Preparing to Feast

Yesterday morning I pulled out the cook books and began creating the list of ingredients for our Thanksgiving feast. Beyond creating a spread sheet of who is bringing what and what we are fixing, this is the first action I have taken in preparing to feed nearly thirty people who will arrive at my in-laws home around 2:30 on Thursday. My sister, who is my co-chef, is much more organized than I when it comes to planning. She will sift through recipes and create lists days prior to the actual cooking day. She has a calculated schedule for shopping, preparing and cooking times. I, in my twirling fashion, always forget something then add something else within the same taste range then promptly pray the dish turns out correctly. She’s grown accustomed to my twirling and has taken to the mantra of “Cindy will pull it off. She always does” to reassure herself the meal will turn out as expected.  

As I was flipping through the books, my husband’s words of “Don’t cook any crazy [crap] no one will eat” floated in and out of my messy mind. If he had his way, he would eat turkey, mashed potatoes, macaroni & cheese and Reese Cups for dessert. His palette isn’t one of grand exploration. Mine, however, is and without a map I forged deep into the world of culinary creation for about two full hours. Because of my big imagination, I could smell the food based upon their ingredient list containing rich warm spices and sugars roasting or baking in the oven and could see the spread laid out in the kitchen. I thought “this is what I want our guests to smell upon entering the house” or “this would satisfy the need for red food amidst a sea of orange and white.”

Reading the cook books sent me to the Internet searching for recipes for squash, leeks, pomegranate and other harvest foods. I rarely follow a recipe, which frustrates my sister, who does, and my husband, who occasionally would like an exact repeat performance of a certain dish. I generally first read about a specific food like asparagus then I move to recipes that include it then I move to the what if column of my messy mind, which leads me back to the reading about the nuances in taste of another food that just may work with the original. After I have finished my research, I generally write the recipe idea on a random piece of paper pulled from the trash and allow it to marinate for a few days. I have Cindy recipes written on the backs of receipts, envelopes and index cards shoved into a basket that sits on the shelf of the kitchen.

As I exited the culinary world and entered the mom world of preparing the children and myself for church, I recalled the movie Babette’s Feast I watched while in college. At the time, I couldn’t recall reading Isak Dinesen’s short story, which struck me as odd for a literature major. I was grateful for the reprieve in the heavy reading schedule of the 300 level religion course the movie day gave. I didn’t expect to fall in love.

In a dreary Denmark town of puritanical Lutherans, Babette wins the lottery. Everyone in the town believes she will return to her native France with her winnings. She, instead, chooses to cook a fabulous feast for the ladies who employ her. They think she has lost her entire mind when boats filled with live quail, cheeses, wines, fruits and other rich foods arrive on the island. This community’s ideological foundation denies worldly pleasures in order to gain spiritual purity. Babette, who dreams of a lavish feast, while preparing and eating the daily meal of the bland soup and bread, views the world as a place to frolic and enjoy. Her boats filled with luxurious food and the extravagant meal were a direct assault on this foundation. I watched this woman, consumed with focus and delight, chop vegetables, pluck birds and taste the most luxurious looking sauces. She was pouring herself into the creation of this one meal in such a beautiful way that I could not help but watch her movement with awe.

In the end, the ladies, although they delighted in the meal, did not express their joy or their appreciation for the feast. They chose to keep their praises for Babette and ultimately for God, who provided the feast and Babette’s gift to create it, to themselves. A man at the table, I believe an old general, was outwardly grateful. He paused and absolutely relished each bite. He, when presented with a new dish, gasped in awe. His response I remember quite clearly. It is my own when presented with rich delicious foods.

Although I won’t be plucking my own hens or serving quail eggs, I hope to channel Babette’s passion and knowledge. I’m uncertain what my God’s gift is exactly, but I know cooking is not it. With me, perhaps due to the twirling, it is always a gamble. In my attempt to please the wide variety of craves and yet push slightly beyond them, I crash with flames and smoke as often as I soar into the clouds. This has not stopped my fascination and love of cooking. I hope that somehow my love and delight in cooking paired with the deep love and gratitude I have for my family shines through on Thursday.

Food is the great equalizer, providing universal joy without bias. Remember, you can always love people through food.

