My British Summer

I love Food For Life's flourless, sprouted Ezekiel breads (especially the green one with sesame). They don't make you feel as full and heavy as regular bread can do, and they are very tasty with some almond butter, apple slices, cinnamon, and seeds.

In my 18^th summer, I decided to visit England. It was high time. I was traveling alone by train with an InterRail card and had seen most of southern Europe, and traveled through much of the northern parts. But I had never been to England.

Back then you had to take a ferry to Dover in England, if you were in France (which I was). On the train from Copenhagen to Berlin I had kissed a boy from Switzerland and unfortunately contracted strep throat, and the medicine they gave me in Paris contained sulfa, which I found out I was allergic to. The result was that by the time I set foot on the British Isles, my skin was red and pimply and my throat was still raw. Not a good start.

Compared to the extravagant avenues and seductive buildings of Paris, London was a bit of a letdown. It was small and disappointing and there was something uptight and nasal about Victoria Station, where my train pulled in. When I stepped off, I thought I was in a movie from the 1940’s.

I was hustled out to some suburb where there were still rooms available in a hostel, but after I unloaded my backpack, I immediately took the “tube” into the heart of London again.

“Piccadilly Circus,” I thought. “That’s where I should go.”

I think I believed some sort of grandeur would cure my ills.

But Piccadilly Circus was not Champs de Mars and the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain, where some pale, freckled British schoolboys were loitering, was hardly the Eiffel Tower.

Another day I was sitting in a park – it might very well have been Hyde Park – writing post-cards when I noticed two young men circling.

“Excuse us,” said one of them. “My friend and I were just arguing where you might come from. I said Germany and he said Holland. Might I ask if we were right?”

That was the intro to the longest, most exciting conversation I had in England. These boys, they were visiting from Ireland and staying nearby, made me laugh. But when they asked me to come home with them (they said they were staying with a family member, a sister), I got scared. It always seemed to me that when people disappear in England, they aren’t just found floating belly up in rivers or shot dead in a forest or something like that, no, in England they are found chopped up in pieces in someone’s suitcase at a train station, or with a head in the Tower, two hands in St Paul’s, and a foot in some dresser in someone's house in Hampstead. I suppose the word for it is macabre. I always felt there was something macabre hiding under all that supposedly civilized stuff, the bowler hats and the deerstalkers and the academic scarves. Anyway, the boys said they’d take a stroll through the park while I finished up writing those post-cards, and then we’d all go to the sister and watch the “telly”. It was when they’d left; that I started to worry and think about all the Agatha Christie novels I had read. And when I saw them coming back, I started running.

“Eva!” one of them called and started running after me.

I ran and I ran and I ran as fast as I could. I was not going to end up with a chopped-off head in someone’s suitcase.

In Cambridge, I stayed at a proper bed-and-breakfast and had eggs and bacon for breakfast. The host was a single man who drove around in a black car and was very kind, but one day I decided to investigate the chest in my room and found a stash of hard-core porn magazines. That was the end of Cambridge for me.

In Brighton I fed the seagulls.

At the end of my British sojourn, I decided to go to Exeter and Devonshire. In a final attempt, I thought perhaps the sun would take care of my sulfa-induced acne, so I somehow got access to a beach. What a cruel joke that was. There I sat, on an old red blanket that had turned coral by years of use. And instead of sprawling white sandy dunes, I looked over a gray and rain-muddy patch and swam in the cold water. That water was healing though; when I later had cream tea at the Royal Clarence hotel, I noticed that my face had cleared up.

Have a good weekend, and see you again on Monday!

Faith

Waffles without a waffle maker? My waffle maker died some time ago, and since we don’t make waffles all that often, I haven’t bothered buying a new one. But then today, when I really, really wanted waffles, I discovered that I can also have them: You can make them on your griddle! I followed this recipe, but with some alternations (I added much more yoghurt). I had mine with slices of pear.

“You’ve got to have faith,” we tell one another when things look bleak.

When things are going well, I rarely stop to think about faith. But when I get hit with a truckload of problems, I realize the importance of it. Unfortunately, I’m very much a doubting Thomas. But I think that if we practice a little bit of faith (whatever it is) every day, then we might have more when those moments come, that call for it. 

