Tortillas

 

The house that was home for so many years, the house not far from where we live today, the house that was also a fair trade store, where our children grew up and where we experienced so much joy and heartache over their chronic health problems, was located across the street from a tortilleria.  We needed only cross the street to obtain fresh tortillas, and, at Christmastime, tamales.  I will never forget the smell of tortillas being produced—the timeless smell of white corn soaked in lime, of masa being gently toasted into planets of natural sweetness.  It makes me think of Hermann Hesse’s famous essay, “Über das Wort Brot” (“On the Word Bread”), where he says:

 Man braucht es nur auszusprechen und das in sich einzulassen, was es enthält, so sind schon alle unsere Lebenskräfte, die des Leibes wie die der Seele angerufen und in Tätigkeit versetzt. Magen, Gaumen, Nase, Zunge, Zähne, Hände sprechen mit. Es fällt uns der Eßtisch im Vaterhause ein. Rundum sitzen die lieben vertrauten Gestalten der Kindheit. Vater oder Mutter schneidet vom großen Leib die Stücke und bemißt ihre Größe und Dicke, je nach dem Alter oder Hunger des Empfängers. In den Tassen duftet die warme Morgenmilch. Oder es fällt uns ein, wie es ganz früh am Morgen, noch bei halber Nacht, vom Haus des Bäckers her gerochen hat, warm und nahrhaft, anregend und begütigend, hungerweckend und ihn halb auch schon stillend. Und weiter erinnern wir uns durch die ganze Weltgeschichte hindurch alle Szenen und Bilder in denen das Brot eine Rolle spielt.

 One only needs to utter it, to admit the word’s content into oneself, and already all our vital forces, those of both the body and the soul, are invoked and stirred into action. Stomach, palate, nose, tongue, teeth, hands, also utter the word. We are put in mind of the dining room table in our father’s house. Around it are seated the dear familiar figures of childhood. Father or mother are cutting slices from the large loaf, appraising their size and thickness, according to the age and hunger of the recipient. From the cups comes the smell of the hot morning milk. Or we recall, very early in the morning, when it was still half night, the aroma wafting from the direction of the baker’s house, warm and nourishing, stimulating and soothing, arousing, and also half-sating, a feeling of hunger. And, thinking on, we recall all the scenes and images in which, down through the entire history of the world, bread has played a role.

 Today, this is all I wish to invoke in my writing.  I won’t disown the language games that I’ve already played, some of which have yet to see the light of day, but I want to speak with simplicity and faithfulness of the humble bread that belongs to the world into which I was born and the neighborhood where I have spent most of my life—the fresh tortilla—and of those neighbors of mine who feast on it every day.

Pinecone

 

Die Welt muß romantisiert werden . . . Indem ich dem Gemeinen einen hohen Sinn, dem Gewöhnlichen ein geheimnisvolles Ansehn, dem Bekannten die Würde des Unbekannten, dem Endlichen einen unendlichen Schein gebe, so romantisiere ich es. 

The world must be romanticized . . . By giving the common a lofty meaning, the ordinary a mysterious status, the known, the dignity of the unknown, the finite an infinite appearance, I romanticize it.

                                                                    --Novalis, Logologische Fragmente I

I remember the first time I studied a pinecone, when I was just a small child.  It was in a city park.  I had never seen one before, and I was awed by its beauty, symmetry, combination of simplicity and intricacy, its patterns and colors, its perfection.  This wonderful object of nature embodied all the miraculous mystery and the magnificence of life that only a child would understand.  It mirrored the entire creation, all that was seen and unseen, said and unsaid.  A pinecone--or the universe.

God, Singing

The Lord has removed the judgment against you,

he has turned away your enemies;

The King of Israel, the Lord, is in your midst,

you have no further misfortune to fear.

 

On that day, it shall be said to Jerusalem:

Do not fear, Zion,

do not be discouraged!

The Lord, your God, is in your midst,

a mighty savior,

Who will rejoice over you with gladness,

and renew you in his love,

Who will sing joyfully because of you,

as on festival days.      

                       Zephaniah 3:15-18a

Hiroshima Day

 Whenever I remember Hiroshima, the first image that comes to mind is of my four-year-old nephew, Eiji – his little body transformed into an unrecognizable melted chunk of flesh. He kept begging for water in a faint voice until his death released him from agony.

     To me, he came to represent all the innocent children of the world, threatened as they are at this very moment by nuclear weapons. Every second of every day, nuclear weapons endanger everyone we love and everything we hold dear. We must not tolerate this insanity any longer.

     Through our agony and the sheer struggle to survive – and to rebuild our lives from the ashes – we hibakusha became convinced that we must warn the world about these apocalyptic weapons. Time and again, we shared our testimonies.

      . . . Nine nations still threaten to incinerate entire cities, to destroy life on earth, to make our beautiful world uninhabitable for future generations. The development of nuclear weapons signifies not a country’s elevation to greatness, but its descent to the darkest depths of depravity. These weapons are not a necessary evil; they are the ultimate evil.

--Setsuko Thurlow, Hiroshima survivor, Nobel Prize acceptance speech on behalf of the International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons

Mid-Summer Evening

For when one considers the universe, can anyone be so simple-minded as not to believe that the Divine is present in everything, pervading, embracing and penetrating it?

--St. Gregory of Nyssa

The mid-summer evening light, inexpressibly golden, blue shadows, the radiance of red and yellow sunflowers and the solemn, conciliatory cypresses.  Ripeness, after the rains, under a dappled sky.  As if kindness shades nature itself: all the simple shapes of the garden, the neighborhood.  A time of healing, of forgiveness, of restoration.  A time for believing all things, trusting in all things, hoping all things.  A time of silence and contemplation, emptiness, and the fullness of grace.  Silence.

The Sweet Potato

The sweet potato (Ipomoea batatas) is a member of the bindweed or morning glory family, the Convolvulaceae, and only distantly related to the white potato.  It has long been revered for its medicinal properties, both in the ancient Americas where it was first domesticated and now worldwide.  It is rich in vitamins and minerals as as well as antioxidants called carotenoids.  As part of a healthy diet, it may reduce the risk of some cancers and help regulate blood sugar in type 2 diabetes.  Its high beta carotene content (which the body converts to vitamin A) may help to prevent ulcers and even aid in healing them, though overconsumption can cause mild digestive problems in some people because it contains the polyol mannitol.  Cooked or raw sweet potatoes can also be used externally as a poultice to reduce inflammation related to small wounds or insect stings.

     If you’ve only eaten canned sweet potatoes, you’ll find that dishes made from fresh sweet potatoes are a thousand times better!

A Philosopher's Viewpoint

The best writer is one who writes from a wide background of experience.  Plotinus didn't start until he was 50.

                                                        --Robert J. Kreyche, Love is a Therapy