What makes something (or someone, for that matter) beautiful? Worthy of note? Worth more than a second glance?
Maybe because it's January, and I always seem a bit more contemplative and melancholy in January, or maybe it's because it's gray and rainy and cold everywhere I seem to go these days (Austin was all gray and rain until I left on Saturday, Lubbock was mostly sunshine until I got here on Sunday...). Regardless of reason, I've found myself concentrating on the rather abstract construction of beauty.
It doesn't help matters that I am gearing up for a unit of British Romanticism, and we're reading Frankenstein, Shelley, Byron, and Keats (especially Keats, right, when he posits "Beauty is truth, truth beauty" ?) Also, for another course, I am about to teach The Tempest, and goodness knows it makes much ado about beauty.
And then, a few days ago, for the first time in a very long time, I was called beautiful. And, being the kind of woman I am, I cannot let well enough alone. I cannot take the compliment to heart and go along my merry way. Oh no, I have to take time to stop and think about the true nature and construction of beauty.
I spent my winter break in the Texas hill country, so I was surrounded by beauty of the more obvious kind. The area from just north of Austin to just south of San Antonio provides some of the most aesthetically appealing landscape you'll find anywhere. Downtown Austin is one of the loveliest downtown areas I've ever wandered (and I've whiled away some deliciously lonely hours in many-a-downtown scene). So much beauty in one locale; I had to catch my breath several times (despite the rain and the cold).
However, I must admit, I was thrown a little off balance by the way people around me -- the sea of nameless faces rushing here and there -- did not seem to see the same things I saw. "Of course," I reminded myself, "they see this all of the time." And, there-in lies the rub, right? However one defines or constructs beauty, being in constant contact, having consistent access to the beauty, lessens its shine, if we're not careful. So, for these people, rushing around downtown, the environment had become commonplace and the hour inappropriate for beauty.
I do not pretend to have all the answers, but I try to be aware of small moments of great beauty in my daily life. Some people might say that's difficult to do, living in Lubbock, Texas. However, I would beg to differ. There are so many beautiful sights, sounds, and people. Especially the people.
So, my challenge to you (whoever you are, reading this) and more specifically to myself, is to actively acknowledge those moments of beauty, and to seek to be more perceptive of them. To appreciate and recognize beauty and talent and joy in the most unexpected context. I know my life will be fuller and richer for it.
08 January 2013
10 June 2012
Un espoir merveilleux
I keep thinking about
your yellow gardening hat
and the way you used to tip
the olive green watering can over
ever-so-slightly
so the water would
splash my head --
to help me grow,
you said.
And I can almost hear
your sweet, strong voice
say my name when I walked
into your room and surprised you
even though
I think you always expected me,
somehow --
I hear your delight,
even now.
Oh, I haven't had a tea party in ages
but I remember how
to make a proper pot
and how to hold it
as I pour
and how you
take [took] your tea --
and not just becase
you take [took] it like me.
22 March 2012
Firmament
I never really knew
there were
so many shades of blue
(and degrees of separation
from you)
But
I have fallen
(or should I say risen?)
in love
with these wide skies
painted
mano-a-monochromatically
at midday
and reinvented each evening
in hues
so variant and brilliant
and matchless
I stand
speechless
there were
so many shades of blue
(and degrees of separation
from you)
But
I have fallen
(or should I say risen?)
in love
with these wide skies
painted
mano-a-monochromatically
at midday
and reinvented each evening
in hues
so variant and brilliant
and matchless
I stand
speechless
in the best of ways
and humbled at the
absolute extravagance
(and bereft
because
it too will leave)
Still I stand
firmly rooted in
this transient
red dirt
having
never known
and humbled at the
absolute extravagance
(and bereft
because
it too will leave)
Still I stand
firmly rooted in
this transient
red dirt
having
never known
there were
so many shades of blue
so many shades of blue
07 September 2011
Pages
For a while now,
it has seemed
that your leaving signified
pages being ripped
from the binding of my book.
