbread falls to the mesh with a tearing sound. Slight sinking stomach to see the large bright yellow patch surrounded by a ring of golden-brown deliciousness. It stuck, no doubt. The good news is that it is only a thin layer of crust that pulled away from the bread. Another quick flip brings the bread upright with a beautifully done top.

The stuck stuff is a different story. You know you have to get it out of the skillet as soon as possible. Over to the sink to douse the screeching hot pan with water. Follow it up with a bamboo spatula squeegeed over the bottom.

Joke’s on you, son. The stuck on crust comes away like a silk robe sliding off a smooth shoulder. A few swipes and nothing remains but for the sodden clump of grainy bread lying in the sink.

You hold the skillet up close. The residual heat warms your face, which is reflected faintly in the glossier patches of skillet. Listen closely and you hear a voice speaking softly in questions and remonstrances. A gentle sadness suffuses your stomach and heart. The skillet has you in the culinary hot seat, and you know it.

It knows you know better. It knows you have been busy with the big picture of recovery and survival. It does not hold these things against you. What it does want you to remember is that you need to take care of the things that will take care of you. And if a seasoned cast iron skillet filled with the spirit of love cannot make you pay attention, the kitchen god will not tolerate your whining if that skillet does not act in accord with your wishes.

You know you are lucky. To have that skillet. To be able to create goodness with it, and the desire to do so. These are quiet blessings.

The skillet goes back on the stove to cool down. The cornbread, slightly worse for the wear, steams gently on its perch of wire mesh. You cut a slice, plate it. Two pats of good butter accompanied by a generous flourish of sorghum drizzled over effectively gild the lily. The first bite confirms what you suspected: excellent cornbread, but you are damn lucky to have it.

Damn lucky. The next batch will be made soon, and the divinity within the skillet shall be properly acknowledged. You swallow another bite washed down with a humble prayer: You will not forget to take care of the things that will take care of you.

Gochujang Made Me Do It

It was a trip to get three things. Three. A loaves and fishes minor miracle that I walked out of the store with as few as I did. Yet...three things. Curiosity, hunger, and some free time conspired against discipline, hence the haul you see above.

The original plan, as scribbled on a torn scrap of notepaper, outline the procurement of soy sauce, water chestnuts, and gochujang. For those who are not familiar with gochujang (and I was not until sometime last summer) it is a spicy, pungent condiment originating in Korea. Traditional ingredients are red chili peppers, rice or wheat, fermented soybeans, and salt. I had eaten it before last year but did not know it as an ingredient.

Food and cooking are never far from my mind. Reading and researching as much as I do had brought the gochujang into my awareness. Not surprising considering how much I was hearing about it. It took on the character as an "It" ingredient in cuisines outside of Korean. While it may be unavoidable that it ran the risk of being the latest trend it fired my imagination immediately. When that occurs, there really is no choice but to track it down for research purposes. Tasty, tasty research.

There are a number of Asian markets in the area where I live. One of those markets happened to be within easy striking distance of my mid-week errand running. My mind and my belly rejoiced at the coincidence, so with small shopping list in hand, it was off to the store.

Confession: no matter the culinary traditions of a particular market, I tend to regard them like kids regard candy stores. The stuff! The things! The food! This one was no different. Well, no different in my reaction to it. Different certainly in the scope and type of offerings as compared to the average "American" market. Any pretense to a plan abruptly evaporated in the face of the goodness I came upon.

Mind you, a lot of it was not immediately apparent to me in terms of the "CONDIMENT" or "BAKING" aisle of the stores I typically frequent. There were plenty of signs in English, but more predominantly in Chinese, Korean, and possibly Japanese. The shelves themselves had little tags listing the products in English, but what most fascinated and amused me was that many of the products were faced so that the labels read in the language of their origin. This is just the sort of thing I enjoy when I am doing research. It invites engagement and attention to detail.

That engagement really came into play as I wandered up and down the aisles. Every Asian cuisine known to me was represented in the astonishing array of products. China. Korea. Japan. Thailand. India. Pickled radish. Dried seafood. Kimchi and not just of the cabbage variety. Preserved mangoes. Millet, sorghum, and black rice. Potato flour and dried noodles of all types. I wondered if the hand basket I carried was adequate to my ambitions. A pallet loader would have been a better choice!

