Windows

"People are like stained-glass windows.  They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within." 

 

Elisabeth Kubler-Ross 

Friends and family frequently suggest I get curtains, shades or blinds for my windows.  I’ve lived in my home for over seventeen years now and the only window I’ve managed to dress is my bedroom window.  And those I rarely cover with my transparent curtain.

I’m drawn to windows.  I’m startled by their light, the colors they reveal and the striking contrast of shape and hue from foreground to background.  Even at night, I walk into my front room and see a beam of nearly blue light, so clean, not like the constant din of the yellowed streetlight, and I know it’s moon glow.   

 

Or once in a while at school, when the windows are open, I’ll stop my class and point out how beautiful a student is in their royal blue framed by the new green outside the window.  They turn, some rolling their eyes at my comment, “Whatever.”  But one or two say, “Yeah,” truly struck.

Sometimes I feel like the windows at school.  They’re coated with a fog that diffuses light and color.  They separate the inside from the outside.  The purpose, I suppose, is to minimize distractions for students.  They have a contrary effect on me.  The haze distracts and disorients me.  My focus is limited and slowed.  Sweet Tania says something funny and I miss out on the laughter I could have shared with her because we have to learn.  Yasmin, one half of the disrupting duo of the class, smiles at me and I only scold her for not working.  But when Brenda offers to write the class contributions on the board, and I relent, I open a foggy window and let the light in.  Yasmin’s smile comes into focus.  Tania’s teasing becomes familiar and warm.  The other students make their contributions, and Brenda highlights them all on the white board.  I can breathe in the fresh contributions of others, which, maybe more than anything else I do as a teacher, or as a human being in this universe, is my great contribution.

After school on Wednesday, in my classroom with the windows wide open and the warm air blowing, our yoga class stretched, danced, and extended limits.  I love the teacher and her light spirit.  She’s like that stained glass window that shines from within.  She sings and makes fun little sound effects when demonstrating.  She loves sharing Sanskrit, her body and heart with us.  She flows back and forth from English to Spanish for the parents who attend.  I love listening to the Spanish and wouldn’t care if she never spoke English.  But something she said to me in English, as I was thanking her at the end of class, struck me, like the crystal moonlight stretching across my floor.  She said, “Thank you.  You inspire me.”  I asked myself on my way down the stairs, what did I do?  I just did yoga at her lead.  I wondered, did I do something special?  I know now, the answer is yes.  I listened, I laughed, I appreciated her contributions.  I opened my window and let her light dazzle me.  There we were on the dingy floor surrounded by scraps and paper balls kids had thrown across the room throughout the day missing their points.  On our smelly mats we stretched and tensed and loosened, laughing and grunting in a common language.  We opened our windows and breathed. 

So appropriately, that as I began writing this, wondering where I was going, my little neighbor popped her head in her open bedroom window which faces my dining room window and said, “Hi. Lindsay.  What are you doing?”  I wanted to continue what I was doing, but I couldn’t refuse her offer to read a story.  When she moved from background to foreground, my world expanded.  I let her in through my window, and I was inspired.

I keep thinking about those window treatments.  And I keep thinking about my yoga teacher’s words.  What an incredibly generous thing to say to someone: “You inspire me.”  For now, I think I’ll keep my windows uncovered.  I’ll keep trying to find the balance of figure and ground.  I’ll keep practicing breathing in the contributions of others.  I’ll practice generous words with my students who may miss points but who keep their windows open, waiting for the pleasant interruptions from other open windows.

I’m going to make a light lemon pound cake (hey, isn’t that an oxymoron?) with the windows wide open, so the smell will waft into my neighbor’s window.  Can’t wait to offer a piece to my little next door reader and tell her she inspires me.

Light and Lovely Lemon Pound Cake

2 1/3 c. sifted cake flour (I use unbleached flour and remove 2 T. for every cup.)

1 t. baking powder

½ t. salt (I rarely use salt in cake.  I just don’t get the point.)

2/3 c. butter softened

1 ¼ c. sugar

3 eggs

½ c. milk

1 t. grated lemon rind (I never use this.  I just don’t like it.)

