Fences

For about seventeen summers, I’ve worked in my backyard, improving it bit by bit.  I started by tossing wildflower seeds in the dirt next to the house.  Each year they grew and spread and became the main source of color, attracting bees and yellow finches.  I’ve added dahlias and lilies, relocated plants for better light, and feasted on blackberries, purple pole beans, peppers, kale and tomatoes.  Luckily my lawn has been strong and has held up every year.  Until now.

Since my daughter and her dog moved in last August, my backyard has become a dump.  A perfect circle of dirt, Cooper’s race track, turns to a mud track that’s hard to avoid on a path to the garbage.  Oh yeah, and the garbage!  There are pieces of plastic planters splintered all over.  Every plant, bush and inch has been peed on.  Sticks and branches are strewn about and accented by poop piles and a not so stuffed stuffed bear.  Oh, it’s lovely!  On those warm days we had a couple of weeks ago I sat out there and grimaced for a half hour, reinforcing wrinkles.  Ugh!

I thought my yard could take it.  I thought its integrity could withstand the challenge.  I knew I was taking a chance when I agreed to the new arrangement.  But Cooper is a dog with great needs.

Likewise, I had hoped I’d done enough ground work to withstand the challenges of living with my daughter again.  But so gradually, we’ve eroded some of the ground covering we fertilized over the past few years living apart.  Parts of our relationship are hardier, like our sharing frustrations and joys about other relationships and daily events.  We bloom in laughter at ourselves and each other.  And we love nestling up together to watch Ally McBeal or Arrested Development on Netflix.  But I haven’t cultivated enough integrity to stand up to the continual treading over familiar, vulnerable territory.  We’re tracking bits of mud around the house, making my home feel unhomey at times.  I feel I’m the only one cleaning up after our messes.

The only way to reseed, I’m afraid, is to do it out of harm’s way, so the seeds can take hold, strengthen and spread.  And just when I finally come to that decision to give a month’s notice, my daughter gets sick and I can’t tell her.  We spend an evening together, cuddling, laughing, loving.  I’m thoroughly entertained by Cooper and his best friend Godfrey wrestling in my front room, scratching my wood floor, snagging threads on my couch.  My decision is dampened. 

Finding the balance between my serenity and the needs of my beautiful but needy roommates is no easy task for me.  I want Cooper to be happy.  I want my daughter to be happy.  I want my home to be my respite where I can be at peace.

Wise women tell me, “When you don’t know what to do, don’t do anything.”  I’m thankful for that permission.  In the mean time, I’m going to meditate, remember my faith in Good Orderly Direction, and maybe go buy some seed and fencing.  If I take on one little area at a time, seed and weed and fence it off for protection, remembering the bit by bit that I started with, maybe we can be good neighbors in one home a while longer.

Here’s my pasta loving daughter’s favorite dish. 

Stuffed Shells

1 package of jumbo shells, cooked and rinsed.  Leave them in cold water until you’re ready to stuff them so they don’t harden.

2 to 3 pounds of ricotta cheese (I use low fat.)

¼ to 1/3 c. grated Romano, parmesan, asiago cheeses (your choice)

1 eggplant peeled, cubed and sautéed in olive oil with oregano and basil, salt and pepper (I used to mash it to hide it in the cheese when my kids were young and wouldn’t eat green stuff.  Call it an invisible fence.)

1 package of frozen chopped spinach, thawed

About 3 cups of your favorite red sauce (I like vodka sauce.)

1 cup or more mozzarella, grated

In a large bowl, add dried grated cheeses to ricotta to taste.  Mash or leave in chunks the eggplant and fold in.  Squeeze liquid from chopped spinach and fold it in (not the liquid, the spinach.)  Now carefully spoon cheese mixture into shells, filling completely and maybe even a little rounded.  Arrange them in a large baking dish and spoon sauce over the top.  I usually spoon lots on one area for those who like lots of sauce and a little on another for those who like only a little.  Another invisible fence.  Sprinkle grated mozzarella on top, again varying the amount according to the needs of you and your partakers.  Cover with foil or a lid if you have it and bake for about 30 minutes at 375 degrees.

It’s easy to go overboard on these because they go down so easily.  But take it easy; it’s harder to keep a balance when you’re wider at the beam.

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.