Discipline began to crack. The basket grew heavier. My ambition swelled, damn near drowning out the small voice crying out to "Stick to the plan!" Eventually, I came to and the bubble popped as I realized that I had everything except the gochujang. I was standing in an aisle that was one long wall of soy sauces and bean pastes. Scanning the shelves I could not locate the elusive condiment. This is where my near non-existent knowledge of written Chinese, Japanese, and Korean truly hampered me. Where was it, this gochujang?

That is when it dawned on me. I realized I was looking at a wall of Chinese condiments. I had made the naive mistake of assuming that fermented bean paste is fermented bean paste, so naturally it would be on the "bean paste" aisle. However, what I wanted was Korean. Embarrassment crept over me as I sheepishly slunk over to the Korean section. Down to the end by which I had passed without registering the wall of gochujang there. 

A whole wall. Of gochujang. Right there. Deep red goodness in small jars to little buckets to big pails. I quickly placed a jar in my basket thereby completing my collection. A fine collection, indeed. I hoofed it up to the counter before I could be tempted by anything else. As I waited to pay I knew I would be back soon. But next time, I'll remember that geography, culture, and language are crucial to understanding what my far-away neighbors like to eat...and what I hope to have the privilege to share with them.

This is the Hard Part

There is nothing like being a parent to make you feel like you might amount to something in this life. And nothing like the same condition to make you wonder if you will ever live up to the promise shining in the eyes of your child. 

This is the hard part. Overcoming the limitations of yourself. Overpowering the weaknesses in your character. Learning that love is more important than ego. 

Trying not to be swallowed up by the black hole of worthlessness that lurks in the bottom of an insecure soul. 

This is the hard part. Staring in shock at that human bent on the mirror and realizing how great the task that lies before it, that of being a better person. 

Better, for the sake of love: the imperative of life. 

On the Realization of Having Gone Off the Path

April 14th, 4:39 PM. A sudden jerking awake, a popping of the bubble. Good lord, man, what happened?

It is not an exaggeration to say I had an abrupt moment of clarity, this morning, between slipping in and out of naps. Clarity accompanied by the gasp of knowing that there seems to be a lot undone in recent days. The lack of "productivity" in my life always creates a tension with which I find it hard to cope. I was disappointed that I have written and photographed almost nothing since March 23rd. Also, somewhat anxious.

What makes this absurdly funny is that I had no official deadlines or production schedules in that time.

Life is what happens when you make other plans...to be clear, I had a near week long visit with my daughter at the beginning of the month, followed closely by surgery (due to the events mentioned HEARnia), the recovery time I knew full well would set me back by keeping me off my feet. Even so I remained optimistic that while reclining in bed or on the couch I would still be working the keyboards and maybe even getting a jump on the Next Great American Novel. I thought I would bounce back in a snap, not unlike I did the first time I had a similar operation nearly 30 years gone.

Boy, was I ever mistaken. The surgery was just over 4 days ago, I was home the afternoon it took place, but it wasn't until now, a relatively nice Sunday afternoon, that I felt energetic and focused enough to sit down and write. Anything. Anything at all. In hindsight, I am astounded I managed to communicate to the extent I did during the last week. Even that was thanks to the miracle of the Interwebs and social media. The combined effects of surgery, anesthesia, pain medications and the fact I've been a few more years around the sun rendered me exhausted, loopy and beyond caring (too much) about typos. The smart phone was a boon, allowing me to at least dabble in the world beyond my shoulders between bouts of sudden-onset napping and just plain goofball fuzziness. I also managed to stay connected to loved ones, far and near.

My plans for literary excellence, or even increased output, were busted. It made me antsy, even as I drifted off to snooze and comprehensively map the insides of my eyelids. A curious battle between the need to rest (which really was the right way) and this need to fulfill my creative, productive urge. It felt good to rest, but laced with a ribbon of panic that golden opportunities were slipping away from me.

It's a good thing that I have people in my life who care deeply for me, for my well-being. I may have received some good-natured teasing over some typos and the loopiness I indulged in, but I also received good advice and care. Priceless, indeed. The core of the advice I needed to hear, is that my body is telling me what it needs, and I would do well to listen. No sense in trying to bang out a collection of short stories if all it does is land me right back in the care of physicians.

