"Like the study of science and art, accounts of historical events can be intrinsically fascinating. But they have a wider significance. I believe that people are better able to chart their life course and make life decisions when they know how others have dealt with pressures and dilemmas---historically, contemporaneously, and in works of art. And only equipped with such understanding can we participate knowledgeably in contemporary discussions (and decisions) about the culpability of various individuals and countries in the Second World War. Only with such understanding can we ponder the responsibilty of human beings everywhere to counter current efforts at genocide in Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia to bring the perpetrators to justice." "...we humans are the kinds of animals who learn chiefly by observing others---what they value, what they spurn, how they conduct themselves from day to day, and especially, what they do when they believe that no one is looking." ----Howard Gardner, from The Disciplined Mind, published in 1999
Showing posts with label Little Pink Sock. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Little Pink Sock. Show all posts
It seems a long week to me this week, dear reader.
I'm looking forward to the weekend; I'm looking forward to visiting those of you who have your own blogs.
Keep the light on for me, okay?
Coming to the end of the first week of school and of the fall semester of grad school, I'm thinking so much of all the good stuff we managed to wring out of the last week of summer.
Come and remember with me.
LG and I went peach-picking with Vermillion and his parents.
Snowy and I enjoyed being outside in the backyard with our kiddos running about.
When our friend Swampy wrote in her post about the warmth, color, and light of the kitchen in all its manifestations, and the green glass that transmitted that light, that love, I was delighted, and for more than one reason. In the midst of Anita's party, I was already thinking and feeling about what we all can bring to the table, to this life, and was all the more happy for it. I was delighted in reading Swampy's words because I was reminded that sometimes those everyday articles from the kitchen, and those we oftimes use to bring our offerings to the table, are as full of meaning to us as the gifts and the gatherings about the table themselves: metta you can hold in your hand. I was delighted because my special kitchen feelings are evoked by green glass as well: Fire King Jadeite, the tableware used day in and day out by my grandmother, and therefore, such a powerful touchstone for all those feelings and thoughts that are so difficult to put words to---thoughts and feelings so much more easy to speak of by the dance in the kitchen, the putting on the plate, the enjoying with others---be it in the present, or be it in our memories.
Dear reader, at one point in my life, I was a single parent without a home; having only my toddler (now Big Guy), the clothes on our backs, and a garbage bag hastily crammed with favored toys; although this stage of our life lasted for a relatively short time, I still struggled as a single parent, as so many of us do.
Yet I valued so highly what the Fire King Jadeite embodied that I once bought 12 plates I found at a flea market for 5 dollars each---and believe me, at that time, 60 dollars for plates that I did not need, but merely wanted, was a frivolous amount, ridiculously so. You see, I felt so torn from so much of the goodness I had previously known, dear reader, and flung so far away from it: I felt as if those plates were a means, a map, to help me return to what I knew once before, long ago. If I held one, if I ate from one, and served my son what I cooked on one, I could almost barely feel my heart soften and turn---some embryonic feeling that I hoped would grow, and live, and breathe. Of those original 12, I have but 6 that remain. Looking back, I'm glad for my frivolity, that leap of faith: I bought the insurance, hope-against-hope that remains with me today, despite the bumps and bad breaks along the way. They are ever present at our table.
Do you have a favorite touchstone from the kitchen? I'd love to hear about it, dear reader.
I'm glad to know that at the flea market, some wisdom older than myself knew better: yes, I wanted the plates; yet, I needed them just as much---perhaps even more so. Dear reader, may you always have what you need, in the same magic and beautiful ways that a stack of glass has worked for me. Thank you so much for joining me at the table.
Make puri, she exhorted; just enjoy the making and the eating, and then tell us all about it. Of course, I was delighted by Anita's invitation, and resolved to make the puri within the time frame that Anita had proscribed.
To make a long story short, I awoke this morning, the last day of the party, without having made the puris. I was feeling tired, a little deflated, a little out-of-sorts, and honestly didn't know if I would be able to make them.
