The Shadows of Cages

Brad took these photos at Columbus Zoo in Ohio and at a photo shoot in San Luis Obispo, CA.  Whether you believe animals have intelligence or not, these pictures are haunting.  The sentient gaze, the desire for freedom, the protective embrace, the encircling hand that says "I am here. You are not alone." - are all impossible to dismiss.  Sentience is the holy breath that expands and contracts us - it animates and connects all things. We are ALL illuminated by the invisible Unspoken, the One Essence.  I realize researchers learn a lot from observing animals, but the plexiglass fishbowls they house them in, diminish and objectify them. Concrete moats, fake tree limbs, scaffolding racks - is that really a fair trade? 

I remember my first trip to the zoo. On my last, glorious day of AF Basic Training, I was offered a choice of celebrations - I could go to River Walk Mall or to San Antonio Zoo.  Easy choice! I picked the zoo. Shopping is not an easy thing for me even when I have money to spend, but animals always make me curious. Having never been to the zoo, my expectations were bright yellow and aimed at the moon.  As sometimes happens to obsessive noticers, reality shifted for me, and offered me a glimpse from the animal's perspective. This was a jolt. 

My red thrill for discovery abruptly collided with black shadows, heaviness and heartbreak. The crash was sharp, a slap to the face.  It stumbled my center. and toppled the balance of my square footing, My straight edges collapsed to round, and I was rolling like a hand full of marbles, all over the ground.  Disquieted and sad, I settled on a bench to watch people instead, . .my zoo-shine, eclipsing.  I saw that children sensed the "wrongness" too. I watched them bounce joyous and hopeful toward a cage, then deflate and slip behind Daddy's legs or baby Sister's stroller. The question I heard floating across the hot steamy air most was, "But Daddy, why is he so sad?"

Sadly, parents were looking, but not seeing.  On a mission to teach, their attentions and intentions were focused solely on identifying, characterizing, and labeling a species.     

I found this photo so tender-sweet it made me sigh. . . instant tears.  Here is the symbol that paints that first experience!  The sadness, the captivity and despair.  And yet, despite it all - love, family, and community.  Lao Tzu said, "Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage."  That is so beautifully captured in this photo.

Mirabai's Cure for Sadness:

I know a cure for sadness; Let your hands

touch something that makes your eyes smile.

I bet there are a hundred objects

close by that can do that.

Look at beauty's gift to us - her power

is so great she enlivens the earth, the sky our soul.

Words don't work here... but I know you can feel it.  Just sit quietly, feel it.

***

"If you truly hold a stone, you can feel the mountain it came from."

- Mark Nepo

***

"Do you know what you are?

You are a manuscript of a divine letter.

You are a mirror reflecting a noble face.

This universe in not outside of you.

Look inside yourself;

everything that you want,

you are already that."

- Rumi

Snow Day!

Riversnow

White winter has thrown its lavish hush-heavy blanket over us in northern Ohio. Our little creek is a cold gray ribbon snaking through a reverence of exquisite lace fretwork. The cold is murderous, dedicated, and high-pitched - a gauntlet thrower, for sure. I accept the challenge, clamp on ear muffs and wind my wooly scarf up around my face. Only my eyes are visible. 

Snowpile

The music of boots-chomping-snow draws my attention groundward. There are enchantments there, dazzling wonders at my feet: heaps and piles of tiny glass stars! This geometric reckoning of quiet awe brings my heart to its knees.

Rockriverice

Further down the ravine, I spy a wintry version of Hokusai's Great Wave and it's clawing, finger-y fractals. Glacial breath collars the cascade, but the falls insist, persist, outrun.  Life is resolute. Even in the dead of winter. It sings, It multiplies. 

Water + Earth + Air + Wind = Life.

After each shape-shifting globule, I pause, await the next.

             The sun stalls,

                              the trees sway.

                                                   the creek sings.   

Suddenly we are only

Music.  Movement.  Light.

We-ly. Three-ly.

One-ly.

icepond (1 of 1).jpg

When we tug at a single thing in nature, we find it attached to the rest of the world.
—John Muir

 

Frostysnow

Winter solitude-

In a world of one colour

the sound of the wind.

- Matsuo Basho

Queenstownlake

When snow falls, nature listens.

- Antoinette van Kleeff

Let Life Surprise You

This itsy white speck was perched on the bitsy end of a wisp of moss. It was no bigger than the head of a pin.  Wondering what it was, Brad photographed and filmed it.  When he re-played the (magnified) video, we were stunned to discover it was a wee critter.  Perhaps he was cocooning himself away for winter....who knows?!  The point is, it was a joy to witness - I LOVE little surprises like this!  How many times have I passed by unfolding miracles like this - my eyes open but hurried, short-sided and unaware?

In Pleasures, Denise Levertov wrote, "I like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct."

Delight waits in unexpected places if only we pause and look long with heart-deep eyes.