2 T. lemon juice from real lemon

Sift dry ingredients onto wax paper.  Cream butter and blend in sugar and eggs until smooth again.  Add lemon juice to your ½ c. of milk.  Add dry ingredients, alternating with milk and lemon juice until all is smooth again.  Spoon into a greased and floured bundt pan or loaf pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for about an hour.  When the cake cools a bit, if it’s in a bundt pan, turn it out and sift some powdered sugar over it.

This cake is best shared on a sunny afternoon with coffee or tea and a warm breeze from a funny friend.

Gone Fishin'

Today a friend of mine talked about a great flood.  No, not the great flood story that is told by nearly every religion.  This story is much shorter and has already brought me much peace.

This gal, Peggy, we’ll call her because that’s her name, talked about a day when the rains poured down and her basement was flooding.  The water crept higher and higher.  She could have run around pulling out her hair, yelling “We have to stop it!  What do we do?”  Instead, she went to a party and had a blast.  When she got home, the water had receded and she got busy cleaning up the damage.

I’ve been sick with a mild but persistent flu most of the week.  A three day headache decided to join in on the action and brought a friend: laryngitis.  I’ve been flooded with pain, misery and sleeplessness.

So instead of running around yelling (which I can’t do anyway since I lost my voice), “What should I write?” I’m going to follow Peggy’s lead, put up my sign: Gone Fishin’ and go get some mackerel and salmon and make the healthiest meals.

Baked Mackerel

and

Salmon Soup

Soup stock

4 c. water

1 fresh mackerel, cleaned

Half a large sweet onion, cut into 3 or 4 pieces

3 cloves garlic, peeled and cut in half

1-2 inches fresh ginger root, peeled and sliced

2 stalk of celery

2 large carrots

Salt and pepper to taste

Now I’m going to give you two recipes since we have two fish.  Tonight let’s have the mackerel and save the stock for tomorrow night.  First, remove and rinse head and tail of mackerel and add to your pot of water and veggies.  Filet the mackerel, which isn’t easy, so good luck.  Add the skeleton to the water.  Let’s bake the mackerel today with some tamari sprinkled on it at 375 degrees for 15 minutes.  Serve that on rice and add more tamari as needed.  Yummy. 

Now, to prepare the stock for tomorrow night, boil for at least an hour until the vegetables are very soft.  Strain in a metal colander, pressing the veggies down to get the most of the flavors.

Add the following ingredients in order:

2 chopped medium sized red potatoes

1 stalk of celery, sliced

juice of ½ or more fresh lemon

dried or dill fresh, finely chopped

more salt and pepper if necesselery

When everything is tender, add about a pound of fresh, never frozen sockeye salmon, cut into bite sized pieces.  Remove from heat; it cooks up fast.

Oh, my heart will be so full of the good oils from two nights of the best fish!  I’m hoping this will give me back my voice so I can start yelling again.

Hay! What's the Big Idea?

Because I have a learning disability, I’m often drawn to the minutia and miss the big picture.  When I read, listen or go about my day, the small details overwhelm and I forget what’s important.

About eighteen months ago, when my back was so bad, I looked online for foods I could eat that would help my ligaments and tendons.  I found this great website with all sorts of foods that were supposed to relieve inflammation and strengthen tendons.  I learned about chia and hemp seeds, alfalfa and papaya.  I had no idea where to get the seeds but at the top of the page was a menu which included shop.  When I clicked on it several choices of feed stores came up.  Huh?  Slowly, my blinders slipped loose and I saw the big picture, the background of horses running through a lush green field.  I’d found a horse diet!  Lucky for me, the vitamin H gal in Whole Foods surprised me: “Yes, we have chia and hemp!”  At school the next day, as I grazed on my equine meal, I told my lunch mates about my horse diet.  They had a great time making jokes while I neighed.  We sang the Mr. Ed song, “Oh, Wilbur,” I warbled, when Bill opened up my lunch box and hung it from my head for a feed box.  When the snorting died down, he added with a twinkle, “And next week we’ll have to get one for the other end.”