- Michael Chiarello

 

 

Giving the Princess Moment

Yesterday I spent a large amount of money – approximately $67. This includes the change Terry gave me after a man paid for firewood in quarters and also the change I found while doing laundry. Characteristically, when I spend large amounts of money like this, I am usually at the grocery store or paying a bill. I usually discuss anything else with Terry beforehand. I didn’t purchase groceries, pay a bill or discuss it with anyone. I received some money a few weeks ago and didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do with it. Thoughts of stashing it to buy an iPod that holds 5,000 songs or to drive to Illinois to see my dear friend and my grandma crossed my mind. After much prayer and consideration, I decided to spend a bit on Delaney Sue, who needs winter clothes and small things like socks and panties.

Delaney Sue, our only girl, is made from a wonderful twirling mold. She is growing into the sort of woman who will get her heart broken again and again and again, but is built for endurance so will still retain her current hopeful romantic view. For this bravery and courage, I simply delight in her. Because she is my daughter, I also worry. I don’t want her to experience what I have. I want better.

I am not a shopper so I struggle when I do go shopping. A friend of mine tells me it takes practice much like a sport. I always reply I’m not athletic. Because of the mom crew I have in my life, I was told where to go to find good deals. My intention was to purchase panties and a couple of shirts.

As I walked through the little girl’s section in militant style checking prices and fashion, I recalled Delaney’s likes and dislikes from previous conversations. She wants leggings and shirts that said ‘peace’ and ‘love.’ She wants clothes that wouldn’t restrict the upside down monkey bar tricks she loves to do. I wanted things that were not hoochie, a word we use frequently around our house, and did not contain sassy comments. I debated when looking at t-shirts that were marked down to $2, thinking I could purchase one at the thrift store for $1 or less. Delaney, then, would then get two t-shirts. Delaney, then, would be at best the second owner. When my internal voice stated this fact, my heart sank. I deeply wanted to give Delaney her own brand new clothes with store tags still on them. I wanted her to be the first owner. When I realized this, I slowed down and began to earnestly look in order to purchase.

To feel like a princess is a pretty big deal when you’re a girl. In my nearly forty years, I have learned it is the littlest things that send me soaring into the taffeta rustling and bouquet scented air of a princess moment. I am sent over the edge by the gentleness of an email expressing love and gratitude specifically written to me. I will well up in joy when someone brings me coffee at the office or a pop and candy for no reason. I am always knocked over when someone remembers my love of cake and brings me a piece from a random party. In silly girl fashion, my eyes fill with tears.

Quite aware of the amount of money I had, I went first to the clearance racks and looked at items that had sale stickers before looking for her size. Complete outfits are important to Delaney. The need for clothing suited for colder weather was also important. I chose several coordinating long sleeve t-shirts to wear under t-shirts and tunics I found on the clearance racks. I ran out of money before I could get her a pair of shoes. I know shoes make the outfit and new shoes send both of us over the top with joy. We prance.

When Delaney tried on her clothes last night, she jumped around in each item saying they fit perfectly. She kept saying “Look, Mama, I can exercise and dance in them.” Jack Rice, who was also in the living room for the fashion show, offered his opinions of “I like that one, Delaney” and asked a couple of times “Is that a dress or a really big shirt?” Boy opinions about and attention to girl clothes, even younger brother opinions, are important. We all, despite age, want to see in a man’s eyes we are beautiful, that we are noticed. I’m glad Jack Rice was there with his five year old glances and questions in between ball tosses. As I asked Delaney to put away her new clothes and get on her pajamas, I decided I would take her photo this morning in the outfit she chose to wear. I was curious to see which would be picked first and was hoping to provide her with one more small princess moment before sending her off to school.

 

I believe she tried on two different outfits before the final decision was made. She also pulled her hair back into a pony tail and added a pretty pink clip.

 

In a Field, I Will Meet You

I want to live near water, preferably in a tidal marsh. I want to walk out my door in the morning to be greeted by the wet, sweet smell of earth where it meets water. I want mud. I want the grass to be as tall as I so that when the wind blows I can hear it move like crinoline and watch it sway and ripple in unison with the water just beyond it. “Perhaps this can be found in North Carolina,” I told him, laughing, as we drove to lunch years ago. I don’t recall what prompted such a vulnerable description.