Leaving a chunk of my chronicle
missing
destroyed
empty
almost as if those pages never existed
as if we never lived, loved, laughed, or cried
as if our lives and our hands never intertwined
like those two ancient oaks in my grandmother's back yard.
And maybe, that's how it has to be for you.
Maybe that's the way you have learned to live. . .
How the heartache and pain of your past has taught you to survive.
So, you have ripped me out of the pages of your book.
You must feel the way the binding is loose,
The way your story is incomplete. . .
but you carry on, calmly,
nonchalant
And though there will come a day you will miss those pages
I am glad you are happy, now. . .
missing pages and all.
As for me. . .
I realize,
when you left, you did not
violently rip those pages
out of my book --
but rather
gently forced me
to start another chapter.
Thank you, for that.
it has seemed
that your leaving signified
pages being ripped
from the binding of my book.
Leaving a chunk of my chronicle
missing
destroyed
empty
almost as if those pages never existed
as if we never lived, loved, laughed, or cried
as if our lives and our hands never intertwined
like those two ancient oaks in my grandmother's back yard.
And maybe, that's how it has to be for you.
Maybe that's the way you have learned to live. . .
How the heartache and pain of your past has taught you to survive.
So, you have ripped me out of the pages of your book.
You must feel the way the binding is loose,
The way your story is incomplete. . .
but you carry on, calmly,
nonchalant
And though there will come a day you will miss those pages
I am glad you are happy, now. . .
missing pages and all.
As for me. . .
I realize,
when you left, you did not
violently rip those pages
out of my book --
but rather
gently forced me
to start another chapter.
Thank you, for that.
05 September 2011
Shades of Gray:
I like the way I can see the places
where my fingers repeatedly hit the keys on my key board.
One swift stroke after another.
Sometimes forceful
Sometimes hesitent
Always thoughtful
A testament to the work that I've done
and yet to do.
Just a slightly different shade of gray than when
I took my computer
out of the box
over a year ago.
I've left my mark on them.
Subtle.
Seen only in certain lights
but significant.
And it makes me realize:
Even things that start out new
untouched by time
or worry
or use
or care
will end up
going throughout life
existing, primarily
in shades of gray.
Freshly painted black
or white
at the touch of life
real life
it subsits
in shades of gray.
where my fingers repeatedly hit the keys on my key board.
One swift stroke after another.
Sometimes forceful
Sometimes hesitent
Always thoughtful
A testament to the work that I've done
and yet to do.
Just a slightly different shade of gray than when
I took my computer
out of the box
over a year ago.
I've left my mark on them.
Subtle.
Seen only in certain lights
but significant.
And it makes me realize:
Even things that start out new
untouched by time
or worry
or use
or care
will end up
going throughout life
existing, primarily
in shades of gray.
Freshly painted black
or white
at the touch of life
real life
it subsits
in shades of gray.
14 July 2011
Chopping Onions
Until yesterday, it had been a long time since I had done one of my very most favorite things -- hosted a dinner party. The past few months, okay, six and a half months to be more exact, I haven't really done much in the kitchen. For various reasons, I was in survival mode. I ate out, ordered in (Pizza Hut's Wing Wednesday was my very good friend), zapped frozen dinners, baked a pizza, or relied on the kindness of friends to feed me (I am sure you are reading this, you know who you are, and I cannot thank you enough for taking care of me). School kept me busy, then I was packing up my little house to move to a bigger house, then I was unpacking my things into my bigger house, and then I jumped into summer school.
I have been going through the motions, eating because I need to or because it makes me feel better (and no need to expound on the dangers of finding comfort in food, I know them). For a long while, my love for cooking utterly disappeared. I would find sparks of it here or there (making a cheesecake for some friends, a lasagna for someone who just had a baby, a pie for a housewarming party, chopped bbq for someone's birthday at work). . . but even then, I was just going through the motions -- following the recipe exactly (If you know me, you know that's something I rarely do). I baked a lot more because, for me, baking does not require creativity or spontaneity (in fact, my experiences with baking have led me to believe that creativity and spontaneity are frowned upon -- just ask my family members about the cookie debacle of 2004).
