the thin stream twists
from one teapot to another ~
morning oolong
spent tea leaves ~
the scent of almonds
and cinnamon
17 June 2000
Wednesday, January 31, 2018
Tuesday, January 30, 2018
undercover
the soul of the land
wears
a shroud of grass
In the coastal hills of California, the shades of the grass mark the seasons. During the rainy winters, the hills turn to vivid green velvet. You want to reach out and pet them, to feel their lush texture under your fingers.
As the dry season progresses, the grasses die and are bleached in the sun. The hills turn gray-green, then reddish green, greenish brown, dun, and then through all the shades of gold from bright to so pale it's almost white.
As the grasses die, they reveal the native plants that still hang on despite the invasion of European grasses. Adapted to our long dry season, these plants know how to manage their moisture, biding their time until the greedy grasses lose their grasp.
wears
a shroud of grass
In the coastal hills of California, the shades of the grass mark the seasons. During the rainy winters, the hills turn to vivid green velvet. You want to reach out and pet them, to feel their lush texture under your fingers.
As the dry season progresses, the grasses die and are bleached in the sun. The hills turn gray-green, then reddish green, greenish brown, dun, and then through all the shades of gold from bright to so pale it's almost white.
As the grasses die, they reveal the native plants that still hang on despite the invasion of European grasses. Adapted to our long dry season, these plants know how to manage their moisture, biding their time until the greedy grasses lose their grasp.
Monday, January 29, 2018
congress of fears
dated 19 July 2017, two weeks after breaking my cuboid bone
Every night, when I take my weary body to bed, I check in with my foot to see if it's getting everything it needs to heal. The foot aches, tingles, burns, and sends forth shooting pains to let me know how it feels about the current state of affairs.
Soon, other parts of my body clamor for attention. The right leg tells of the extra load it's been carrying. The muscles -- arm, shoulder, back, abdominal -- involved in crutching me around signal their stress. My low back and thigh muscles complain about the contortions that are required to keep the foot safe and happy.
Before I can sleep, I preside over this congress of sad body parts. I listen to their complaints, massage away little pockets of tension, shift around trying to make everyone comfortable.
Let go, let go, it's okay.
I had some dental work yesterday, getting two teeth filled without an anesthetic. It was fine, a bit uncomfortable but not really painful. On the way home, my son (who had been numbed for his fillings) and I had a spirited discussion about pain relief medication.
I use pain medication conservatively. I'll get numbed for a crown, but not most ordinary fillings. I used opioids post-appendectomy, but not with most injuries. Drugs can mask pain, but pain is INFORMATION. Pain tells us when something is wrong, and it can help us avoid hurting ourselves further.
My son thought my avoidance of pain meds was moral. I specifically unpacked the issue of dental pain meds for him. I don't like the sensation of being numb. Most minor dental work isn't (in my experience) as painful as the shot in the gums to prevent the pain. I sometimes stay numb for 12 hours or more after the procedure. There's often soreness from the shot that lingers for a few days. With all that, I'd rather experience a little discomfort, and even some outright pain, during the procedure than deal with the aftermath of being numbed.
Lying in bed after that discussion, I smiled at my unorthodox methods of pain management. They go back, I realized, to my preparation for natural childbirth. I read so much about working with the birth energy, letting go of fear, and working with the pain instead of resisting it. I learned how to do it, and now here I am, over 18 years after my last childbirth, managing dental procedures and broken bones with the same tools.
I haven't thought much about childbirth tools in decades. I remember reading Grantly Dick Read's Childbirth Without Fear, trying to incorporate its lessons into my very being.
The chief lesson was that fear makes pain much more intense. If you can meet the pain directly, without fear, you can handle it. You can experience the pain and learn what it has to teach you. You can ask the pain for its messages and incorporate them in your healing process.
a ladle story
I got my daughter a soup pot for Christmas last year. I had an image in my mind of the perfect soup pot for a single 20-something who likes to make a week's worth of soup on the weekends. It should be smaller than either of my soup pots, with a heavy bottom so that the soup wouldn't burn. It should be beautiful in its simplicity, well-proportioned with handles that make it easy to stir, to scrape out, and to clean.
I am often disappointed by reality when I have this perfect image in my mind. I go to a reliable store where I have found many beautiful tools and look at their selection. If I can't find what I want, I ask, and they lead me back to show me the too-big pots with thin bottoms and barely-welded handles.
That is not what I want for my child. I want a simple soup pot that can be a trusted friend through my daughter's life. I want a soup pot that whispers love and care to her every time she uses it, a soup pot that makes her life easier in difficult times.
