Staying Connected

I was standing in my tiny kitchen the other day peeling and slicing carrots for some yummy veggie stew. My favorite CD of autumn-type instrumental music, Woodland Stroll, was playing and I had my virtual fireplace going, adding the sounds of crackling flames to the music (it's all about the ambiance, folks). The rain was coming down outside, but it was warm and cozy inside. Following a Zen teacher's instructions to stay mindful of everything you do, I was totally focused on peeling the carrots. The hand peeler I was using had been with me for years. I used to have a real old-fashioned model, the kind my mother used, but lost it in the last move. This one is good, but doesn't feel the same in my hand. I am on the lookout for another one just like I had before, perhaps finding it in a second hand store or Salvation Army store. What was most important was that it still made that sound that I loved, that scrape, scrape, scrape sound. To me, it was just another form of music.

People have asked me why I continue to hand peel and chop my veggies most of the time. Yes, I do have a food processor with a slicing/dicing/everything blade, and choppers that will do the job with almost no effort on my part, but I still prefer to do it by hand. For one thing, as I handle these gifts from the earth with my hands, I am staying connected to Nature, to the ground they were planted in, the rain and sun that fed them, and the joy of the harvest. This is especially true now that I am no longer able to garden as I used to, down there on the ground with my hands in the soil, feeling the "heartbeat of God" as the poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay said in her poem, "Renaissance." Now I am relegated to table-top gardens, but being able to handle the fruits of the harvest in my hands helps to bring me back to where it all started. 

There is another reason I prefer to keep preparing the food by hand, and it has to do with a different kind of connection, this one to my mother, her mother, and all my female ancestors. I cannot remember a day growing up when I was not in the kitchen with my mother watching her peel, slice, dice, chop and perform her magic that would become our meals. Watching her is how I learned to cook, and every time I pick up a peeler and a knife, I am channeling her into my kitchen, feeling her standing over my shoulder reminding me to "watch your fingers!" 

When we cut ourselves off from Mother Earth, and all the people and gifts she has passed on to us, we're just a rootless shadow of who and what our culture tells us we should be. The sense of comfort and grounding that we seek comes when we remember to stay connected to where we came from, and what we want to pass on. In my case, I have two beautiful and talented daughters, and both of them know how to wield a peeler and a knife. Their grandmother would be proud.

And so it is. 

Winging Our Way Home

I was standing near my bedroom window very early one morning last week turning up the comforter on my bed when I heard a sound off in the distance. I stood perfectly still and listened. Yes, there it was again, a sound I had been anticipating ever since the had weather turned cold. It was the sound of a flock of geese. I opened the window wide, not even noticing how cold it had gotten ... enough for a light frost over night ... and looked to the sky. There, flying in perfect "V" formation, a flock of what looked like 50 or so geese, honking their way from the farmlands to the north of town towards the south. I loved that sound, even though in some way it is a sad sound, one that marks the end of light-filled days and the coming of long, dark ones. It was what I learned from one of my professors some years ago that gave me a different perspective on the sounds of the geese as they made their way south.

I had a Religion professor who had a passion for birds as a hobby. There was very little he did not know about birds, especially those that were native to the Eastern and North Eastern parts of the U.S. The reason geese are constantly honking away as they fly, he informed us, was because they were encouraging each other to keep going. If the leader got tired, he would fall back and another would take his place. If one became hurt or sick and had to land, one or two others would accompany the injured one to the ground and stay with them until they were able to take up the journey again. Somehow they knew exactly where the rest of the flock would be waiting for them, resting for the night until the following morning when they would begin again.

Once again Nature gives us a lesson wrapped up in beauty, this time the song of a flock of geese making their way across the sky. Imagine how much easier life would be if we had an entire community always there rooting for us, encouraging us to keep going in the directions of our dreams, and knowing that, if we stumble and fall, someone will always be there to stay with us until we can get back up on our feet and continue to fly. How amazing life would be then!

I am sorry to see the geese go, sorry that the days will get shorter and darker, but in my heart I hold on to that beautiful sound until the time comes when the light returns, and so do the geese as they wing their way back home. May we all keep a song in our hearts.

And so it is.

Soup's On!