Then he told a story of a drive he took to the beach. He said he was listening to music and not thinking much when he rounded a curve. There before him was a hilly field filled with yellow flowers with dark centers. Light brown cows were grazing. The sky was crystal blue. The clouds were just right, barely there. The sun was perfect, not too bright, not too dull. “I don’t like cows, but I wanted to stop and look,” he said. “It was pastoral,” he stuttered now eyes widening and hands moving from the wheel. “It was perfect. It took my breath away.” We sat quietly for a minute. “I like that. I like that a lot,” I said, smiling at him as we turned the corner. I delighted in his vision of that mysterious beauty that pulls us back to ourselves, to the ground to heal and comfort. I delighted knowing that he, a well-spoken man, was grasping for words to describe this unexpected beauty and falling short, but continued his story bravely.

I was introduced to Rumi while in high school. One of my hippy type friends had a book. I read them to be cool. It wasn’t until I was in college swirling in poetry and its metaphors and mechanics, that Rumi yoked me like a cheerful ox. I hadn’t read him in years. My thin books were lost in a move from here to there. Later that night, while I was doing dishes and other mom chores, I was still smiling and soaking in my friend’s flower field when, unexpectedly, Rumi came to mind.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.

The following night, I, with complete abandon and intention, bought a canvas to paint this. It would be a gift for my friend’s new home. It would be stunning in the entry way above the stairs. With the hope it would remind him, I began to put oils on the canvas. I am not an artist therefore my mental image did not match the reality. I never gave him the painting. It has hung in my hallway, appropriately around a corner, since then. Each time I truly see it, I recall this man and his story. I lift a prayer for his heart, that it remains open to receive what God gifts him. I whisper my love to him with the holiness of a true, deep friend. I wonder if he hears grass differently.

 

Eve at Clear Branch Methodist’s Men’s Sermon

I am not a man and I am glad for it. It is true that when in a boat, traveling in the woods or on a desolate road, I wish I were a man so I could relieve myself more easily. It is true that while moving boxes and furniture, I wish I were a man so I could lift and push with more strength. It is true that while negotiating the annual raise, I wish I were a man so my voice did not fade into the white noise piped into office buildings and elevators. Beyond these simple items, I don’t have penis envy. I am satisfied with my vagina. This is what I thought walking into church with my family.

We are visiting Clear Branch Methodist Church, my parents’ church, during the “Where Have the Men Gone” series. I found previous study notes under the paper towels in the kitchen so I knew what I would be walking into for the most part – a series on making men more Godly. I also knew I would have to hunker down and listen hard because my mind would drift. I am raising three boys, who I long to become not only independent so they are capable of caring for themselves, i.e. laundry, food and work ethic, but also dependent Godly men so they know when to stop, take a step back and pray before acting. I needed to listen to glean an insight into boy brains. This is what I thought walking into church with my family.

The preacher talked at us in a commercial like fashion as he pulled strong points from books by Bob Lepine, John Eldredge, the Bible and others. I listened to him move from husbandhood to fatherhood and back again. I, against my intentions, found myself listening as I do when my husband channel surfs in the evening – in and out, in and out, twirling around in my messy mind. Then this charismatic man said “If you don’t know who you are, someone will tell you.” This is a good bumper sticker saying. I wrote it down. I know it’ll stick.

In my girl messy mind fashion, I wandered to Genesis, the root of man and woman’s identity. Eve, believing Satan Snake’s lies that God was holding out on her, took his fruit, bit then handed it to Adam. Of course, tons of commentary has been written about Eve leading Adam into sin, about women as the weaker sex and as the source of the greatest tragedy. I’ve always thought, in my defensive way, “Right back at you, Cowboy.” I read about two years ago a book, the title of which escapes me, that confirmed both man and woman’s sin. As good books do, it confirmed portions, denied portions and deepened my understanding of Our Fall.

Because I don’t believe that in any marriage only one person is to blame ever for a tragedy, be it big or small, I have always looked at Adam, too. He, too, made a choice. Eve didn’t jump into her SUV and drive across town to bring him this forbidden fruit; she turned around to hand him the fruit. He was standing right there. Adam, who saw the whole thing go down – watched the serpent’s approach, saw his bride’s face twist in thought and heard the slithery words, didn’t gather her safely into his arms, saying gently “Hey Baby, I know a great place to watch the gazelle down by the river. Wanna go?” to pull her out of evil’s grasp or chop the Satan Snake in two with a hoe. He chose to do nothing.

