Writing

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It's been a while since I've written anything new.  Most of this is from a distant past... A Patio in Pleasanton Bare toes on morning-chilled brick note each pebble and blade of grass that sprouts between.  Tender soles, usually confined by cotton and leather, pay them little mind. Discomfort is the price for freedom.  Fingers curl, warming against a hot mug while steam ascends in misty swirls, socializing with cool, damp air.  The spicy scents of hot chai invite sipping, even while this brew is far too hot to swallow. A surprised gasp escapes past a scalded tongue, and patience is relearned.  The wind is awake, though it seems nobody else is. Lonely, it rouses the jasmine with a whispering of secrets and sweet compliments.  Jealous, the kudzu bends closer to hear.     In a Farmhouse in the Middle of the Big Big Sea It was an old farmhouse once. The first granite stones laid well over 200 years ago. Each wall, a new display of stone, plaster, wood, paint, or paper, invited a palm's caress. One cannot absorb such textures without touching them. There are floors of carpet, ceramic, wood, and linoleum, each resonating differently with the footsteps of strangers who have become friends and friends finding themselves strangers for a short while, too. The colors are warm and heart cheering: rich purples, bright yellows, muted browns and oranges. For resting, there are soft cushions and furniture that engulfs one in comfort as it is lounged upon it. There is always the smell of food: something going into the oven or something coming out. The aroma of baked potatoes, quiche, roasted chicken, sausage, eggs, and toast with butter comforts the traveler. What of sounds? Built of solid rock, the sounds within this home are generated from within: the clinking of dishes set by a nesting mother, the quiet chatter of the newly re-acquainted, the mayhem of a game and comments from the spectators, a small child's contented chirp or her mimicking of a bit of conversation, a father teasing good naturedly the daughter who has found mischief as he calls out her name humorously--lovingly redirecting her. And there are books here. Let's not forget the books. There are walls of them: classics, comedies, biographies, science, history, smut, philosophy, fiction, fantasy, sci-fi. There wasn't a book I didn't want to touch...open...begin. This comfortable hominess is rimmed by the technology of videos, video games, DVDs. And there are two computers standing sentinel in the living room. The portals that provide a bigger view than this granite farm house on the small Channel Island. These are not cold machines, but warm ones that lay the foundation for the serendipitous meeting of the lovers nested here and the camaraderie of the visiting guests. Rhythm Delicious In the moist warmth of a steam-filled bathroom, wrapped in the soft thickness of a terrycloth towel, the aroma of body wash and shampoo intermingles with the spiced scent of sausage crafted with cranberries and cognac. Beyond the sizzle, carries the sweetest melody--enchanting, unfamiliar, and tauntingly faint. The matriarch of the family with which I am visiting is seasoning the morning meal with a song. Driven eternally by some hopeful quest for meaning, my body grows still as muscles strain to catch the lyrics. I have been a guest warmly embraced, but I cannot shake my concern that any hasty movement on my part may disrupt the maternal magick of breakfast simmering in a tune of contentment.             A bright bundle of energy in the shape of a child wears, with his bare feet, a path from one end of this house to the other. His heels keeping a time of their own upon the hardwood floor, he improvises merriment with squeals and laughter while currents of air dance and twirl behind him.             Sizzle, sing, pitter-pat, giggle.             Sizzle, sing, pitter-pat, giggle.             Yes, this rhythm moves me.             Then timed for maximum impact, the gentle strum of a guitar weaves it all together. Another family member has been inspired by this dance. It is as if each component had been planned and practiced. Expert orchestration. Except I know this is not so. This music, spontaneously generated from love, respect, passion, and Spirit comes from the heart of a family and echoes in each nook and corner of this home.             I dress and step out amid the reverberating rhythms. I am attuned to how the music shifts and morphs. There is room for words, and morning greetings, and the appreciation of beautifully marbled tomatoes. The patriarch returns from errand, having gathered essential eggs and fruit, and rejoins in both the song and the dance. I sit with the little one, discussing a picture book, but am no less aware of events peripheral to my distraction. Indeed, the pace quickens as preparation for the finale begins. There is much slicing and chopping and scrambling and scraping. Plates are set out, and a young boy's energies are redirected toward setting out silverware. Smiling silently, bathed in the aura of awe, appreciation, and optimism renewed, I watch as breakfast is served and with reverence accept a place at the table. Persephone In her world you make sweet spring rains fall. The flowers blossom only for you. In his world you are the Queen of Shades. Respect and adoration is yours. Did you know when you ate of the pomegranate that everything you wanted would be both lost and gained?