“Listen,” said Ardeshir. “Here’s a lesson in faith. There once was a great warrior named Egrid. He was one of the great heroes of the Ascylian Age, which is noted for its wars and terrors, when skies were dark with rage. Egrid was large and handsome, with the clear skin and grey eyes of the people of the North. He had in his possession a mighty sword, seven times stronger and seven times sharper than any other sword on this Earth, he had a shield nothing could penetrate, and a helmet with a long plume. These three things he had in his possession, yet his heart was always fearful. He rode a stallion named Eben, and Eben was black with hooves and mane of silver. One night, Egrid was told to ride through the vast forests, across the deserts and over the mountains to the End of the World. This he was told, the mighty Egrid. He took his sword, he took his shield and he took his plumed helmet and laid them out before him and bowed down and prayed, as was his people’s custom.

“I fled to Your protection, I implored Your help, and I sought your intercession,” he prayed. “Never have You failed me. In Your great mercy, come to my rescue once more.” And he saddled Eben, took his sword and his shield and covered his head with the helmet and rode out into the dark night.

He rode for days and nights until he came to a well. A thrush sat in the thicket next to the well, and this is the song it sang:

“You must throw your sword in the well, the well 

You must throw your sword in the well.”

Egrid dismounted his horse and walked up to the thrush.

“Shall I let go of my sword that has fought so bravely for me all these years?”

And the thrush sang:

“Yes, you must let go of your sword.”

“What are you but a bird?”

But he looked into the eye of the bird, and saw that it was God.

And because he had faith Egrid took his mighty sword and threw it into the well, although it pained him to do so.

With only his shield and his helmet he again mounted Eben and rode until they came to a cottage by a river. It was getting late, and Egrid was cold. He knocked on the door to the cottage, and an old woman opened.

“I’m a warrior on my way to the End of the World. I see you have lit a fire, may I sit by the fire and warm myself?”

So the old woman took him in and gave him bread to eat and water to drink. As he sat there in front of the flames, the woman’s cat purred next to him at the hearth. And this is what the cat said:

“You must throw your shield into the fire, the fire.

You must throw your shield into the fire.”

And Egrid looked at the cat and saw that it was God, and because he had faith he threw his shield into the fire, and as he watched it burn, his eyes stung with tears.

The next morning he rode off again. And after many days and nights he came to the End of the World, where the Earth blends with the mists of nothingness and everything recedes from view and vanishes. Egrid climbed off his horse, and fell down to his knees. There were no battles to fight, and no wars to win. Nothing but emptiness lay ahead of him. The Earth opened up and out of it climbed a mole, and the mole said:

“You must bury your helmet in the Earth, the Earth.  

You must bury your helmet in the Earth.”

Egrid saw that the mole was God, and because he had faith he took off his helmet and into the gaping Earth he threw it, covering it in soil with his bare hands, while his heart bled.

“I have now neither sword, nor shield nor helmet,” he lamented. “I have nothing. Yet, when I had my sword and my shield and my helmet I was always afraid. Now that I have nothing, I am no longer afraid.”

“He let go of everything,” said Ramona.

“So that he could gain everything,” said Ardeshir.

“What did he gain?”

“Four are the elements through which Trinity speaks: Water, Fire, Earth, and Air. This is what he gained, this is what happened. Having thrown all away in faith, the great warrior Egrid’s eyes were now opened and he could see the mists clearing up and revealing before him the sky. The open air. So he sat up on Eben and with one giant leap they rode over the gap that separates, away from the edge of the End of the World into the World of Infinity.”

“Faith,” sighed Ramona.

“Faith,” echoed Ardeshir.

Poetry As Survival

I’ve introduced chia seed puddings as a breakfast choice, and everybody seems to love them. You mix 2 Tablespoons of chia seeds with ¼ o a cup of milk (I used coconut) and let it sit for 10 minutes. A pudding like gel is thus formed. Top it with whatever you like. Today I topped mine with raspberries, dried fruit, seeds, nuts and unsweetened coconut flakes.

I shall lie down at home

and pretend to be dying.

Then the neighbors will all come in

to gape at me, and, perhaps, she will come with them.

When she comes, I won’t need a doctor,

she knows why I am ill.