I spend my days pushing kids to do their jobs, to focus, to get started.  I look forward to 3:00 when the noise migrates to the streets and my world quiets down.  I pine for Later when I can go home and finish all chores and finally I can relax.  And further still, I peer off to summer when my time is my own.

But I’m learning that sometimes the big idea is really right now in the smallest details, whether in solitude or in union.  When I can open my eyes and my heart to value the quick sound, or brief effort, in those moments I feel whole.

                

   The sunlight through old glass that casts swirling designs

         

 

              The moment the exquisite face appeared to me in the soap scum on my bathtub

         

 

The patch of ice calling me to run and slide, the best part of cold

         

Or the song I heard from one of those motley starlings early one summer morning as I lay in bed, in no hurry to get up—a mournful song with a beginning, middle and end.

And then there are the moments when small unions remind me of the big picture.

·         I constantly press Bryan, a little freshman who can’t keep his focus on work, is always the last one to get started and rarely finishes what the others have completed decades earlier.  We struggled, but he remains quiet and never says a bad word.  The day I got back from my bereavement leave, he said hi to me in the empty hallway.  A moment later, he called to me, “Ms. Leghorn.” He walked right up to me and with a quiet boldness, eye to eye, he said, “Sorry about your mother.”  His sincere effort touched me more than any condolences from adults.

·         Going through my parents’ things out at their house, my sister and I sorted while my friend looked up items online to find their value.  We were quite impressed with her success.  While my sister cleaned out a drawer, she said, “Here’s a nickel.”  I said, “Hmm.  That might be worth something.”  My sister said the words I was thinking, “Hey, can you see how much that’s worth?” The reward of my friends’ giggle was more precious than any antiques we discovered.

·         Working on dinner in a rush, my six year old next door neighbor called through her parents’ window, “Hi Lindsay.”  “Hi, Ella,” I said.  She asked me how my day was and what I was doing.  “Do you want me to read you a story?” she said.  I sighed, thinking about all I had to do to get dinner on the table, but agreed.  She ran for a book and settled into her spot on the window sill, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, leaning back against the window trim.  She couldn’t have looked more beautiful in her pose.  She read with inflection and a deliberateness that moved me to get a stool, knowing I was in for the long haul.  I took a moment to get my camera and take her picture.  When she was done she asked if I liked the story, and I gave her my praises. She decided, “We should do this every day.”

Sharing laughter with students, moving from a moment of irritation, then letting go and laughing together at my mistake or ridiculousness, I grab hold of the big idea and relax.  I’m so grateful for their guidance toward what’s important.  Recognizing the value in the smile reflected back from a student or stranger, shining in the cardinals’ serenade as I walk to school on a February morning, or relishing the delicious feel of laughter in my body when my lunch mates tease me in my horse sense, those are the big ideas. 

And now, a snack fit for a horse!

Papaya Smoothie with Chia, Hemp and Alfalfa

1c. plain, fat free organic yogurt

¼ c. chopped ripe papaya

¼ banana quartered and sliced

Handful of organic blueberries or blackberries

1 t. alfalfa powder

1 T. chia seeds

1 t. hemp seeds

1 T. unsweetened cocoa nibs

Combine first four ingredients in a mug.  Use an immersion blender to blend smoothly.  Add and stir in the remaining ingredients.  Let sit for 15 to 20 minutes so the chia can develop its gel and the cocoa nibs can soften a bit.

While you eat, it might help to imagine galloping through a sparkling field, but not so fast that you forget to listen for the cardinals’ serenade.

Transitions

In yoga class I struggle to be graceful in transitions from one pose to another.  For a newcomer, I’m pretty flexible and mostly strong enough once I get in a position, but it’s the getting there that’s hard.

This current transition is more challenging than I ever imagined. It’s the whole aging thing.  I know I’ve wobbled here before but this pose reaches deeper than any wrinkles on my face, well, so far, with twists that ache more than my arthritis or previous back issues. You see, I see what’s coming up the pike and it’s not pretty.  Spending extended periods of time in a nursing home and assisted living facility has challenged my balance. 

