oh stella, old gal
it breaks my ever-lovin' heart today
to know
that you took
your last
zoom
down the 'boulevard'
of green-tree'd, blue-sky'd
life
who else
has been by my side
through all the laughter
tears
funerals
celebrations
kisses
the ditches
& unfortunate encounters
with springtime snowshower hydroplaning
or
keys
locked
inside
(dare I crawl through the trunk?)
the times you
saved
my
life
the songs
belted
(when perhaps you wished the windows to be open or the laryngitis
to kick in).
i will forever
love
chevrolet
not just
for a taj mahal song
but because you got me through 225,803 miles
of a beautiful life.
the good with the bad gal.
RIP to the independence of my youth!
(Stella = my 1997 Chevrolet Cavalier who took a knee today...)
14 September 2010
insurmountable
when you can't go back to correct
the mistakes that you've made
and
moving forward
seems tantamount to a deep sea dive to hell
and back
how do you put
one foot
in front of the other
& just take it one day at a time.
when does crawling out of the abyss you've fallen into
end?
will it ever feel like breathing again
and not gulping for air you
forgot to inhale during moments
stressed
and strained
and hot red
& itchy
shiny bright beaming blue sky
sun rays
moon shine
i see and feel
your light
my pores sop it up
like salty earth to rain.
i want to
and continue to
believe
yet
...
yet...
y e t ...
my hope flag's
flyin'
kinda
low.
the mistakes that you've made
and
moving forward
seems tantamount to a deep sea dive to hell
and back
how do you put
one foot
in front of the other
& just take it one day at a time.
when does crawling out of the abyss you've fallen into
end?
will it ever feel like breathing again
and not gulping for air you
forgot to inhale during moments
stressed
and strained
and hot red
& itchy
shiny bright beaming blue sky
sun rays
moon shine
i see and feel
your light
my pores sop it up
like salty earth to rain.
i want to
and continue to
believe
yet
...
yet...
y e t ...
my hope flag's
flyin'
kinda
low.
03 August 2010
Ode to Isabel
Silky-soft palms, too smooth to hold onto much...
A dash of this, and this, and that...
mix dry together
then
ever-so-slowly,
add warm to dry
stir and knead and let rest and knead and roll
thin
thin
thin
s t r e t c h e d flat like a record.
sizzle-sizzle in a big, round pan or a HOT
flat
griddle...
[Isabel style: shred your favorite cheddar grab your favorite butter]
or summer harvest
red, green, orange...
chop, chop, chop.
paper thin disks
sizzle
on dry heat
turn quick, over and over and over
and then keep warm; nearby.
ring the dinner bell.
eat up.
with zippy hot salsa!
zam!
what of flaky, freshly caught fish tacos?
or
one dollop
of
bright green
avocado (guacamole)
added on top...
black beans.
orangeyellowredPEPPERS!
oh Isabel Najars, how the heaven on
Earth of who you
were to us, held closely
near your
apron strings,
feeding hungry kid-mouths
who played, and played and
never
stopped
playing...
oh Isabel.
we hold you in our hearts
close like a granny.
close like a sweet, sweet heart
of
our little girl hearts.
A dash of this, and this, and that...
flour
salt
baking powder
[warm] milk
olive oil
mix dry together
then
ever-so-slowly,
add warm to dry
stir and knead and let rest and knead and roll
thin
thin
thin
s t r e t c h e d flat like a record.
sizzle-sizzle in a big, round pan or a HOT
flat
griddle...
[Isabel style: shred your favorite cheddar grab your favorite butter]
or summer harvest
red, green, orange...
chop, chop, chop.
paper thin disks
sizzle
on dry heat
turn quick, over and over and over
and then keep warm; nearby.
ring the dinner bell.
eat up.
with zippy hot salsa!
zam!
what of flaky, freshly caught fish tacos?
or
one dollop
of
bright green
avocado (guacamole)
added on top...
black beans.
orangeyellowredPEPPERS!
oh Isabel Najars, how the heaven on
Earth of who you
were to us, held closely
near your
apron strings,
feeding hungry kid-mouths
who played, and played and
never
stopped
playing...
oh Isabel.
we hold you in our hearts
close like a granny.
close like a sweet, sweet heart
of
our little girl hearts.
23 June 2010
Illusive Lover
Screechy-yellow
Bright light
Squinting into you
I ache
Deep inside
I have a lovehate
Relationship with you.
Somewhere in late july or early august
When my sunblock-shopping-sprees are maxed...
You wile me
into believing you are safe and
Cozy and warmhearted (and sexy).
Morph my freckle
Into a cancerous lump and
I
WILL
slityourthroat
With my shiny, shiny pocket
Sword.
Oh, be-nign-baby...
be mine (benign).
jennryan2010
Bright light
Squinting into you
I ache
Deep inside
I have a lovehate
Relationship with you.
Somewhere in late july or early august
When my sunblock-shopping-sprees are maxed...
You wile me
into believing you are safe and
Cozy and warmhearted (and sexy).
Morph my freckle
Into a cancerous lump and
I
WILL
slityourthroat
With my shiny, shiny pocket
Sword.
Oh, be-nign-baby...
be mine (benign).
jennryan2010
17 June 2010
In honor of...