I’ve written before on the importance of poetry in my life. And a poem like the one above, goes to the heart of me, like a shot of brandy goes to my core. It’s a 3,300-year old, Egyptian poem spoken by a male lover who is obviously plotting to get his sweetheart’s attention. Don’t we all, at least secretly, know exactly how he feels? In just six lines we get it. What takes prose hundreds of pages, a poem, when done right, can convey in a few breaths. How utterly lovely is that? What can compete with that kind of immediacy?

I confess that I stole this poem and the title of today’s entry from a book by Gregory Orr, called just that: Poetry As Survival. I love this book and this particular poem, but I also think a great many people are intimidated by poetry and feel the need to be guided into it. For which Orr’s book is perfect. It's actually a perfect read for anyone.

I read a lot of poetry to my son. Some of it we have memorized together. He has his own taste and preferences. For the longest time we read funny poems, and of course T.S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, but then this short Carl Sandburg poem struck a note.

The buffaloes are gone

And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.

Those who saw the buffaloes by thousands and how they

pawed the praire sod into dust with their hoofs, their

great heads down pawing on in a great pageant of dusk,

Those who saw the buffaloes are gone.

And the buffaloes are gone.

Last spring I decided to take up my studies in literature again at my alma mater in Sweden, and had to analyze poetry. It was very interesting, enormously satisfying on a cerebral level, but I soon realized that taking a poem apart, which feels a bit like skinning and deboning a fish, doesn’t reveal the heart of it. I suppose it would be the same as trying to unlock the beauty of a Rembrandt painting by analyzing the ratio of umber to ochre.

I’m always interested in other people favorite anything. Especially poems. Did you know, for instance, that Demi Moore’s favorite poem is Alfred Tennyson’s Flower in the Crannied Wall? Or that Bono from U2 always leaves a book with poetry by Seamus Heaney when he meets with politicians? Did you know Oprah Winfrey’s likes Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou? While Sting loves Ted Hughes’ The Thought-Fox? That designer Isaac Mizrahi lives for Shakespeare’s sonnets and actor Matt Dillon likes W.B. Yeats’ The Stolen Child?

Canadian author Margaret Atwood said that questioning the role of poetry is like questioning the role of food. That poetry is that necessary.

Do you have a favorite poem?

My favorite poem is by August Strindberg. It loses something in translation but here it is, it’s called Sleepwalking Nights.

On the Avenue de Neuilly

Stands a slaughterhouse

that I always pass by

when I walk into town.

The big open window

Gleams with blood so red

On the marble counter

Steams fresh butchered meat

Today on the glass door

Hung a heart, a calf’s heart I think,

Wrapped in frilly paper –

Saw it shudder in the cold.

Then my thoughts took flight

to the old Norrbro bazaar

where the gleaming rows of windows

are viewed by women and children.

There in a bookshop’s window

Hangs a little, calfskin book.

It is a torn-out heart

dangling there on its hook.

Worth Saving?

Checkmate Monday Blues! For this antioxidant smoothie, I combined 1 cup of frozen, mixed berries with 1/2 a cup of unsweetened pomegranate juice and a little bit of water.

The other day, as I was browsing through some old magazines that I was about to throw out, I read this interview with Russell Simmons. He was asked what he’d rush in to retrieve in case of a fire in his house. Simmons answered:
“Nothing. I’m blessed to have a lot of beautiful things in my home, but there’s nothing I’d risk my life for.”

Of course, when I read that I immediately started to think what I’d rush in to save in case of a fire in my home.

A similar issue came up frequently in our discussions last year, when we seriously were contemplating relocating to Sweden. For months, my husband and I were talking about it back and forth; like a never-ending tennis match.

“How about we move next summer?”
“How about next fall?”
“Should we start looking for how much containers cost?”
“Not yet… And what do we bring anyway?”

Yes, what do we bring? What do we leave behind? What’s worth saving? What do we rush in to save in case of a fire?

I’ve been living in the States for over twenty years, that’s a lifetime. During those years I’ve accumulated stuff like any other person. But a transatlantic move like mine also implies transporting roots. And I’ve come to understand that roots are not just DNA and traditions, roots also – fortunately or unfortunately – mean stuff. I have had stuff from Sweden shipped to me, and some I have brought over myself, little by little, in suitcases. A couple of old photo-albums, my grandmother’s tablecloths, Swedish board games to play with my son, an Orrefors crystal vase, my father’s christening gown (to use for my son). Though these are invaluable in some way, they don’t mean much in my daily life. But they are there, tucked away in a closet or on top of a shelf, presumably as reminders of who I really am and where I am from (in case I forget).