These days when I am enjoying the wonderful array of freshly harvested veggies at the grocery store or farmers' market, in the back of my mind I know that I am in search of the ingredients for the meal that will mark the official start of the fall season for me ... soup! Now that summer has finally given up and left (not without a last stand and a fight), the cool days and wonderful colors in the produce section call to me that the time is perfect to put up a pot of that timeless classic and let the aromas bubble out on the back burner as I sit at my desk to work. Who am I kidding? The smell of onions, carrots, celery, potatoes, tomatoes, and who-knows-what-else that I choose to put in to the pot carries me off to a time and place years ago ... my mother's kitchen.

My mother was a firm believer that there was nothing that could not be made better with a pot of soup. Raised in an Italian-American household, there were as many ways to make soup as there were people to eat it. No vegetable that she had ever seen or tasted could not be turned into a tummy-soothing, mouth-watering delight. From the usual to the unusual (how about swiss chard soup in broth with garlic?) soup was the perfect vehicle.

Thinking about my mother's soups got me to thinking also about how every generation everywhere since who-know-when has been making soup. First our hunter-gatherer ancestors, followed by our ancestors who first worked the land, found the making of soups and porridge a healthy meal that not only warmed your belly but allowed them to stretch their store of food over the winter. It almost seems as if Mother Nature invented soup first, then shared the recipe with humans in order to teach them to make the best use of the gifts she grew for us. It must be something in a mother's DNA - the "teach  your kid to make soup" gene!

So today on this chilly, rainy autumn day, I am putting up my very first pot of soup for the season. I have chosen to make a lentil vegetable soup that only gets better the longer it simmers. Good thing I wrote this blog before I started the soup or else my mind would have wandered down memory lane again instead of tending to business! Happy soup season everyone!

And so it is.

The Sounds of Home

There are certain sounds that, when we hear them, immediately bring to mind a childhood memory. One of those sounds for me is the sound of knitting needles clicking against each other as the hands of an experienced knitter fly over the yarn. Those hands belonged to my mother and it was a sure sign of the arrival of fall when her leather knitting needle holder would come out and the sounds of "click, click, click," started flowing forth from the living room of the small apartment we first lived in when I was very young, not yet school age. My mother, father, sister and I shared a one bedroom downstairs apartment in a 4 family home owned by my mother's cousin. My sister and I shared a bed in the only bedroom. My parents camped out in the living room on what was then the height of functional furniture, the Castro Convertible sofa bed. 

When I think about that sound, I can picture my mother sitting on the end of the grey sofa. next to a table and lamp, the yarn unraveling from within her leather bag and the needles clicking back and forth in a gentle, almost rhythmic melody only she could hear. I knew that if my mother was knitting, then the time for sweaters was upon us for that was her favorite thing to make - warm, soft, cuddly sweaters and hats with pom-poms that tied under our chin. No winter wind was going to sneak in and freeze our little ears, not while her hands could still work those needles. There she would sit in her flowered, shirtwaist house dress (no trousers back then, ladies), a cup of coffee at her elbow, and the radio playing her favorite daytime soap operas (did you know that The Guiding Light started on the radio?). 

Now it is oh, so many years later, and there is the beginning of a nip in the air, and my hands itch to pull out my quilted craft bag, and the big wicker container that holds all of my yarn, and see what speaks to me. I an nowhere near the knitter my mother was. I prefer to crochet, something she was also an expert at (no pillow case or handkerchief was complete without that gentle, lacy edge she whipped on). But every once in a while I will pull out a sturdy pair of knitting needles and some nice, warm yarn, and begin a new hat for myself or a grandchild, one that will keep the cold air from nipping our ears. Mostly, it is just for the chance to sit quietly in a room and listen to the gentle "click, click, click," of my needles, and feel my mother's presence in each and every stitch.

And so it is. 

A Blaze Of Glory

I opened the curtains this morning and there it was! The first colors of Autumn had finally begun to peek out. The tree in front of my window seemed to have turned orange overnight, although I suspect that I was just too wrapped up in myself to see the gradual changes. In the distance, the hills are tipped with reds and oranges, like a woman frosting the tips of her hair. I am almost giddy over the discovery. You'd think that it was Christmas, and yet, if you think about it, all this color and blazing glory is just a prelude to a sort of dying as the year draws to a close and all goes silent under a blanket of snow and long, cold, grey days. So why the big finish?

