Green chilies, red chilies, tamales, sopapillas, guacamole! It’s New Mexico and the food is hot and tasty. Last week when I was in Espanola (a small town north of Santa Fe, south of Taos) I went to dinner with some friends at one of our favorites, Gabriel’s, out on Hwy 25, where they make the guacamole fresh to your specifications right at the table. The tortillas are freshly made too and the green chili knocks your socks off. Well, it’s not that hot, but it sure does get the tongue dancing.

Thought I’d look around for some “foodie” poems and found these three. Also took some snaps at Gabriel’s. Mmmm, is it time for dinner?

Entrance to Gabriel’s 

Twins that were too cute to resist not taking their picture. 

The busy dining room at dinner time.

Making the guacamole–so much color! 

Close up of the guacamole prep–love how that lime juice looks coming out of the press. 

Where are the mariachis who go under these hats? 

This was dessert–the desert at sunset. You can see some snow on the farthest peak. 

POPCORN

When Plato said
that what we see are shadows
flickering on a cave wall,
he must have meant
the movies.
You let a cigarette lean
from your mouth precisely
as Bogart did.
Because of this, reels later,
we say of our life
that it is B-grade;
that it opened and will close
in a dusty place
where things move always
in slow motion;
that what is real
is the popcorn
jammed between our teeth.

Linda Pastan
Carnival Evening
W.W. Norton & Co., Publishers

ODE TO FRENCH FRIES

What sizzles
in boiling
oil
is the world’s
pleasure:
French
fries
go
into the pan
like the morning swan’s
snowy feathers
and emerge
half golden from the olive’s
crackling amber. 

Garlic
lends them
its earthy aroma,
its spice,
its pollen that braved the reefs.
Then,
dressed
anew
in ivory suits, they fill our plates
with repeated abundance,
and the delicious simplicity of the soil. 

Pablo Neruda
Ode to Common Things
Bulfinch Press, Publisher 

RED ONION, CHERRIES, BOILING POTATOES, MILK– 

Here is a soul, accepting nothing.
Obstinate as a small child
refusing tapioca, peaches, toast. 

the cheeks are streaked, but dry.
the mouth is firmly closed in both directions. 

Ask, if you like,
if it is merely sulking, or holding out for better.
The soup grows cold in the question.
The ice cream pools in its dish.

Not this, is all it knows. Not this.
As certain cut flowers refuse to drink in the vase. 

And the heart, from its great distance, watches, helpless. 

Jane Hirshfield
Given Sugar, Given Salt
HarperCollins, Publishers

I was thinking about peace today and feeling weary. I used to shout about it, used to march about it, wanted to tear down buildings and burn flags about it. I was thinking about Ghandi, about Martin Luther King Jr., about how I’ve been at war with my own thoughts for 55 years now and how it’s time to lay down the sword, the shield, the desire to win and do what Christ and Nanak and Muhammad and John and Oko said to do: to love, to see what that can do. Yeah, it’s corny and naïve and let’s the other guy “win.” But it seems that winning is the object of war, so peace must be some kind of surrender, if only to the struggle. Don’t get me wrong, doesn’t mean I won’t put on my marchin’ boots again one day, won’t put my vote where my heart is and won’t keep praying every day for peace. It’s the conflict, the back-and-forth that I’m tired of having around. So, here’s my tribute to peace in the written word, photos and a bit of John Lennon to inspire. I wish for you true peace within that spreads like morning sunlight across the surface of this planet into every heart that beats.

All poems are from Poems to Live By in Uncertain Times, edited by Joan Murray, Beacon Press, Publishers. 

THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry
 

ON PRAYER

You ask me how to pray to someone who is not.
All I know is that prayer constructs a velvet bridge
And walking it we are aloft, as on a springboard,
Above landscapes the color of ripe gold
Transformed by a magic stopping of the sun.
That bridge leads to the shore of Reversal
Where everything is just the opposite and the word is
Unveils a meaning we hardly envisioned.
Notice: I say we; there, every one, separately,
Feels compassion for others entangled in the flesh
and knows that if there is no other shore
They will walk that aerial bridge all the same.

Czeslaw Milosz
Tr. by Robert Hass 

I know the truth –
give up all other truths!

I know the truth—give up all other truths!
No need for people anywhere on earth to struggle.
Look—it is evening, look, it is nearly night:
what do you speak of, poets, lovers, generals?

