the wine it tasted good

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“The wine tasted good,” Jim said.  ”Really good.”  He studied the glass in front of him, a luxuriant gem, a deep, slow red.  ”We are almost there.  Just a little bit more work with the soil and the plant mix.”

“Yeah,” Iris said with a small frown on her face.  They were both sitting on old, creaky chairs on their wooden porch.  The cool dusk air fought nicely with the warmth imparted by the wine.

“Hey, Iris?  Hey, we’re almost there.”

Iris took another sip of the wine and a small trickle ran down from the corner of her mouth to her chin.  Then she wiped it off with the corner of her sleeve.

“I don’t know if it’ll ever be the same.”  Iris turned to Jim, who was sitting next to her.  ”Do you remember Grandmother’s vineyards?  Or how Grandfather used to walk up and down the rows?”

A nod from Jim.  The air was quiet for a moment as they both moved slightly in their seats, accompanied by creaking.

“The first taste of the season,” Iris continued with a laugh, “was always so awful and good.  It was almost like tasting the future.  You could read how good the wine would be, right there in your mouth.”

Nodding, Iris leaned back and took in the view from their porch.  Their vineyards stretched over slowly rolling hills as far as the eye could see.  No other buildings marred the landscape.  The sun was just barely down, behind the mountains to the west, and the two moons were barely visible.  Occasionally you could see a glint of metal between softly moving rows of grapes.

Jim cleared his throat.  ”What do you say we turn in?  We’ve had a long day.”

After a few minutes of silence, Iris answered, “Grapes’ll be there tomorrow, and we can try again.  We can try…” then she trailed off.

“Honey, we can try anything you want.  Earthworms.  A better nitrogen mix.  Or even those Resurrect microorganisms.”

Iris sighed and took a gulp of her wine.  ”Yeah.  Let’s go to bed.”

They got up with more creaks, both bones and chairs this time, and went inside.

Grandma’s Popcorn

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She had a particular way of cooking popcorn.  She put both oil and a huge pat of butter in a deep pan and then put the kernels in.  Deep-fried popcorn, served up with a side of farmland.

Eyes wrinkled from years of laughter and scoldings, she puttered around the kitchen, swimming through the hot aroma of popping popcorn.  Steam whistled from the pan; It was a special pan for popcorn, with a small flap that rotated open.  She gave one to my mother as a gift way back then, when housewives wore yellow.

Hair curly and white, she poured the popcorn in a huge bowl.  Then in the greasy pan she melted more butter.  The stove didn’t even have to be on, it was hot enough from the residual heat.  Then the frothy, almost burnt butter is trickled over the popcorn.  Finally there is salt, plenty of it, sprinkled.  On top.

It isn’t a proper bowl of popcorn if your hand doesn’t shine after grabbing some.  Passing by the old microwave (with a rotating dial for the timer) she would thump the bowl on the table.  Time to dig in.  With a laugh and a scolding finger, she would walk back into the kitchen.  Where she still is, was, and always will be.

Doing nothing

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The Master doesn’t try to be powerful;
thus he is truly powerful.
The ordinary man keeps reaching for power;
thus he never has enough.

The Master does nothing,
yet he leaves nothing undone.
The ordinary man is always doing things,
yet many more are left to be done.

The kind man does something,
yet something remains undone.
The just man does something,
and leaves many things to be done.
The moral man does something,
and when no one responds
he rolls up his sleeves and uses force.

When the Tao is lost, there is goodness.
When goodness is lost, there is morality.
When morality is lost, there is ritual.
Ritual is the husk of true faith,
the beginning of chaos.

Therefore the Master concerns himself
with the depths and not the surface,
with the fruit and not the flower.
He has no will of his own.
He dwells in reality,
and lets all illusions go.

Tao Te Ching

Smokehouse

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“Bowl of chili.  Plain.” I said, leaning on the counter.  ”Fries.  Medium Diet Coke.”

The man behind the window wrote as I spoke, on a small sheet of yellow legal paper.  Then he drew a few lines, boxing my order in neatly.

“Your number is 36,” he said.  His young face was rough but kind.  Solicitous, even.

I sat down at the bench across from the window, to better be alerted when my order was ready.  The restaurant–if it could be called that–was mostly outdoors.  Only the cooking and ordering area was fully enclosed.  There was a partially enclosed area with rows of tables, and permanent tables outside.

A huge sign read “SMOKEHOUSE” and under it, in bright white on red, was the menu.  FRIES were 2.95 and CHEESEBURGERs were 4.95.  Stomach rumbling from the delicious smell, I waited.

Occasionally a flare-up from the grill revealed itself in a bright flash of light.  You could usually see the back of the cook, whoever was cooking at that moment, becoming briefly visible through the opening of the window.  A tiny trickle of smoke worked its way out of the window.

Lost in thought, or on my iPhone, I didn’t see the cashier gesture at me the first time–but I saw him the second time.  Stepping up, I received my order neatly packed in a beheaded box.  Fries, check.  Chili, check.  Drink, check.

“Do you want crackers,” the man said, with one hand under the counter, as if he was slowly fingering a cache of illicit merchandise.

“No thanks,” I said with a faint smile.

I threw a $10 on the counter and said to keep the change.  Picking up the box, I walked out of Smokehouse and down the street.

The new year

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For the new year, for the rest of my life:  I’m stepping off the “treadmill” as much as I can.  By “treadmill” I mean the relentless push of society, of the ego, of wanting, craving.  Of feeling envious, jealous, guilty, and other kinds of emotions.  Not to say that I have a problem with those per se, but we all feel them.  They limit our potential.

I’d like to share an interesting experience–call it a dream–with you.

The sun was shining, and a gentle light suffused the place, filled it with a glow.  My body almost became transparent, the light was passing through me but yet it was coming from me.  I worked with the light, slowly, almost (but not) controlling the light but yet simply letting it pass through.  It was an intimate thing, the most intimate thing that you can experience; for it is you, the self, the spirit.

It was in that dream, in that moment, that it came to me.  I saw that my presence that day, that time, brought awareness and light to others.  That it wasn’t wrong to be a quiet and still amongst chaos.  That a calm smile is not an antidote to the fevers of life, but is meaningful in its own right. Some call this state being a ‘light worker’.

These feelings, these thoughts are just the beginning for me.  I continue to massage the tension between the ego and staying present in the moment.  The illusions of the ego are seductive, and take a lifetime to master.  They are so seductive that they seem perfectly normal, to the point where they seem necessary and a natural part of life.

The solution is not rejection of the ego or ego-centric thoughts or feelings, though, for that is far too forceful.  It is paradoxically ego-centric to contemplate rejection.  It is only through embracing those things, of loving, that one can surpass the limits placed upon one.  To use an overused phrase, love will set you free.

I know these thoughts are somewhat scattered, but they ring true for me nonetheless.  And I’m actually feeling sad right now.  But while love tends to be associated with happiness, love is quite often sad and melancholy.  And that’s perfectly okay.