Effervescent Morning

Photo by Bradley M. Smith

"There are worlds within worlds, Crysta."  - Magi Lune, FernGully: The Last Rainforest

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If you're feeling stagnant, chances are you've lost your child-light. Want to re-kindle it?  Rise early and walk the tiny jeweled tightrope of Dawn.  

Francis Pongee said the purpose of poetry is "to nourish the spirit of man by giving him the cosmos to suckle".  

Dawn is poetry.  It dazzles.  It's as if the stars have fallen to earth - there's glitter everywhere!   

Look!

In the Meadow

Nebulas

Incubating

Stars.

Be Still and Know That I Am God

Click pictures to enlarge.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.    - Marianne Williamson

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At lunch time, on the last day of our trip to San Luis Obispo, California (for the California Photo Festival) - Brad burst into our hotel room, "Quick, Kel! Get your shoes!" He dashed to the frig, grabbed a box of berries, some provolone, and Boar's Head ham. He snatched up plastic forks and a wad of napkins and shoved the 'picnic' into his gear bag. Next, he combed through his camera case for additional lenses, mumbling something about location and weather conditions. Hypnotized, I watched.  He stopped, looked at me, "Hurry, Kel! The light is good now - but it's unpredictable, and fog could drift in anytime. Let's go!"

I set my laptop aside, and stood. Inside, 'brakes' engaged and irritated question marks taunted, but I stretched tall, (Okay, I'm moving).  Brad picked up my backpack, handed it to me; then my shoes, my sweater, a scarf. I acknowledged a touch of irritation, but tried not dipping my toe in it.  Instead I bathed in the exclamation points that stick-danced all around him, hoping his exhilaration would glue me back together. When I am suddenly or unexpectedly interrupted, I feel as if I shatter into fragments. I don't think I've ever mentioned this to Brad, or even thought it 'out loud' myself.  But it is so. I am a thousand shapes, a puzzle wrenched apart, scrambling, grasping and struggling to regroup. This was that. But a sharp edge piggy-backed on it, an additional color - no, a shadow of dread - and it hovered dark in the midst of me.

Resistance. I named it, and it stepped forward, clear as day. (Why are you here?)  I forgot Brad for a moment, thrilled I was awake enough to greet this new bit of awareness. Not always the case - but yoga and meditation had deeply stirred my pot of late, and thankfully refreshed my long held 'go-to' recipe for life. Now, life evolved with every moment. New flavors, textures, dimensions, capacities. I never knew what I'd find and that seemed the perfect recipe.  At every chance, I eliminated unnecessary ingredients, simplified. I threw away stale and expired things - old beliefs and concepts, tiresome rules and opinions - all kinds of 'keepsakes'. Especially the ones that never belonged to me in the first place.  (Resistance, though? Why now?) 

As I bent to tie my shoes, Brad slipped a water bottle into my pack, and I zoomed back into the moment.  "But what about your afternoon classes?" I asked.

"I don't care about my afternoon classes!" he answered. He looked at my sweater, judging.  "Maybe you should grab a heavier sweater. It's a bit chilly where we're going. Come on! Come on!"  He smiled devilishly. "I'm taking you somewhere REALLY special. This morning's shoot made the whole trip worthwhile!" 

I had not seen him this excited all week. Each photo shoot he'd been on had been so tightly-wound round one spot and one shot - he'd felt hog-tied and unenthusiastically boxed in. Certainly for some, restraint is a good teacher, but Brad is a nomad. He needs room to play.  When something catches his eye, he MUST see it from ALL angles. Whatever it takes, he roots around until the camera vibrates with the essence of his subject. That's his process, his way of accessing his truest expression. It's where his best shots are born, where God within spills out through his fingers. I understand this.  It's the music of creation. How art comes to life.

I smiled, tasting his tangerine giddiness. I liked seeing him like this - especially after seeing him so frustrated all week.  …And I was curious about his magical place.  

We lunged for the elevator in a clatter and crush, and I noticed 'shadowy resistance' tagging along behind me. I ignored it, focused on Brad and his traveling exclamation marks. "So, tell me what happened. What has you so excited?"

As we drove, Brad explained the events of his morning. He'd decided against staying with the group at the 'tourist-y' spot. The Instructor, Mark, sensed his frustration and waved him on ahead, "There are some cool spots down that way. But be careful."  So, Brad hurried off, searching the coastline for a fresh place to practice long exposures. It didn't take long to find one. "It was magical, Kel!  A few twists and turns down the beach and suddenly there were seaside cliffs, blow holes, crashing waves and great sweeps of spray erupting ten or more feet in the air! There were so many choices, I didn't know where to start!"  He chose a position on one cliff in order to shoot his subject, another cliff further down the beach. "The rock was majestic! It jutted up abruptly, all edges and jags and might. And it reached forward, out over the ocean. It looked like the seat of God himself! Anyway, I set up my camera, took some test shots, and immediately - I knew it was a power shot. I was so excited about it, I barely noticed an older woman and her daughter as they passed behind me following the trail. I figured they'd stay the path, so I took my time, kept playing and looking for my angle. Several minutes later though, the daughter appeared in my camera frame.  She'd left her mother standing on the path, and made her way to the edge of my cliff.  Where she sat down! She sat down, Kel! I couldn't believe it!  I waited a moment, thinking she would leave. But she didn't.  Damn it!  Finally the perfect spot, and I get photo-crashed! Damn it!"