The wind is level now, the earth is wet with dew,
the storm of stars in the sky will turn to quiet.
And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we
who never let each other sleep above it.

Marina Tsvetayeva
Tr. by Elaine Feinstein

Give Peace a Chance by John Lennon from The Best of John Lennon

These two poems by Jane Kenyon were recently featured in issues of Writer’s Almanac and I couldn’t help but reprint them here. Kenyon writes with such beauty and lucid tenderness about what it is to live fully in this world and to step over into the world beyond. Her poems ring as that kind of truth that moves beyond all boundaries of cultures, faiths and generations.

For more information on Jane Kenyon and her poetry you can CLICK HERE.

BRIEFLY IT ENTERS, AND BRIEFLY SPEAKS

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years… .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper… .

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me… .

I am food on the prisoner’s plate… .

I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills… .

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden… .

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge… .

I am the heart contracted by joy… .
the longest hair, white
before the rest… .
I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow… .

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit… .

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name…

Jane Kenyon
Collected Poems
Graywolf Press, Publishers
 

NOTES FROM THE OTHER SIDE

I divested myself of despair
and fear when I came here.

Now there is no more catching
one’s own eye in the mirror,

there are no bad books, no plastic,
no insurance premiums, and of course
no illness. Contrition
does not exist, nor gnashing

of teeth. No one howls as the first
clod of earth hits the casket.

The poor we no longer have with us.
Our calm hearts strike only the hour,

and God, as promised, proves
to be mercy clothed in light.

Jane Kenyon
Constance
Gray Wolf Press, Publishers 

Here’s my two cents from the PE e-letter this week along with some added photos of a beautiful skyline in Central Oregon. It was one of those spring days up here when the weather went from sunny to snow to rain to hail and back to rain all in the space of an hour.

Whenever I arrive anywhere after traveling I am lost, not quite sure what to do. I have no rhythm established. Do I eat? Watch TV? Do laundry? Run outside and talk to the trees or people on the street? Unpacking helps to some extent—putting familiar things in unfamiliar surroundings—clothes arranged neatly in dresser drawers, shoes set by the door, coats and sweaters hung in the closet, computer plugged in, internet on, email checked, vitamins set out on a desk or countertop, toiletries lined up on the bathroom counter, my own down pillow thrown onto the bed with a wool shawl and my traveling stuffed bunny pal. These things all help “me” be in the room where my eyes and fingers can be in contact with them. I like to burn incense or spray a special “clearing” potion called Serenity Spray that has sage and lavender and other herbal essences in it, all of which uplift the energy and removes any bad vibes. I also bring a traveling altar with me, consisting of a couple of silk cloths, a seashell, a candle, a framed picture of my teacher or a guru and my book of prayers. When this is set up on a dresser top or nightstand then I truly feel at home wherever I am.

It does usually take a good 24-36 hours for me to “land” and I most often find myself regretting making the trip, immediately wanting to turn around and go home, even if I’m at my home in Sisters. Even though I’ve grown to know that this is what I’m going to go through each time, it still surprises me, catches me off guard and I’m spun out of my comfort zone into a sort of “outer limits” zone. It’s now been 48 hours since I arrived in Sisters and today I feel terrific. I’m perfectly content to be here, looking out the window, taking long walks, talking to friends on the phone back in L.A. I’ll go back on Saturday, as planned, but I wouldn’t go back earlier even if you paid me. I guess it’s a process of assimilation and like a dog who turns around three or four times before he plops down to sleep at night, we are creatures who must feel secure in our environments, allowing our senses to relax, our guard to be let down. We need to make a connection with the place and the creatures in that place.

I am one of the very blessed and fortunate ones in this world to have so many loving and supportive places to lay my head. Sometimes it just takes a bit of time to settle down and settle in to find myself never wanting to leave, until the moment that too turns and I am ready to go home or go forth, whichever way the compass is pointing, whatever the destination on my ticket reads.

I can hear the wind blustering, see the leaves on the camellia bush outside my window waving furiously and when I went for a walk with the dogs there were tree branches and palm fronds scattered across lawns, sidewalk and into the street. Nothing like a windy day to evoke the wildness – in nature and in people. What is it about the wind that gets us going? Here in L.A. we have Santa Ana winds that blow off the desert, warm and dry they are known to make men (and women) mad. Only temporarily, of course, but I am sure crime rates go up, as well as traffic accidents and luniness, in general. Of course there is no hard evidence of the latter, but those who live in it know what goes on, how we all get antsy, itchy, and no manner of scratching can relieve the need to move or just do something inanely destructive. Who says we aren’t affected by the forces of nature?

