Seeds

 

person holding a green plant

Photo by Akil Mazumder on Pexels.com

– a tribute to John Lewis and teachers who lead

 

The blessing is in the seed.

 

I have known the planting of seeds—

seeds of song, seeds of poems, seeds of the work of words.

 

The blessing is let me show you.

The seed is now you do it.

 

The blessing is you have learned.

The seed is now teach another.

 

I have known the planting of seeds—

seeds of love, seeds of kindness, seeds of the comfort of words.

 

The blessing is let me hold you.

The seed is now hold another.

 

The blessing is I see you.

The seed is to listen.

 

The blessing is in the truth.

The seed is yours to tell.

 

 

7-30-20

*first line from Elegy in Joy by Muriel Rukeyser

The Sweetness of Chanting

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59. Sakala-buvana-srstih

kalpitasesapustir,

Nikhila-nigama-drstih

sampadam vyarthadrstih;

Avaguna-parimarstis

tat-padarthaika-drstir,

Bhava-guna-paramestir

moksa-margaika-drstih.                       (missing the diacritical marks)

(May the divine glance of the Guru ever dwell upon me.  It creates all worlds.  It brings all nourishment.  It has the viewpoint of all holy scriptures.  It regards wealth as useless.  It removes faults.  It remains focused on the Ultimate.  It is the highest ruler of the three gunas,  which constitute the world.  Its only goal is (to lead others on) the path of liberation.)

If you’ve ever read Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, you might remember her ranting on and on about the early morning chant called the Guru Gita.  It’s one of my favorite parts of her book, because I, too, have felt the weight of those 182 verses.  And yet, I’ve been chanting those verses on and off for more than thirty years.

Only last week, on another quiet COVID-19 Sunday morning, we finished our regular meditation and decided we might as well chant the Guru Gita.  

What a fortunate decision!  With nowhere to go, and nobody around to distract me, I sank into the familiar chant as if sinking into a warm, fragrant bath.  The Sanskrit tasted good in my mouth, like ripe, juicy fruit.  It felt like coming home. Why had it taken me four months of social isolation to start chanting? I wondered.

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Later, I recalled something that (I think) was said by  Swami Muktananda. If your mind is too agitated for meditation, chant instead.

Chanting was what brought me into Siddha Yoga.  I still choose to listen to kirtan with Alexa or Spotify.  If the chant sticks in my head (I’m susceptible to ear worms), I don’t mind because the continuous repetition of names of the Divine is preferable to pop lyrics.

In Gilbert’s memoir, she solves her battle with the Guru Gita by dedicating it to her nephew.  The corona virus seems to have reopened a path for me.

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Mushrooms at the Edge of Dread

 

closeup photo of white mushrooms

Photo by Ashish Raj on Pexels.com

(inspired by What Kind of Times Are These —Adrienne Rich)

 

At times like these

new fears emerge in the night,

like mushrooms.

 

At times like these

we wake in the contagious morning

to discover pale, sinister growths.

 

At times like these,

truth is a buried treasure

hidden under sand on an uncharted island.

 

At times like these,

we guess and guess and guess again.

What is safe? What is holy?

 

At times like these

we hide and wait for the cure,

but will all be required to take it?

 

At times like these

touch is precious medicine.

Everyone should have a hand to hold.

 

At times like these,

living at the edge of dread,

only burnt offerings can please the gods.

 

Kim Ellis   7-23-20

Natural Pleasures

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Our walks often take us past this meadow behind the apartment complex.  It is possibly a wetland preserve.  I don’t know.  For whatever reason, it is undisturbed.  Today we paused to listen to the bird chorus.

Further along, we came upon this tree in bloom.  I’ve always called them “feather duster trees,” lacking the proper name.  Some have tan, dirty-looking flowers, but this one was glorious pink.

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The wild grape vines are flourishing this summer.  One vine was waving in the air, seeking to grab hold of something, only there was no purchase nearby.

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We were delighted to find some ripe wild black cap berries.  There’s nothing like the sweet-tart taste of a berry right off the bush.

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The last pleasurable surprise was a baby mantis, rescued from a basin with slick sides.

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Before COVID-19, we would never be out walking on a weekday morning. Thus are the strange yet lovely joys emerging from social isolation.

Note: apologies to readers–some posts are missing photos.  I mistakenly thought I was cleaning up my media library and later realized my good intentions removed the same photos from the posts as well.  I don’t know how to reinstate them.  Sorry.

Escaping Verizon Wireless

person in black jacket holding smartphone

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

For several years now, we’ve been paying an exorbitant phone bill. Verizon enjoyed charging us $185 per month for two phones and unlimited data. When I’d ask the assistants in the Verizon store in town, “Can’t you lower this bill?” their answer was, “Oh, sure! When you’ve paid off your phones, it will go down $20 a month.”

Wow.

A friend said she and her husband used the new Spectrum Mobile carrier and were only paying $28.50. They had no complaints. That sounded good to me, so I called Spectrum. I got a pleasant young woman in South Carolina. “Oh, you don’t need unlimited data based on your usage,” she told me. “You’ll be fine with the $28 plan, and if you use more data, it’s only $14 a gig.”