But looking through the view finder, Brad was stunned. Stirred. A human-being added even more muscle to the shot! He snapped away for more than 20 minutes, glad for the happy accident, and thrilled his model was sitting so still. When he finished, he even walked over to tell the older woman he would email her copies if she liked. (He doesn't do that often, so I knew it had to be a stellar photograph!)

"Wow.  So, show me the shot!" I pleaded. Brad reached into the backseat and grabbed one of his cameras. He couldn't help smiling as he handed it over. I was speechless, the photos were dramatic. Primordial. Flash, Dazzle and Muscle weren't even in the same ballpark. I felt prickles dance across my skin…it was a Sacred, Power Place. I felt it.  No words.  No wonder he'd been ecstatic.

When my words arrived, they were a bible verse: "'Be Still and Know that I am God.'  Wow.  It's beautiful, honey.  So - you are taking me to see these cliffs?" 

"Well, yes.  But What I REALLY want, is to recreate the picture - only this time, with you." 

Here, several things at once: Tangerine happiness, because Brad finally got his trip-defining shot. Then a sudden twinge of mildew-y blackness, small but expanding, gaining ground fast.  Next, a gripping feeling clinched hold of my stomach, and a tightening thing seized and pulled at the four corners of my throat: Fear.  Finally, a dark and steely clamp snapped down on my jaw: Stubborn Resistance.

"You want ME to climb out on THAT cliff?!  Brad, I'm not a kid anymore - THAT looks absolutely treacherous!"

Immediately I recognized it - a pattern, a conditioned refusal.  Automatic as breathing. What did it mean? What was my mind saying that wrested my body into knots?

"It's not as scary as it looks, Kel. And that woman was pretty close to your age - she did it. Come on, I want that photo with you in it."

I recalled a quote I'd seen a few months before:  Dr Viktor Frankl said, "Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom."

I pressed 'Pause'. Breathe. Relax. Feel. Watch. Allow.  Maybe it isn't as bad as it looks. The shadowy jaw thing bullied for attention. It had a "HOLD EVERYTHING!" attitude. I leaned in closer, to see if it would speak. The words forced themselves through gritted teeth: "Don't push me! And don't make me feel less-than if I feel differently about this than you do. What's great for you, isn't always great for me. In case you haven't noticed, I am NOT you." The scissor-sharp comments filled my nose with the smell of tar, my mouth with the taste of hoarhound cough drops.  Mental quicksand. To add a little more confusion, barnstormers appeared trailing ribbons stamped with bite and malice.   Chicken!   Don't be a Wussy!    What a Bore!    Get a backbone!   You could fall and die!    Paralysis is possible!     Remember how graceful you AREN'T!    Your friend Linda is going climbing in the Himalayas and THIS little cliff scares you?  My head whipped back and forth.   Finally:   What if, on your deathbed, you regret NOT doing this?     (Ahh...Regret?  That one always gets me.)

Suddenly, insight!  I looked Fear square in the face:  "You are right about one thing, you pushy bastard - You are definitely NOT me!  So, Shut Your Pie-Hole!"   A little peace of quiet followed.  (Funny, how ego plays both sides to ensure it gets credit, no matter what happens.)   Well, there it was...Brad's excitement had sparked my fear.  

Let me explain:  Brad's definition for excitement is bound by 'edges'. He likes risky, dangerous things. He is a swim-with-sharks, wrestle-a-gator kind of guy.  I once watched him walk the perimeter wall on the roof of a skyscraper in Chicago without even blinking.  I (of course) was about 45 feet behind him, safe in the center of the roof, trembling, and welding my body to the exit door we'd just come through. I liked his fearlessness, but sometimes he was over-the-top.

So - Rest in the Pause. Choose my response. Create it from this moment - what is real now. The prize of living an authentic life goes to those who move beyond thinking mind, and past conditioned reactions. No more treading fears. What had it done for me? Nothing good. It left me closed in, self-concerned, and dressed only in Either/Or.  Trust the moment. Believe the right choice, the right action, the right notion will arise naturally at the right time. No thinking required. It took me years to word-picture this idea clearly enough to understand it. It was all edges and no middle. Deep, and slippery as hell. But once I saw it, I also saw the way out.  The sign said, "Exiting Either/Or,  Entering Both/And."  That's the path to living fully.

I closed my eyes. Silent movies sprang into action, playbills of danger and tragedy.  I opened them, stared out the window.  Breathe.  Yoga teacher training invited me to look at fear stripped bare: It's just a thought, only a tool.  I decide...I choose, whether I use it.  And where I keep it.  In a tool chest, or in my lap. 