Having said all that, I think it's time to wrap it up. I getting weary again, the body is achy. I have some more meditations I'd like to offer to you, dear readers, based on my "from-gurney-observations" I collected whilst in the recovery room. Minor epiphanies and gratitudes, if I may. Those will wait a bit longer, after a nap and maybe some ice cream.

If I Could Speak My Mind (Sunday Meditation #25)

9:54 PM. At my desk, on  the cusp of what I hope to be a good nights' sleep. Poems and music in my head.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
   ~ from 'The Second Coming' by W. B. Yeats

Man I've had it up to here
Gear I wear got 'em goin' in fear
Rhetoric said
Read just a bit ago
Not quittin' though
Signed the hard rhymer
Work to keep from gettin' jerked
Changin' some ways
To way back in the better days
Raw metaphysically bold
Never followed a code
Still dropped a load
Never question what I am God knows
Cause it's comin' from the heart
 ~from 'Welcome to the Terrordome' by Public Enemy

I returned home about forty minutes ago, tired but content, from a social event where I got schooled in what in means to surround one's self with beautiful things that make one happy. In other words, Art. All I know is that I stood there admiring some prints, and thought "That is what I want to do. Please."

On the ride home I had a mashup going on in my head, poetry of two widely divergent decades swirling around in my head. W. B. Yeats in a church, sepulchrally intoning 'The Second Coming' intertwined with the staccato baritone of Chuck D. knocking out 'Welcome to the Terrordome'...and I couldn't stop marveling over the power of shadow and light and words. I couldn't help but feel a tad helpless in the face of such talent and skill.

I thought of my cameras and notebooks waiting patiently at home. I wondered, given what is out there and the sum total of powerful art that has been created, if my aspirations to be a shaman (of sorts) are wildly misplaced. I like to think I see things, hear things, that maybe no one else does in those creative moments of mine. But I have much to learn when it comes to pursuing and creating art, of any kind, be it written or visual.

Yeats, Chuck D. and an artist whose name I didn't write down. I can see them on the road ahead of me. I've miles to go, people, miles to go on the road to who I want to be.

EHarMatchonyBlog.com

August 15th, 8:16 PM. Preparing to crack the seal on the raku kiln that is my mind.

Skipping through the electronic poppy field that is the Internet this fine day, I caught a blurb that made me nervous and made me laugh. I think it was in an email newsletter from a website devoted to the craft and business of writing, a 'Tip Of The Day' type thing that is supposed to reel you in to spend more time on the site. No problem with that, but I was skimming and distracted so I didn't go beyond the tagline.

The tagline was this: "Your blog posts should be like dating-site profile information..."

'Scuse me? (nervous laughter)...good thing I'm not writing to get a date.

I am not (fortunately for me) out on the dating scene, so I will not worry about that aspect. But I get the perspective being out forth by the writer of that little gem: if you want your blog to attract others, then it must be written to maximize your attractiveness. Am I understanding that correctly?

Hmm. This does present a bit of a quandary. We are told on the one hand to write authentically, to be ourselves and to write from what we know. Supposedly this is what "blogging" (in its nascent sense) is at its core. Yet dating sites, to some degree, are about salesmanship and packaging. They are about being attractive enough to attract ideal partners for whatever motivation one chooses.

So to push the analogy, in order to make my blog more attractive to ideal partners, I should write only the things that would increase my 'dateability' vis-a-vis the readership. The implication is that potentially less desirable things (quirks, foibles, emotionally-charged topics) should perhaps be avoided. Heavens, we wouldn't anyone to know those "real" things, would we?

This begs the question of authenticity, does it not? I'm all for maximizing the positive, but for what one hopes to be a long-term relationship, how can we ignore the reality of ourselves? It seems a bit misleading to put hyperbole before truth. Yet that little dot on an otherwise pristine page could lead to heartache and regret down the road. I know this to be true.

To be fair, I acknowledge that a blog has more latitude than a dating site. It could be said that the very idiosyncratic nature of a blog is what gives it enduring appeal; after all, it is your blog and you can do what you want with it. It doesn't have to be, and perhaps shouldn't be, perfect. That is because we are not perfect.