This brings to mind death, which inevitably happens to all of us. I used to look aghast at the cemeteries in Brooklyn that we’d pass by on our way to the beach in summer. It used to give me chills to see them; the headstones stacked so close to each other, the lack of serenity, the lack of personal space and thoughtful floral arrangements. And there we would sit, safe and alive in the air-conditioned subway car, in our shorts, flip-flops, and straw hats, clutching beach umbrellas, buckets, and bags with sunscreen. And those cemeteries would flash by.

“I don’t want to be buried there,” I used to say.

I used to think that I had to be buried in Sweden, that somehow someone would have to send my body back home. But I’m no longer so sure. I guess because I’m no longer so sure exactly where home is, or if it matters that much.

There are times I wish I had nothing; nothing but a white room somewhere with a white bed and a side table with books.

Knowing we were all safe, my husband, my son, and our cats, I might risk my life to save some of my books. I just might. I have some books that are irreplaceable; though pretty much worthless to any other person, to me they are irreplaceable.  These are books that I love, that I’ve read so many times their poor spines are broken and their pages have fallen out. Some have been glued or scotch-taped back in place. These books have been good friends throughout the years. I might want to save some of them. I wouldn’t rush in to save all the other beautiful things. Things are after all just things. The memory of a loved one needs no trinkets to be passed on. And for some of the other stuff, passports, papers and documents and notes with pin codes and passwords – well, I think I might actually like to watch that burn.

A Visit to the Dentist

Mediterranean breakfast: Bruschetta made with hummus, tomato, and basil, a side dish with olives and some orange juice. 

I had a tooth extracted yesterday, a molar that’s been broken for some time. It didn’t hurt or even bother me, which is why I waited so long with making an appointment. I’m scared of dentists, and ever since making the appointment a week or so ago, I’ve been watching myself for signs of fear or nerves in anticipation of this dental appointment. But it never happened. The day for the “surgery” approached, yet I was curiously calm and detached from the whole thing.

Since my regular dentist doesn’t do extractions, I’d been given a referral to another place. I got there way ahead of time. After filling out the prerequisite paperwork, I sat down in the waiting room. On the walls were framed posters featuring some quaint village in Italy or something, the room was a soft, light brown color. Shortly, a nurse called me. She cloaked me in that heavy vest, took a round of X-rays, and led me into the room where that low bed-like chair was waiting. But not even the look of the chair made me uneasy.

The dentist came. He was an older man with a kind face. I realized, again, how I like my doctors to be older men; it lulls me into a false sense of paternal security.

“How long will this take, approximately?” I asked, with my hands clasped over my stomach. The nurse pinned the drool bib around my neck.

“Well, my grandma always used to say ‘We know when we’re leaving, but we don’t know when we’ll get there’, and she was a fine, wise woman,” the dentist joked. “I think about 15 minutes, but don’t hold me to it, OK?”
Then he left. The nurse, whose name was Carla, asked if I wanted nitrous oxide or only local anesthesia. I said both, and so she put the rubber oval over my nose. It didn’t seem to take though, and I told her so.

“You aren’t breathing deeply enough,” she answered. She was very calm and kind. I pressed my lips together and took long, deep breaths through my nose. After about ten of them or so, I felt a pleasant tipsy feeling primarily in my hands. I heard Carla and another nurse chat in the background.

“Should I continue breathing?” I asked them stupidly.

“Yes, that would be a good idea,” said the other nurse, not Carla. “Sorry, a dental joke. Besides, we are much funnier when you breathe!”

Then I heard the doctor come back into the room. He sat down quite quickly, asking me to open wide. The sudden touch of the cold metal of the syringe made me jerk, a flash of silver shot through my mind, but he’d already jabbed me. One, two, three times. Maybe even more.

Then followed the peculiar wait for the anesthesia to take, when you just sort of sit there and hope the dentist won’t miss his or her window of opportunity. Usually I worry; what if it’s too soon, and the anesthesia hasn’t really taken hold? What if it’s too late? But this time I just sat there.

The dentist came back in.

“You will feel a pull and a push and you might hear a cracking sound,” he said as he took his seat next to me, where I lay supine, hands still clasped over my stomach.