Fear is a trap. Its walls trick me into feeling safe and cozy, even responsible. But the truth: My vision is clipped short because there's no depth of field. It's almost always a ruse - the boy who cries 'wolf!', a distracting what-if, a question mark that repeats into infinity.  It's good to be on the ground, to see things up close. But it is equally good to climb a tree and get above the forest once in awhile too. The 'big picture' is extremely valuable when mapping a journey, a life. Sometimes we need new perspectives, fresh details. We need to live larger.  Our souls want us to mix it up. 

Later, as I stood on the beach path, witnessing Brad's majestic rock, something very old awakened in me. The roar of crashing waves, the salty smell in the air, the bracing dance and play of the wind, roused my soul and stood it tall, stretching and yawning. I am Called. Hungry for this raw and powerful place. I need Exactly this. I put my things down, and crept out onto the rock so Brad could take pictures. No thinking. Just presence.  A human... being.  Soul took the helm.  It was a beautiful day and the sea was calling.  Qui lay all around me.  Ah yes… Be still and know that I am God.  

 

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                                  One More Escape 

                                    I made a cage
                                    out of my story—
                                    love bent the bars

                            - Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

 

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How Smoke Deepened My Yoga Practice

When I wandered into my first yoga class, I didn't know what to expect, I just needed a new way to exercise. For most of my life, I had worked out daily, but my experience of it had grown mechanical and flat. It was a sun-parched river bed; sterile and unproductive, barbed wire gone to rust. Because I needed to exercise for health reasons, I was desperate. So desperate - I shoved shyness, my fear of looking like an idiot, and a dislike for crowded places into a corner, and signed up for a 6 week series of classes.  There were bigger fish to fry.

Fortunately, my first teacher was Claudia Cummins. She made practicing feel like poetry. I enjoyed the sign language of the postures in my body. It stirred awake an iridescent light in me. I was hooked.  When our younger sons joined our older sons in playing various sports, my class appearances dwindled.  Four boys with various interests added up to zero 'me' time.  So, I cleared a space in our basement and moved my practice down there. I have been doing it there for more than 10 years.

My experience of yoga is a bit out of the ordinary, but I'll share anyway. Seeing things through different eyes can glitter your perspective once in awhile, you never know. Please know - I am no expert, I am merely a student, sharing my love for this practice. I have much to learn, far to go.

Here's a little background.   My experience of Life is ruled by sensory input: Merging, harmony and the "feel of things" override separateness and logic. In the daily grind of thinking and logic, I get lost, make mistakes, misinterpret, and forget my words. Australian artist Donna Williams believes humanity breaks down into two ways of living: Sensing and Interpreting.  I agree. Considering that, it is no surprise that I meandered into a yoga class and felt like I'd come home. Yoga requires tuning in to the body and falling into the details. A plunging, velvety kind of noticing - like sunlight rolling across a meadow, embracing every wildflower, every blade of grass, every grasshopper and ladybug.  Thinking mind gets relocated to the back seat.  "I'm certainly a noticer," I thought, "and logic just confuses me." I felt a tremble of possibility, it seemed something tailor-made was sidling up next to me.  

Life for me, each and every moment, is a kaleidoscope of color, sound, smell, taste, texture - and more! My brain's filtering system seems set to maximum intake, plus my senses get crossed and stumble into each other. What does that mean?  Everything downloads at once - so I must continually sift through it to find the real target of my attention. My senses sing in tandem, like a round of "Row Your Boat" - one 'voice' overlapping another - as they describe the experience unfolding before me. Sounds, smells, colors and even emotions can have taste, texture, shape and personality - and vice versa. Sound confusing? It's called synesthesia.

What would it be like if you lived in a synesthetic world?  Well, your sweetheart’s kiss might taste like peaches drizzled in apricot-colored circles. Your child’s laughter might smell like tangerines and look like spirals and stars tumbling through the air. Rain might provoke the taste of chocolate and the haunting tinkle of far-away chimes. You might be convinced the letter A is dark red, and that Thursdays are orange and feel warm. Every object you see might have its own story, speak its own language. 

This is how it is for me. 

When I discovered yoga, it fired my senses in mysterious and unexpected ways. Instead of creating a clamor of exclamation points and heart-quaking jolts of energy like aerobic workouts and weight-lifting - yoga was warm butter, melting...shimmery and calming. It felt whole, not scrambled. For years, that alone, compelled me to get on my mat every morning.

My synesthetic response to yoga lured me in closer. Depending on the pose, I hear strings playing - bass violin, cello, viola, and violin. I smell vanilla and buttered rum.  I taste  Crème brulee with warm buttered figs and dates.  I even see soothing colors, the colors of sunset at sea after a storm has passed.  Practicing, I feel energy moving through me: Opposing forces, drawing in and radiating out at the same time. I visualize it as light. My head reaches taller as my feet root down. My waist stretches taut like a sail fastened at boom, reaching skyward to mast. I sense the necessity of this opposition. I feel how it holds me in the pose, keeps me from falling into a puddle on the ground. It 'establishes' me, gives me foundation. But at the same time, it gives me lightness, lifts me up out of myself.  Wings.  After practice, my body feels as if it's just eaten a wintergreen lifesaver: I am a cavern of cleansed space - host to a brisk and curling wind.  Ahhhh....

