These are a Few of My Favorite Things

My 16 month old grandson was staying the day with us today. He had tuckered himself out running all over the social hall at church and fell asleep in his car seat on the way home. Jay carefully unfastened the car seat and set him in the easy chair in the living room to continue his nap from his throne. Paternally, Jay laid on the couch, keeping an eye on him as he slept.

My mission during this quiet time, was to create my summer red sauce -- homemade spaghetti sauce. Ripe red tomatoes, bursting at the seams, onion of course, zucchini cut in tiny 1/4 rounds, plus one cut up chicken sausage needed to be readied. I cut and chopped these ingredients, adding some shredded fresh basil and tomato paste, as quietly as I could, all the while waiting for the pot to boil for the spaghetti, then adding the spaghetti, turning the vegetables, stirring, adding, flavor, lid for the pot, pasta done, drain, rinse, so many details to all be orchestrated at once. There was a rhythm to my process though and I felt I flowed through it easily and gently from pan to pan, savoring the smells I was creating. I realized how much work it is to make fresh pasta sauce - and yet, I was so happy doing it, knowing how fresh it would taste, how my baby would wake up and something absolutely wonderful would await him, not to mention how much his grandparents were going to love it. So much effort, dishes dirtied, and yet...and yet, I love to do this. Is it the simplicity of it despite the effort, how delicious fresh vegetables in a simple sauce can taste? Is it something I have created, in a meditative manner, chop, chop, stir, slice, the partners in the dance coming together so easily and beautifully?

I believe it might be both of these things, plus the joy of eating it with those I love, a tradition that will go on and on through the ages. Hand made with love, you just can't buy that.

Finding Courage

My son has been on a path of discovery. He took a year off from his state job to be in a place of self-exploration. During this time he and I made many treks to Green Gulch Zen Center, some of them for the day, some of them when I was dropping him off or picking him up from spending time there. He was becoming more and more involved with the zen lifestyle of yoga, meditation, organic gardening. As he continued to pursue, open-hearted, he was led to check out another similar place -- Great Vow Monastery in Portland, Oregon, and his meditation practice led him to the decision to complete a 5 day silent 'sit', which means meditating for most of the day, in silence.

This decision was no small matter as he lives in Santa Barbara, a distance of well over 900 miles one way. Did I mention my son is visually impaired and does not drive? He took the train/bus from Santa Barbara to Sacramento, stayed a few days, then was scheduled to take the train the rest of the distance beginning at midnight. That night as I was readying for bed I realized I had a phone message from him. He was already at the train station 2 hours ahead of time, his friend having dropped him off, waiting. He faced a 15 hour ride on the train, alone, all night and into the next day.

I was suddenly overcome with emotion that initially felt like fear and concern for his safety. Although he is 28 years old and very intelligent, I worry about people somehow taking advantage of him, or an something unsavory happening to him due to his visual challenges. There he was, in the station, 2 hours to kill, plus so many ahead. He did not have his computer reader so could not 'read' books on the train. His trip sounded rather horrendous to me, scary, long, boring even. What started to creep into my emotions over and in front of the sadness was amazing respect. I knew what it was taking for him to make this journey, then stay the night in Portland (a town he does not know) in a youth hostel, not to mention the week at the monastery and another 15 hour train ride back to Sacramento. This was really HUGE! And why was he doing it? For himself, for his own journey. By this time I was laying in bed sobbing. I sobbed first from maternal concern, then for my utter Blown Away-ness of what he was doing, and last for me. What courage he was demonstrating, to want to do something for one's self so badly, to have that much determination, I felt humbled that I did not feel I possessed enough of that same quality to do something equally courageous for my self, for something good for me.

And in that moment, I recognized how much more deeply I loved my son for that gift.

Transitioning through changes, rarely easy or comfortable, usually requiring our utmost strength and courage.