I forgot how much I need to be in the kitchen. Cooking and entertaining is a huge part of who I am. And for a while, I lost that part of myself. Preparing delicious (and often out of the ordinary) dishes, laughing and joking over a good meal (be it gourmet or down home) -- feeds my soul -- and so, going without it for so many months -- it's no wonder I felt lost -- I was missing a big part of my identity -- I was starving my soul.
And it was, in part, my own fault. I let myself get too busy. I made excuses about time, the size of my house, the expense, the fact that other people were too busy themselves, or had kids, etc. Until, yesterday, late morning, I decided. . . enough was enough. I was going to invite people over and force myself to really get back into the kitchen.
And that's just what I did.
After summer school, I stopped off at a local grocery store and bought all the things I would need to make a semi-gourmet meal. On the menu: Shrimp Burgers, Mushroom Burgers (for my veggie lovin' friends), and Turkey burgers Puerto Vallarta Style. For sides: Vegetarian Couscous Salad and roasted sweet potato fries. I started working at about 3:00 PM. Washed the produce, and got out my fancy chef's knife with the red handle (and boy do I love that knife) and my giant bamboo cutting board. I lined everything up, and I began.
I chopped a lot of things yesterday. Bell peppers, serranos, mushrooms, scallions, garlic, and, of course, onions. Now, usually, I cannot chop an onion without crying. In fact, even my grandmother's tried-and-true method of holding a piece of bread in your mouth while chopping the onion, does not usually keep the tears at bay. I always chop the onion last because I know it will make tears stream down my face . . . and I hate that they always make me cry. . . yet, those pungent onions, well, they must be chopped, no meal would be complete without them.
While I was chopping onions yesterday, fearing the tears would start at any moment, the entire situation snapped into perspective. . . and chopping onions became a metaphor for life. Or at least, for my life.
When it comes time to chop the onions, I have been known to try to find a way to do without them, but onions tend to be necessary ingredients in many-a-dish, so they cannot be excluded. So, then I try to chop them as quickly as possible. However, doing so usually leads to uneven pieces, or places where the onion has not been cut through completely, and sometimes my haste makes waste or just a big ol' mess (and I have, more than once, come close to loosing a part of my thumb). So, now, I have learned to move efficiently but carefully through the process of chopping onions. The point of chopping the onions is not to get through it quickly, but to chop them in such a way that including them in a recipe improves the meal as a whole.
So, chopping the onions, while not usually pleasant, is necessary. And without the onions, the dish would be lacking an important component, one of the best flavors, the element that makes it whole.
So I chopped the onions yesterday. And the meal turned out great. And the dinner party was fun. I fed my friends. And I fed my soul.
Now, my new house is really starting to feel like my home.
I have been going through the motions, eating because I need to or because it makes me feel better (and no need to expound on the dangers of finding comfort in food, I know them). For a long while, my love for cooking utterly disappeared. I would find sparks of it here or there (making a cheesecake for some friends, a lasagna for someone who just had a baby, a pie for a housewarming party, chopped bbq for someone's birthday at work). . . but even then, I was just going through the motions -- following the recipe exactly (If you know me, you know that's something I rarely do). I baked a lot more because, for me, baking does not require creativity or spontaneity (in fact, my experiences with baking have led me to believe that creativity and spontaneity are frowned upon -- just ask my family members about the cookie debacle of 2004).
I forgot how much I need to be in the kitchen. Cooking and entertaining is a huge part of who I am. And for a while, I lost that part of myself. Preparing delicious (and often out of the ordinary) dishes, laughing and joking over a good meal (be it gourmet or down home) -- feeds my soul -- and so, going without it for so many months -- it's no wonder I felt lost -- I was missing a big part of my identity -- I was starving my soul.
And it was, in part, my own fault. I let myself get too busy. I made excuses about time, the size of my house, the expense, the fact that other people were too busy themselves, or had kids, etc. Until, yesterday, late morning, I decided. . . enough was enough. I was going to invite people over and force myself to really get back into the kitchen.