After my dad spent five days in the hospital in intensive care, he was discharged to the skilled nursing and rehab floor, one floor below his assisted living apartment.  The levels of ability and grace of place, both physical and mental, upstairs and down are very varied. 

At my dad’s dining room table looms Dave, nearly two heads above my dad. He’s slow to speak and move, dependent on others for his transportation, but has his wits about him and surprises us with his humor.  Bob, in his signature red fedora, joins the table after parking his walker.  He makes it his business to learn everyone’s name and to observe and comment on the habits and manners of other residents and staff.  We have a lively conversation at the table. 

From Bob I learn about the couple one table over.  They’ve been divorced for over twenty years but now they’re both in this facility.  She’s harnessed into her wheel chair and wiggles about, looking like she’s trying to get comfortable.  She feeds herself in silence, food avalanching down the sides of her mouth.  She doesn’t speak except once in a while, like a bird call, she sings out through the dining room, “What should I do?”  Mostly this is ignored like a belch, but sometimes her ex-husband will snap at her, “You don’t have to do anything. Just sit there!”  Or he says, “Look around.  No one’s doing anything.”  Other times he’s more gentle: “Relax.”  Nothing in her expression shows registration.  He sits in front of a pile of empty tiny coffee cream cups while he sips the next one.  He says to his ex-wife who looks at first but then is lost in her isolated emptiness, “Watch what I do,” at which point he stabs a new creamer with his fork and sucks out the cream.  When the CNA (Certified Nurse’s Assistant) pours him some coffee, he asks for more cream.  In the meantime, he sucks on a pink artificial sugar packet, without hands.  Bob tells me the other day the ex-wife wiggled out of her harness, slipping, slipping, slipping so low she finally lay on the dining room floor.  I guess she figured out what she should do.

Then there’s Hazel who has a delightful manner that goes unnoticed.  As one of the CNAs approaches unannounced from behind and swiftly frees her wheelchair from the parking lot of wheel chairs in the dayroom, she reaches her arms out with a front stroke and swims through the hall, the CNA oblivious to Hazel’s playful shenanigans.

And poor Florence.  Her pleas to be released from her wheel chair, her table, this place are relentless.  On my way out, she calls me from her latest prison near the nurse’s station, “Miss, can you help me?” No one else is in sight.  

I ask her what she needs. 

“I’m trying to get married,” she explains. 

I join her: “Me too!” 

“Really?”  She looks me in the eyes.  “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

We hold hands and shake our heads.

“It’s going to be okay,” I say.

She wishes me luck when I walk away freely.

Upstairs the private care aids help serve meals because there is not enough staff.  Shirley, who I’ve mentioned before, is the talker at the table.  In the stained glamor of her food-crusted red dress, her red nail polish, ninety-seven year old skin sagging beneath her $20 wig that covers her balding head, she time travels in one sentence, telling me about her daughter who is in her late fifties but now is just a two year old.  Shirley nimbly covers up her mental gaps with sarcastic humor.  Her tray is placed before her and she says, “Oh, goody!  Chicken again.”  She eats only two or three dainty bites and slides her plate away.  We talk about pies, her specialty as a cook, banana cream being her mother’s current favorite.  And then she surprises me by allowing her irritation to slice through her mastered charm. She watches Ray, a nearly deaf ninety-eight year old stroke victim obsess over the placement of his cloth napkin, trying over and over to set it just right from his big belly to his plate, aiming for a protective ramp. “Just leave it!  What difference does it make?” she scolds.  Luckily Ray doesn’t hear her.  I see her trying to move her wheel chair using only her little legs which are partially and asymmetrically covered in knee-hi stockings.  I ask if she wants help.  “I can do it,” she boasts, “but I never refuse an offer.”  When I push her wheelchair, she takes the imaginary steering wheel to control the direction and steers us into her room.  We laugh at her creative drivery.  Most days and evenings when I pass her room, I see her little feet sticking out from under her covers.