I made a pot of rose tea, and added rosewater to my cup for that Extra Something. I sat in my grandmother's rocking chair, she who always was so much of the kitchen, offering the work of her hands from her kitchen at any occasion; for her, just being with you was as good as a party . As I drained my cup, the warm coral-pink cloud of rose from the last swallow of hot tea permeated my very skull, and infused into my very self, it seemed---warm, pink, vital: waking my senses and getting me out of the chair.
And so I began in the kitchen. I cleaned collards, and then put them in a crock to cook slowly in a pot liquor of smoked almond broth. As Little Guy sliced hot dogs with a Chinese cleaver, I made the puri dough following Anita's recipe, with only a small change: substituting some of the salty smoked almond broth for the salted water originally asked for.
LG went back to his playing as I added tomato paste to the sliced hot dogs in the pot, and cooked the mixture to a lovely reddish-brown. To this, two cans of bacon and brown sugar baked beans were added, and the pot left to simmer.
Though I had made pita breads countless times, and felt at ease with rolling out those breads while cooking them, I felt less at ease with cooking the puris as I rolled them. I decided to make all the rounds first, placing them on a big platter and covered with a towel, and then I would fry them.
As I rolled out the breads, I felt comforted by the crick-crick, crick-crick sound of my ring on the round pin. I felt happy as the dough stretched and turned, as the pin rolled around.
When the first circle of dough went into the hot oil, it bubbled happily and seemed to burst with joy, and I laughed out loud.
Come here, LG, I said, look at this!
Naah, well...okay, he said. Okay, all right, let me get my stool.
LG, perched on his stool, stood at the stove by my side as I splashed the top of that first puri with oil, and then flipped it. He watched with much exclamation as it continued to balloon and as I carefully brought it out from the oil to drain on kitchen paper. We both admired its beautiful, happy golden, glistening roundness. It was too lovely for words.
The next thing that I know, dear reader, LG has completely taken over the stove: he is using tongs to pick up a circle of dough to slip it into the oil; he is using a kitchen spoon to carefully splash oil on the top of the circle; he is checking the bottom, and flipping---his puris are puffing, and we are both wooping and clapping as if we were both tiny children.
I had no choice, dear reader, but to watch him and set the table in between puris.
So with vegetarian baked beans in hand, I joined my family at the table, to eat the collards that I had prepared, the beans and franks that LG and I had made together, and the puris that LG had cooked, for all intents and purposes, mostly by himself, with some salty gherkins on the side. This is the best dinner ever, LG said, happily and solemnly, all at once.
My grandfather had an expression whenever he was in the midst of eating something the he very much relished: there ain't going to be no rind.
So it was at our table today, as we toasted Anita and all those at the party.
From the moment that the rose cloud of tea awoke my senses to the moment the dinner was finished, I was so mindful of not only metta, embodied in the kindness of the kitchen, the kindness of the invitation and the gathering, but of ksanika, also known as point instant theory. This is a way of thinking about time, of the passing of time, and of the value of the moment: each moment is here and then never again; our lives' moments, the stories of these moments, are so very much as a movie, a flip-book---miss a frame, the story is changed, and perhaps even makes no sense at the time. What one needs to remember, though, is just to keep watching. The world is a beautiful place, a magical place, and in the kitchen today, I felt as if I were dancing with it.
I thought of the party, and imagined the individual frames, the moving pictures that were making up the story of a party, the story of a gracious hostess, and equally gracious guests.
I may not be able to see the rest of the pictures, but I felt so much the connection to the story.
Thank you, Anita. Thank you, dear guests and dear readers. Remember: the plot may twist and turn; but the story is about beauty. It's about magic. It's about the metta that fits it all together. Eat puris. Laugh together. Enjoy the moving pictures.
I present today a comic in honor of Wolfbaby's win over at Swampy's place, and in honor of you, dear reader: how pleased I am whenever you visit---you all are good company.
And the fact that the author cites the glorious Le Voyage dans la lune as something that informed some aspects of the book makes me incredibly happy. It is that strange, ethereal, stop-motion-so-fast-image of that space-ship, that moon, that is one of the first visuals I ever remember being aware of seeing. I do not know in what context I saw it, only that I remember it: and in some fashion, that wavering, silvery surreal image has been informing my sensibilites ever since.