As I listened to this man in church, I wondered when he was going to address this point blank, when he was going to grab the bull by the horn and take it to the ground. I wanted a fight. I wanted to battle for men’s hearts, for my man’s heart and my son’s hearts. I wanted to hear this preacher say “We, fellas, are the Sons of Adam and prone to laziness and passiveness or physical and verbal violence and ambition. Chose your poison, fellas. We are cursed. Damn it all. This isn’t how God made us.” I longed to hear him say “Go to God, fellas. He’ll tell you who you are. Throw off Lucifer’s Pride.”

The preacher didn’t say how God sees men and how all men are the Sons of Adam. He, instead, gave steps to carve out time, listed the three kinds of conversation, gave warnings of “You [listen] now or you’ll [listen] in front of a counselor or you’ll be divorced” and the maxim “By ignoring or squashing the emotional needs of others, we abuse the gifts God has entrusted us with.” I envisioned a manual containing the black and white stick man graphic sitting on the couch in front of Sports Center or Myth Busters and the giant black “X” going through it. Perhaps manuals were the way to go when speaking to men about God. My husband reads and keeps the manuals to everything. He has a filing cabinet filled with carefully labeled folders for “Chainsaw – Homelite” and other stuff. I’ve seen them.

While drawing swirls and flowers on the program, I mocked the preacher in my best boisterousness man chuckle – “This, fellas, is how to get laid…Listen to your woman…This, fellas, is how not to fall flat on your face…And get laid…this, fellas, is how to raise decent children…And get laid.” If men like manuals and men are highly motivated by the promise of sex then this definitely was the way to go to get men to act Godly. The title could be “Get Laid Today. God can help!” I wondered how my husband would label this manual’s folder in the filing cabinet.

I truly wanted to holler “My husband is man enough, is strong enough, is smart enough, is just enough. He can handle anything, including me. And I’m one hot mess!” I don’t care who hears me say it. I’m not scared to say it out loud. I am a hot mess. And my husband, God’s saving gift, is freaking awesome. I don’t understand why this man didn’t say it out loud to everyone. I wanted him to get fired up and talk about God’s love and God’s intentions for us. I could feel my mouth and brow crinkled up in disgust and disappointment as I walked out of the theater like sanctuary to pick up the children.

With hot passion, the questions flew fast in my girl brain. Was he afraid to say it because he owns passivity or is violent in his way? Is he unable to say his sin out loud? Isn’t that what confession is? Aren’t we all the same? Did we miss this part in series? Was it contained in Sunday 1 or Sunday 2? Regardless of what Sunday, isn’t it important enough to be repeated over and over again? Why was he withholding the best juiciest part? This is what I thought entering the church parking lot.

Then I laughed. I am a woman. I am self-reliant. I long to be tall and thought of as beautiful, ravishing and desirable to certain crowds. I, without fear, will take up the sword when deemed necessary. Because I have little physical strength, I may not slice clean, but I won’t stop until I smell blood. Even a trickle will do. Just give me the opportunity and a bit of control. I battle loneliness. I succumb to its melancholy and I cry tears of remorse. I am the Daughter of Eve. Damn it all. This is what I thought approaching the car.

The preacher’s repetition of the proverb “A patient man has great understanding, but a quick tempered man displays folly” twirled though my brain. James direction to be “slow to speak, quick to listen and slow to anger” twirled behind. Then I thought, full of the fearless search and spunk He gave me, “Hey God, I’ll meet You at the river. And I’ll bring the sandwiches. You’ve got the drinks, right? I’m suddenly quite thirsty.” I was still chuckling at the burn of smack down when I responded to my husband by saying “I liked the message. A lot. But the music didn’t yoke me. I had a hard time catching the beat. I’m a woman. I give it a six overall.”