I finally found the paragon of soup pots, and it made beautiful soup for my daughter through a winter of record storms.
In the autumn, my daughter said that she loved the soup pot, but that she wished she had a ladle to go with it.
After Thanksgiving, I embarked on the search for the perfect ladle. I had its twin in a drawer in my kitchen. All I had to do, I thought, was to find one just like mine.
I visited store after store, looking for that ladle. At every store, I found crappy black plastic ladles. At a few, I found flimsy metal ladles in awkward shapes.
Cheap tools are okay if you don't use them very often, or if they fill a function that's not that important. When you do the same task over and over, though, your tools take on greater importance. Dull knives, inadequate scrub brushes, and underpowered appliances can turn a humdrum chore into a major ordeal.
I debated whether ladles are that important. Perhaps a flimsy, inadequate ladle was better than no ladle at all. It could be replaced with better quality later, when the perfect ladle presented itself.
And yet, and yet, once you have a bad tool, it's difficult to justify replacing it with a better one. I struggled for decades with the Food Processor from Hell before getting a new one. Did I want to gift my daughter with an inferior ladle that would annoy her every time she served soup?
Finally, at a high-end kitchen store, I found the perfect ladle. It was much nicer than my ladle. It was forged of a single piece and had a turned lip that promised to serve soup beautifully. It was lovely to behold. It balanced exquisitely in my hand, and I could swing it easily from a single finger.
When I looked at the price tag, I had second and then third thoughts. Could I justify spending that kind of money on a tool that serves a single function, even one that has been designed with such care and built to last?
I eventually decided in favor of the ladle. I declined a bag and left the store with the ladle swinging on one finger. It was dazzling in the sunshine. I walked back to my car slowly, enjoying the feel of the ladle.
A man approached, on the other side of the street, walking in the other direction.
"I envy you your ladle," he called across the street, "I have a ladle, but it's a crappy black plastic one."
"It's for my daughter," I replied, and briefly recounted the search for this ladle and how I had balked at the price.
"She will love it," he assured me, and continued up the street.
I imagine him going to that kitchen store and buying his own perfect ladle.
My misgivings had vanished.
I am often disappointed by reality when I have this perfect image in my mind. I go to a reliable store where I have found many beautiful tools and look at their selection. If I can't find what I want, I ask, and they lead me back to show me the too-big pots with thin bottoms and barely-welded handles.
That is not what I want for my child. I want a simple soup pot that can be a trusted friend through my daughter's life. I want a soup pot that whispers love and care to her every time she uses it, a soup pot that makes her life easier in difficult times.
I finally found the paragon of soup pots, and it made beautiful soup for my daughter through a winter of record storms.
In the autumn, my daughter said that she loved the soup pot, but that she wished she had a ladle to go with it.
After Thanksgiving, I embarked on the search for the perfect ladle. I had its twin in a drawer in my kitchen. All I had to do, I thought, was to find one just like mine.
I visited store after store, looking for that ladle. At every store, I found crappy black plastic ladles. At a few, I found flimsy metal ladles in awkward shapes.
Cheap tools are okay if you don't use them very often, or if they fill a function that's not that important. When you do the same task over and over, though, your tools take on greater importance. Dull knives, inadequate scrub brushes, and underpowered appliances can turn a humdrum chore into a major ordeal.
I debated whether ladles are that important. Perhaps a flimsy, inadequate ladle was better than no ladle at all. It could be replaced with better quality later, when the perfect ladle presented itself.
And yet, and yet, once you have a bad tool, it's difficult to justify replacing it with a better one. I struggled for decades with the Food Processor from Hell before getting a new one. Did I want to gift my daughter with an inferior ladle that would annoy her every time she served soup?
Finally, at a high-end kitchen store, I found the perfect ladle. It was much nicer than my ladle. It was forged of a single piece and had a turned lip that promised to serve soup beautifully. It was lovely to behold. It balanced exquisitely in my hand, and I could swing it easily from a single finger.
When I looked at the price tag, I had second and then third thoughts. Could I justify spending that kind of money on a tool that serves a single function, even one that has been designed with such care and built to last?
I eventually decided in favor of the ladle. I declined a bag and left the store with the ladle swinging on one finger. It was dazzling in the sunshine. I walked back to my car slowly, enjoying the feel of the ladle.
A man approached, on the other side of the street, walking in the other direction.
"I envy you your ladle," he called across the street, "I have a ladle, but it's a crappy black plastic one."
"It's for my daughter," I replied, and briefly recounted the search for this ladle and how I had balked at the price.
"She will love it," he assured me, and continued up the street.
I imagine him going to that kitchen store and buying his own perfect ladle.
My misgivings had vanished.
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