Dorothy, the woman whose plump tongue sticks out constantly, makes the effort to pull it back in and tell me my curls are beautiful.  She grabs my face and gives me a kiss.  But on my next visit, when I smile at her, she gets agitated and frantically chants, “No.  No.  No!”  I know when I’m not wanted.  On a good day, as she leaves the dining room, pulling her chair forward with her feet, she wheels past Arthur, reaches out for his hand and they have a moment together.  During this particular moment, with her protruding tongue, she grunts at him; he burps; she wheels off.  No one notices.  I laugh alone.

The romance of the unit, Charles and his wife Faye may hold hands during the day, but at night their bed of roses is replaced by separate rooms, diapers, and big blue protective mats on either side of Faye.  One afternoon I walk into the dark TV room and look for a spot for my dad.  The CNA helps me move a chair to the side of Charles, in front of the closed French door.  The CNA leaves me to be the nail for Charles’ hammer as he yells at me, “You can’t put this chair here.  It’s a fire hazard.  Move it!  There are plenty of other places to sit.  Move that chair,” he continues to pound.  I look out at the sea of wheel chairs and crowded sofas and I want to sing out, “What should I do?”  The private care aid comes to our rescue and adjusts four or five wheel chairs so Charles can stop hammering.

Back in the dining room, I look at the table of opposites: four women, two very tall sit across from each other, and two quite short on the other opposing sides.  My dad and I laugh at the funny composition.  But as I watch them talk and engage with one another, I think about my mom.  I wonder if she got lucky or cheated.  Selfishly I wish I were sitting next to her, caring for her.

“What should I do?” rings in my head, haunting me after my visits.  What should we do when physical comfort and pleasure becomes our only goal, when the grappling with dignity is forgotten, along with the comforting blanket of memories and the hope and joy from connecting?  What should we do when isolated darkness takes the place of the romance of moon glow?  What should we do when no one sees, when no one listens?  What should we do when we’re trapped in a wheel chair, when all decisions concerning our whereabouts are up to underpaid, understaffed CNAs and nurses?

I hope I don’t become a cream and sugar sucker, or a grumpy hammer who sees most people as nails.  I hope I can transition into my diminished capacity with the playfulness of Hazel, with the sense of humor of Shirley and Dave, with the awareness of Bob.  I hope, if it comes to it, I figure out a way to squirm out of my harness and onto the floor for a moment of stolen freedom, a ninety-some year old yogi.  And there on the cold floor, I hope I have the sense to feel a little bit of triumph for the grace that got me there.

In honor of Shirley: a fruit cream pie.

Strawberry Kiwi Banana Cream Pie

Sliced fruit: 2 large strawberries, one kiwi and one banana

¾ c. sugar

1/3 c. unbleached flour

¼ t. salt

2 c. milk

3 slightly beaten egg yolks in a separate bowl

2 T. butter

1 t. vanilla

One pie crust, poked with a fork on the bottom and sides so it doesn’t bubble up when you bake it for 10 to 12 minutes at 450 degrees until golden brown.  (See pie crust recipe from previous post)

For meringue: 3 egg whites, ¼ t. cream of tartar, ½ t. vanilla and 6 T. sugar.  Beat egg whites with vanilla and cream of tartar, gradually adding sugar until soft, shiny peaks form.

Let’s do this yoga style. Position fruit gracefully on the bottom of your baked pie crust.  In a pot, combine sugar, flour, salt and gradually stir in milk while keeping your thighs tight so your buns don’t wobble.  Stir over medium heat until bubbly.  Cook and stir for two minutes.  Remove from heat, pivot and stir a moderate amount of this into the egg yolks.  Gently pivot back to center and scrape it all back into the pan.  Hold this pose, cooking two more minutes, stirring constantly.  It should be nice and thick by now.  Tighten your core, and as you inhale, lift and remove from heat to stir in butter and vanilla.  Spoon on top of your arranged fruit and cover with meringue, sealing all the way to the crust.  Exhale.  Maintain your balance as you bend at the hips with a flat back to place in the oven.  Lift from the crown of your head, closing the oven door as you inhale.  Bake at 350 degrees for ten to twelve minutes until peaks are golden brown.

This recipe is a twist on the vanilla cream pie recipe from Better Homes and Gardens Cook Book.

Bake it while you can still move, choose, and enjoy.