“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”
~ Anais Nin
This blog aka “Muse Letter” is a perfect example of the mysterious meandering process of sitting down to write about one theme, only to have my Muse appear and lead me along a tangential path. Thankfully, I know better than to ignore or disobey my Muse when she shows up. She is the cherished voice of intuition, curiosity, and creativity. With her blessing and guidance, I follow the benevolent breadcrumbs of creative aliveness. I’ve learned to get out of my own way, trust in this process, listen attentively, and simply take dictation from her.
For example, a few weeks ago, when I was skimming the New York Times, there was a tiny notation, at the tail end of the cacophonous pre-election news, and after the grim pandemic reporting. A mere mention of the word “mouneh”. For the very first time in the history of “the Gray Lady”, the word “mouneh” appeared. I had never heard this word, and I didn’t know its meaning, but I loved the sound and the smooth texture of its music sliding around my mouth. I looked up its meaning, and not surprisingly, that discovery dovetailed with the poem I had already begun to write about autumn and my dad’s upcoming 90th birthday.
“Mouneh” is from the Arabic word “Mana”, meaning to preserve food. To provide sustenance in the dark days of winter, by preserving the autumn’s freshly harvested fruits and vegetables; perhaps through pickling, brining, canning, or preserving in one form or another. This luscious word, and that ancient practice, made their way into my poem, but that was not the end of it.
A few days later, a friend of mine told me how she'd been chasing the autumn sunlight and capturing it for winter. Intrigued, I asked her to say more. She described to me the Japanese culinary practice of “hoshigaki”, the traditional ancient process of drying and preserving autumn’s Asian persimmons. In this instance, the resplendent orange colored fruit are picked in their unripe stage, then hung on string indoors, like so many merry Christmas ornaments. For many months they are lovingly and laboriously massaged to persuade their sugary goodness inside, to effuse onto the skin. Once they have dried and transformed, they are unstrung, and savored throughout wintertime. Needless to say, this hoshigaki magic also made its way into my poem below:
Tasting Life Twice - a poem for my father Ivor, on his 90th birthday
I love the taste of language,
the spicy or pungent crunch of words as they curl off my tongue,
every alphabetical morsel bursting with its own unique flavor,
its singular savory sensation and piquant emotion,
each evoking familiar or remote memories,
flavors and fragrances from a storied past.
And I realize, not for the first time,
that poetry can be like archival recipes passed down through the ages,
whispered amongst families and friends,
traditions transmitted from ancient lineages,
arisen in villages never visited,
and perhaps now long gone…
Poetry like recipes, inspires us to taste life twice, and to create anew,
poems nourish and refresh us, sustain us as we take leave of our childhood homes,
step out into an unfamiliar new world,
standing upon the shoulders of our ancestors, envisioning our future selves.
Today I am thinking a lot about lineage and tradition,
family customs and celebrations, changing seasons, and sustenance.
On this autumn afternoon, I am reflecting upon the significant men in my life,
the gap between my grandchild’s second birthday in October,
and my father’s ninetieth birthday today on November 14th,
and how because of Covid-19, we won’t be celebrating him in person.
It’s too soon. Instead we gather remotely and celebrate in the Zoom temple.
In these unusual times, this is who we are, this is what we do...we Zoom.
Inside this autumn reverie, my thoughts also drift to the other men in my life,
born in the years between these two beloved bookends,
my three spectacular sons, prominent amongst them.
The measure of time is such a profound anomaly,
a concept we’ve all agreed to use, yet in truth, a feeble mathematical tool,
cobbled together, to measure the wholly immeasurable Mystery.
Because in matters of the heart, time bends and arcs,
shapeshifts and utterly refuses to obey linearity.
In the rarefied landscape of love and family, friendship and community,
in the realms of birth, life, and death, in this kaleidoscopic display,
the truest way to nourish and pray, is by way of poetry and food, music and dance,
the resonant, authentic, wholehearted expressions of love and resilience.
Today I’m on a bit of a tear, perhaps it’s the crystalline azure autumn air,
or the bouquet of sunshine, clustered together in my favorite cobalt blue glass vase,
arm in arm, leaves entangled, five jaunty sunflowers are embracing,
their bright open faces all pressed skyward in prayer,
yes, dear ones, I said prayer, because I do believe that flowers pray,
that flowers themselves are a miraculous implausible prayer.