The other day as I clicked to “Like” my alma mater’s ‘fan page’, I read a friend’s post which heiroglyphed an “RIP” on the electronic footprint of the page, it was in honor of a woman who attended college at the same time that we did.
I attended a small, private, Midwestern, liberal arts college in the 1990’s, and although I did not know this woman very intimately, we shared friends and classes in common, and in particular, I remember her bright eyes, exuberant smile, and a laugh, that would make most any heart sing.
After reading about her death, I inquired further and learned that sadly, a number of tragic circumstances including the loss of her mother, the loss of her home, financial complexities, and other personal problems had all contributed to her untimely demise. In fact, she intentionally took her life, in a somber act of suicide.
In the moment of recognition of what this young woman had determined to do, I mentally stepped into her shoes, and looked around, trying to imagine the feelings of helplessness and hopelessness that she must have been overwhelmed with. I saw a grey smoky haze, hanging all around. It was murky, heavy, dim. As I inhaled, a sputtery cough began deep in my esophagus and it was difficult to breathe.
Card-catalogue drawers of thoughts careened through my mental space, recalling loss—the loss of family, of friends—both naturally and by their own hand. Recalling financial woes—paycheck-to-paycheck living, blocks of government cheese eaten as a child; my own experience with foreclosure and in the ‘difficult personal problems’ category, tragic decisions such as terminating a fetus.
In the seconds it took to step into her shoes, to take a few steps in the reality that she may have experienced, treading lightly on the memory of my own war story, I wondered why it was that she chose to go, and I chose to stay?
For even in loss and failure and utter chaos; even when overwhelmed with embarrassment or hasty decisions, the ramifications of which might haunt me a life long, I stood tall. I stayed earthbound. I am here.
Thank goodness.
In honor of the beauty that was this woman’s center, her soul; I salute her. I raise high, my heart-of-hearts, and send an unequivocally unwavering sweet gesture, holding space for all that she was and is now, free, spread far and wide across the universe.
So too, do I honor the memory of all the sweet hearts who have gone before... Mary* today is the anniversary of her death, Roseanne, Daniel, Arthur, Russell... there are too many names to type here... they are all here, in my heart.
*Picasso's 'Dove' seems appropriate to leave here today, for all soaring souls...
I attended a small, private, Midwestern, liberal arts college in the 1990’s, and although I did not know this woman very intimately, we shared friends and classes in common, and in particular, I remember her bright eyes, exuberant smile, and a laugh, that would make most any heart sing.
After reading about her death, I inquired further and learned that sadly, a number of tragic circumstances including the loss of her mother, the loss of her home, financial complexities, and other personal problems had all contributed to her untimely demise. In fact, she intentionally took her life, in a somber act of suicide.
In the moment of recognition of what this young woman had determined to do, I mentally stepped into her shoes, and looked around, trying to imagine the feelings of helplessness and hopelessness that she must have been overwhelmed with. I saw a grey smoky haze, hanging all around. It was murky, heavy, dim. As I inhaled, a sputtery cough began deep in my esophagus and it was difficult to breathe.
Card-catalogue drawers of thoughts careened through my mental space, recalling loss—the loss of family, of friends—both naturally and by their own hand. Recalling financial woes—paycheck-to-paycheck living, blocks of government cheese eaten as a child; my own experience with foreclosure and in the ‘difficult personal problems’ category, tragic decisions such as terminating a fetus.
In the seconds it took to step into her shoes, to take a few steps in the reality that she may have experienced, treading lightly on the memory of my own war story, I wondered why it was that she chose to go, and I chose to stay?
For even in loss and failure and utter chaos; even when overwhelmed with embarrassment or hasty decisions, the ramifications of which might haunt me a life long, I stood tall. I stayed earthbound. I am here.
Thank goodness.
In honor of the beauty that was this woman’s center, her soul; I salute her. I raise high, my heart-of-hearts, and send an unequivocally unwavering sweet gesture, holding space for all that she was and is now, free, spread far and wide across the universe.
So too, do I honor the memory of all the sweet hearts who have gone before... Mary* today is the anniversary of her death, Roseanne, Daniel, Arthur, Russell... there are too many names to type here... they are all here, in my heart.
*Picasso's 'Dove' seems appropriate to leave here today, for all soaring souls...
08 June 2010
Playing catch
Last evening was spent with most of my immediate family as we watched my eldest nephew play a game of baseball. The age range spanned 56 years, the stories in those years, varied, colorful, tragic, irreverent...
A small, sweet, chilled-early-June moment that stood out involved a game of catch between an energetic (albeit allergic) five year old boy and his grandpa--playing a simple game of catch with a lime green tennis ball--furry and buoyant in the blue skied air.
A spitfire of sorts, the little guy cocked his arm, aimed, and drilled the ball.
It careened away from his body, the trajectory off course, and collided, suddenly, with a thud, against the temple of a young mother, also present to watch the 'big boys' baseball game in the ball field behind this little game of catch.
Stunned, she jumped, as the ball merely grazed her temple and designer sunglasses, she turned to see that it was a furry, green tennis ball; NOT, perchance, the squishy, furry flesh of one of the millions of tent worms/gypsy moths which have over run our lovely Northern Michigan foliage of late.
She grinned, laughed aloud, and the little guy chirped with a frenzied, emotional clatter of response, "OOH, SORRY!!!"