I didn't start my blog to attract potential partners, or set up a string of dates. I had no idea that is what I "should" (metaphorically) be doing. I started it out of a need for expression, as a way to get the noise out of my head and out into the universe. I didn't know any better than to be anything other than what I am, and hopefully the writing reflects that outlook. I don't need a date (I have great love and companionship), but I am very grateful for all of you who choose to come visit with me, and stay awhile.

And there's no need for a monthly fee, either. We are here because we genuinely want to be here. That is a lovely thing, indeed.

Glistening Edges

So you may have guessed by now, I haven't felt much like writing lately.  A few random bursts here in October, plus some handwritten stuff in my little black notebooks (for me, not thee, at this time) and in a new journal I'm keeping.  The streak is over, too, last entry for my More Than A Year Of Daily Writing went up on October 8th.  Officially I topped out at 375 straight days of posting.  Not sure how I managed that.

But mostly, I haven't felt the ambition to write.  Most of the ideas I've had I decide really weren't that blog-worthy, and for the remainder I haven had little energy to pursue them.  I have been too tired to return replies, as my poor record with responses to everyone will indicate.  It's because of the "cold black space with the glistening edges"* that has broken open my personal space-time continuum: getting laid off, the subsequent job search and the attendant money crisis created thereby.

This particular black space has not taken complete control of my life, but its presence is sucking up a lot of energy and attention.  It makes me tired.  I have to crank up the personal PR machine, again, start "rebranding" myself again, and it inflicts upon me great vexation.

I know I am capable, and smart, and good at what I do.  I'm also tired of having to explain that over and over.  It's draining and does no good for my morale.  Fighting for balance and security so frequently, well, that is no way to live a life.  I am not really a magician, and my hat may be out of rabbits.

The upside is I have people who love me, who care about me and are helping me in ways practical and spiritual.  I truly would not be able to sustain myself without their help.  I am grateful for the support, emotionally and otherwise. There are other things I am grateful for, too, including the many readers I have here on Irish Gumbo, and I may write a little more about that stuff later.

For now, I'm going to get some rest, and say thanks to all those who believe in me.  Thank you.

---

*Bonus points and a Gumbo high five if you can tell me the song from which that lyric was taken, and the band.

Sunday Meditation #7: On The Vibrance of Sweet Pea Vines

Saturday morning, September 10th, 2011.  Yard work.

Did not shower this morn before heading out to do yard work.  The promise of a warm day and hard work meant being dirty and sweaty before 10:00, a prophecy that came true.  High grass in the back yard, glazed with dew that turned my boots dark after a few steps.  Little droplets of cool silver fleck my ankles and calves.  The sensation brought back memories of summer mornings long ago, when I was a boy.  Those first few glorious minutes outside when the air was still just cool enough, with a hint of the heat to come.  There were birds, too.

This morning the birds were singing an alternating chorus, the warbles and trills rotating from bush to tree to bush to tree, ringing the backyard with a rotating flight of sound.  Bees among the hibiscus, I heard their low hum as I passed on my way to the shed.  Large bees, ravishing the snowy flowers in pursuit of pollen.  They seemed too large to be average honeybees, their fuzzy bodies dusted with the fruits of their labors.  The activity made me smile.

Toolshed.  Faint aroma of cool, wet wood.  I gathered up the saws and clippers I'd need, and the wheelbarrow.  The little chain saw purchased earlier in the spring rode in the wheelbarrow.  An electric battery-powered model, it isn't big or fierce, but suits my needs for now.  It was on the way back to the house that I saw the sweet pea vines twining in the fences at the corners.  They were bright, deep blue, little pools of indigo splashed on the aged silvery wood, blue eyes peeping from amongst the electric green leaves.  I stopped, and caught my breath.

Flowers graced my fences.  These things happen, and we explain by biology and cellular chemistry, of the cycles of growth and death and growth outlined in textbooks.  Our heads accept that flowers come from plants come from seeds come from soil come from weather and geological processes.  But none of those really matter, not when faced with such beauty and small graces.  This I know.  I went out to work in the sun and shade, and found my favorite color daubed on the fences I had taken for granted.  I was humbled and pleased.  That beauty exists, for us all, is the lesson I learned.