And while toodling on the site about the book linked above, I found that the author was also an enthusiast of Edison...well, I will let you discover your own happy thoughts should you go there, dear reader. I will leave you with another link, and this one is especially for my paper-folding pals. And how 'bout if we made this one for Swampy? This one I've chosen for myself preparing to do the Ego-Eradicator posture in a certain kundalini kriya...or wait, how about this one: I'm just pretending that the caveman is a giant gulab jamun. It's a beautiful, brilliant moon out tonight: same as it ever was. I'll take my beauty when I find it, be it past or present. I wish the same for you.
And if you can't see the moon from where you are, please clickhere. (Just like a riff on a koan---we've avoided the middle-man!) (or finger, pointing)
Dear reader, a package did arrive in my mailbox today, via what magical means, I am uncertain. (See the Tin Man? He's puzzling out the logistics of it all. That's why he's the brains of the outfit.)
Dear Generous Person, many thanks: you have gone above and beyond, and then some! I do sincerely thank you.
PS--How did you know Little Guy has been trying to juggle the little green apples from our backyard tree?
As I was just writing in reply to Swampwitch, Frida brought so much to the table that we will really never go hungry.
The fact that she absolutely loved Tarzan films and laughed all the way through them only further endears her to me, so as I still have an entire watermelon in the fridge, we will continue celebrating Frida's Centennial today. She deserves it, yes?
As part of the festivities, do follow the link, leading you to one of my favorite books. I have a Favorite Book Shelf, and I knew this one was going to be placed there before I even picked it up.
Please know in advance: if you play too, I would love to see it! (I'm bookmarking this one. I see this one may come in handy when I am procrastinating-- um--in need of a creative boost!)
Not only have I been remiss in sharing my lovely surprises with you in a timely manner, I have truly been remiss in celebrating Frida's birthday with you. Had she lived this far, she would have been 100 on July 6th.
So Happy Birthday, dear Frida.
Viva la vida indeed, dear reader.
Thank you for stopping by. Please toss the rinds on the compost heap on your way out; the chipmunks absolutely adore them. As do the butterflies and the bees!
I would be most remiss if I did not share with you, my friends, two wonderful things that happened yesterday. The first:
I was driving to class. My spouse, code name Snowy, called me on my cell phone. (I'll make his dialogue his favorite color.) Where are you at? he asked. At the intersection of_____, why? Oh, I was just out to get some samples, and I thought I might see you go by. Oh, okay. Well, okay, see you tonight, bye. Bye.
Dear reader, I must drive past Snowy's workplace on the way to class. His office building is on the corner of a well-travelled intersection. Snowy works for a world-famous company that generates much tourist traffic, and most of these tourists drive by and/or are stopped at this same intersection. Imagine my initial surprise when, as I approached the traffic light at this intersection, Snowy jumped out from behind a rather large planter (you know how those urban beautification projects can acquire some rather gargantuan planters for their horticultural crowing), and pulled up one trouser leg to the knee to display his own leg in a shameless wanton display, grinning like a lunatic, grinning like love, and looking directly at me. Dear reader, I am unsure how I managed to stay on the road, for I was so simply surprised: surprised to see him, and then surprised as to how tourist season and a corporate office don't figure into the hows and whens of things. I was delighted by his gesture. Snowy saw a chance to express his affection, and he took it. It's a wonderful thing, surprise.
The second:
Big Guy came in the room and slumped down on the couch as I was finishing a PBS show---Simon Schama's Power of Art. Each episode in the series centers in one one work, putting it into its social and iconographic context. I really appreciate the host's work; but that is beside the point of the story. Last night featured David's Marat. As the previews for next week came on, the show to feature Turner's The Slave Ship, the host commented that some contemporaries of Turner, when viewing the painting, compared it to a "kitchen mess." Well, BG said, they need to remember that art is a subjective thing. (Why yes, his favorite color is blue!) Happy surprise number two: BG, who may very well be in the running for "Most Likely to Date Princess Leia," or so he would have it seem, is in all actuality, a person who listens, thinks, and then articulates his thoughts so succinctly.
Oh happy day! I wish such surprises for you, dear reader. May you be as delighted as I have been.