A small, sweet, chilled-early-June moment that stood out involved a game of catch between an energetic (albeit allergic) five year old boy and his grandpa--playing a simple game of catch with a lime green tennis ball--furry and buoyant in the blue skied air.
A spitfire of sorts, the little guy cocked his arm, aimed, and drilled the ball.
It careened away from his body, the trajectory off course, and collided, suddenly, with a thud, against the temple of a young mother, also present to watch the 'big boys' baseball game in the ball field behind this little game of catch.
Stunned, she jumped, as the ball merely grazed her temple and designer sunglasses, she turned to see that it was a furry, green tennis ball; NOT, perchance, the squishy, furry flesh of one of the millions of tent worms/gypsy moths which have over run our lovely Northern Michigan foliage of late.
She grinned, laughed aloud, and the little guy chirped with a frenzied, emotional clatter of response, "OOH, SORRY!!!"
28 May 2010
Satiate
Spending time surrounded by colorful mixed media, listening to music--quiet or loud, depending on the mood of the day; immersed fully in the creativity that is pouring forth, is my favorite space to be within.
I thank my stars for the keen ability to recognize this need to nourish and the luxury of quiet weekend space to fulfill it by the spoon full.
27 May 2010
Vroom-vroom...
Monday through Friday, I drive 37 miles between the tidy city streets of downtown Frankfort, to the industrial corridor of Traverse City, Michigan. Home to work and then back again. Depending on the weather, the time of year, and the time of day, I can make the trek in about 40 minutes, and/or 90. It all depends.
In December, I found the trip was taking 75, consistently. Everyone was driving about 40 miles an hour as we were pounded, day after day with a steady stream of white, puffy snowflakes. During this seemingly less than tolerable portion of my commuter’s history, I found listening to our local public radio station, IPR, practicing Spanish, and listening to a couple of holiday gifts (mixed cd’s) got me through it all.
I haven’t always been a car-driving commuter. I’ve had the luxury (and general proximity) of such frivolities as apartment-above-the-garage convenience (during the stint I was a nanny in New York), or the ‘three doors away’ convenience of an artsy loft in the neighborhood of the studio I worked at for three years. Another time, I chose to purchase a house that was not only on the main drag, close to the highway, but less than three miles from my office and on a main bus route. Normally, ‘work’ is nearby and the option to ride my bike, walk, or roller blade has been the plan of attack. BUT, change is inevitable.
I’ve been driving a 1997 Chevrolet Cavalier since January of 1997. “Stella” as she is named, because of her general demeanor and car-riding charisma, has gotten me from here to there, forever.
She kicks more ass than I can count.
In December, I found the trip was taking 75, consistently. Everyone was driving about 40 miles an hour as we were pounded, day after day with a steady stream of white, puffy snowflakes. During this seemingly less than tolerable portion of my commuter’s history, I found listening to our local public radio station, IPR, practicing Spanish, and listening to a couple of holiday gifts (mixed cd’s) got me through it all.
I haven’t always been a car-driving commuter. I’ve had the luxury (and general proximity) of such frivolities as apartment-above-the-garage convenience (during the stint I was a nanny in New York), or the ‘three doors away’ convenience of an artsy loft in the neighborhood of the studio I worked at for three years. Another time, I chose to purchase a house that was not only on the main drag, close to the highway, but less than three miles from my office and on a main bus route. Normally, ‘work’ is nearby and the option to ride my bike, walk, or roller blade has been the plan of attack. BUT, change is inevitable.
I’ve been driving a 1997 Chevrolet Cavalier since January of 1997. “Stella” as she is named, because of her general demeanor and car-riding charisma, has gotten me from here to there, forever.
She kicks more ass than I can count.
24 May 2010
Engage
"Never get tired of doing little things for others. Sometimes, those little things occupy the biggest part of their hearts." -- Author Unknown
I find this suggestion to be one of the favorite of my life. For whatever reason, I learned long, long ago, the sheer delight of doing just this--the trick is knowing that it does not have to be about spending any money on anyone, but simply being thoughtful... stepping outside of the 'bubble' of yourself long enough to notice the other wonderful folks all around, and interacting and reacting on behalf of something that you recognize in them-- it could be the simplest gesture...
:)
Practice Random Kindness & Other Senseless Acts of Beauty!!
02 September 2009
Boone Docks
“We only go to Boone Docks if it’s an emergency!”
I hear a young father tell his son, as they walk away from the swarming line outside the infamous local hot spot.
The red, white, and blue of American flags dance. I see orange and turquoise tubes filling the round of a wire container on the street corner. In the wind the mass of cylinder foam tubes vibrate against each other and jiggle. In water they would float—summer noodles bending around arms and rib cages, hugged close.
Khaki cargoes and salmon colored flip-flops trounce the gravelly cement of small-time Glen Arbor. The village swells to quadruple its normal size when the orange globe of summer’s sun dings to announce ‘it’s time.’
Although the autumn color tour season hospitably welcomes visitors from near and far; it always seems towns such as this are truly most alive when nestled with the heavy snowfall of a northern Michigan winter—locals warm in their wood-stove heated homes—traffic trickles and finding a parking spot at Anderson’s IGA is simpler.
There is something to be said for small town life. You have just as much opportunity to get to know your neighbor as you would living in the terracotta brick of a NYC walk up. It is not as though time stands still or anything. Time travels and even flies sometimes—especially when you would simply rather live in the middle of a sixty-eight-degrees and sunny, breezy July afternoon forever if you could.