 

What I Received Wednesday

A much needed prayer in my inbox

Gracious God, it seems that what most holds my attention are those things and people that I can see, touch, hear, and feel. Yet, in the moments of my day when my mind is still, my soul is quiet, and my breath is slow and even, I can almost detect a whiff of your presence. These precious times are all too fleeting; they slip away almost as quickly as they come. The phone rings, my child cries, a colleague needs my assistance, or my mind just simply gets distracted. Help me know, O God, that you are still present with me, even in my distractions and interruptions. But also help me savor those spiritually centered moments so much that I will make room in my life for more of them. When I am impatient because I can’t see, touch, hear, or feel you, let your love seep surely into me until my heart turns back to you in surprise and delight. Amen.

source: explorefaith.org I must have signed up for something, but I don’t recall exactly what. I don’t recall going here, but am grateful I did at some point.

A thought on blue paper

Here now, is the right place for you to wrestle before the divine face. If you remain firm, if you do not bend, you shall see and perceive great wonders. You will discover how Christ will storm the hell in you and will break you beasts.

source: bottom of my purse, written in my hand in black marker. author unknown.

 

Second Hand Offerings

I was weighing and measuring. I was a bit ill with the rush caused by their early arrival. I was in pajamas. My dirty clothes, underwear visible, laid on the floor of our hotel room. I had dawdled because I believed I could. Dawdling, as it usually is, was a mistake. Now these people were here and I was smiling and getting ready as if I was late for work. I listened as the woman, who wore black socks with her blue marbled crocs and one line of black eyeliner across the bottom of her eye, told of a school reunion and the perils of Katrina while I put on my mascara. I listened as this man asked my husband questions about the canoe trip photos on our camera. I gathered up my dress for dinner.

I prayed in that nutso sort of way I have for an openness of heart while applying lotion and dressing in the tiny bathroom. When I emerged, I saw their disconnect. This man, sitting in our hotel room, putting my canoe hat on his head and chuckling nervously, is a stranger to me and to my husband even though he is considered his father. The undertow was strong in their stream of small talk. The man knew it, felt it, because after all he is a sailor, who is familiar with tides and winds and hidden pulls. The obligation was evident in my husband’s stance and response. This man was trying so hard to connect.

The woman was watching her husband. Wearing the mask of non-chalance, she sought approval by means of prestige. Her father and family did this or that. This painting came from here or there. These are her pieces and she is moving in this or that direction. During this visit, he did not, as he did when I first met him, present the book of diplomas and ship photos. He was treading and listening.

During dinner, the man would preface stories by saying “I may be exaggerating” or “I could have the details wrong.” One story told was about Terry’s older brother. This man relayed it with the pride and awe that parents have for their children. He had not been present. I realized, in the car crash kind of way, he knew his children and grandchildren as if they were characters in a novel. I heard in his voice the longing to be a placed closer to the middle of these stories that weren’t really his.

His wife, in the way women do, was pulling stories up from memory that had been delivered by others about our lives. She dropped tidbits before asking a question. She was weighing and measuring too. She gauged responses to her knowledge before either changing the subject or moving onto the next topic. She retained her watchful, bored look.

While I ate creamy shrimp, I looked to my sweet husband’s face for a response when a story was relayed or a detail was dropped. I only heard the “yeah” that acknowledged a partial listen and saw his jaw tighten a couple of times. He is stoic. Sometimes Terry would ask a question. Sometimes he would offer a small story of our own about the children. Sometimes I would chime in, but was aware that it may be best to simply sit and chew.

When the man began prefacing his questions and stories with “Terry knows I was a bad father,” while lingering over the plate of fried seafood, I could not hold my face as well as my husband. My eyes filled with compassion and my brow furrowed. I spun the noodles around my fork. I wanted to whisper the forgiveness that wasn’t mine to give. Following neglect, I craved the same reconciliation as he. I always have. In my life, I have needed this given to me and needed this given by me. I couldn’t look at his wife.

In the driveway, I hugged them fully. I prayed silently that this small act would provide comfort and worth. This second hand offering was all I could do, all I had to give.