And that's just what I did.
After summer school, I stopped off at a local grocery store and bought all the things I would need to make a semi-gourmet meal. On the menu: Shrimp Burgers, Mushroom Burgers (for my veggie lovin' friends), and Turkey burgers Puerto Vallarta Style. For sides: Vegetarian Couscous Salad and roasted sweet potato fries. I started working at about 3:00 PM. Washed the produce, and got out my fancy chef's knife with the red handle (and boy do I love that knife) and my giant bamboo cutting board. I lined everything up, and I began.
I chopped a lot of things yesterday. Bell peppers, serranos, mushrooms, scallions, garlic, and, of course, onions. Now, usually, I cannot chop an onion without crying. In fact, even my grandmother's tried-and-true method of holding a piece of bread in your mouth while chopping the onion, does not usually keep the tears at bay. I always chop the onion last because I know it will make tears stream down my face . . . and I hate that they always make me cry. . . yet, those pungent onions, well, they must be chopped, no meal would be complete without them.
While I was chopping onions yesterday, fearing the tears would start at any moment, the entire situation snapped into perspective. . . and chopping onions became a metaphor for life. Or at least, for my life.
When it comes time to chop the onions, I have been known to try to find a way to do without them, but onions tend to be necessary ingredients in many-a-dish, so they cannot be excluded. So, then I try to chop them as quickly as possible. However, doing so usually leads to uneven pieces, or places where the onion has not been cut through completely, and sometimes my haste makes waste or just a big ol' mess (and I have, more than once, come close to loosing a part of my thumb). So, now, I have learned to move efficiently but carefully through the process of chopping onions. The point of chopping the onions is not to get through it quickly, but to chop them in such a way that including them in a recipe improves the meal as a whole.
So, chopping the onions, while not usually pleasant, is necessary. And without the onions, the dish would be lacking an important component, one of the best flavors, the element that makes it whole.
So I chopped the onions yesterday. And the meal turned out great. And the dinner party was fun. I fed my friends. And I fed my soul.
28 June 2011
A fine mingling (or a fine mess)
"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on." ~(Henry) Havelock Ellis
Now, I do not have much respect for the man who said it (in spite of his renown as a leading psychologist of his time and with consideration for his enthusiasm for eugenics and disturbing sexual predilections) but I will be the first to admit there's a considerable amount of truth in his words.
Life is, without a doubt, the process of learning what to hold on to and what to let go. I like the idea of calling it a "fine mingling," though, because it implies a pairing of the bitter with the sweet -- and I say pairing rather than blending, because when something mingles it maintains its own properties. Letting go is letting go, holding on is holding on. When they mingle, sometimes you focus on the letting go, sometimes you focus on the holding on . . . a season for everything. But the main point is, you can't blend the two together. You cannot let go of and hold on to something simultaneously. The two are mutually exclusive. With everything, the good, the bad, the wonderful, the painful, the meaningful, the insignificant -- you are either holding on or letting go.
When I think of the mingling of letting go and holding on, I am reminded of my most recent trip to Chicago. I sat, alone, for at least an hour on a bench in Union Station (the site of that famous scene at the end of The Untouchables). Nothing expresses the mingling of holding on or letting go, of the way things come and go, better than a busy train station like this one. People who are coming into the city, people who are leaving the city -- rushing to catch a train, walking slowly to admire the breathtaking architecture -- hanging on tightly to a child's hand, a briefcase, a shopping bag, or letting go of a friend's embrace, some change for the homeless person, or an empty Duncan Donuts' coffee cup. And it's beautiful yet chaotic at times (the rush of people when a train arrives or right before an important one leaves) and at others it's lovely yet empty -- save for the woman sitting on the bench, taking it all in and waxing poetic. This station is truly a fine mingling of letting go and holding on -- a visual juxtaposition of all these disparate life events (some important, some insignificant). These people make the choice to hold on or let go. Sometimes events force them to make the choice, but, ultimately, it is still their choice.