New Day, Monday and Gratitude

Life here in the People's Republic of Gumbolia, and for yours truly, the President-For-Life of said republic, has been breathtakingly busy lately.  Between that which I do to earn my daily bread, personal biz and of course the writing...oh, and matters domestic (like lawn care)...my head is spinning.  I'm real dizzy, dear readers.

Part of that busy-ness is correspondence.  I get a reassuring amount of personal emails, many of which are the result of comments left by many of you kind folks out there on the hot mess that is Irish Gumbo.  I am grateful for the connections, and it has been a grand avenue to getting into the thoughts of others, exchanging perspectives and ideas, and sometimes just plain silliness (more of which I could use).  As many of you may already know, I am almost pathologically incapable of not responding to the digital equivalent of a letter.  I like to answer as many as I can, and most of time I do, within the limits of time, energy and technology

However, even with that success rate, I regret that I haven't been able to respond to all, especially in a timely fashion.  One thing that has compounded that in the past week is the pleasure and honor I had to be selected as a BLOG OF NOTE, which certainly surprised me.  I was amazed and astounded by the number of comments and new readers and new followers that joined me on board this strange and wonderful trip.  As you may imagine, I haven't been able to keep up with responding, and with the current level of activity (see first paragraph) I have a feeling I will miss getting back to some folks.

So if you don't hear from me, know that it is only because I'm caught up in a mad stampede running downhill on the Mountain of Life.  Please know that I am humbled and grateful for the attention, and when I catch my breath, I'll try and stop by and say hello.  Thank you, from my heart.

Happy Monday, one and all!

Adventure in the Metawebs

It is a long-held belief of mine that the internet is an exercise in recursion, a collective echo chamber with infinitely overlapping inputs.  To put it another way, its a never-ending Grand Canyon with an infinite number of people surrounding it and shouting into it to hear the words reflected back, gently fading.  No doubt this creates an environment where one can never be sure if one heard what one thought one heard.  Was it your voice? was it someone else?  Was is it a synergistic hybrid of who knows how many different voices?  In effect, much of what comes back is noise.  Noise, with a tinge of signal.

It is not all like this.  There are nuggets, gems cast up on the electronic shore like pearls among the gravel.  It will always be mathematically possible, if highly improbable, that something significant we cast off into the cybervoid will slowly make its way back to the home system.  Ladies and gentlemen, this has happened to me.

I have been quoted in an online magazine with some exposure.

What makes this weird (for me, at least) is that I was quoted from a comment I left on one of the articles some weeks ago.  So it wasn't from a direct question, or an interview or sound bite.  It was from an off-the-cuff leisure time activity of mine.

I received an email notifying me that I had been quoted, and thought it was spam.  Imagine my (mild) surprise when it turned out to be legit.  Imagine, little ol' me laid down some verbiage that someone felt noteworthy enough to quote in an article.  Strange and nice at the same time.

For those who are curious, here's the link:  THE GOOD MEN PROJECT.  My two cents is the fourth one down under responses.  I'd appreciate you giving it, and TGMP, a read; they have a good thing going.

My Gardener, Marcus Aurelius

Marcus Aurelius was emperor of the Roman Empire from 161 to 180 A.D.  He was by many accounts, the "thinking man's" emperor, fully capable of commanding the respect of nearly all without losing sight of himself as a human being.  He was able to kick ass and write cool stuff, like the Meditations.  To this day, I really like that book, and my copy has been appended with numerous penciled in notes and underlined passages.

My boy Marcus thought a lot about Nature (as in the 'natural world') and nature (as in 'innate qualities') and one of the things I picked up from his musings was the idea of respecting people and things based on their true selves.  His words taught me to start looking at people, places and things with an eye towards discerning what it is that inherently makes them what they are.

I'm still working on that; it's a slow, imperfect process.

For reasons I cannot quite fathom, his musings came back to me tonight, as I stood in the backyard holding my brand-new chain saw in hand and contemplating the havoc I had wrought on some pesky branches and brush piles.  I was gazing at the ragged end of the branch I had cut, up on a tree limb that had been overhanging the little Japanese maple in the back corner of the yard.  The nub that I left was splintered and jagged, and not looking at all like any care had been given to the act of cutting.  The low hum of power I had previously felt, at wielding a tool that made cutting so easy, had faded.  Now I felt tired and a little sheepish.