They pray all the time, in plain sight of us, all year round,
throughout the seasons, throughout the planet,
in a multitude of congregations, indoors and outside,
side by side, sharing their inspired presence,
their incense and essence, with all of us, who care to pay attention,
to observe with reverence, because why on Earth wouldn’t they pray?
I’ve witnessed them, gathered together, two or more,
in orderly fashion, behind a fence, inside a farmer’s field,
and amassed in passionate disorderly fashion, out in the wilderness,
along unmarked trails, under old growth redwoods and beneath deciduous oaks,
scampering up and down hillsides like colorful apostles,
or like pilgrims making their way along interstate highways.
I’ve seen them peeking up through cracks in city sidewalks,
speaking out from crevices in rock hard gray Sierra granite,
boldly singing hymns as a choir of lichen and moss, tucked into naturally carved naves,
with stalagmites in caves, dripping devout stalactites, praying their mighty hearts out.
Feral vines bursting with blooms on cliffsides, night flowering jasmine under full moons,
shy new buds on naked pruned stalks, biding their time, declaring fidelity to springtime.
Speaking of seasons, celebrations, poetry, food, and prayer, I welcome this new moon,
and the unrelenting movement toward wintertime and her chilly dark nights.
Samhain, in Gaelic tradition, is the festival marking the end of the harvest and the start
of the darker half of the year, midway between autumn equinox and winter solstice.
In Arab countries like Lebanon, they call this time of year Mooneh or Moona, for Mana,
time for preserving sustenance, relying on cultural heirlooms, inherited from the elders.
And I am also thinking of “hoshigaki” from Japan,
the practice of capturing sunlight, through a treasured tradition of preservation,
a time honored labor of love, for winter nourishment and pleasure.
Passed down from reverent elders to the young ones coming up behind,
this process of picking unripe Asian persimmons, then stringing them up indoors,
lovingly massaging them for months, to release their sugary sunshine.
And now I am thinking about the many women in my life, those who are still living
and those who have already passed, my mother and grandmothers among them.
I recall what they gifted me, their recipes for life, wisdom preserved from the old country,
along with modern customs for savoring life’s goodness. My mom did not like to cook.
She loved to eat out. This bride of the fifties did what was expected of her in the kitchen.
And she passed down to me, the fine art of making reservations.
Above all, Mom loved Chinese food, and sharing these meals with her three grandsons.
And because this fondness for Cantonese cuisine skipped a generation,
my kids and my mom created their own intimate tradition of sustenance and celebration.
This was their private time to share food and to chat about the news of their lives,
independent of me, just as I’d created my own special time, with two doting grandmas,
nourishing my body and soul, by sharing their stories and precious culinary treasures.
My mom’s mom in Brooklyn taught me to make her chicken soup, aka “Jewish penicillin”
and on special occasions she prepared my personal favorite, “lokshen” noodle kugel.
While over in Queens, in her steamy cramped corner kitchen, my paternal grandma Anne
nursed a glass of scotch, as she lovingly prepared her badass buttery roasted potatoes,
as Uncle Ron conquered hills of dirty dishes, dripping cigar ashes into the soapy water,
while my aunty bossed both of them about, and little me stood in the corner, enthralled.
There are many moments in life to embrace, invitations to accept, times to participate in.
We long to celebrate the seasons with one another, to capture and preserve them.
After all, we belong to each other, to our families, to our communities, to the planet,
we long for connection, meaning, and presence. We hold hands on this walkabout,
say hello, and along the way we make music, we sing and dance, we cook and eat,
laugh and cry, sometimes pray, and too soon walk each other home, and say good-bye.
My prayer for the planet is that we love and forgive each other continuously,
we remember our shared humanity and preserve our basic goodness,
we savor life in the myriad ways that we do, we nourish and sustain one another
through food, poetry, and creative play. Let us share our unique recipes for living well,
answer the call of our ancestors, feast on the fruits of our efforts, and “taste life twice”.
Let’s embrace the “we”, release any delusion of separation, and remember who we are.
~ Meris Walton