It used to seem like letting go was the harder of the two choices. How do I let go of something I want to badly, or that I've worked so hard for, or invested so much of myself into? Sometimes, in the past year or so, letting go feels more like things are being wrested from my hands until I finally give up and relax my grip. If you know me at all, you know I am tenacious (at least that's what I call it, some might call it stubborn). I work hard; I stay focused; I make things happen by sheer force of will. . . I never cry uncle. . . I never say die. . . I don't give up. . .ever. So you can see how letting go has always been a problem for me.
However, in the last year or so, I have also learned that holding on is not as easy as it sounds. My, eh, tenacity also means that I grasp things tightly. . . hopes, dreams, plans, goals. . .once I get my hands on 'em I hang on for dear life. There's practically no disentangling them from my firm hold. (Thus, I suppose, the wresting I mentioned in the previous paragraph). This is, I must admit, as much (if not more so) a fault as it is a virtue. So, lately, I am working on following those immortal words of wisdom from .38 Special:
Just hold on loosely, but don't let go. . .
Easier said than done, but I'm learning. Maybe it's that God has finally gotten through to me in spite of my, eh, tenacity. Or maybe it's because I'm 30, now, and with age comes wisdom. . . or maybe, deep down, I've known it all along.
When I think of the mingling of letting go and holding on, I am reminded of my most recent trip to Chicago. I sat, alone, for at least an hour on a bench in Union Station (the site of that famous scene at the end of The Untouchables). Nothing expresses the mingling of holding on or letting go, of the way things come and go, better than a busy train station like this one. People who are coming into the city, people who are leaving the city -- rushing to catch a train, walking slowly to admire the breathtaking architecture -- hanging on tightly to a child's hand, a briefcase, a shopping bag, or letting go of a friend's embrace, some change for the homeless person, or an empty Duncan Donuts' coffee cup. And it's beautiful yet chaotic at times (the rush of people when a train arrives or right before an important one leaves) and at others it's lovely yet empty -- save for the woman sitting on the bench, taking it all in and waxing poetic. This station is truly a fine mingling of letting go and holding on -- a visual juxtaposition of all these disparate life events (some important, some insignificant). These people make the choice to hold on or let go. Sometimes events force them to make the choice, but, ultimately, it is still their choice.
It used to seem like letting go was the harder of the two choices. How do I let go of something I want to badly, or that I've worked so hard for, or invested so much of myself into? Sometimes, in the past year or so, letting go feels more like things are being wrested from my hands until I finally give up and relax my grip. If you know me at all, you know I am tenacious (at least that's what I call it, some might call it stubborn). I work hard; I stay focused; I make things happen by sheer force of will. . . I never cry uncle. . . I never say die. . . I don't give up. . .ever. So you can see how letting go has always been a problem for me.
However, in the last year or so, I have also learned that holding on is not as easy as it sounds. My, eh, tenacity also means that I grasp things tightly. . . hopes, dreams, plans, goals. . .once I get my hands on 'em I hang on for dear life. There's practically no disentangling them from my firm hold. (Thus, I suppose, the wresting I mentioned in the previous paragraph). This is, I must admit, as much (if not more so) a fault as it is a virtue. So, lately, I am working on following those immortal words of wisdom from .38 Special:
Just hold on loosely, but don't let go. . .
Easier said than done, but I'm learning. Maybe it's that God has finally gotten through to me in spite of my, eh, tenacity. Or maybe it's because I'm 30, now, and with age comes wisdom. . . or maybe, deep down, I've known it all along.
I'll tell you one thing I do know -- this whole process (deciding what to hold on to and what to let go) is not only a "fine"mingling, but I would also venture to say it is a fine mess. What makes it a mess? I think logistics of knowing when and how to let go or hold on can make it a mess. And I'd love to tell you that I have the answer -- the secret formula -- but the fact is . . .
I'm just muddling through myself.
I'm just muddling through myself.
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