“Uh-huh,” I said. I couldn’t say much more. By now, my mouth was propped open by some soft, plastic device and that gurgling vacuum-thing was hooked into the hollow of my cheek.

The dentist yanked a couple of times – with what I don’t know, because I was closing my eyes throughout the entire procedure  – and I had to fight to keep my head in place. But there was no pain.

“There,” he said after what seemed like less than a minute. “The tooth is all out.”

I gave him a thumbs up and he said good-bye and left. Carla put gauze where the tooth had been and gave me a prescription for codeine and more gauze, which she showed me how to fold. I decided to not take the train back home, but a cab instead. I called my husband, who was at home, to let him know I was done and all right.

At the pharmacy, located downstairs from our apartment, I had to wait for them to fill the prescription, and it unnerved me because I could feel the anesthesia abate in little waves. After I paid for the pills, I quickly ran upstairs. My husband was waiting for me.

“How do you feel?”

Before I even took off my coat, I swallowed a pill with some water.
“OK. I’m glad it’s over.”

We hugged. The sun shone through the halfway closed Venetian blinds, bathing the living room in light. I wasn’t allowed to eat for an hour, but my husband opened a miniature bottle of cheap wine and poured it into two small Irish coffee glasses.

“Cheers!” he said.

“Cheers!” said I, and we clinked.

It felt good to have it all behind.

Have a good weekend.

The Year of the Goat

Quick and easy breakfast: A sliced navel orange sprinkled with coconut flakes and pistachios and drizzled with honey. All served on a pretty Chinese plate, since today is the Chinese New Year.

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. My son and I walked over to our church to receive the ashes. We missed the 3:30 service so instead we went at 7, when it was dark outside. The snow squeaked under our winter boots. It was very cold.

“It feels strange to be out walking in the dark,” my son said.

“Do you want me to sing you a spooky song about ghastly things?” I asked.

“No!”

His hand suddenly grabbed mine a little tighter. We walked briskly so as to not miss the 7 service also. When we got to the church, we went inside and took our places in the pew. There were quite a lot of people there. The priest, Father Trevor from England, stood up and said a few words before blessing and distributing the ashes.

Ash Wednesday is the first day of Lent, which mirrors the 40 days Jesus spent fasting in the desert. Father Trevor said to use this time to take stock of our lives, to really look things over and “where there’s a gap – fill it”. He also, of course, reminded us to give something up for Lent. Traditionally, people give up meat. I don’t eat meat, so I’ve decided to give up candy during Lent. For me, that’s harder to give up than any other food. But I believe we can try to give up other bad habits, too. We can give up gossiping, we can give up being always in a rush, we can give up anger. We can try to be a bit more in control of ourselves.

Today marks Chinese New Year, the longest national holiday in China. We’re entering the Year of the Goat. The Chinese have 12 zodiac animals: Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake, Horse, Goat, Monkey, Rooster, Dog, and Pig. The lucky colors of the Goat are brown, red, and purple, the lucky numbers are 2 and 7 and the flowers are carnation and primrose. If you or someone you know were born in 1931, 1943, 1955, 1967, 1979, 1991, or 2003, then you and or that person is a Goat. Goats are calm, gentle, creative, thoughtful, yet frank and honest.

It’s important to wear something red today. According to Chinese mythology, the monster Nian comes out to eat people (preferably children) on New Year, but he’s afraid of the color red. So wear red today, put some food outside your door to stave off Nian’s hunger, and throw some firecrackers (Nian’s afraid of the noise) and celebrate!

I like how Lent and Chinese New Year come together like this, hand in hand sort of. I will also use it. Whenever an opportunity for renewal and introspection is offered, I say “Take it!” who knows when you will have the chance again?

So let’s give something up for 40 days, let’s think of the ways in which we can help others, let’s set apart some time for introspection, but let’s also celebrate with our Chinese friends.

A New Year, my friends. A new beginning. Gong Xi Fa Cai! Gong Hey Fat Choy!

Teachers

Kefir with müsli, and a side order of sliced blood orange, thank you. This is the breakfast of my youth. The kefir that I like most in the States, is a little thinner than the filmjölk I grew up with, but still just so good!

When I think back on my youth, I marvel at the lack of mentors I had. I always hear people talk about mentors, and it makes me wish I could say I’d had one (or two) myself.

On the other hand I had a great many lackluster teachers.