I realize that it is indeed a luxury for me to choose to abstain from eating meat: to be able to say, yes, I want this to some things; no, I don't want that to others. I am reminded of such things when the boys and I go to pick fruit from local orchards, as Little Guy and I did yesterday. The party of two is new for us, for although Big Guy is an excellent fruit picker, he was at work in his new job at a local restaurant. (More on that happy news in a later post.) LG is enamored of cherries. I had promised cherry-picking, and had scanned the papers religiously for the orchard that we frequent in the summers to advertise the opening of cherry season, and I had seen none. Yesterday I called the orchard; they told me that their cherries were gone. I had promised cherry-picking, and after some telephoning about, and finding either sellouts or slim pickings, I found an orchard in the next county that had cherries. LG and I each took a small bucket and set off. I was telling myself that though every other orchard had been well-picked, at least here, at this place, at least we would be able to find enough for one cherry cobbler. Just one, and one is enough; one is just so. We arrived at the orchard after a half-hour drive. We went into the stand to receive directions to the trees and to have our buckets --- an Easter bucket and a grinning jack-o-lantern from trick-or-treat--- weighed. We drove to the part of the orchard where the cherries were to be found. And then here--- here comes the good stuff, dear reader. Tree after tree after tree, these beautiful graceful trees, tended just so: not so high, so that one needed no ladder; with branches arching up and out and down from the trunk, so that one could stand beneath the umbrella of the tree, in the shade, and reach out, without stretching, and find fruit; and such fruit. Bright red, cherry-red cherries, shining, glowing, warm-in-the-sun. Everywhere in abundance: literally, just every place one could reach and touch and take. So much abundance, and so one could "cherry-pick:" yes, I'll take this one; no, I'll leave that one. And so we did. There's just something to that, dear reader, that is so powerful and so good. To be guests of such abundance, to know that now, here and now, in the beating of the heat and the drone of insects and the shelter of swirls of leaves, that we can simply reach and take and choose: we can simply say yes, I'll take it, it is good. There's something to that to know in saying yes that now is the time for doing so. It makes the goodness we receive even more sweet when we know that, say, this orchard that is bursting with heat and fruit and life will be dormant and white and cold and silent in Nature's short order. It endears us to the saying of yes, of yes to abundance, when we know we will return again to this place, when the time for giving and taking comes again, in the heat and the green and the humming of insects. That's the good stuff, dear reader. Reach out for it whenever you see it. Say yes. Be abundant. Just so.
Dominique Bretodeau gets back his childhood secret box and to feed his grandson with his most special favorite, the "oysters" from a roast chicken. http://www.offoffoff.com/film/2001/amelie.php3
Parathas stuffed with pea filling hot off the iron skillet, eaten with rhubarb chutney.
Visual/spatial intelligence • Capacities to perceive the visual-spatial world accurately and to perform transformations on one’s initial perceptions. • End states: navigator, sculptor----Gardner, H., & Hatch, T. (1989). Multiple intelligences go to school: Educational implications of the theory of multiple intelligences. Educational Researcher, 18(8), 4-10.
A system that's neat and orderly and hast to keep struggling to fight off randomness, and when randomness inevitably leaks in, the system is thrown off. Being open to a certain level of randomness, on the other hand, allows it to work in your favor.----Abrahamson, E., & Freedman, D. (2006) A Perfect Mess. New York: Little, Brown, and Company
Dear reader, please know that I do so appreciate your visits here. Such seemingly small acts of kindness are most important, and I just wanted to begin here today by thanking you. You do have the power to impact for such good in the world, and limitless opportunities in which to do it.
I've provided a link to an article speaking about the suicide of a young man, David Ritchenson. He was the victim of an extremely hateful and brutally violent act. He testifed before Congress this April during hearings concerning a proposed hate-crimes bill. He jumped to his death from a cruise ship earlier this week.
Mr. Ritchenson's story resonated with me. Simply put, I have been on the receiving end of violence. I express it this way, as it is one of the most apt ways I might convey to you in words what occurred. Violence was put forth, and I received it, completely. And this is the thing about receiving something so completely: you have room for nothing else; this, this becomes what is your sustenance.