 

Swamp Nudity

Hot and sticky

We have successfully made to what I call big water – flat, wide and murky brown. We have left the shade of the groves and the sun is hot on our heads, shoulders and backs. We have become a human buffet for biting bugs. I can hear them buzzing. We have seen deer running through the stew like banks and swimming across the water. We have seen snowy white egrets perched high in moss covered trees and at the water’s edge. Their necks lurch from gentle “S” to straight arrow before flight. Sometimes they call; sometimes they don’t. We’ve seen and heard wild canaries and other nameless birds. We’ve glided through the creepy swamp spiders’ webs that cross from one branch to another over the water. We have not seen a human for hours. We have not seen an alligator.

“I’m getting in. I’m hot,” I say to Terry as I pull off first my socks then my shirt. Shoes were gone miles ago.

“Here?” he asks with slight confusion and alarm. We have barely talked while gliding.

“No, over there, along that bank, by those palmettos.” I, immediately, begin to paddle from my front seat as if leading the way, as if I can steer the canoe. I am naked before we reach the bank.

On the Half Shell

I dislike being naked in front of my husband. He has the quick eye and sharp criticism of any man tripled by the fact that he’s an artist. It is how God made him. As I step from canoe to muddy bank, I think this. Insecurity rushes causing goose flesh in oppressive humidity. Perhaps he sees me as Botticelli did Venus. Perhaps when winter’s coolness replaces summer swelt, I will find on the hearth one morning a rendering of me on half shell with his careful signature and cross in the corner. The angels and trumpeters announcing the birth of beauty will be replaced with egrets, swamp spiders and alligators. The sandy beach will become this soupy slick black mud on which I now stand. Crushed and split clam shell remnants will have to do as my womb. I long for the sun to be a bit more muted here to hide the wear of my nearly forty year old skin and muscle. I wish that my hair could wrap luxuriously, seductively, yet innocently around my body to cover my desire.

Playing it off, I put my arms across my chest, bending slightly to peer into the water. I ask with furrowed brow if Terry thinks I’ll get stabbed by a submerged mangrove or random bush when I jump in. That would be painful and bad. I ask how since the flooding has sliced the bank straight like cake I will get back ashore. I ask if he is going to get in too. I fill the air with randomness as I ask God over and over for him to not see me shiver.

Filling My Ears

The earth is odd in its marriage here between mangrove and palmetto, cypress and pine, Spanish moss and beachy sand patches. The woods I peer into are lush with overgrowth. When I look up, I am awed by height and beauty. The air is thicker here. The earth is thicker here. I feel thicker here, more full than on a normal Thursday. My sweet husband is looking me at me like I’ve lost my entire mind. I am standing naked in the swamp, getting ready to jump in. It is hot. I am unafraid of brown water. He mentions alligators as I, self-consciously, lean over the water and ask random questions. As I take one knee, I pray this is a good naked pose and touch the water. I continue with randomness until the words fill my brain and my mouth and the alligator and snake talk dulls.

Mary Oliver writes of an alligator crashing through the woods towards the water with “its tail flailing like a bundle of swords.” She writes “and that’s how I almost died/ of foolishness/ in Florida.” If the birds warned her, she didn’t speak their language. I could be her right now, naked in the swamp, focused on myself, bent over this water. I could tremble, grasp these purple flowers from the bank and think “in the end,/ this is not a poem about foolishness/ but about how I rose from the ground/ and saw the world as if for the second time,/the way it really is.”

I didn’t get into the water. I laughed and climbed back into the canoe. As we paddled to the middle. I looked at the shore and wondered if I should dress myself, cover up so I don’t burn. I chose not to just for a few more moments.

 

Maps

We’ve had rain in the Southeast. Lots of rain. Lots and lots of rain. The flooding of homes, schools and roads in areas has been frightening. The trees no longer able to grasp hard soil have toppled into roads and onto houses. I imagine they groan before surrendering. I know I do on certain days.

All of this rain caused the tidy map Terry held to become suggestive instead of clear. He prefers direct routes with clear signage, preferably with arrows. Water goes where it wants and laughs at maps with wicked delight. I am not much of a map girl. I am wired differently. I need directions when going to new places, but prefer directions that say “Turn left at the Chevron that sells Krispy Kremes, sign in window” or “You’ll drive past cow pastures for about an hour and a half. Roll the windows down and sing. The cows like it” which is how the directions to a girlfriend’s house read. Toss in a few road numbers and I’ll get there, about 20 minutes late as usual. This causes a bit of frustration – his solid plodding and my twirling aim.