For years, I listened to this music in my body, wishing I understood the words to the song.  Finally, one night, it started to come together. Sitting by our fire pit, watching stars blink on and fireflies flicker, I became hypnotized by the fire: The liquid dance of flame, the curling wisps of smoke. I disappeared into it. My husband finally asked what I was pondering so deeply. "Somehow the fire and the smoke speak to me about yoga," I answered. "But I just don't understand the connection." We sat quietly, our thoughts softly glowing, until the fire drifted into a hushed crackling smolder. 

The next day, Brad quietly set up his camera gear in a spare bedroom, determined to surprise me with still shots of smoke. A few hours later, he showed me the images and I was stunned!  I was instantly absorbed, entranced, hypnotized. "That’s it! THAT’S what it feels like to do yoga!," I shouted.  "That's the language of yoga!” I was so happy, I had tears in my eyes. Just studying the (improbable!) folding and unfolding turns of the smoke, I realized I needed to throw down my old concepts of what is possible. I saw echos of feelings I'd had in certain poses, and places where I'd misunderstood posture instructions altogether. I glimpsed the ever-hammering importance of breath, and the paradox of doing while not doing. I discovered that teeter-tottering in a pose isn't failing - it is participation! It's where the real work and transformation happens!

What a gift! For two years, I studied them over and over. Every once in awhile, Brad added another batch. My practice intensified, and I let go of other regimented forms of exercise altogether. How organic to simply listen to my body: To move in the direction it requested, answering the call again and again until it felt right to float into Savasana. I was a wisp of smoke, light and free, drifting on the night breeze.  

Last fall, I started aching for more. More knowledge, more experience. Our youngest son was away at college, so I began to ponder ways to deepen my practice. After a few months, I took a crazy leap and signed up for yoga teacher training at the Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health. It was an experience I'll never forget.

For me, yoga is a sanctuary that invites me in from cold and chaos. It separates that which is soul from that which is not. It reminds me who I am by showing me who I am not. I don't need a mask anymore. For an introvert like me, that's a big revelation! It means I can relax, let go of my desire to be like everyone else. I don't have to pretend I'm out-going or fearless, I can just be me. That is enough. Yoga teaches me that slowing down is living fully. There is no rush. Some people say, "Yoga is a journey, a path." For me, it is a "coming home".  

For years, I've worked to hide my overzealous senses, to water down the haze of fizzy, and bewildering statements and descriptions that fly out of my mouth sometimes. I wanted to sound like everyone around me. Yoga teaches me there is no reason to hide. It highlights delicate beauty in the peachy tones and honey taste of vulnerability and surrender.  What good does anxiety do me?   Brahmani, one of my teachers at Kripalu, told me, "Fear is just a confused thought. Relax. Don't ramp it up into a commotion. What would it be like to just let things unfold, without attaching fear to it? Turn the negative energy into a force that works for you, not against you."  That was a step toward freedom, realizing I always have a choice. If I believe a thought that Life is uncomfortable, it will be. If I don't, my options are endless. 

Wrapped in gossamer tendrils, I rise from my mat - inhaling, exhaling, folding and unfolding.  Speaking the language of smoke - the language of yoga - I wonder "Where will the wind take me today?"

My Favorite Breakfast: Bacon and Egg Soup

For our first food post, I want to share my favorite weekend breakfast dish, EVER! This is heaven - ABSOLUTE LOVE - in a bowl! I am not joking. I could eat this every morning and never grow tired of it. It's that good. In fact, the first time Brad made it for me, I got tears in my eyes. It was beyond words.

Inspired by a recipe he saw in an old Food Network magazine, he simply modified it to fit our diet - and threw in a little love as well.  As autumn settles in, and winter approaches, this is a perfect choice for a blustery Saturday or Sunday morning. And if you have a cold or the flu - this is your magic potion!  It takes about 30 - 45 minutes, start to finish.

By the way, we started eating Gluten Free in 2005, so all of our recipes are Gluten Free at the very least. In addition to celiac disease, I also have multiple food intolerances - (soy, corn, potato, dairy, starch, sugar, salicylates, sulfites, preservatives, etc.) - so many of our dishes are also paleo or specific carb diet - oriented. 