Woodwork and textile teachers specifically come to mind. The woodwork teachers, men all of them, smelled of wet tobacco and were in general silent types with occasional flares of anger whenever some student chose the wrong sandpaper grit for something. I suppose they had been carpenters in another life. I doubt they’d ever received any kind of training in how to teach kids. The textile teachers were a homey bunch of insipid women in long wool skirts, sturdy clogs and blouses they’d sewn on their Singers after patterns they’d themselves constructed. Blouses in stiff floral unfashionable fabrics. During lessons in textile (which, incidentally, were mandatory) I embroidered and macraméed without complaint, but my insides were seething at the teachers’ blatant lack of style and intellect.

Worth recalling is my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Johansson (he had curly strawberry blonde hair and a long, witty mouth) who “saw something” in me and sent me to a film director for a screen test. Unfortunately, the film director didn’t share Mr. Johansson’s enthusiasm, but I can go very far on the slightest hint of encouragement, and the very fact that my teacher had seen something in me, made fifth grade nearly magical.

In high school we found out that our gym teacher and our biology teacher were an item. To say this was a shock is to put it mildly. Much time was spent brooding over and discussing this “partnership”. It was difficult picturing them together. Did they actually sleep together? It seemed impossible. What were they wearing at the breakfast table? Did they discuss us, their students? They were known as “nature freaks”, who enjoyed long walks clutching their binoculars, passionately seeking out amphibians and dragonflies in the reeds. Both of them had hair as luminous as a van Gogh wheat field, and tiny, energetic bodies. He wore Russian inspired workman’s shirts in a stripey, woven material, the kinds with a banded collar. She wore soft velveteen pants that bunched at the ankles. She had a slight underbite and he, in spite of his blondness, had eyebrows like Ayatollah Khomeini.

The only teacher who excited us was our Swedish and English teacher, Mrs. Knutsson. She was a beautiful, slightly older lady, sort of reminiscent of Lauren Bacall. Mrs Knutsson had something none of the others had and that was GLAMOUR. She wore stylish, creased wool pants and a beige trench coat that she carelessly sort of threw over her arm on her walk from the parking space to the school building. Her honey-colored hair was carefully coiffed in waves, her lipstick and nail polish always matched, and she wore high heels. She taught us the difference between adjectives and adverbs, but more importantly she taught me about blouses and cuffs. Whenever Mrs Knutsson wore blouses, or shirts rather, she would leave the cuffs nonchalantly unbuttoned and push, rather than roll, up the sleeves in a quick, elegant maneuver. I sat transfixed at my desk. Later, when I came home, I tried to copy her movement in front of the mirror. I still cannot pull it off. Mrs. Knutsson’s elegance was innate.

I sometimes wonder if it is too much to ask of teachers to also be inspiring? Perhaps it is. Perhaps most of them try. I don’t know about my classmates, but waiting for a teacher to enter through the door to the classroom was a moment of great excitement for me. Some teachers entered quietly with their heads down and a bunch of books clasped to their bosoms. Others burst onto the scene uncombed and out of breath with leather shoulder bags overflowing with ungraded papers. Still others were already waiting in the classroom when we, the students, moseyed in, sitting there like cobras about to strike. Only Mrs. Knutsson entered like a star about to greet a highly cultivated audience. Is it any wonder we loved her?

A Lesson in Beauty

We eat a lot of oatmeal. Typically we eat it with milk and berries or jam. Today, I prepared it with almond milk rather than water, and added a mashed banana in the pot to give it some extra sweetness. A drizzle of blueberries makes the breakfast complete.

I want to continue the story about Ardeshir and Ramona.

The Count’s palace was big, but not as big as the king’s. And being a royal poet, Ardeshir had often been invited to the king’s palace. Still, he felt frightfully out of place, sitting there on a divan, fanned by ostrich feathers held by slaves with pouting lips.

“There’s only one thing I can do for you, Countess,” he said and added a pinch of cardamom to his tea.

The lovely Ramona held her hands up and her many bracelets jingled and gleamed in the hot afternoon sun.

“I shall graciously accept whatever you offer me,” she said.

“It will take time,” he warned her and wondered if he’d dare bite into one of the figs in the bowl.

“I have time,” she said.

“It will take patience, too,” he added and bit into the fig.

“Of course,” she dipped her head.

“And work.”