Autumn reminds me of the Dylan Thomas poem: "Do Not Go Gentle In To That Good Night:"

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I love that idea! I understand that the poem is speaking mostly of death and dying, but it also speaks to me of the death of my spirit. It tells me that as I get older, there is nothing holding me back from releasing all of my "colors," those things that make me who I am. There is no longer anyone to impress, or please. I am the aging flower child going into the winter of my life in a blaze of glory. I am the burnt oranges of a sunset, the rich reds of roses in bloom, the golden joy of a sunrise, and the sturdy bronzes of the ages. And, like the trees, once my colors are done for the year, I save my energy for the seeds that sleep under the snow only to burst forth again in Spring with green buds on the very trees I leave naked at the end of Autumn. I use the time to plan, and dream, and wait for the day when the snow is gone, the sun is warm, and my spirit tells me, "Now! Now is the time! Bloom, darling, bloom."

So, yes, I am celebrating this blaze of glory that is Autumn with shouts, and smiles, and love in my heart. I'll collect leaves to make window decorations with the children, and collect pine cones to turn into feeders for the birds and Christmas ornaments, and I'll make applesauce, and drink cider, and always, always, open my curtains in the morning with grace and gratitude for this holy palette before me. 

And so it is. 

Happy Anniversary, Flower Bear!

It's hard to believe that this week we are celebrating 6 years since "Flower Bear's Garden-Growing A Life" was born. I have had so much fun doing this and, along the way, I have grown in so many ways. You are never too old to learn something new, especially about yourself, and that has certainly been the case for me.

I will be forever grateful to meditation teacher, best-selling author, and all-around coolest dude on Earth, Davidji, who advised me that I needed to stop ignoring my intuition and to take a baby step in the direction it was leading me. One week later, the very first Flower Bear blog was published and it has just been a continuing joy ride since.

I want to thank Mother Nature who has been my greatest teacher. Flower Bear's Garden could not have been born without the lessons I've learned from nature and spending time in the garden. Here I thought I was just playing in the dirt and growing things. Little did I know that I was growing myself and that there is nothing we need to know that nature cannot teach us. 

I also want to thank my mother who let me play among the roses and lilacs in our backyard (the rest was dirt and grass that just wouldn't grow). In fact, the face of Flower Bear's Garden, dear Flower Bear herself, came from the sweet bear that sat on my mom's dresser for years before her passing, and which came to me after. When I was looking for a face that said: wisdom and love, my mom's bear was the natural choice.

It seems so appropriate that the anniversary of Flower Bear's Garden should "fall" right after the first day of Autumn. It is a time for harvesting our blessings, learning from what blossomed and what didn't, and savoring the gifts from the earth. 

To all of my family, friends, and loyal fans, I send a heartfelt "thank you" from Flower Bear and myself. I am truly blessed. May all of your harvests in life reap your hearts' desires. 

And so it is. 

The Wonder Of It All

I am an aficionado of sunsets. I love a good sunset like other people love a perfect glass of wine or an excellent meal. Sunsets take my breath away. They fill me with wonder. They put life in perspective for me. They remind me that we need to spend less time in our heads and more time in our hearts. They stop me in my tracks and pull my attention away from the things that don't matter to things that do. They cause me to think about all the other places where I have seen something that brings me the same sense of wonder and awe in the world. Where might that be?

I see wonder in sunrises as well as sunsets. I hear wonder in the sound of my great-grandson's laugh, or the feel of his arms around my neck in a hug. I see wonder when I look into the eyes of my fur babies when they show me what unconditional love looks like. I feel wonder at how clouds sailing overhead can look like angels or birds one minute, and Snoopy sleeping on top of his dog house the next minute! I feel wonder when the first touch of color teases the tips of the trees as the air starts to cool and pumpkins come out to play. I feel wonder when I see a total stranger being kind to another stranger, or when I hear the sounds of geese flying overhead, urging each other on.

Wonder is everywhere, every minute, if we just take the time to stop, look, and listen. Like last night. As I went to close my curtains at dusk before turning on the living room lights, I caught the magnificence of a sky filled with awesome shades of pink, purple, and gold. At that moment I didn't need to know the why or how of how that sunset got to be so beautiful. It was enough to be grateful for the gift itself and breathe in that feeling of wonder. Really, what else do we need?

And so it is.