Bacon and Egg Soup with Parmesan Croutons   (makes 4 servings, or 2 extra-hearty)

Ingredients: 

1/2 gluten free rustic baguette, or 2-4 slices gluten free bread for croutons                

Salt, pepper, garlic powder

3 cups unsalted chicken stock, no msg

1 cup water

5 pieces bacon, reserve a tablespoon of the bacon fat

2 cloves fresh garlic, minced

1/2 cup loosely packed parsley, (reserve some for garnishing at the end)

1 1/2 cups Parmesan cheese, finely grated and divided for croutons/soup/garnish

Parmesan cheese rind, whatever size you have

Eggs, 2 per bowl/person

To Prepare Croutons:   Preheat oven to 400 degrees.  Cut bread into cubes. Spray or toss in olive oil, then season with salt, pepper and garlic powder. Toast in hot oven until browned and crunchy.  Remove pan from oven several times to toss croutons and ensure all sides brown evenly. Gluten free bread gets soggy quickly if not toasted thoroughly, so extra time in the oven will help it retain crunch in the soup. Ovens vary, but 15 to 20 minutes is not unusual.  When croutons are browned, turn oven off.  Remove pan and sprinkle croutons with some of the Parmesan cheese. Return to oven for a few seconds to melt cheese, then set aside. 
(If you are in a hurry, you can toast croutons under the broiler, but you must keep a close eye on them to prevent burning.)

Using a 3qt. high-sided pan, cook 5 slices of bacon.  Place cooked, crispy bacon on paper towels. (Do not under cook bacon - flimsy bacon is gross in a soup!) Set aside to cool. Once cooled, crumble it up, removing any fatty, limp bits. 

Drain all but a tablespoon of the bacon fat from the pan. Add minced garlic and cook until browned. Add a cup of water to the pan to de-glaze, scraping the bottom of the pan to loosen the tasty bits.

Add 3 cups soup stock, parsley (reserve a bit for garnishing) and Parmesan rind. Heat to a boil.  When it starts to boil, reduce heat to a simmer.

Add eggs to broth. Break an egg into a tiny bowl and tip it gently into the simmering broth. Repeat with remaining eggs (2 per person).  Spoon liquid over egg tops to cook as needed. Remove poached eggs carefully with a slotted spoon. Place two eggs in each bowl. 

(Poaching the eggs is the trickiest part. Cook to just under  desired consistency, as the eggs continue cooking after you remove them from the pan, plus they cook a little more when you ladle in the hot, finished broth at the end.)

Back to the broth:  Add most of the remaining Parmesan to the broth, reserving some for garnish. Whisk to blend and let it simmer for about a minute.  Season to taste.

Now put it all together.  Sprinkle crumbled bacon over the eggs, then carefully ladle broth into bowls. Add croutons, parsley garnish, and sprinkle on Parmesan cheese to finish. 

Enjoy!    : )

 

Post #2, Attending the Queen

Henry Miller said, "The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself."

Thich Nhat Hanh said,  “The most precious gift we can offer anyone is our attention. When mindfulness embraces those we love, they will blossom like flowers.”

I adore Queen Anne's Lace.

This morning I am sitting in a foggy field of it. How fitting - the fog.  I am drunk with need for a pause and so wrenched by NO's, my heart feels like a Six-turn-San Diego-jam fishing knot. I need this moment of mingling with the Queen. I've felt her tap on my shoulder for a few days now, so I sense she has wisdom to share.  In my younger days, I would not have hesitated. In fact, I often got lost answering those calls. Letting go of my alienated sense of self gave me an air pocket to breathe in, so I swam deeply in the language of whatever I turned my heart toward. The Queen was a favorite subject. She polka-dotted ravines and bluffs and the sleepy fallow fields in-between. She laced herself along highways and back-roads and crossroads.  (Crossroads were mystical places to me, and I felt the significance of that without knowing how or why. After pondering it for awhile, I looked it up in the dictionary and discovered it is a place that is literally "neither here nor there".  It is "betwixt and between".  I loved that! I felt "between" myself - so I quickly added crossroads, betwixt and between to my word collection, and started a special notebook specifically and especially for all things in-between.)  The Queen lived and reigned as far as my adoring eye could see, untamed and unmuzzled, zippy and buoyant.    

"Mom, Dad and fussy gardeners everywhere - I can hear the shadowy music in your sighs; it pegs the migration of eyeballs rolling round eye sockets. I can feel the tapering slump of your shoulders, and see the question marks shaking from your head as you admonish: 'Kelly! Queen Anne's Lace is a weed! A weed, girl! A WEED!'"      : )

Maybe...but beauty and truth are born from silence, so I trust there is something to learn. And I can't help it - the queen makes my heart tickle and leap.  Yes, she is rampant and wild and uncultivated, but she is free, and she knows the merriment of Being, the Essence of Qui.  She bends, flexes and dances on the wind no matter it's shape, color or mood.  Her open palm waves good morning to me: "Hello! Over here! I'm Holding a space for you!" I take my seat and let mind-chatter drift away. Fully attending, I listen for the language she speaks. The curling wind lifts and shifts my hair around, allowing me to embody the timeless breath of God as it moves through her feathery, appreciative finger leaves. I wait quietly, differentiating music among wildflowers.  Ah, here it is! The music of this meeting: Breath of God Moving Through Green Fingers - melodious applause, sweet celebration.  