Yes, there is something to it being more about the life you make for yourself than anything—it certainly does not require a population center to create a home or enjoy a community. Maybe small towns are automatic icebreakers for the sometimes discomfort of just ‘getting to know’ people. I treasure the setting of a more rural life the proximity to nature, all around.
There’s something to be said about the art of picking taut stalks of red and green rhubarb from your garden, spending an overcast afternoon listening to records and getting pie crust lessons from your mother.
I’d say adding up all the little details which equate to a beautiful life seems much more relevant than reading your name in lights or dying a billionaire. I would prefer scraping pennies together for a hot, black coffee from the corner station and the brief visit with the owner, who has known me most of my life—and who survives, even after the tragic loss of a daughter—a young woman bludgeoned to death. His strength of perseverance a guidepost every morning’s stop.
There seems certain sourcing occurs when the mood is just so… as sunlight bends along the blue-green shoreline or midnight pools itself in the center of the lake and we glide quickly down the CSA slide naked in our summer’s best—laughing, until the cramp in our bellies sends us relaxed on our backs—floating toward shore.
I hear a young father tell his son, as they walk away from the swarming line outside the infamous local hot spot.
The red, white, and blue of American flags dance. I see orange and turquoise tubes filling the round of a wire container on the street corner. In the wind the mass of cylinder foam tubes vibrate against each other and jiggle. In water they would float—summer noodles bending around arms and rib cages, hugged close.
Khaki cargoes and salmon colored flip-flops trounce the gravelly cement of small-time Glen Arbor. The village swells to quadruple its normal size when the orange globe of summer’s sun dings to announce ‘it’s time.’
Although the autumn color tour season hospitably welcomes visitors from near and far; it always seems towns such as this are truly most alive when nestled with the heavy snowfall of a northern Michigan winter—locals warm in their wood-stove heated homes—traffic trickles and finding a parking spot at Anderson’s IGA is simpler.
There is something to be said for small town life. You have just as much opportunity to get to know your neighbor as you would living in the terracotta brick of a NYC walk up. It is not as though time stands still or anything. Time travels and even flies sometimes—especially when you would simply rather live in the middle of a sixty-eight-degrees and sunny, breezy July afternoon forever if you could.
Yes, there is something to it being more about the life you make for yourself than anything—it certainly does not require a population center to create a home or enjoy a community. Maybe small towns are automatic icebreakers for the sometimes discomfort of just ‘getting to know’ people. I treasure the setting of a more rural life the proximity to nature, all around.
There’s something to be said about the art of picking taut stalks of red and green rhubarb from your garden, spending an overcast afternoon listening to records and getting pie crust lessons from your mother.
I’d say adding up all the little details which equate to a beautiful life seems much more relevant than reading your name in lights or dying a billionaire. I would prefer scraping pennies together for a hot, black coffee from the corner station and the brief visit with the owner, who has known me most of my life—and who survives, even after the tragic loss of a daughter—a young woman bludgeoned to death. His strength of perseverance a guidepost every morning’s stop.
There seems certain sourcing occurs when the mood is just so… as sunlight bends along the blue-green shoreline or midnight pools itself in the center of the lake and we glide quickly down the CSA slide naked in our summer’s best—laughing, until the cramp in our bellies sends us relaxed on our backs—floating toward shore.
Summer's Wake
Tall ship slice
through translucent aqua
marine clarity.
I wonder sometimes if all those years I hated
the white, freckled skin of my upper thighs
of how sad they must
have felt—being hated like that.
For as long as I can remember I have been
YOUR biggest fan—
YOUR most-swell supporter.
I have cheered and
applauded—I have
woo-hooed
YOU to your finish line.
Why not to those long, strong curvy limbs?
those generous rounded mounds?
why hate
and hide
ashamed
so much beauty
below the surface of things...
through translucent aqua
marine clarity.
I wonder sometimes if all those years I hated
the white, freckled skin of my upper thighs
of how sad they must
have felt—being hated like that.
For as long as I can remember I have been
YOUR biggest fan—
YOUR most-swell supporter.
I have cheered and
applauded—I have
woo-hooed
YOU to your finish line.
Why not to those long, strong curvy limbs?
those generous rounded mounds?
why hate
and hide
ashamed
so much beauty
below the surface of things...
My nation tis of thee
Independence day, 2009
On this historic day, in this historic time of Obama, I sit back, reflect and think about the little ‘nation’ of my own small life. I sort of think of it more as a tribe or a posse, but reflecting on that piece of the definition—‘a group of people united by a common interest’ I find it resonating with some thoughts from the day and the past week.
Somewhere between teenage angst and early adulthood I must’ve imagined what life would be like—as grown ups. I do not recall it exactly in the way I have been told by many girlfriends—the planning, the binders and pages of dresses and steps. No, I never imagined a wedding or who the groom might be. I did not pine secretly for a shiny engagement ring and the car, house, and 2.25 children that so many planned and saved for. But I did, I’m sure, imagine what life might have in store for me.