Navigating around town on this bright, smogless day was invigorating. I hit some of the spiritual spaces/places that I have come to cherish over the years. It’s one of things I love about L.A. – these places where people are making an effort to provide food for the soul, where you can go to read books on great spiritual traditions, listen to uplifting music and inhale sandalwood incense. This is the Bodhi Tree, a metaphysical bookstore on Melrose Avenue in Hollywood, where the floorboards squeak and the stacks are a warren of respite from the Borders and Barnes & Noble of the world. It has a devoted clientele and in spite of the lack of parking and encroachment of high-end shops and office buildings, persists in its determination to provide spiritual sustenance to the community.

Before getting to the Bodhi Tree I stopped at our “family” yoga center, Yoga West, on Robertson Blvd to pick up some meditation music. The vibe there is so welcoming and gentle. For many, many years our teacher, Yogi Bhajan would teach classes there, always drawing a full house, booming out his messages of “Keep up and you’ll be kept up,” and “It’s not the life that matters, but the courage you bring to it.” A lot of yoga has been done in that space, a lot of meditation. Tears of joy and pain have been shed on those floors as students stretch not only their legs and arms and spine, but their understanding of what it is to be human, to be a spiritual being. It is another one of those places where it’s not about the money made but the difference made every day with every inhale and exhale.

After Yoga West and a quick stop at the bank (even I have to take care of business sometimes) I headed over to Elixir, a tea and tonic shop just a block west of Bodhi Tree to meet with my good friend, Heidi. We met a few years ago at a David Whyte seminar at Santa Monica University, where we sat in the same row and ended up doing some “exercises” together. She’s a great astrologer, writer, stage director, mom and all round caring and loving person. She ordered a “Virtual Buddha” and I got the “Depth Recharger” purported to replenish “jing,” revitalize liver & kidneys and clear “heat.” Sounded good to me, so I ordered mine hot and we took our beautifully sculpted mugs of tea out to the garden in the back to catch up on what has been going on in our lives. The water fountain gurgled, the sun sifted through the bamboo and the sounds of a woman’s voice singing (either next door or maybe from the CD playing) floated over us like an angel of the highest order. It was just good – good to be somewhere so nurturing, with a friend sharing warm tea and sweet muffins, an environment where giving and receiving kindness flowed so naturally.

In the Bodhi Tree I picked up a couple of books of poetry, The Forbidden Rumi and The Penguin Book of the Sonnet. Below is a poem from each book. I hope you’ll also enjoy a track from a CD I bought at Yoga West from Healing in Africa by Siri Dharma Kaur and The Alexandra Community Choir.

May the winds of change ever inspire you to be more and more yourself and may you get a little crazy every once in awhile, feel the wind-spirit blow you to new territory, new frontiers of consciousness. Up, up and away!!

The Eggshell of the Body

If you want to feel rapture,
then give up thinking, and quit worrying.

You’re like a bizarre bird
in the shell of the body’s egg.
You can’t fly because you’re inside the egg.

But when this egg is crushed,
you’ll fly free and save your soul.

Rumi
The Forbidden Rumi
Tr by Nevit O. Ergin and Will Johnson
Inner Traditions, Publisher

The Forge

All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil’s short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end square,
Set there immoveable: an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and music.
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.

Seamus Heaney
The Penguin Book of the Sonnet
Edited by Phillis Levin
Penguin Books, Publisher

Heidi Rose

A rainbow of Buddhas inside Elixir 

Teapots

The fountain and back garden at Elixir

Bodhi Tree front window with stained glass mandala. 

Inside the Bodhi Tree 

Bodhi Tree Checkout 

Teachers Bench at Yoga West 

Meditation for Communication from the CD Healing in Africa by Siri Dharma and the Alexandra Community Choir of Johannesburg, South Africa.

The liquid that descends from the clouds as rain, forms streams, lakes, and seas, and is a major constituent of all living matter and that when pure is an odorless, tasteless, very slightly compressible liquid oxide of hydrogen H2O which appears bluish in thick layers, freezes at 0° C and boils at 100° C, has a maximum density at 4° C and a high specific heat, is feebly ionized to hydrogen and hydroxyl ions, and is a poor conductor of electricity and a good solvent (Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary).

