Sunday Scribblings: Mantra

The Sunday Scribblings prompt for this week is mantra.

गु रंग हा

When I gave birth to my first son, Siddhartha, I was a mess. The hospital made sure that I went home with as much distance from him as possible. When I became pregnant with Sahaj, I cried, laying next to Aaron in our bungalow-style apartment, for months. Within the eighth month, I called Amy. Her name was passed along to me by a clinic run by midwives and they referred to her and Susan as Full-Circle Midwifery. I've never forgotten about what they have shared with me. When I first spoke with Amy she told me that they would find me and help guide baby anywhere, a rented room, outdoors, if it had to be. They would come anywhere to make sure that I wasn't a mess.

I remember when Amy walked in. Her footsteps were small and her smile, lasting and sweet. I watched her set up. Her movements were subtle and I didn't realize that it was time for the new one to come, when Amy had arrived. She looked over at me a few times, there was a touch and a few slow sighs, never an interruption.

I remember my midwife, as near as she could be, the comfort of this type of distance, and I remember her listening. There was a mantra that day: Gu rang ha. And she listened to me breathe in gu ranga, as I took in Brahma and she listened to me exhale ha, as I vaporized Shiva. I didn't hold on to the mala that was given to me; my hands were held by Aaron, his breath was larger than mine and his eyes were so close to me. I saw everything in green that day.

Little Sahaj came and it was something as simple as life could be. And there were many salty tears and a stream of sweet whispers. There was this midwife, Amy, and her delicate glow. The way that she sighed when she closed her eyes with me. There was the happiest man in the world, grassy, he was an emerald forest for me. There was that baby, he was hardly there; so quite and clean, for months, he would be. Only through ra, could he be.

There were mudras and bandhas and plenty of bhakti. There were beads, not as many as one hundred and eight, but just enough to breathe in. There was a mantra and a world that became forever infinite to me.

Tribe

We went to the Whole Earth Festival in Davis recently and, as always, it was sublime. Wicked drum beats, Zeke the clown, bunches of happy old hippies, friends, the girls in flowing skirts and dancing bellies, the ones that we call 'family', colorful children, the smell of smokey dreams, beautiful people, and mid-wives.

Dad and Govinda in the drum circle.

My mid-wife Tosi, mystic and amazing. Listening to the sound of me, ever so delicately. Her presence is necessary, on another occasion.

Tosi, a comfortable me, radiant Rachel, and someone new.

The Universe clearly lied; there were no more to come. Yet, with each lucent breath, laying under a sun-spotted sky, I listened to the familiar sound of another. A mermaid laugh, my nacreous pearl; you are lucid in trance, iridescent in soap with glossy butterfly wings. I can hear the trident god, under the sea, shaking the shell and making lightening spring.

I spent the first couple of months silently wishing you away; I had nothing let to give. My silent good-nights were really goodbyes. You stayed; you did nothing more than grow. Invading my space and sending my senses through another maze. I spent those days sitting in my shell and when I did speak, it was nothing but a yell. Your brothers knew nothing of you then, so they made little sense of what I would say. You've continued to swim, gather, and grow.

It was Mother's Day weekend when I laid on a tiny quilt at a noisy college campus, Tosi and Rachel and Amy and Tricia, where I found it impossible to resist any part of you. Especially your sound, the ocean and your wave. No more moments of strayed faith.

A sweet little thing I captured this year at Whole Earth.

A tiny tribute to Che, whose change was not extreme.

Where faith was not buried and only in tribe life was free.

A small someone will don it soon. 'Viva la revolucion' with us, little one.

It seems to be the same tradition for us. Me: tired eyes, stumbling feet, and bellyful. Aaron: holding on, dreaming of someone new, that mellow man, becoming a new father again and again.

Under the sun, lit by the moon, in the haze of our days, that moment will come; welcome to Tribe, our newest darling one.

Sunday Scribblings: Recipe

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is recipe.

टाइम तो यात!

It was simple and fresh

and green.

And yellow and orange

and red. Ayurvedic, indeed.

Rice, always sticky in this house. Chutney, it's tomato tonight. Vegan, with plenty of protein. Mustard greens and mustard seeds. Garlic, ginger, onion, whole. Haldi, masala, and the necessary garnish, cilantro. A cozy night and a blessed meal. Mama's roots and healthy brews.

Thank you Sunday Scribblings for this delicious prompt!

Bon appetit!

Sunday Scribblings: Dinner

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is dinner.



I didn't think that a bottle of wine could make this any easier. Maybe two.

"A Cabernet Franc form Bordeaux would be great . And we've already decided. We'll start with an order of Mussels Marinara and then an order of your Chicken Sorentino. The same for the lady." Alex barely gave the waiter an opportunity to glance at me. I hated having to eat chicken when we went out.