The tree branch was innocent of any offense.  It was simply fulfilling its nature as trees are wont to do, with no malice aforethought.  That I felt the need to trim it arose more from my own peevishness at the weeds and brush and growth that seems to be overtaking my efforts to maintain a semblance of order literally in my own backyard.

That I had bought a chain saw was an action that arose out of the human belief that technology (its an electric saw) would solve my problem tout de suite.  I was so enamored of the tool I was wielding that I forgot to respect the very things I sought to remove.

It may be true that this kind of maintenance is a necessary thing.  After all, I live in a town, not the forest.  I am willing to let things live and grow within limits, but I do not care to live in a thicket, either.

Still, cutting and trimming and snapping and clearing can be done with respect...and I didn't quite give it the proper respect.  The haste and unevenness of the cut I made was clear evidence of my hubris.  I could almost sense the disappointment from the tree.

It was then that I imagined Marcus Aurelius standing at my elbow, shaking his head and tut-tutting, maybe even chiding me in Latin to remind me to respect things for what they are.  Don't let ego or expediency get in the way of taking care in what you do, especially when those actions may mean injury or disruption of life now matter what its form.  I resolved then, that in my Domestic Wilderness Management program, I would exercise more care in all things, especially cutting things down.  If it must be done, do it well.  Do it with respect.

As Marcus himself said, "Where it is possible to live, it is possible to live well".  Hear, hear!

I Interrupt This Poetry Slam...

...to say I am sorry for my lack of grace lately.  I've been weathering some storms all month, and I've been slipping further behind in my reading and my responding to many of the wonderful comments and correspondence I have received.

It may not seem like it to many of you who read Irish Gumbo regularly, but it is true.  I have been lacking in time and energy to stay current as I like to do.

Hopefully, the seas will calm soon and the headwinds die down.  I'm counting on it to keep my grip on the tiller.  Until then, I want to thank everyone who has been reading my work.  I enjoy hearing from you, but even if you don't comment I am very grateful for everyone's eyes on this here palimpsest dedicated to the noise in my head.

Thank you all, so very much.  The poetry slam will resume tomorrow.

Peace,
IG

Lament of the Silverback

On a quiet Saturday night
the primate stares into the mirror
seeing pewter amongst the chestnut

it wonders then, if its lineage is true
does that make it king of the forest?
Or a silverback beset by the young?

So That Explains the Noise

Hey...

You.  Yeah, you...

Know what today is?  Besides Wednesday?  Besides the tenth day of November, 2010?

It's a birthday.  Gumbo hits the mid-forties mark today.

He isn't, I mean, I am not sure how I feel about that.  Better than the alternative, I know.  I am happy to have made it this far without maiming myself or others, and to have started growing into the person I think I was always was (whoever that is), but didn't know how to be.

It's Wednesday.  I'll get up, go to work, do my thing, then go to class.  Afterward, once I'm home,  I think I'll put my feet up and treat myself to a wee dram of Scotland's finest.  Simple may be best.

Will you join me?  It's better for the sharing.  Slainte, my friends!

Take Me Home, Socks It to Me

It isn't often that trains and socks have much to do with each other, especially when they produce feelings of contentment and gratitude.  Tonight, they did.

I arrived home at Casa del Gumbo after dark, and after my web development class (note: the podcast is still on the table), and on top of a long work day I was all in for some

Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool
And all shootin some b-ball outside of school

No, wait, that was the Fresh Prince, not me.  I don't play b-ball, because sadly, Gumbo don't got game.


Anyway, I pulled up in front of the crib, got out of my hoopty and...

Damnit, I can't seem to shake the urban slang.  Something's all up in my grille...

Anyhoo,  I came home, went in the house, and opened some windows to enjoy the cool night air and relative peace and quiet.  As I was taking off my shoes,  I heard a train horn from across the way.  It sounded a lot closer than it really was, maybe some trick of damp air and the nearby river valley was amping up the noise.  It sounded lonely, as most train horns do, but at the same time it was comforting.  It reminded me that I was glad to be home, safe and dry.  I had a belly full of dinner, and some new (clean) socks on my feet.

