Days 80,81,82: Well, it was a weekend of more doing that writing. More reading than writing. More community than writing. The whole weekend had crisp air with hints and smatterings of rain. The past and present spent a lot of time kissing one another.
Truman went for his doggie spa day. When I went to retrieve my golden retriever, they had trimmed him into a puppy cut. In his eyes I could see the light and love of the fuzzy yellow puppy that he was 9 years ago. He put his head on my shoulder in the car and I thought of the long days he spent at my side when I was recovering from cancer. I thought of how little he expects of me and how much he gives. And I noticed the white mask forming on his face and the white patches on his haunches. The dogs are 9,10, and 11 years old. Looking at the wagging trio, I decided not do the dishes. I didn’t do much other stuff for the rest of the day. I threw the ball, tugged the toy, scratched ears and bellies, massaged some aging joints and we all fell asleep while I was reading.
A couple of years ago, I gave away a huge portion of my collection of cookbooks. I had an obscene amount of cookbooks. I collected most of them as a young mom and some of my best memories with my own mother involve hot cups of coffee and buttered toast shared while leafing through recipes –improving, mocking, marking to make, and wondering who could afford the ingredients for some of them. I kept collecting them after she died and looking for her handwritten notes among the old ones. My daughter and I carried on the tradition but it never felt like it ‘clicked.’ I was reminded more than once this weekend that she learns by doing. She grew up with me having Saturday or Sunday community dinners. Usually fresh bread and soup or chili and lots of philosophical conversation, some music and musings. And anyone could come. As I sorted through more of the cookbooks (and decided to give away 3 boxes), I thought about how much I miss those meals and what it would take to revive that in some way. Later that night, my daughter called to share her pasta sauce happiness. She started serving community dinners a few months ago for protesters on their way to the DAPL stand-off. It has since evolved into community dinners of her own. Fifteen hundred miles was unable to contain the savory and sweet of that conversation–how much I miss my mother and my daughter and yet how close to me they both are.
Tonight as I finished boxing and sorting, I thought about my morning and early afternoon spent with an excellent friend cooking up ideas for the fairy house we are making from a tree stump in my front yard and plotting what to cook for an event we are both attending next weekend. I thought how good it is to have a co conspirator. I also stumbled on a copy of The Subject Tonight is Love a translation of Hafiz’s poetry by Daniel Ladinsky. It was a gift to a paramour from whom I separated several years ago. Until tonight, it was pristine and unread. The heartfelt note tucked inside it reads, These words are for you and say to you from across time and truths that you are beloved in the heart of the Mystery and in the heart of the one who asks you to stretch yourself and crack open the dusty doors. Read them and speak to me about what you know, what you are learning and what you hope for. We never had that conversation; but, after tonight, the book will no longer be unread.