I signed us up.

A few days later, the new Spectrum SIM cards came in the mail, and my trials began. First, I had to figure out how to get our phones out of their cases and open the iPhones. I mastered those tasks. Then I was supposed to go online to Spectrum and follow the directions to activate the phones. Easy, right? No way.

oneplus smartphone black and white sim

Photo by Silvie Lindemann on Pexels.com

Before we could activate our phones, we had to have them unlocked. In order to unlock the phones, we had to pay them off. That made sense. But no, we couldn’t pay them off on the phone, we had to go to the store.

At the Verizon store, a youngish guy with an ineffective mask took my money and announced we were paid and clear to go. However, I didn’t escape the store without a dire warning from the manager that I would be sorry sorry sorry to leave Verizon, because Spectrum had lousy service. And those fools who had left Verizon had come slinking back.

Back online to Spectrum I went, and discovered that my husband’s phone was unlocked, but mine wasn’t. I was told to contact Verizon.

Have you tried to contact Verizon? It is not easy. I spent about four hours that afternoon, first chatting with two different Verizon chat people. Finally, one said, “Oh, no, we can’t unlock your phone from here. You have to call the tech support guy.”

Well, the tech support guy messed around for a while and finally said that something that sounded like “FIMA” wasn’t unlocking so I should call the super-tech. I spent about another hour with the super-tech (who happens to live in Arkansas and has two grown girls and came from New Zealand—we had a lot of wait time). He eventually had me erase everything and start over. Unlocked?

Nope.

I went online later that night and Spectrum advised me to call my carrier because I needed a “number transfer pin.” I was borderline hysterical by now, so I waited til the next morning.

First thing, I called the number Spectrum messaged me, and got the information that, as of three weeks ago, Verizon was requiring these number transfer pins. If you call Verizon to get one, the recording just tells you to go online. That’s when I discovered that we’d been messing around with my phone so much that I couldn’t access my Verizon account.

I called the Verizon tech support, waited on hold for another long while, and finally got Amy. I burst into tears while explaining my problem. She put me through a long list of steps, downloading the Verizon app, resetting passwords and account owners and on and on. Finally that was straightened out. But could she give me the precious PIN? No. I had to get it online.

At this point, I was terrified. I’d had two new passwords and reset things and I was afraid to push a key and get locked out of my account again (back to square one). But, blessings upon us, I managed to navigate to the right place and click on the right icon, and LO! Verizon messaged me my PIN.

What a nightmare! I do suspect that Verizon makes exiting difficult so that customers will just give up and keep paying. However, we appear to be free for now. Whew.

Fear and Longing

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My granddaughters live three states away. I haven’t seen them since January. The enforced separation is causing tears and heartache—on both sides. For me, though, as the aging adult, the longing is confused and aggravated by fear.

I’m close to seventy years old. What if I die before we can be together again? This strange and virulent disease could be the end of me. Other younger folk are often less anxious. Today we ventured out to a D.IY. store to get some needed house supplies. Although most of the customers had on masks, there was an atmosphere of laxity that I found alarming.

I hurried through the store, flinging air filters and bug spray into our cart. On the checkout line, the man in front of us had no mask. I commented on this and pulled back further. My husband, whose dementia blanks out the crisis daily, made a joke about the fellow being a tough guy.

“It’s not funny!” I shouted. I moved our cart to the self-checkout lane and rushed out of the store.

I don’t know if we’ll attempt another shopping trip. I truly felt unsafe, and also angry that others’ cavalier attitudes force me to take risks.

When I asked my doctor about the advisability of visiting the family, he said, “Sure, you can walk with them outdoors.”

“Oh, no, but they live five hours away,” I said.

“Nope.”

If this social isolation lasts months longer, I may reassess the risks versus the emptiness. For now, though, we’re back in the apartment, too far away.

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Jigsaw Puzzles in the Time of COVID

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Next to our kitchen we have a folding table devoted to a jigsaw puzzle. How many have we completed since March? Maybe five or six. Most have 1000 pieces. Some, like the one below, were difficult and frustrating. Usually the hardest bits are large areas of one color or a gradation of similar colors, like an expanse of ocean or sky.

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My husband likes to join me when I work on a puzzle. His struggles are doubled because of his dementia and his red-green color weakness. Still, he likes the companionship of doing this together.

The most difficult puzzle came as a holiday gift. It involved puzzles within a puzzle. First challenge: there were only two shapes in the edges. Usually we start by searching out all the flat edge pieces that make the frame. To assemble the frame of this “Escape” puzzle, we had to match the colors and design. But—second challenge–the picture of the puzzle IS NOT the picture on the cover! So we were left without a reliable reference.

It took me a while to figure that out. For example, on the cover there is a black and white cat sitting on a pink stool. In the puzzle–no cat.

Once we had all the pieces in place—not necessarily the right place—we realized that there were codes and math problems to solve in order to find the antidote to the poison taken by the chef in the story that accompanies the puzzle. Along with the story came a sealed envelope with the solution. We were able to decipher some of the codes and runes, but (I sadly confess) we gave up and peeked at the answer.