Oh, that fig was delicious! Might he not also try some dates or a few sultanas?

“Time, work, and patience. I am all yours,” she said and the way she said it made Ardeshir blush. He retrieved his hand from the bowl of dates. No dates for him.

“There’s an ancient set of lessons…” he began. “How about we start with those, hmm?”

It was decided that the lovely Ramona was to come to Ardeshir’s barrel located behind the fishmongers on the market every Tuesday at dawn. She was to bring no food or drink. Her tunic and her many embroidered veils carried with them a scent of lavish musk that temporarily covered the stench of rotten fish and piss.

“These ancient set of lessons Ardeshir talked about, perhaps he would explain further?”

He could tell she was anxious, maybe even having second thoughts of the venture.

“They are secret,” he said rather snappishly and motioned for her to come inside the barrel. This she did and crouched down beside him. He hung up a piece of cloth to cover the opening, blocking the view from her slaves and guards.

“And certainly Ardeshir the poet wants some kind of reimbursement for these… these lessons?”

How innocent she looked! He couldn’t believe such innocence still existed in the world. He wondered if he’d ever seen anything like it. Such lilywhite cheeks, such rose red lips. Beauty unstained. And yet, here she was chattering about reimbursement, batting her eyelashes at him, pretending something had gotten into her eye. Oh, Ardeshir knew what he wanted. He knew how she wanted to pay for an insight into his knowledge, and his body trembled and ached with desire, as his nose took in her scent.

“In the end you shall have to pay with your beauty and your innocence and all of your riches,” he thought, but he didn’t tell her that. After all, he hadn’t asked for her to come to him, had he? She had come willingly, on her own accord. He felt his heart flutter in its cage as he thought of it.

“The first lesson is a lesson in Beauty,” he announced.

“Beauty!” she sighed. “What lesson is there in that?”

“You will see.”

And he began:

“In the land of the Usi, a palace once stood. It held the most exquisite painting of a woman, it was the Astghik. It was said that every man or woman who ever laid eyes on it, never again saw things the same way as they had before. Such was its great beauty. In the year of the Ox, when Hayk slew the bull and blood began to flow into the rivers, Usi fell under attack by warlords, and thieves broke into the palace and cut the exquisite painting until only shreds of it remained. Once order had been established in the land, the King of Usi asked the foremost of craftsmen to repair the painting, which they did as best they could. Alas, the painting was scarred beyond recognition and put away until one day a famous magician traveled by on a donkey. The King of Usi said:
‘I know of all your skills, for your legend has preceded you and I want you to see the famous painting the Astghik, perhaps you can make it whole again.’
And the magician was led into the chamber where the broken painting was hidden. He took a good look at it and turned to the King of Usi and said:

‘This painting is now more beautiful than it ever was, for it has seen pain and the pain has purified and thus beautified it. You do wrong keeping it in the dark. Take it out and put it in the most elegant of all the banquet halls in your palace and let people from near and far pay to see it. This way your people shall never hunger nor suffer thirst again.’

“Oh,” said the lovely Ramona and a ribbon from her hair came undone and fell into her lap. 

“The lesson here is: True beauty can never be destroyed nor can it vanish.”

Ardeshir and Ramona

Shake off the Monday blues with a shake! Here’s to a mixture of kiwi, banana, and coconut milk.

That I like to tell stories is probably quite obvious by now. Whenever I have to write an article, I try to make it into a story. Once, for instance, when I met with the grand nephew of Greta Garbo, I decided to turn that interview (which centered on some photographs of the famous movie star) into a detective story. We all have stories, that’s the nature of living, but we have more power over our own stories than we sometimes realize. It all depends on how we weave the narrative fabric we’ve been given. This became very clear to me when I read this remarkable book.

Today I’m bringing you a story that is not at all anchored in reality. I hope you enjoy it.

On his daily walks, the royal poet Ardeshir sometimes had the habit of running into the daughter of Count Casimir, the lovely Ramona, dressed in silk and dangling with the most precious of pearls. When he did, Ardeshir always fell down on his knees, pressing his forehead against the cobblestones in servitude, only carefully peeking at the point of her embroidered slippers. One day it so happened that the lovely Ramona, who was taking a stroll with her servants, noticed the poet lying prostrate in front of her. She pointed an alabaster finger and asked:
“What is that?”