After we had shimmied through two thick blow downs, we came to a fork in the swamp, a sort of fork. There, in the shape of man’s craving, was a patch of smooth rock. Terry got out of the canoe and pulled us onto it, out of the rather swift current, before consulting the map. On the left was a hip like swoop heading South through a dappled cypress grove. To the right was a narrower swoop with quicker water moving through more dappled cypress grove. The tops of bushes, who weeks before had stood on dry earth, were visible on both sides. Both ways appeared manageable for the canoe. Both ways were not clearly visible on the map. Terry studied the map and talked aloud about which way to head – left or right. I, delighting in the gentle tinkle of water over rocks and the warm sun on my skin, smiled, shrugged and said “Left or maybe right. Both look okay to me.” Terry, frustrated, shook the map at me and told me he didn’t want to get lost. This is how he looked.

 

Entering the Swamp

Canoeing in the swamp, which I have always wanted to do, was my idea for our childless respite. I love to canoe. I love alligators. I love to camp. I love the swamp. I don’t mind mosquitoes much. I don’t mind the humidity. I don’t mind being dirty for days. This without a doubt is a total Cindy type adventure, simplicity at its best. Husband + canoe + swamp + alligator search = pure delight. My sweet husband, who has never canoed in a swamp, has never seen an alligator in person, but enjoys most of camping and doesn’t mind being dirty agreed. I was ecstatic. I couldn’t stop talking about it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. In my mind, I was already there in the swamp and it was still mid-September.

As the departure date approached, Mary Oliver verse kept coming to mind. I couldn’t help myself. I googled her at work and drank her verse. Her sensitive hawk like descriptions filled me with deep longing and desire.

To my delight, Terry wanted to put in as soon as we arrived. He, of course, was more practical about location. He had a map. I, on the other hand, didn’t care about much except the proximity of snakes and spiders, my big dislikes. All I needed was water, camera and compass. We put in at the last stop on the map, French’s Landing. It met my requirements for a swamp. Spanish moss – check. Cypress knees – check. Thick murky brown black water – check. Potential for wildlife, ie alligators – check.

As we pushed down the canoe ramp, I could smell the thick mud that sucked my flip-flops and could hear the swarm of mosquitoes buzz around my head. I was so excited I didn’t speak.

Finally out on the water, I grabbed the camera. As I snapped photos, I heard Mary Oliver’s voice inside my head. I was entering the swamp.

Here is the endless

wet thick

cosmos, the center

of everything…..

…Here

is swamp, here

is struggle,

closure –…

hipholds, hummocks

that sink silently

into the black, slack

earthsoup…”

 

For the Love of Lists

Lunch Hour to-do List

1. Run
2. Sweep kitchen and hallway
3. Vacuum living room carpet
4. Shower
5. Find missing purple slipper (Not originally on the list, but happened so for the sheer joy of marking it off, I added it. After the fact.)

I love my vacuum because it sucks

1. Up day old cocoa puffs from the kitchen table
2. Up the convoy of pharaoh ants behind the kitchen sink the rain forced inside. (I grew up calling them piss ants because it really looks like a “stream” of ants.)
3. Up a humongous mean spider that growled at me (it really did)
4. and kills the insects because I watched and didn’t see any escape. I was particularly watching for the mean spider.

Reasons I will have several posts per day for a bit

1. Have failed to schedule early October writing
2. Can not figure out the time thing on the schedule blog posts
3. Write it and forget about it

Random Contents of My Purse

1. Chopsticks – 2 sets
2. Fork, knife, large spoon
3. Tape measure
4. Green Hot Wheels Race Car

Cindy-ims as reported today at work

1. I’m not there yet
2. Duly noted
3. Thank you for the information
4. I’m sorry. Could you repeat that please? I wasn’t listening.
5. I got nothing

Why I Need a Cell Phone with a Camera

1. The full moon last night rising over the Cahaba River. Breathtaking.
2. The double cab pick up truck containing six people at the red light, four of whom wore cowboy hats.
3. The 62 year old man in black spandex at the gym who judging by his glutes does squats.
4. To illustrate why good friends are needed with aforementioned man turned around at the gym. Full frontal spandex is not a good look for him.