70

We were born before the wind

Also, younger than the sun

'Ere the bonnie boat was won

As we sailed into the mystic

Hindsight has never seemed worth more than when one crosses into a new decade. My mother said, and most people would agree, that we measure our lives by them. 

We've all stories of our decades, be they falling in or out of love, new destinations to call home, beloved pets, music of the times, deaths we grieved. We have least and most favorite years based on such things, and blessed be the person who has many wonderous years within each decade. 

As much as I have had those wonderous years, and consider my life abundantly blessed, I found myself as this birthday crept up on me, experiencing what feels like yet again, the stages of grief. Kubler-Ross presents five, of which I've been wrangling three: denial, anger, and depression. 

First, a bit in denial that I could in what seems a couple blinks, be this age. Can-not-be-possible! I look well enough, and I feel great. Few complaints and no aches or pains. I stay busy out-and-about and rarely lounge. Everyone my age talks about aging. A lot. Enough! I mostly manage to ignore it, ditching the senior flyers that arrive daily to my mailbox, and instead hang out at trendy bars meeting the most interesting people. Of all ages. Stranglehold is still my go-to, crank-it-up song for God's sake! 

Anger I would say, presents as mild frustration, which emerges oddly at the happiest of times. I am two decades older than W, who arrived in my life unexpectedly in this passing decade. Six years together this summer and our entwinement remains tighter than ever. Hours to days to weeks within years have been free and magically easy; laughter and love both endless. Our difference in age doesn't affect us but will likely though, cut short our remaining years together. Whether by innocence or bad choices, some of both our prior decades seem wasted. Ridiculous as I sound, yeah, I'm pissed about that. 

Hark now, hear the sailors cry

Smell the sea and feel the sky

Let your soul and spirit fly

Into the mystic

Thirdly, it's probably not accurate to say that I am depressed but rather, that our situation weighs on me emotionally at times, and none more so than now. Chances are, W will suffer the grief that I did with Spoke's passing, and I worry for her. I hurt for her just thinking about it. It is an unbearable pain that one thinks will never end. Comfort finds me in that she's young enough to find new love, as I have with her. 

There is no bargaining stage for me. It makes no sense; I've nothing to barter but time yet to come. How ever many more years ahead for me and for us, will be what they are to be. I pray they are decades worth. 

Yeah, when that fog horn blows

I will be coming home

Yea, when that fog horn blows

I wanna hear it

I don't have to fear it

Thanks for reading. Putting head and heart on paper has always helped me, and this blog has for over a decade been a dear friend. So, aah... acceptance this 26th day of June. 

Turning 70 is humbling. I'm grateful and greedy, both at the same time. I'm finally ready. Let's do this, Baby. 

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul

Just like way back in the days of old

Then magnificently we will float

Into the mystic

Come on, girl

Too late to stop now

Into the Mystic
Van Morrison

my, what big ____ you have

 

(Valley House Gallery, Dallas, Texas)

short and stout

          I'm a very special teapot

           Yes, it's true
           Here's an example of what I can do 

Laura Calder crossed my radar, again speaking of the very things I myself tout. She does it often and it makes me somewhat jealous. The latest was in this month's letter to followers, promoting the book, The Beauty of Everyday Things, by Soetsu Yanagi.

Jesting aside, that my everyday world is filled with beautiful objects is truly important to me and I do talk about it a lot. Art imitates life, life imitates art.

The appeal of objects I reach for regularly, may be defined because they are beautiful by their nature or structure, their personal history tells a story, or because people with beautiful hearts gifted them to me. Being surrounded by lovely things is my constant reminder of the many aspects of my very beautiful life.

It did not get by me that Calder also mentions how this book caught her eye in a bookstore, much like I recently talked about with the Maiko book; her version being attributed to serendipity, mine credited to The Universe. The theory by any name, will place what you need right smack in front of you. Often!

My final chuckle came from the photo on the cover of the Yanagi's book. It is a teapot. A Japanese teapot I assume, and very pretty in a timeless way. So is mine.

My little pot never boils water but instead houses a few cards of recipe ingredients quantities that I reach for the most. It also holds scraps of paper; notes of words which I adore and wish to never lose. Words, to me, are as beautiful and to be as treasured as the objects which may contain them. I look forward to reading this book and perhaps collecting more.

We are so very similar, Laura Calder and I, though she speaks on a large platform and to many people while I occasionally reach into the teapot to read lines to special friends over glasses of shared wine. Art imitates life, life imitates art. 

I'm a Little Teapot
George Harold Sanders/Clarence Z. Kelley, 1939

pequeno toro de cocina

 

suh-weet

 

friends and fusilli

She steps in, inhales deeply, then does it again. And then again.

W and I order wines for us and our guests as we stand in this store's entrance, surrounded by boxes of tomatoes, onions, cantaloupes, and more. Bags of fresh basil lay open for shoppers to tear off the quantity they need.

We are at Jimmy's Food Store, an Italian market and a Dallas icon. Three generations I think, in an old East Dallas neighborhood which is these days one of the city's most eclectic; little homes in disrepair but with front yard rose bushes in full bloom sit among new and sterile half-million dollar condos.