I had a thing for the ‘Brat Pack’ at one time. I remember secretly pining for the camaraderie of the St Elmo’s Fire gang (sans all the dysfunction as an idealistic teenager). I hoped that even if single, that I had a gaggle of friends—boys and girls, couples and singles—kids and dogs and Frisbees and picnics and camping. Holidays and birthdays, sometimes shared. Thanksgivings and Bat Mitzvahs, Christenings and Halloween costumes. Life and death and happily ever after, all wrapped up in the snotty shirtsleeves of the best friends (and family) who would always be there—who you’d always be there for.
In my adult life I’ve transplanted myself a number of times. I’ve removed the familiar and immersed within the brand new. Time has passed, and in every single instance, I have been incredibly fortunate. I have located a nurturing cell of living, breathing, lively, talented, compassionate, conscientious, fantastic human beings. They have become my extended family so many times, and now, as I find myself back ‘home’ in my mid-thirties, I am both rediscovering antiquated acquaintances as well as rekindling familial bonds. Day in and day out I realize that I have found my truest north—my most amazing circle—my nation, my tribe, my posse, and my heart.
An example of my amazing communal circle was evident last Saturday. Dear friends were celebrating the ninth birthday of their oldest daughter. A late afternoon soiree involving pirates and fairies, a treasure hunt, and then plentiful bootie ala potluck found an amalgam of friends and families conjoining to imbibe and enjoy. After chomping on the delicious vegetarian fare we were entertained with a talent show. From adults spewing bad pirate jokes and children singing solos and reciting their original poetry, we were transfixed and beholden to each other for the magic most certainly in the air.
The really fabulous reality of the event was that the humidity was ridiculous, producing sometimes downpours and most of the time, small air raids of needle-nose mosquito beaks. Ugh! The itching!! Yet we all stayed—for hours past when we might normally have fled for dear life. The following day I met a new friend for a hike along the beach and we wandered for hours, spending time over a mango tea freeze thereafter, I went home satiated in soul. My weekend more nourishing than any dose of ‘medicine’ could ever offer.
Today, this gorgeous Independence day, (after a week solid of dreary, grey rain and low temperatures) I spent the day in the verdant outdoors of the wonderland that is my home. We trekked the more technical upper Platte River via kayak and canoe. Lathering with sunscreen I readied myself for the long hike down the river, wondering how long it might take us, hopeful for the day to last forever. Although time spent in miscellaneous pods throughout the trip was frequent, my luxury was the slow, swift times alone, listening to birdcalls and smelling cold river water. Watching black & teal winged fireflies alight on my shoulder and collecting algae covered rocks, while waiting for the canoers to catch up. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I beam, for I am intertwined with the sweetest mix of family and friend. With children aplenty, I never feel lonely for the children who have gone. I see them in the gleaming bright eyes of Ada and Abby, of Nadia, Sonja, Noah and Jackson, Ezra and Olive. I hear their laughter in Isaac’s guttural guffaw and Casey’s sweet cackle. I am rare to pine for the soul mate I live without, for I am surrounded by so much love and support and friendship, that I hardly realize my solitude.
© Jenn Ryan 2009
On this historic day, in this historic time of Obama, I sit back, reflect and think about the little ‘nation’ of my own small life. I sort of think of it more as a tribe or a posse, but reflecting on that piece of the definition—‘a group of people united by a common interest’ I find it resonating with some thoughts from the day and the past week.
Somewhere between teenage angst and early adulthood I must’ve imagined what life would be like—as grown ups. I do not recall it exactly in the way I have been told by many girlfriends—the planning, the binders and pages of dresses and steps. No, I never imagined a wedding or who the groom might be. I did not pine secretly for a shiny engagement ring and the car, house, and 2.25 children that so many planned and saved for. But I did, I’m sure, imagine what life might have in store for me.
I had a thing for the ‘Brat Pack’ at one time. I remember secretly pining for the camaraderie of the St Elmo’s Fire gang (sans all the dysfunction as an idealistic teenager). I hoped that even if single, that I had a gaggle of friends—boys and girls, couples and singles—kids and dogs and Frisbees and picnics and camping. Holidays and birthdays, sometimes shared. Thanksgivings and Bat Mitzvahs, Christenings and Halloween costumes. Life and death and happily ever after, all wrapped up in the snotty shirtsleeves of the best friends (and family) who would always be there—who you’d always be there for.
In my adult life I’ve transplanted myself a number of times. I’ve removed the familiar and immersed within the brand new. Time has passed, and in every single instance, I have been incredibly fortunate. I have located a nurturing cell of living, breathing, lively, talented, compassionate, conscientious, fantastic human beings. They have become my extended family so many times, and now, as I find myself back ‘home’ in my mid-thirties, I am both rediscovering antiquated acquaintances as well as rekindling familial bonds. Day in and day out I realize that I have found my truest north—my most amazing circle—my nation, my tribe, my posse, and my heart.
An example of my amazing communal circle was evident last Saturday. Dear friends were celebrating the ninth birthday of their oldest daughter. A late afternoon soiree involving pirates and fairies, a treasure hunt, and then plentiful bootie ala potluck found an amalgam of friends and families conjoining to imbibe and enjoy. After chomping on the delicious vegetarian fare we were entertained with a talent show. From adults spewing bad pirate jokes and children singing solos and reciting their original poetry, we were transfixed and beholden to each other for the magic most certainly in the air.