Sun has crested Tree-line and his clarity burns through the fog. A thousand queens lift their faces to him, mask-free and grinning from ear to ear. Stretching ever taller, the only intention is to be nearer, closer, connecting. A field full of floating white plates, rich offerings of bare naked joy - totally free of the need for approval or identity.  The queens speak the language of humility. They simply offer all they have, all they are, without desire for outcome. Utter devotion, all-embracing gratitude.  Ralph Waldo Emerson said Scatter Joy - and the Queen passes that vision, that "un-story", directly to me.

Her tiniest blossoms echo miniature bird nests, tightly woven and drawn inward, protecting. But the tender warmth of Sun's kiss inspires softening, and so, they begin the task of opening. I witness the depth and focus of their concentration. I sense the paradox of resting while striving, of doing by not-doing. A memory of Aesop's story, The North Wind and the Sun, bubbles up from within. Is it a message from the Queen?

I look even deeper. There are worlds within worlds here, dimensions of reality most people go lifetimes without noticing. "To see the world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower," William Blake wrote. See with your heart, get a new context. Herein lies the magic, the Qui: Tiny shifts about what is possible piggyback on fresh perspective. The most minuscule shift in perspective opens the door to small acts - and any act of adapting, no matter how small, evolves us. We are changed forever, ushered to profound leaps of imagination and intuitive breaches of insight. We are brought home to our souls, back to awe and wonder and our own inner knowing. I lengthen my breath, pleased that my deathbed review of life will carry a checked box next to the line that reads "attending the queen".

Breathing in, breathing out, I feel a sliver of softening unfold in my clenched and fisted heart.  Surrender is moving through me, loosening twists and knots and expanding me from the inside out. The NO's acquiesce toward Maybe, and separation blurs. For a time, we smile at Sun. We waltz on Wind. We offer up all we are under the gentle caress of Blue Sky. There is no "I" - only attendance and appreciation, and now - a YES.

I went into the field with plenty of knowledge. For all my troubles, I knew "what to do".  I had squadron-sized columns of words marching and beating drums through the hallways of my mind - and they were all dressed up in relevant suggestion. But robotic description leaves me feeling even more paralyzed. This act of simple sitting - of attending the Queen - catapults me over and beyond Mind's lifeless heap of chatter and into the field of silent experience. The field of wisdom and inner knowing. Experience is confrontation, participation - and I can embody that.  It is the "conversation with".  It is the Essence of Qui.

I rise and bow to the Queen. No words are needed. I lay my baggage at her feet and walk away. She has done her magic, helped me sort the seed from the dirt. Her essence of un-story has washed away my tiresome definitions, my flimsy rationalizations, and softened my jagged NO's. She calls out to my heart - reminds me that wisdom calls from unexpected places, and living wisely requires attending to that call - when it comes.  Next time, I vow not to shrug it aside. 

"Whenever she turned her steep focus to me, I felt the warmth that flowers must feel when they bloom through the snow, under the first concentrated rays of the sun.” 

- Janet Fitch, White Oleander

Essence of Qui - First Post!

Photo by Bradley M Smith

On these humble pages, I hope to share moments of Qui with you.  Let me begin with the name, Essence of Qui.  I love the letter "Q"!  It's quiet and quirky simultaneously, and that feels like me.  Quiescence has long been a favorite word because it's tastes like violin music on my tongue.  So, I thought "Yes! Quiescence is the perfect domain name!"  Well...Imagine a  tire going flat and you have the perfect visual for my spirit deflating when I discovered the name was already taken.  Now what?  I decided to talk to my youngest son about it. He's home from college for the summer, he's a great writer - time to brainstorm!  I explained my dilemma as we drove to an appointment.  "Okay, define quiescence for me - that might inspire a new word."  Hunter looked thoughtful, fingers to chin...."mmmm...Quiescence is... (wait for it!)... the essence of qui."  He laughed, only joking.  But I loved it!  It was sunbeams spilling through cloud cover!  And I had this knowing inside that it was already mine!  A few hours later we made it official. Thank you, Hunter!

As I said in the Overview, words don't reach where Qui lives - EVER.  Qui lives beneath words.   Happily though, there are soul-inhabited words that cast light on its shadowy threshold...words that drift in close, and speak the language of stillness and keyholes.  Words that offer a wee glimpse of the essence of things.  I'll do my best to find those words, to speak that language.

Magic Words

In the very earliest time,

when both people and animals lived on earth,

a person could become an animal if he wanted to

and an animal could become a human being.

Sometimes they were people

and sometimes animals

and there was no difference.

All spoke the same language.

That was the time when words were like magic.

The human mind had mysterious powers.

A word spoken by chance

might have strange consequences.

It would suddenly come alive

and what people wanted to happen could happen—

all you had to do was say it.

Nobody could explain this:

That's the way it was.