Having new socks is like brushing your teeth after missing a time or two.  Its one of those small, simple pleasures that make a person feel at home and relatively civilized.  I like that feeling.  My feet like the plushness of a new pair of socks, and that in turn relaxes me and takes the edge off of stress.

So sitting on my bed, luxuriating in having a roof over my head and comfy feet, that train horn put the sonic cherry on the sundae of my creature comfort evening.  The semi-mournful wail reminded me that the World is out there, and I am In Here.  I'm not stuck in a war zone, or a hospital, or trapped hundreds of meters underground wondering if I'll ever see the light of day again*.  I'm here, at home, and thankful.

*That rescue of the miners was the best ending to a real life saga I've seen in a long, long time.

A Gumbo PSA

Achtung, liebe Jungen und Mädchen und Unentschlossenen!

Regarding last Sunday's post titled "Arrhythmia", it has come to my attention that many folks were concerned that something was wrong with Yours Truly. Looking back, in conjunction with This Post, I can see where that conclusion was a reasonable one to draw.

I am pleased to report that the event depicted was purely fictional, and I am fortunate to have no experience with arrhythmia, then or ever. As far as I know. 

To those whom I have not already explained, the post was the result of a boredom-inspired, "5-Minute Fiction" writing exercise I gave to myself. The photo just struck me in a way I could not define, and the idea just came to me.

Although I did not intend to cause consternation, I'm pleased to see that it seemed to work well as a story! Thank you all for reading, and for your interest and concern!

 

That is all. As you were, people, carry on, carry on...

I'm Good Enough, I'm Strong Enough, and Doggone It, People Like Me...

...now if I just had time to adequately thank them all! Recently I have been linked, and it is a testament to my distraction and general dearth of time that I am catching up to some fine folks of my recent acquaintance.

 

See that there pretty little thang above? Well, I was anointed with it by the ever-intriguing and multi-faceted Mike at Annotated Margins . I had the pleasure of discovering Mike's place earlier this year, and always come away with a new perspective on the Universe after reading over there. Plus, he makes music. Good music. If I wasn't so far away from his stomping grounds in Oregon, I'd be in the audience on a regular basis. Thanks, Mike! Everybody stop by and say hello, it's worth the trip.

I know the rules say to link to seven others, and come up with seven interesting things about myself...but long time readers will know that I suck at rules, plus the time factor is cramping my style. These days, I tend to have to glimpse things on the interwebs as I run past my computer on the way to doing something else, so I'll do my best to get something resembling a response to the rules (if I don't forget).

We can all use a little more sunshine! I need to give a shout-out to new bloggy acquaintance, one I'm taking a shine to, and she's a newbie (relatively speaking). I refer of course to the little ray o' sunshine known as Lola Sharp over at Sharp Pen/Dull Sword. I must have said or done something that caught her attention, because she has been commenting regularly on the hot mess that is Irish Gumbo, and has made me laugh out loud! She was kind enough to leave me some link love on her most recent post, in which she mentioned me in the same paragraphs as some other most awesomesauce bloggers, so please drop in and say howdy.

Whew. So that's my gyrations for the day. Busy like the beaver, I am, and hopefully soon things will settle down to where I can be more attentive...and blog about the things that have been keeping me so busy...

Life, In Volumes

That it was winter seemed cliche, but there was no escaping that it happened now. The winter of a life, the cold getting incrementally deeper, to match the chill outside the pearly gray windows. The room, a life in microcosm.

It is said that clothes make the man, but in the case of some men it is words that mold and shape. Words, printed, scrawled, tucked away on notes and sticky paper. Books, some worn, some aged, most bearing marks of the man that they in part had made. Underlinings the trail of a mind on the hunt.

A mind descending into winter. The books, or most of them, can not follow. Failing hands could not carry what a fading mind will not be able to read. So those remaining in the fall make do, gathering what they can to hold on to memory and its progenitor.

In the light of the winter window, loving hands carefully sort and arrange the papers, the books, the verbosity of a mind that sought mastery in the depths of language. Loving hands made slow by the finality of a task they never wanted to perform. Knowing it must be done does not lessen the sting, but perhaps increases the power of the bittersweet. Collecting the books while wiping away the tears...