Perchance, maybe, just maybe, you had digested just enough to make a little room for something different, something good. You can scarcely believe it's there, that little space; it's a secret, you see, like a little life itself within you. Furtively, because, really, it's dubious how long that little space will remain; it's in doubt how long you can keep it, really---you reach for something good, just a little, for there's such a small space, you can only manage a little sliver: and violence hands you your order (but it's not really, it's a dis-order: it's violence's order), and shoves it down to cram that little space full.
It is considered best practice to fill the tea vessel with boiling water before brewing the leaves with fresh, hot water. A hot vessel is considered to bring forth the most fragrant tea.
The method that I eventually deployed to tailor the disorder of violence so that I might stomach it without its poisoning me completely was to visualize other things whilst the violence was active and open. It's not a new method, for many of us in these situations, and indeed, situations far removed and in much happier light, do use visualization techniques.
So whilst, say, I assented to the perpetration of most abjectly humiliating and violent acts lest my-then-toddler child be taken away for the night in a car piloted by one in an alcoholic stupor; or, say, being restrained and used as an ashtray, I would smile, picturing completely in my mind such things as say, the sunlight and shadow coming down on me as I climbed the large tree in my childhood home backyard. Or my grandmother's plump raisin cookies, always wrapped in waxed paper in pairs, flat sides pressed together (like two hands, like namaste) and presented with simple, complete affection. And so I would smile; and so violence would spit in my face or decide to go an extra hour, or light another cigarette.
Who is to say what is a good way to cope with violence and what is not a good way? And does it matter if the violence came suddenly and left, or if the violence was sustained over time? When I wrote in a previous post about wishes that one could communicate with the future in some way, so that the message was, hey, this is the picture---dear reader, I was thinking very much of myself at this time. How I would love to be like Admiral Janeway, and tell that person what will happen. That little boy so fiercely protected is now so grown and smart, so gifted, so himself. That another little boy would come, marvelous himself, with a marriage that is not picture-perfect, but perfectly suited, to someone I saw in my dreams long ago as a child. Summer nights sleeping out with the stars and the crickets and the rain on the tent lulling us all to sleep. That there are classrooms full of lively, funny, wonderful kids. Good friends, great friends. That this person's life will be so different, so good, so full of flavor and sustenance.
Would that have been true for Mr. Ritchenson. I would have loved to have been able to tell him.
I truly believe, my friends, we have infinite chances. We do have infininte possibilities to find what we need, what we love; who we need and who we love: to find home.
The theory posits that each and every one of us possesses each and every intelligence. This isn't up for speculation, it is a given. A given! How beautifully generous is that? Every person has it all. It's hardwired within the brain.
Great, yes! What is even greater is to consider the other part of this axiom: each intelligence operates as a separate modality. Each has its own input that it alone can process; and indeed, it is the presence of the input for which it is wired that activates that particular intelligence.
So of course, I am really, really excited for many reasons.
As I have the pleasure of sharing a classroom with children who are not "neurotypical," this knowledge, this familiarity of the nature of intelligences as laid out by Gardner, in conjunction with the knowledge that all the intelligences can and will be activated in some capacity, given the proper input---it is as if MI theory is the "cash on the barrelhead," the insurance, if you will, that backs up what we as teachers believe about our students: they are smart, they are special, and they will succeed.
Operating with Gardner's theory as home base, our students can believe us when we say that they can and will be great students. We're putting our money where our mouths are when we meet our students "where they are," and provide an environment that allows their unique intelligence profiles the most fitting expression. It's not a matter of speculation or faith; it's a given. There is a lot of relief in that, and in that, a release from pressure: a lot of lovely, lovely room in which to expand and explore.
Operating with Gardner's theory as home base, we have a construct with which to advocate for our students to others who do not know our students in the same ways that we do. Simply put, there are many in public schools who are lacking the confidence to be able to meet our kids where they are. Appy a label to a student, and that label can nag and pick away at our feelings of efficacy in relating to that student. Apply a label of autism, I've found, and this effect is often greatly exacerbated. MI theory is beautifully suited to shifting our thinking from labels and concerns about our abilities to thinking about how a student's intelligences manifest. It shifts our thinking to the student's abilities, not our own.