Our friends begin to mosey down the first aisle which is stocked with anchovies and capers to soup mixes and dried beans, the row ending with many sweet treats. They chose a box of amaretti cookies to begin filling their extra suitcase, having planned ahead with the safe bet that there would be goodies galore from this trip to Dallas.

Joe and Helen live in a small town in Oregon, biscotti and such no where to be found. I left them for a while, collecting my usual choices: Italian cheeses, dried pastas, canned tomatoes, wine, and when I returned to them it was much like that afternoon with Annie. W and I were giving Annie a similar introductory tour of Eataly, an Italian emporium in Dallas' glitziest mall. Breezy left us in the produce section to go sketch as she likes to do, and when she returned some twenty minutes later, Annie and I had moved only a few feet. That was the case with Joe and Helen. Made my heart so happy!

We went on to peruse every shelf and every item, circling back to some a few times. Wise purchases were made by them of non-perishables: wine to be consumed here, and pastas, truffle condiments, jams, to be gifted and consumed back home.

If you get Jimmy's, you get it. It is Ground Zero for those of us who do. So, it was no surprise that standing in the old grocery somewhere between the espresso cans and the jars of Mostarda, we made plans to build a large antipasti board for our last night together. 

Loading up the car, Helen talked about the smell of the market and how she wished she could take it with her. I grabbed her hand and dragged her back into the store where she, for one more time, sucked in deeply to savor the combination of scents: fruits, garlic, grilled meat sandwiches, cheese, coffee, and likely the aroma from a few long ago broken bottles of wine.
 
I didn't care how silly we looked. It was a moment in time that I will cherish forever. 

it speaks, i listen

I believe that The Universe, however it is comprised - God, angels, spirit guides, people who have passed - surrounds us and hears us and directs us. My imagination sees our grand union as like a circuit board; all of us as wires of energy which cross, crisscross, circle, entangle each other. 

Was W, then a stranger to me, throwing energy my way when she biked past my street all those many times all those many years ago? 

I am convinced The Universe likes to toy with me. Sometimes it laughs at me, more often these days, it laughs with me. An example - I recently enjoyed a television series, The Makanai: Cooking for the Maiko House, a glimpse at two young girls pursuing ambitions to become geishas. In these several years of training they are called maiko, which means half-jewel. Sounds lovely and enticing but their days are rigid and strict. One of the two girls, early on, realizes it is not her calling, but cooking is, and she takes on the role of the house cook. I was immediately bonded to her. I loved each show and learned a lot. I raved about it on social media and was sad when the nine episodes ended.

Walking into a large bookstore soon after, I headed straight for the cooking section, as I always do, and facing me on a generic side bookcase display that I couldn't miss - no one could - was a most beautiful book cover featuring a maiko. My feet came to a stop. I chuckled. "Hello Universe!"

Another example - Not long before, I had told W it occurred to me that I had not seen a Dalmatian in a very long time. There seems everywhere to be Labradors, Pitties, an abundance of Mutts, and being in Dallas, Chihuahuas, but rarely do we see the spotted firehouse mascots. My plan was to purposely test The Universe with this observation. I put it out there. I said it aloud.

Well, it laughed with me, as Dalmatians in different forms crossed my path for days after.

The most recent event though, solidly sealed my theory. If my faith wasn't so strong, I might have been spooked. Oh, that circuit board! Check this out.

My sister, Robin, moved to a mountain top several states away and just as Covid was hitting hard. I haven't seen her in almost three years, so imagine the excitement surrounding her upcoming visit to Dallas.  A bonus to her trip is meeting her new dear friend Doris, who has decided to come with her. Doris is a master gardener, and we are anxious to show her the beautiful Dallas Arboretum as well as a terrifically long list of other things. She has become a friend via social media and W and I are so happy to get to meet her.

Meantime, W posted an article, one of those enticing ads for all the beautiful, expensive places you'll likely never get to visit. There were over a dozen of them, spread across the U.S. east to west and north to south. One that really caught my attention was Blackberry Farm, a five-star 'hotel' in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains, a region of the country where I grew up and not all that far from where my sister now lives. It boasts acres of tranquil escape with views to die for.

Well, hear the belly laugh from The Universe? Would you believe..... Doris' son is the executive chef at Blackberry Farm! Not a joke but again, laughing just the same. Really, what are the odds?

But wait, The Universe isn't through.

It was only a couple days later, that W and I returned to the bookstore mentioned earlier. I checked out the blank journals while she hit the arts section. She took her time, knowing I would soon head to the cooking racks and would be there a while. I did.

I had no particular shelf in mind, simply approached a corner relatively new to me. The very first book I pulled out was The Blackberry Farm Cookbook. The Universe howled!

I sat at a small wood table nearby and opened the pages to see if it indeed, might be the very farm. It was. I immediately sent a group text to my sister and Doris. The conversation added to my theory, for I heard that the day before, Robin and Doris were together and Doris, for whatever reason, asked my sister if she thought I might like a copy of the Blackberry Farm book. She has an extra. 

I stayed at the table and spent some time soaking up the beautiful pages, the photo within of Doris' son, the recipes I might first cook when I receive a gifted copy. What a special book it will be! You know..... knowing The Universe orchestrated this entire thing.