Slowly, carefully, the books are stacked and put away, some destined to follow the mind they helped make. Not all could or would make the journey; this is not possible. But the loving hands that caress the covers as they reminisce, also know that they can save some books for another. A noble fate? That is for posterity to decide. It is, however, a good one. While one mind may lose knowledge through the inevitable erosions of time...there are other minds who willingly and with great honor accept the gift of memory and presence.

With a faint smile through a veil of tears, loving hands lift a life in books, and hand the memories to other hearts grateful for the knowledge. Tribute is paid in acceptance.

300: It IS Madness, Not Just Sparta

300.

That is the number for my post today. 300 posts in a little over 1 year of blogging. I was taken aback when I sat down to write, because I had lost track, and looked up at the dashboard to see '299'.

Hmm.

There is nothing inherently special about the number 300. It gains importance only in relation to the context in which it is applied. That, and the human tendency to attach significance to numbers big, round and/or even.

300 grains of sand? Not much. 300 pounds of platinum? Well, that there is something else!

I look back on all the posts I have created, and wonder: how many are grains of sand, and how many are a pound of platinum? It would be hard to quantify, again because of context. I have a deep attachment to the posts I have written about my children and their loss, for example. I also am quite fond of the ones that have a humorous take on life. The fiction pieces I am quite proud of, they are a catalog of that which I did not know was me. To borrow an analogy, if the house was on fire and I could only save one or two prized possessions, I cannot say which ones I would grab. Because...well...I cherish them all.

"The Sicilians would rather eat their children than part with money. And they are very fond of their children!" - that's Kathleen Turner in the movie Prizzi's Honor, and I hope I'm quoting that correctly. Even if not exact, it conveys what I mean*. I would not want to give up any of the things I have written, or retract them, or erase them. These words, these posts, they all represent bits and pieces of that which make the "Me" of me.

All that I have written, from the scared to the brave, from the fact to the fiction, from the hardheaded to the insightful...it's all me. I did not know this when I began writing everyday, long ago and far way in the galaxy that was October 2008. There was no mighty occurrence, no event in specific that got me started. At least, none that I was aware of at the time.

That came later.

What I didn't know then, but do know now, is that for most of my life I had a voice that was trapped in my head like a fly in amber. And like that fly in amber, for most of my life I felt paralyzed by the medium around me. I could see, feel and  hear...but could not effectively respond. Fear. Shyness. Anxiety. The feeling that everyone thought I was the biggest goober in the known Universe, and that if I opened my mouth all I would do is prove them right.

Consequently, I gradually became frozen, figuratively trapped in that hard matrix I called my life. For many years, I told myself it was okay, I could live like that because it was safe. Like many lies, if they get repeated often enough that assume the patina of Truth. My Truth became my amber, and the memory/desire to be more than I was faded under each succeeding layer added over the years. Emotional ossification set in and I learned to not struggle, because struggling just made it worse. The fossil record began to complete itself.

It is, as we all know, a dynamic universe. The general framework remains the same, but a lot of particulars change and mutate and evolve, and just do not stand still. So it was in my life. A lot of emotionally charged events have taken place in my life in the past six or so years. Some of them I have chronicled quite plainly here in this bowl of verbal gumbo, some of them have informed what I spill upon these electrons without showing their faces directly. Some I have not yet worked up the courage to write into being, I'm still sorting through the mental soil of my own private archaeological dig.

The bones are there, I can feel them. In my dreams, in my prayers, in the hot furnace of my heart...these things stoke the fire and force me to give voice to that which I always held in my mind, for fear of ridicule or condemnation.

No longer. No longer...there is more room out than there is in, and I'm hearing my voice for the first time in years. I'm more grateful than I can say that you have chosen to listen along with me.

*And before anyone gets their undies in a wad, I would never, ever want to really eat my child. Shame on you!

I Don't Like To Brag, But...

...I've been awardified! The Queen of Spice, Angie at GUMBO WRITER, so very kindly and graciously bestowed upon me the cheeky award you see above. I am humbled and honored to be in such good company. Wonderful, marvelous and just what I needed after a particularly hectic and stressful day.

Which I may blog about. After I've had a cocktail...