Translated from the Inuit by Edward Field

I have collected magical words since I was a child.  Yes, I had a word collection. Silly me.  While my friends made a mad dash for the latest barbie outfit, I cuddled against trees, loving the slick feel of a new notebook, and the soft, bumpy scrape of a fresh page under my palm.  I started collecting them because I found I had to make pictures in my mind about things in order to understand them. Only the magical words helped me do that. They offered immediate, concrete understanding as sound, scribbled shape, and meaning converged from fragments into wholeness.  I adored the soft shimmer of silence wrapped in the hush-a-by plushy feel of harmony - so every time I found an enchanted word, I copied it into a notebook.  Every time I added a word glistened by soul, I wondered why we needed any other kind of words at all.   

Many words are impotent - useless chatter and bang, but magic words zero in on the target, they pull our inner vision toward true north, toward essence - away from label. They express a "conversation with" not a "conversation about".  With that in mind, my specific hope is to tap your ear with a touch of magical word music, and offer you a look through my kaleidoscope of quiet.

Photo by Bradley M. Smith

Quiescence... It's pleasing music rolls off the tongue perfectly wrapped in circles. When things are wrapped in circles, to me - that is the sign of a gift.  Circles and spirals speak the language of breath, life force, love, eternity. They originate from silence, they know the essence of things.   Quiescence IS  its sound. Say it and you'll see what I mean.  There it goes, precisely hushing away noise and distraction while introducing its inner essence of stillness. All those velvety sounds and shapes converge, and it's barely a whisper of a word...and it points the way to presence. I love the embrace I feel in that union, the contentment in that hug of a word.  It speaks of paradox, of a merging that is at the same time, a detaching. It invites my shy soul to come out from behind the curtain, to throw open the doors and windows and experience the gift of eternity that waits in each moment.

Art, photography, and music also speak to my soul. There are works that bring tears to my eyes, I feel them so deeply. They are magic carpets that carry me beyond ordinary fields of experience and hover me nearer to the threshold of the in-between - that magical, luminous reality where pause is the keystone, and presence is the only requirement.  God rests there, in the tender, strong place of that Mingling.  William Blake believed that Imagination is God in man.  Alex Gray, author of "The Mission of Art" wrote that art can be a bridge to the "spiritual in everyday life." He explained the transcendent touch and pull of soul-filled art as follows: 

"The viewer first encounters a work of art as a physical object seen by the eye of flesh. Secondly, the eye of reason sees a harmony of sensations that stir the emotions, and a conceptual understanding of the art arises. Third, and only in the deepest art, a condition of the soul is revealed, one's heart is opened, and spiritual insight is transmitted to the eye of contemplation."

The word rule sticks true here too - magical works of music, art and photography are lampposts lit from inspiration, from God's own breath. They illuminate. They point to the essence of a thing.  My soul spins circles round the floor of my heart when I encounter a tender, soul-stirring delicacy. No wonder ancient artists believed a beautifully crafted work drew down divine presence to inhabit it.  My husband, Brad, captures this magic in many of his photos. His gift holds a candle to the keyhole. It takes my chin, and adjusts my view.  I am pulled in - Alice, falling down the rabbit hole. Away from my self-stories to the Essence of Qui, where life is thick with beauty, brimming with miracles, dancing with possibility.     

Photo by Bradley M. Smith

In one of my favorite books on writing, If You Want to Write: A Book about, Art, Independence and Spirit, Brenda Ueland highlights the true magic of a moment captured by art:

 “When Van Gogh was a young man in his early twenties, he was in London studying to be a clergyman. He had no thought of being an artist at all.  He sat in his cheap little room writing a letter to his younger brother in Holland, whom he loved very much. He looked out his window at a watery twilight, a thin lamppost, a star, and he said in his letter something like this: "It is so beautiful I must show you how it looks." And then on his cheap ruled note paper, he made the most beautiful, tender, little drawing of it.

When I read this letter of Van Gogh's, it comforted me very much and seemed to throw a clear light on the whole road of Art.  Before, I thought that to produce a work of painting or literature, you scowled and thought long and ponderously and weighed everything solemnly and learned everything that all artists had ever done aforetime, and what their influences and schools were.  And you were extremely careful about *design' and *balance' and getting *interesting planes' into your painting, and avoided, with the most astringent severity, showing the faintest *academical' tendency, and were strictly modern. And so on and so on.

But the moment I read Van Gogh's letter I knew what art was, and the creative impulse. It is a feeling of love and enthusiasm for something, and in a direct, simple, passionate and true way, you try to show this beauty in things to others, by drawing it.

And Van Gogh's little drawing on the cheap note paper was a work of art because he loved the sky and the frail lamppost against it so seriously that he made the drawing with the most exquisite conscientiousness and care.”

I love that.  It illustrates how the creative impulse arises from mingling with the essence of things. It is God waking up in us, an incandescent thread that weaves delight with spirit and flesh into the breath of becoming. Do you feel the truth of that? The beauty of that?  I don't know about you - but it drizzles and fizzles me with that lemony, giggly, ticklish feeling of meteor showers shooting across my skin. And that's my sign that I am unfolding in the right direction, feeding my soul the right food. Rest and fall inward. Witness. Repeat.

So, walk with me a while.  Let's sit with the essence of qui.