On Sunday I spent a lot of time immersed. We have a beautiful oval-shaped pool in the back yard of the house we’ve been leasing for a couple of years, as well as a two-person hot tub. One of the best therapies for body, mind and spirit is to alternate between the frigid cold of the pool (we rarely heat it due to the cost and we’re not much into swimming) and the 103 degrees of the hot tub. By the end of 30-45 minutes of that you can melt right down onto the bed and sleep peacefully through the night. I felt like I needed an extra dose of hydrotherapy to ease some of the physical effects of travel and the still very present emotional effects of the passing of my father, so I took advantage of it being a quiet Sunday morning and dipped in and out of the warm and cold water, then wrapped myself in a cotton quilt a friend had brought me from India, sunk down onto the bed in our darkened guestroom and for the next two hours watched the film WATER, written and directed by Deepa Mehta.

 The film held me mesmerized. Set in India in 1938, but filmed in Sri Lanka after a public protest drove it from India, it is the story of an eight year-old girl who is widowed and then must live in seclusion and poverty with other widows, as society sees them as only “half-living” now that their husbands have died. There is great sorrow and great spirit in this film and such incredible beauty in the filming of it. The “ashram” where the women live is in a city on the banks of the Ganges, the Ganga—the Mother River, where Hindus bring the ashes of their dead and the devout make pilgrimage to bathe and cleanse their souls. I was absorbed into this film as a stream is merged with the river. It was a world so far away from my present-day reality and yet, the practices portrayed in the movie exist even today. I saw these women, as all women are — as water; fluid, ever-changing form, mercurial, emotional, powerful when provoked and as generous as the clouds that pour forth their bounty upon the earth. As everything is a teacher, so water is an endless source of wisdom, its lessons of compassion and of destruction always there to open us to the perfect rhythms of this world, as well as the vastness of its mysteries. Take a hot bath. Swim in the ocean. Drink long and slow from a pure mountain stream. Rent the movie WATER. Invite your loved one under the quilt with you. Let the tears roll. It’s so, so good for the soul.

Below are a few "water" poems written by women.

It was like a stream
   running into the dry bed
   of a lake,

               like rain
   pouring on plants
   parched to sticks.

It was like this world’s pleasure
   and the way to the other,
                                          both
   walking toward me.

Seeing the feet of the master,
O lord white as jasmine,
   I was made
   worthwhile.

Mahadeviyakka
tr. by A.K. Ramanujan
Women in Praise of the Sacred
HarperCollins, Publishers

FOREST LAKE

I was alone on a sunny shore
by the forest’s pale blue lake,
in the sky floated a single cloud
and on the water a single isle.
The ripe sweetness of summer dripped
in beads from every tree
and straight into my opened heart
a tiny drop ran down.

Edith Sodergran
tr. by Stina Katchadourian
Women in Praise of the Sacred
HarperCollins, Publishers

 
TO DRINK

I want to gather your darkness
in my hands, to cup it like water
and drink.
I want this in the same way
as I want to touch your cheek –
it is the same –
the way a moth will come
to the bedroom window in late September,
beating and beating its wings against cold glass;
the way a horse will lower
his long head to water, and drink,
and pause to lift his head and look,
and drink again,
taking everything in with the water,
everything.

Jane Hirshfield
Of Gravity & Angels
Wesleyan University Press

 
WATER PICTURE

In the pond in the park
all things are doubled:
Long buildings hang and
wriggle gently. Chimneys
are bent legs bouncing
on clouds below. A flag
wags like a fishhook
down there in the sky.

The arched stone bridge
is an eye, with underlid
in the water. In its lens
dip crinkled heads with hats
that don’t fall off. Dogs go by,
barking on their backs.
A baby, taken to feed the
ducks, dangles upside-down,
a pink balloon for a buoy.

Treetops deploy a haze of
cherry bloom for roots,
where birds coast belly-up
in the glass bowl of a hill;
from its bottom a bunch
of peanut-munching children
is suspended by their
sneakers, waveringly.

A swan, with twin necks
forming the figure 3,
steers between two dimpled
towers doubled. Fondly
hissing, she kisses herself,
and all the scene is troubled:
water-windows splinter,
tree-limbs tangle, the bridge
folds like a fan.

May Swenson,
Nature: Poems Old and New
Houghton Mifflin, Publisher