The really fabulous reality of the event was that the humidity was ridiculous, producing sometimes downpours and most of the time, small air raids of needle-nose mosquito beaks. Ugh! The itching!! Yet we all stayed—for hours past when we might normally have fled for dear life. The following day I met a new friend for a hike along the beach and we wandered for hours, spending time over a mango tea freeze thereafter, I went home satiated in soul. My weekend more nourishing than any dose of ‘medicine’ could ever offer.
Today, this gorgeous Independence day, (after a week solid of dreary, grey rain and low temperatures) I spent the day in the verdant outdoors of the wonderland that is my home. We trekked the more technical upper Platte River via kayak and canoe. Lathering with sunscreen I readied myself for the long hike down the river, wondering how long it might take us, hopeful for the day to last forever. Although time spent in miscellaneous pods throughout the trip was frequent, my luxury was the slow, swift times alone, listening to birdcalls and smelling cold river water. Watching black & teal winged fireflies alight on my shoulder and collecting algae covered rocks, while waiting for the canoers to catch up. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I beam, for I am intertwined with the sweetest mix of family and friend. With children aplenty, I never feel lonely for the children who have gone. I see them in the gleaming bright eyes of Ada and Abby, of Nadia, Sonja, Noah and Jackson, Ezra and Olive. I hear their laughter in Isaac’s guttural guffaw and Casey’s sweet cackle. I am rare to pine for the soul mate I live without, for I am surrounded by so much love and support and friendship, that I hardly realize my solitude.
© Jenn Ryan 2009
Devotion
For my Daddio…
Sauntering from the entryway, across the khaki-speckled carpet and up the two walnut stained wooden steps from living to dining room, his steps are purposed. The telltale sign of his ‘summer tan’ on the honey brown skin of his muscled legs—markings that reveal his line of outdoor work.
He works five days a week outside—the sunshine beating down upon his sixty year old body in all the uncovered places. In summertime we smile when seeing him out of his work boots, walking barefoot through the kitchen or on the sandy beach of the Lake Michigan shoreline in his swim trunks. Out of his normal disguise, we see lighter spaces of skin—from mid calf to toe tip and mid thigh to hipbone. They beam from their usual hiding spots (behind Gore-tex® work boot and ruddy-brown or olive green cargo shorts).
As is his ritual, he lets out a soft, sweet, ‘hey babe,’ hoping to find her somewhere nearby. Looking to extend another dose of love—a squeeze of shoulder or tush, a rub of ribcage—the warm habit of this man among women. Plodding one foot in front of the other he drops off his aging lunch cooler empties two drops of black coffee from the metal-green thermos—the age of which dates back to even before 1986 I believe. It was in his pickup truck and therefore survived the blazing house fire.
Placing small reused plastic Baggies of leftover carrots and crackers on the countertop near the pantry, another of his daily routines is complete. As he steps across the hardwood floor she slips from around the corner and the calloused palm of his right hand outstretches to reach for her.
If I were a scientist I might outfit him with a probe and measure the heart-swell possessed of his own accord. It would certainly chart top—the Richter scale having no experience with his level of devotion.
Sauntering from the entryway, across the khaki-speckled carpet and up the two walnut stained wooden steps from living to dining room, his steps are purposed. The telltale sign of his ‘summer tan’ on the honey brown skin of his muscled legs—markings that reveal his line of outdoor work.
He works five days a week outside—the sunshine beating down upon his sixty year old body in all the uncovered places. In summertime we smile when seeing him out of his work boots, walking barefoot through the kitchen or on the sandy beach of the Lake Michigan shoreline in his swim trunks. Out of his normal disguise, we see lighter spaces of skin—from mid calf to toe tip and mid thigh to hipbone. They beam from their usual hiding spots (behind Gore-tex® work boot and ruddy-brown or olive green cargo shorts).
As is his ritual, he lets out a soft, sweet, ‘hey babe,’ hoping to find her somewhere nearby. Looking to extend another dose of love—a squeeze of shoulder or tush, a rub of ribcage—the warm habit of this man among women. Plodding one foot in front of the other he drops off his aging lunch cooler empties two drops of black coffee from the metal-green thermos—the age of which dates back to even before 1986 I believe. It was in his pickup truck and therefore survived the blazing house fire.
Placing small reused plastic Baggies of leftover carrots and crackers on the countertop near the pantry, another of his daily routines is complete. As he steps across the hardwood floor she slips from around the corner and the calloused palm of his right hand outstretches to reach for her.
If I were a scientist I might outfit him with a probe and measure the heart-swell possessed of his own accord. It would certainly chart top—the Richter scale having no experience with his level of devotion.
26 June 2009
soul sun
thin veil reveal
green tree
deep
brown
earth...
i smell rain on your hands
look there... past the blue deep
beyond the grey-white, billowy cloud
there above the hills
over the undulating tree line
i see her...
feel that soul sun
high
in the abysmal expanse
i feel her warmth
rooted in my belly
soul shine
leap from rooftop
intrinsic as dew drop
speckle forehead
and brow
with your heat glow
glisten
and
slide.
green tree
deep
brown
earth...
i smell rain on your hands
look there... past the blue deep
beyond the grey-white, billowy cloud
there above the hills
over the undulating tree line
i see her...
feel that soul sun
high
in the abysmal expanse
i feel her warmth
rooted in my belly
soul shine
leap from rooftop
intrinsic as dew drop
speckle forehead
and brow
with your heat glow
glisten
and
slide.