So of course, when I presented this paper, my heart rate was already up, for I'm just so excited about MI theory. My cello intro was full of vibrato, but it came from my bow hand. Time seemed to go very quickly. I talked, and did my slide presentation on the big screen. I was very excited about the ideas. At one point, and I believe this is what happened, two sentences hybridized themselves in my brain: "we give our students expectations," and "we set expectations for our students," and what I did in fact say was that "we give our students sex."
(Oh, really, Neroli. Way to go. Not.)
I tried to do my best to be articulate. Everyone seemed to regard me with a neutral to bored expression. No one but the professor had comments or questions when I was finished. I didn't feel positively or negatively about the presentation: just empty, as if I had taken such a large breath, and had left it all out slowly. So when my friend the Artist FKAPW asked me about the presentation, I truly didn't know what to say.
So it was with trepidation that I looked at my grade on Thursday night. It was an "A." The professor noted that he liked the use of the cello, the pacing was good, my answers to his questions were well thought out, and he liked the point of MI theory as a way to enable students to have power within the classroom environment.
I was surprised. But glad. And glad to know that I still have some work to do when it comes to perception.
It is another beautiful sunny day here, as it has been for some days. Yesterday as my Little Guy and I went to sit on the back stoop by the apple tree to wait for his brother, the Big Guy, to join us, LG said, well, let's just sit out here and enjoy ourselves.
I must tell you, dear reader, that I cannot hear the words of the title of this post without hearing them sung to the tune of that maddeningly endearing peanut-butter-jelly-time banana.
Can't you hear it also?
Puppet karaoke time, puppet karaoke time!
Puppet karaoke, puppet karaoke, puppet karaoke with a baseball bat!
Dear reader, we were in Philadelphia yesterday to see the King Tut exhibit at the Franklin Institute. I learned of the existence of puppet karaoke when reading the Sunday Philadelphia Inquirer this weekend.
It is most disappointing that one may only enjoy puppet karaoke on Thursday nights. You know me, dear reader: I would have been there with the proverbial bells on my toes (although not as an Oobi-style puppet: modesty forbids, for the point is for the puppet to do the work, yes?)!
Summer vacation will begin for my children on Friday morning. With the lovely challenge before me of how best to make use of the first of the last two independent mornings, I decided to visit an establishment in town that I often pass but have never visited. The reason for my visit was that I had heard that one of my dearest friends is now working there.
I've not seen her for a while, as she had been out of state for her own joyful purposes. As friends often do, we had been out of contact for a while. And so I was eager to see her.
Dear reader, I must tell you that although I had never before visited this place, I pass it every time I return from classes at night. It is a family place, an old-timey style place on the corner; with an ample porch and outdoor seating should you choose to take advantage of the beautiful day or night. At nighttime, I always look forward to seeing the glow of the lights, reflected back again through the mirrors on the back wall, and seen through the plate glass windows, and seeing all the people gathered. Just so.
It is a happy place: if Hopper had been feeling so inclined to paint Renoir's boating luncheon at the Moulin de la Galette, with an interior of the Folies Bergere, it would be a picture of what I see when I pass it at night. And it is a lovely sight, making one feel a little lighter and glad to have such warmth there on the corner, in one's own town.
When I entered the establishment this morning, I did not at first see my friend. I was about to leave, when the proprietor greeted me. Dear reader, imagine my surprise when I realized it was D., an acquaintance I had met through my friend, J. when J. worked in a different shop. How glad I was to see her; and not only D., but in quick succession came many good people with whom I have had happy acquaintance!
Dear reader, I wish I could convey to you the abundance of that place, and of those people. What a beautiful generousity that D., J., and L. offer, and how glad I was to be able to be with them and all our neighbors.
The old popular song says that you can't always get what you want, but you sometimes find that get what you need. I like to think that sometimes happy finds us more often than we know, just so.
We need but open the door, say hello, and stay a while.
This is the picture: Yesterday I opened a bag of baby arugula. As I shook some of the leaves from the bag into a bowl, one small, peachskin-rosy rose petal tumbled out. I was very happy.