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Some of our friends say vehemently, “I hate jigsaw puzzles.” I, for one, enjoy the challenge, and the satisfaction of tapping a piece into place. A while ago, a puzzle aficionado and friend purchased several boxes of jigsaw puzzles. We’ve been passing them around among our socially distanced group. Each time someone finishes a puzzle, she signs the inside of the box top.

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Sometimes a critical voice in my head asks me why I’m wasting my time on this activity. “It’s relaxing and it’s fun,” I say, so I tell the voice to shut up, and go back to peacefully doing the puzzle.

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Bird Feeder, Briefly

 

bird wildlife no person nature

Photo by daniyal ghanavati on Pexels.com

Three days ago, we hung a bird feeder from our balcony. The first day, we had no customers.  By day two, the birds had discovered this new, no-work source of food.  The sparrows and finches came in hoards.  My husband said, “This is better than TV!”

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That same day, we moved the feeder to the corner of the balcony so the wasted seeds would fall away from the neighbor’s deck below us.  The birds were going through the seeds so fast that I ordered two more bags and a suet cake.

We had some special visitors: a redwing blackbird, and a downy woodpecker came by.  Our downstairs neighbor to the left installed a gigantic tube feeder on day three.  The birds told all their friends.

On day four, I got an email from the manager of our apartment complex.  We are asking everyone to take down their bird feeders.  They cause a mess and draw unwanted pests.

Down came the bird feeder.  In its place we hung our wind chimes. I canceled the order for more seed and suet.  I cleaned the bird poop off the railing.

We’ll miss watching the bird show out our glass door.  Now we’ll have to get our bird watching at the college pond and friends’ houses.  Too bad.

selective focus photo of downy woodpecker on tree trunk

Photo by Dariusz Grosa on Pexels.com

The Wrong Poem

I am not wrong. Wrong is not my name.
– writing prompt from June Jordan 

 

An old boyfriend of mine once asked me, “What would be the defining phrase of your life?”

 

 

My name is not wrong.

My name is not good enough.

The pink eraser is there

on top of the pencil,

but if I use it,

I am not good enough.

 

The algebra twists me

into paroxysms of wails

x is unknown

y is imperfect.

I am not A or B, but

my C is wrong, and

I am not good enough.

 

The big father raises his eyebrow

when I say what I know.

He doesn’t like what I know.

He says I can think it

but I can’t say it

because my truth is wrong, and

I am not good enough.

 

The yogi man and his ex-wife

tell me how

to bring back a slackening brain,

to fight the blackening blankness,

with COQ10 and mushroom powder,

exercise and cortex power.

Even if I do all they say, all day,

every day.

I will still be

not good enough.

 

NGE

My Musical Ambitions

dulcimer

When I was ten years old, I told my mother, “I don’t want to take piano lessons anymore.” She answered that she’d let me stop lessons, but added, “You’ll regret it when you’re older.”

Truer words…

At age nine, I had already begun playing guitar. After a few lessons from a college student, I learned to play enough chords to accompany myself as I sang. Although I’ve never gotten much better, the guitar has been a mainstay. But spurred by fantasies–I kept acquiring other instruments.

Sometime during college I bought a cheap dulcimer. It was little more than a trapezoid box with four strings. I tried hard but unsuccessfully to figure out the chords Joni Mitchell used in her recordings. Later, my first husband gave me an exquisite dulcimer. Made in Asheville, N.C., it had a matched wood back and friction tuning pegs (tricky). Its beauty did not improve my playing.

During my college years, I also bought a saz. What was I thinking? I probably got it because it was so pretty. This I never learned to play.

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Another instrument attempt was a violin. I may have traded in my classical Aria guitar for the fiddle. I even took lessons from a master fiddler. My cat would be stretched out in a patch of sun. When I opened the violin case, he’d sit up in alarm. Then he’d bolt for the nearest exit.

Now let me pause here and say that I did actually practice these instruments—for a while. The desire to play didn’t carry over into the rigor of daily scales. My interest wasn’t focused and I’d drift away.

By this time, I knew quite well that musical proficiency requires obsessive practice. It didn’t stop my musical dreams. In Ireland, I bought a couple of pennywhistles and a bodhran (round Irish drum). At home in New York, a little red concertina caught my eye.

My most recent indulgence was a harmonium. I intended to accompany the chanting of kirtan. The instrument still sits in the corner of the living room under a yellow quilted cover. To play this particular harmonium, it must be lifted out of its box to rest on two tiny supports. That in itself makes access difficult. Soon after I bought it, the harmonium developed a sticky key. It’s not hard to pick out simple melodies on the keyboard. But, as with all my musical acquisitions, the harmonium languishes in the corner while I engage in my preferred creative pursuits.

We sold most of the other instruments when we downsized to the apartment. I still have my guitar, the harmonium, and a couple of pennywhistles. In my next lifetime, if I can’t be enlightened, I hope to become a proficient musician.

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