17 June 2009
On Baking
Leaning over the sink, I glanced out the window, peaking at a chubby spring robin, breast of burnt umber. Flipping the knob to 350, removing the wok and cornflower blue cast iron skillet, I set about organizing some counter space and to begin baking.
I find the art of baking does not take much effort. It’s actually quite simple—follow and or create consistent directions, contribute to your local economy by investing in really good ingredients, and almost just as essential as organic, free range eggs, [please] ensure you add a healthy dose of ‘good guys’ (as my dear friend Ben refers to ‘good vibes’)… what I mean to say is when baking, ‘commence with a happy heart!’
I have learned (the hard way) over the years, that no different than a teaspoon versus tablespoon misstep, if you come to the kitchen with a kink in your attitude, you might just as well ‘fuggetabout it’ and go buy your prospective gift recipients a hearty box of Newman-O’s!
I am keen on using separate bowls for dry and wet ingredients. Ideally, I enjoy using my shorter, stouter, sea-green ceramic bowl (a gift from my aunt) for dry ingredients, and my sister’s deep indigo-blue ceramic piece for wet. About two years ago, I treated myself to the purchase of a large sterling silver bowl that is perfect for extra large batches of dough—lately though, I have preferred the handmade pottery to the hammered metal.
Due to some serious issues with procrastination and an inability to prioritize what I would like to do with what I think I have to do. I typically do not plan in advance to bake. It’s often a spontaneous reaction to the reminder of an important date of some kind. In this haste, the butter is never at room temperature and I usually slow-melt it in one of my blue saucepans.
I’ve found that baking is its’ own form of therapy. In particular, I enjoy the method to this art, the grace of bouncing around the kitchen, listening to some good music, or perhaps Car Talk on a Saturday morning. I dig the ritual of putting on my apron—I have an assorted collection, small but sentimental. Customarily, I am baking for someone or something—some kind of communal event—or a birthday, a thank you, and every so often, as a way to repay someone, barter-style, for a service they offered to me. Sometimes my aunt will edit some of my ad copy or a short piece of marketing collateral, and although I do not have the budget she deserves, she’s happy to receive my thanks and a dozen chocolate chip cookies.
Another little idiosyncrasy of my baking practice includes amassing all of the ingredients and the properly sized measuring cups and spoons so they are sitting on the counter in little groups—the dry with the dry, the wet with the wet. At some point, I will need to add a colorful, ceramic collection of ramekins to this arsenal…making this seemingly OCD activity as harmonized as possibly… ostensibly synchronized appropriately.
For some reason, I always start with the wet ingredients—maybe it’s the way I was taught or the way all of the recipes I’ve ever perused are written. Maybe it’s because I find that if you slowly add your dry ingredients to the wet ones that mixing is simpler, and you know right away if something is off with your dough consistency. It also aids in not producing a white, puffy cloud of dry ingredients during a plot of wet into dry.
The last time I baked, as I went from preparing wet ingredients to dry, I realized I had not grabbed the all-important sifter for my baking stockpile and reached into my baking-pantry shelves to grab it. When I did, I pirouetted from one side of the kitchen to the other (my kitchen set up is two long strips (including sink/stove/refrigerator and countertops) separated by a narrow piece of hardwood floor. The baking pantry is on one side and the space I was using for preparation was across the floor, next to the sink. So in this movement—one that I do almost repetitively while baking, was a moment. In it were my grandma’s hands.
As memory often does, it sneaks up on you, sensorily… the fragment of an image or sound or scent reminds and transports. In my moment there, I had traveled from my dissimilar, black-counter-topped kitchen with a window overlooking the side yard, to my gram’s kitchen, there on Platte Road, (not the large, white, cavernous grandparent’s home of my youth. It had long-ago been destroyed and traded-in for an expanded bank parking lot and a fat bag of cash; no, it was the diminutive, ‘retirement’ spot, just down the way, where they both came to die that I speak of). Where the out-of-date, gold speckled Formica met the sink and the sink was in front of a window overlooking the backyard.
My grandparents were both wonderful craft persons particularly in the kitchen—my grandma a master pie (crust in particular) and pound cake baker (among myriad other talents) and my grandpa an excellent baklava and rice pudding aficionado.
In fact if it weren’t for my gram’s stellar piecrust, I might not be on the planet! My mom, a spritely 16-year-old waitress at the local diner served pie baked with that recipe to an older, hippie, just home from Vietnam. When he learned that it was her mother’s recipe, he asked if she knew how to bake pie like that. Flirtatiously, she hurriedly answered ‘yes!’ and later begged her mother to teach her, straightaway.
I lived, briefly in my grandparent’s ‘retirement’ home after they both had past away. Even before that though, two of the treasures granted me from their kitchen supplies were the silvery metal measuring spoon set and old-fashioned tin sifter.
Every time I bake I think of her, the worn metal of the teaspoon in her fingertips—she had the loveliest hands and nails—soft and sumptuous. Whenever I pick the spoons up, and they clank together, I imagine the way she may have wiped the last smidge of vanilla onto her apron, so she could measure baking soda next.
Sighing now, with the deep, satisfying inhalation of acceptance that memory has a magical way of stirring and healing the spirit, I realize that in that one iota of remembrance, that I am now writing about, that it is not just gram’s hands to remember… maybe it’s the approach of Father’s Day, but in fact, I recognize that I think of them, for they shared a kitchen for more than 50 years, and Grandpa’s knack was diverse and delicious.
