Sunday Scribblings: Design

A Sunday Scribble with design.

The seasons of death are far behind us.

And now, an appropriate time to create a design.

With sunlight on our side,

in this season of life, an array of abundant seedlings appear,

full of curiosity and light.

For tea and honey, scones and marshmallows, and those busy little bees, lavender.

As folk wisdom shares, it is quite aromatherapeutic.

Nestled amongst a dandy crime of color.

And, with much necessity, this design for an herb garden under a Camellia sasanqua tree.

A teensy-weensy forest for Lilliputian play.

Work in progress and a burn ceremony for a later solstice.

Grass seeds and little kid seeds.

Oh how small blessings grow!

A healthy medley of mess made along the way.

For a wishful display.

With purplish hues of peppermint,

lightly scented spearmint, and leafy speckles of chocolate mint

a garden is on its way.

Thank you Sunday Scribblings for this reflection on

design.

Sunday Scribblings: Messenger

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is messenger.

Running down the steep mossy hill, thin sandals underneath my feet, I would giggle in glee, knowing that my mother would be so pleased. My bangles chiming, doing their own enchanting dance along my young slender arms, I hurried home down the hill.

Aji, my father's mother, filled this jar especially well. With her wet kisses and a few lemon drop lollies, candy, she sent me on my way. Our weekly jar of ghee, butter, my mother would wait for so anxiously. She rarely went up to Aji's house herself, although we lived at the bottom of the hill and she owned the house we lived in. I would imagine that she would much rather keep her distance from Aji, for her moments alone with my grandmother would probably be spent complaining about my father.

On those mild summer mornings, I was her messenger. Waking up early to the sound of bhajan, Indian chanting, the house slightly stale from a tang of masala and onion, for the evenings dinner was always curried, I would find my mother donned in sari, sweeping the back porch. She would ask me to wash my face and pick out a dress. I had so many, stitched with lace, soft cotton, and sewn together in her moments just for me. I gathered up the yellow one with a ruffled collar and three white buttons along the chest, a mirage of speckled bangles, I rarely lived without, and I would wander through our house waiting for a jar. My mother would give me an empty one, still oily from last weeks ghee, and I would scurry away, trotting up the hill. In all of my four years of life, this was my one chore. Hardly did I consider it much of a chore, rather a privilege being able to collect my grandmother's treasured ghee and delivering it to my mother to simmer and saute the weeks chicken and lamb and chickpea and ahloo dinners.

I'd sit at Aji's table next to her handicapped son, my uncle Jai Ram, he was much younger than my father. Not saying much, he would smile at me plenty, he scared me a little. I waited, drinking fresh milk from a small porcelain cup and eating spoonfuls of honey while Aji filled small containers and my mother's jar with ghee. And down the hill, my mother waited for me, only coming to see Aji when my father avowed.

After two seasons of honey and butter breakfasts and my delivery down the hill, we moved to America. That would be the last that I would know of Aji. I like to imagine that she would continue to wake up early those mornings, boiling, watching it foam and sputter, caramelizing and carefully separating. Spreading her glass containers, smelling of nutty butter, cleaning up after Jai Ram.

Once in while, my father would surprise me with a bagful of lemon drops. I couldn't quite taste these without craving honey and the smell of sauteed butter.

Sunday Scribblings: Free

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is free/freedom.


When Harvey and I were thirteen we rode our bikes out to that lake. He spent that summer with his grandfather, his house three blocks away from mine. I would see Harvey everyday. Our days on the lake, he would pack a picnic for us. A peanut butter and banana sandwich for each of us, spicy sticks of reddish gum, a Pepsi to share, and two Marlboro reds each, which his grandfather never seemed to notice missing. We would sit in the sandy dirt, our sneakers kicked off, our hair sticky and damp from a late August California sun, for several hours, sometimes silently. I would always bring a book and sketch paper so that I could draw him. He invited me every time but never seemed to need the company.

Harvey would wonder off on his own sometimes. Once, I hiked around the lake looking for him for nearly one hour. I found him, nestled uncomfortably between a brush of blackberry branches, his palms hiding his face. When he noticed me, I realized that he had been crying, his face flush from warm tears. He buried his head against his chest and started weeping again. I ran away, not knowing what to say. I rode my bike home alone that day.