Ardeshir did not dare look up. But the lovely Ramona insisted:
“What is that?”

“A poet, Countess Ramona,” her slave informed her in a dismissive tone.

Ardeshir added under his breath:
“A royal poet.”

“Such a tragic little man,” the lovely Ramona said and bent her white body like a lily over Ardeshir. Her slender limbs intoxicated him with their fragrance. He lifted his trembling chin, and looked into her face. Encircled by curls of gold, her cheeks were a flushed pink and her eyes blue as the Nordic seas.

From that moment on, Ardeshir could no longer avoid her. On his frequent walks around town, he felt her following him. He tried to shake her off by entering whorehouses and mad houses but she was not easily deterred. And if he stayed in the barrel that was his home, she came with her entourage of servants and slaves, tripping ever so lightly, bending down to peek inside:

“Is Ardeshir the poet at home?”

And there he was, asleep, rolled up in his traveling rug with the woven Mandala pattern, lost in dreams. How he wished he could hide! How he wished he had a curtain to pull in front of him. But alas he could do neither; his barrel offered no such luxuries. He mumbled something and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“Ardeshir the poet at Your Countess’ service,” he stuck his nose out for the world to see.

“I was wondering,” she said. “If perhaps Ardeshir the poet would be available for afternoon tea a fortnight from today at the Count’s palace?”

Ardeshir knew he wasn’t allowed to turn the lovely Ramona down. Such an offense would come with severe repercussions. He also knew that the sage never recruits his student, the student always seeks him, like the lovely Ramona was doing now. The sage asks nothing but a sincere desire to learn. Thus he blew his nose in the sleeve of his dirty caftan and in general made himself as disagreeable as he possibly could. But the more disagreeable he tried to make himself, the more she desired his knowledge. Her heart was set on him, he could feel it, and what a Countess wants a Countess gets.

The Best of Love

A chocolate heart and raspberries for (almost) Valentine’s Day breakfast. To make the heart, I used the best brownie recipe ever: ½ cup melted butter, 1 cup sugar, 2 eggs, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract, 1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, ½ cup all-purpose flour, ¼ teaspoon salt, ¼ teaspoon baking powder. Preheat over to 350F. Mix everything and spread into a buttered pan (or heart mold pan). Bake for 25-30 minutes.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. To be honest, it’s never been a day I’ve celebrated much. But I thought perhaps that’s one thing to change.

Love comes in all shapes and sizes. I think that’s what Valentine’s is about. Love for your spouse, your partner, your son, your daughter, your mother, father, sister, brother, colleague…  It need not be romantic. May we also include those we still don’t know, and those we aren’t so willing to let into our lives. Valentine’s is the day to open our hearts to them.

“Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold,” said Zelda Fitzgerald. That is true, yet poetry more than anything, certainly more than prose, is the language closest to love. Here are some of my favorite poems or parts of poems.

Have a lovely, loving weekend.

“O you who’ve gone on pilgrimage –

where are you, where, oh where?

Here, here is the Beloved!

Oh come now, come, oh come!

Your friend, he is your neighbor,

He is next to your wall –

You, erring in the desert –

What air of love is this?”
Rumi (1207-1273)

“Hear my soul speak:

The very instant that I saw you, did

My heart fly to your service.”

From The Tempest by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

“In the land that is not

my beloved walks with a brilliant crown.

Who is my beloved? The night is dark

and the stars quiver in response.

Who is my beloved? What is his name?
The heavens arch higher and higher,

and an earthly child drowns in endless fogs

and knows no answer.

But an earthly child is nothing but certainty.

And it stretches its arms higher than all the heavens.

And an answer comes: I am the one you love and

Will always love.”

from The Land that Is Not by Edith Södergran (1892-1923)

“I hide myself within my flower,

That wearing on your breast,

You, unsuspecting, wear me too –

And angels know the rest.

I hide myself within my flower,

That, fading from your vase,

You, unsuspecting, feel for me

Almost a loneliness.”

I hide myself within my flower by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

“O my love is like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June:
My love is like the melody

That is sweetly played in tune.

As fair are you, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I:

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till all the seas go dry.

Till all the seas go dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt with the sun:
O I will love you still, my dear,

While the sands of life shall run.

And fare you well, my only love,

And fare you well a while!

And I will come again, my love,

Athough it were ten thousand mile!”

A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns (1759-1796).