The waiter collected our menus. Alex looked up at me, his eyes were still dreamy. "Well." He rubbed his palms together as though he couldn't wait to dive in. "Well. This, this is nice." I couldn't help stuttering; I felt feverish from the heat of romantic attempt.

"Two years together, Dev." He made my nickname so masculine. Why couldn't he add the i to the end and call me goddess?

The waiter delivered our bottle. I was almost too flushed to drink.

We sat together and sipped slowly. A small grove of lights decorated the outdoor patio. A Roman fountain splashed out in the center of the courtyard. It reminded me of the Fountain of Moses, of Rome; a place of such dedication and beauty at once and of tragedy and decay at its end.

I starred across the setting. He carried on about our two years together; our 24 months; our 730 days together, it felt so long to me. I was still amazed by the fact that my silence never bothered him; how the stillness agitated my senses, incredibly. How some people slip so easily into the delusion of love while others hunger for sensibility and a way out.

I sipped and then I gulped. I couldn't believe that he wasn't waiting for the dessert opportunity. His words carried him to a desperate gaze. I held it with him. I knew what was coming. He would present a tiny leathered box with a gem at the front, a magical stone would sit underneath a pillow of velvety cloth. My existence would become eternally sealed, a fate of chicken dinners, annual Thanksgiving football, and his family. I had anticipated that this anniversary would end in vow.

I couldn't hold on to a laugh. He asked what was so funny. My head was dizzy enough to tell him the truth. I had already missed this opportunity a few times. I held on to the heat from the Cab and from my excitement.

As I sat across from his smoky fantasy-filled eyes I waited for my moment of freedom. There was nothing to interrupt us but the sensitive voices of dreamy eyed couples and the serene state of Rome surrounding us. I would cry for him tonight.

Earth. Willow and Wings. and all of Her Wonderful Things

Butterflies, the last of the lovely moss, ginger and cinnamon finger nails, smudged palms, the taste of mist lingering in the air.
Swelling buds, wisteria, honeysuckle.
The Sun gods, Tonatuih; Apollo; Freyr, Sol; Lugh; Horus; Surya; sharing their light equally, their whispers so prevalent through darkness.
Pure and clean, everything in green.
Spring and all of Her living things.

When the neighbors invited Aaron to co-op a garden on their property, he eagerly became bio-dynamic. A bed went up first, but the double-dig earth layer sits to the left of this photo, on our friend's property, waiting for corn, tomato, zucchini, watemelon, and bean seeds. In the meantime, on our side of the fence, Aaron decided to set up a mini garden for me! A place for herbs, fairy dwellings, and zinnia seeds.

He came across a huge boulder. He needed a pick axe to remove it. That wasn't his only problem; he didn't realize that a small man was hiding behind him, waiting to start a bar fight.

I was crushed when I thought that we wouldn't be able to compost here. Aaron made it doable.
Can't wait to start filling it!

Lots more for the boys to do!

The boys are spending their Earth Day evening with seedpods and I think these guys will make it into the ground tonight.

They gave me a gift. The bottom layer of a nest that they've been working on. I'll gladly finish it!

Govinda won the fight with dad and dad won the fight with the boulder. Hooray!

A couple of wonderful books for the occasion.

Cedars and dirt, dust and clay. Let's take care of our marble everyday.
May it be the most blessed Earth Day!

Sunday Scribblings: Wonder

This week, Sunday Scribblings, is curious about wonderment:
What do you wonder? Have you experienced wonder? Is it a feeling? An emotion? A place? Tell us about wonder.


Wayward and Hallow

A seed that wanders
a weed that withers
will it ever be real for me.

To reach existence
a swim through light
all to taste the blight of day.

Through serenity and womb
to pick Mother's bloom
I must eat through flesh and doom.

Gulping down the bloodless moon; in search of home
the scent that sails about the sun
how many more times around?

For every moment of woe and wonder
with every wakeful eye
a third shall fail and die.

Sunday Scribblings: Deadline

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is deadline.

Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_zapr0yIfE

Blue Oyster Cult
Deadline

You said you'd be here at a quarter to five
I didn't know if you were dead or alive
How long you think that I can sharpen my knife
I've got better things to do with my life

It's almost the deadline
Don't miss the deadline, darling
When all your bad dreams will come true

Don't miss the deadline
It's almost the deadline, darling
I wouldn't want it to happen to you

Phil screamed at him, and he hung up the phone
I wonder if he ever felt more alone
He never finished his coffee that night
The photo they showed David was a terrible sight

He missed the deadline
He passed the deadline, darling
And I believe that somehow he knew

He crossed the deadline
He passed the deadline, darling
There wasn't a thing anybody could do

Listen my darling, now, don't play with fire
You find a way to balance faith and desire

It's almost the deadline
Don't miss the deadline darling
Consequences are easily misconstrued

Don't miss the deadline
It's almost the deadline, darling
I couldn't live if it happened to you