I find the art of baking does not take much effort. It’s actually quite simple—follow and or create consistent directions, contribute to your local economy by investing in really good ingredients, and almost just as essential as organic, free range eggs, [please] ensure you add a healthy dose of ‘good guys’ (as my dear friend Ben refers to ‘good vibes’)… what I mean to say is when baking, ‘commence with a happy heart!’
I have learned (the hard way) over the years, that no different than a teaspoon versus tablespoon misstep, if you come to the kitchen with a kink in your attitude, you might just as well ‘fuggetabout it’ and go buy your prospective gift recipients a hearty box of Newman-O’s!
I am keen on using separate bowls for dry and wet ingredients. Ideally, I enjoy using my shorter, stouter, sea-green ceramic bowl (a gift from my aunt) for dry ingredients, and my sister’s deep indigo-blue ceramic piece for wet. About two years ago, I treated myself to the purchase of a large sterling silver bowl that is perfect for extra large batches of dough—lately though, I have preferred the handmade pottery to the hammered metal.
Due to some serious issues with procrastination and an inability to prioritize what I would like to do with what I think I have to do. I typically do not plan in advance to bake. It’s often a spontaneous reaction to the reminder of an important date of some kind. In this haste, the butter is never at room temperature and I usually slow-melt it in one of my blue saucepans.
I’ve found that baking is its’ own form of therapy. In particular, I enjoy the method to this art, the grace of bouncing around the kitchen, listening to some good music, or perhaps Car Talk on a Saturday morning. I dig the ritual of putting on my apron—I have an assorted collection, small but sentimental. Customarily, I am baking for someone or something—some kind of communal event—or a birthday, a thank you, and every so often, as a way to repay someone, barter-style, for a service they offered to me. Sometimes my aunt will edit some of my ad copy or a short piece of marketing collateral, and although I do not have the budget she deserves, she’s happy to receive my thanks and a dozen chocolate chip cookies.
Another little idiosyncrasy of my baking practice includes amassing all of the ingredients and the properly sized measuring cups and spoons so they are sitting on the counter in little groups—the dry with the dry, the wet with the wet. At some point, I will need to add a colorful, ceramic collection of ramekins to this arsenal…making this seemingly OCD activity as harmonized as possibly… ostensibly synchronized appropriately.
For some reason, I always start with the wet ingredients—maybe it’s the way I was taught or the way all of the recipes I’ve ever perused are written. Maybe it’s because I find that if you slowly add your dry ingredients to the wet ones that mixing is simpler, and you know right away if something is off with your dough consistency. It also aids in not producing a white, puffy cloud of dry ingredients during a plot of wet into dry.
The last time I baked, as I went from preparing wet ingredients to dry, I realized I had not grabbed the all-important sifter for my baking stockpile and reached into my baking-pantry shelves to grab it. When I did, I pirouetted from one side of the kitchen to the other (my kitchen set up is two long strips (including sink/stove/refrigerator and countertops) separated by a narrow piece of hardwood floor. The baking pantry is on one side and the space I was using for preparation was across the floor, next to the sink. So in this movement—one that I do almost repetitively while baking, was a moment. In it were my grandma’s hands.
As memory often does, it sneaks up on you, sensorily… the fragment of an image or sound or scent reminds and transports. In my moment there, I had traveled from my dissimilar, black-counter-topped kitchen with a window overlooking the side yard, to my gram’s kitchen, there on Platte Road, (not the large, white, cavernous grandparent’s home of my youth. It had long-ago been destroyed and traded-in for an expanded bank parking lot and a fat bag of cash; no, it was the diminutive, ‘retirement’ spot, just down the way, where they both came to die that I speak of). Where the out-of-date, gold speckled Formica met the sink and the sink was in front of a window overlooking the backyard.
My grandparents were both wonderful craft persons particularly in the kitchen—my grandma a master pie (crust in particular) and pound cake baker (among myriad other talents) and my grandpa an excellent baklava and rice pudding aficionado.
In fact if it weren’t for my gram’s stellar piecrust, I might not be on the planet! My mom, a spritely 16-year-old waitress at the local diner served pie baked with that recipe to an older, hippie, just home from Vietnam. When he learned that it was her mother’s recipe, he asked if she knew how to bake pie like that. Flirtatiously, she hurriedly answered ‘yes!’ and later begged her mother to teach her, straightaway.
I lived, briefly in my grandparent’s ‘retirement’ home after they both had past away. Even before that though, two of the treasures granted me from their kitchen supplies were the silvery metal measuring spoon set and old-fashioned tin sifter.
Every time I bake I think of her, the worn metal of the teaspoon in her fingertips—she had the loveliest hands and nails—soft and sumptuous. Whenever I pick the spoons up, and they clank together, I imagine the way she may have wiped the last smidge of vanilla onto her apron, so she could measure baking soda next.
Sighing now, with the deep, satisfying inhalation of acceptance that memory has a magical way of stirring and healing the spirit, I realize that in that one iota of remembrance, that I am now writing about, that it is not just gram’s hands to remember… maybe it’s the approach of Father’s Day, but in fact, I recognize that I think of them, for they shared a kitchen for more than 50 years, and Grandpa’s knack was diverse and delicious.
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