Those summer days were the warmest that I had ever known. We would walk together barefoot following the shoreline. I would skip along without him, a cloth bag draped around my shoulder, searching the sand for treasures. Stones and shells and occasionally, feathers. One distant afternoon, Harvey had wondered away again. I sat against a leaning rock, collecting small stones, one after another, skipping into the water. Stoked by silence, knowing that Harvey could wonder for hours, I fished my fingers through my treasure bag looking for the smokes that Harvey had tucked away for me. I pulled out a little sandwich bag, as always, it held a couple of cigarettes. A neatly folded piece of construction paper sat amongst them, today. I held the cigarette to my lips, lighting it with one hand and carefully opening the paper with my other. I recognized Harvey's letters, sleek s's, sharp m's, barely a curve in his c's. I could feel his rigid air as I read. Alli, You are so close to me. My mother sent me here. She doesn't want me to come back home. I don't want to go away, but... A rush of thick musty air filtered through my nostrils and nicotine tickled my temples. she phoned last night, not asking to speak to me. I heard grandpa say that he wouldn't let me stay. That old bastard wants to send me away too. Alli, you are so close to me and I want to stay but I can't no more. I felt my breath stuck in my chest. At the peek of sunlight, the sand glistened at the edge of the lake. My palms suddenly wet, moistening the edges of the message. I guess they will all have the freedom they need without me. Goodbye Alli. There were two hearts sketched at the bottom of his note, colored in with red crayon.

I sat, starring into the water, my cigarette falling from my lips, scorching a cluster of sand. My eyelids filled with weight, the sound of hallow space filled my eardrums. I found my feet underneath me, following the edge of the water, I ran. Letting his note fall into the lake I shouted out his name. I ran in that endless moment, until the sun set and the water drifted from cool to cold.

At the edge of the lake I rescued my bike while Harvey's rested in the sand. I peddled home slowly, my head dizzied and flooded in tears. Leaving my heart laying in the lake, I never returned to find it.

Harvey was missing and no one found him and no one looked for him.

The summer passed and the sky turned gray again. An early rain dampened our evenings and my memories of late summer had started to fade.

Early one morning, sitting on our front porch, I watched Harvey's grandfather walk up our driveway. With a grim and hopeless glare, he approached me. Without shedding a wink of sorrow he handed a box of books and cards and clothes to me. Some of Harvey's things. They found him in the water. He didn't wait for my replay. I took a seat on the steps again, holding onto the box, I knew that Harvey was the one that was now free.

Happy Ireland Day

It's a ritual day. Saint Patrick's. Not such a Happy way.

"Driving the snakes out of Ireland", would he know that they

would not stay away?

It's a Druid deal. Heathen, some would say.

Ancestral traditions, indigenous religions;

pour out offerings, speak Their names, tell Their stories.

Morrigan, Lugh, Eiru, Manannan mac Lir.

Worship restored; let Them know that you have not forgotten.

And do celebrate in this glorious restoration.

Pour a little whiskey in your tea!

Barley, coffee, or cream. Uisce beatha, "water for life".

Irish moonshine, Irish mist, little magic monsters, and an old Leprechaun's kiss.

Celtic's Brew, Ireland's Ale, or a classic Extra Stout, whatever your style may be, celebrate for the struggle of spirits.

A pint and a pinch.

Wear your knotwork today and rejoice in an old Irish way.

Happy Saint Paddy's Day!

Sunday Scribblings: Big

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is big.

The recent 8.9 earthquake off the coast of Japan spawned a massive tsunami, destroying towns, swallowing cities, and leaving hundreds of people to find a way to say goodbye to loved ones.

A shallow sense of reality,

in a life so fragile.


Within our safe havens, upon this planet, we drift though days, we dance in celebration, we tuck our babies to bed. We make New Year's resolutions, we save up for rainy days, we make financial investments. We upgrade our vehicles. We throw away dreams, we wash our hands of messes, we pray for better days, we follow a path, we make our own destinies. How often do we slow down to recognize a bigger plot? Our consumption, our chaos, our necessary chores.
As we continue our endless cycle, Earth itself cycles through her days leaving us, at times, empty and idle. Leaving us to accept our fates, asking us to allow her her own determined course.

Lazy Reading Day

Happy Birthday, Eldest One!

Nine years ago, you are the one that made me a mama.

My oldest boy, you were first for a reason. Patient and clever.

An old old soul, you've shared so much.

Those ancient eyes speak of so many stories. Tales and tall-tales

all the way to the tips of your locks. A bookworm baby.

Art, unforgettable and the poems, all too much. A Gautama was on his way, and we knew this long before you came. Siddhartha, it shall be. And my my my, you have truly lived up to all of that name.

The best big brother to so many little people.

Siddhartha, my dear, I'd love to sail around the sun with you, so long as it burns.

So blessed we are to be able to celebrate another year with you, eldest one!