Bakery April 10, the second loaf

The second loaf. Baked on Tuesday, April 10.

On Monday night I made the sponge. Instead of 341 grams of flour, I used 300 gms of flour and 47.6 grams of a mixture of fine bran and wheat germ. I reduced the water slightly, to 355 gms instead of 405. The honey I used is low-grade quality, but it's all I have right now.

The blanket was 298 gms flour and 15 gms fine bran and wheat germ (instead of 311 gms flour). I had some extra yeast, so I put in an extra 0.3 gms.

In the morning I added the 15 gms salt and 128 gms of soft unsalted butter. I mixed it with the wooden spoon for a while, then finally with my hand. I kneaded the wet sticky mess for as long as I dared, a few minutes anyway (Rose says five minutes in the bowl), then dumped it out on the dusted bread board. I covered it with the inverted bowl and let it rest for 20 minutes.

Next I kneaded it very gently for just a few minutes. I then washed out the bowl and greased it. The dough went into the bowl, which I greased with soft butter. I patted a thin layer of oil on the top, as I patted it down flat. I covered it with saran wrap and put it in a plastic storage tub, so the cats wouldn't be tempted.

Without breakfast, I grabbed my bus pass and headed out to collect my ebike. I had brought it to the shop where I'd bought it, to get the headlamp working. He had sold it to me too quickly, hadn't quite finished all the repairs to it.

Yesterday, on the way to delivering the bike, I stopped at the restaurant equipment store behind the honeycomb swimming pool building, for another bread pan. I wound up buying a long loaf pan, and another 500 gm pan slightly shorter and longer. Both are Teflon. I was spooked by my recent experience of a stuck loaf. I looked for muffin pans, but they had only very shallow ones. I saw cute little tiny loaf pans, I thought I could use them for muffins. I bought 4 of them and one six-cup muffin tin. Spent 148 rmb altogether.

Did I mention the blender? I've been salivating for a blender. With that I could pick up odd grains at the supermarket and grind them, and add them to doughs. I also wanted to start experimenting with frozen yogurt smoothies, of which Blake has been raving. The cheapest ones I'd seen at the local appliance stores was just under 300 rmb, and seemed plasticky and cheaply done, though they had a lot of attachments. I went online to Taobao and found one for 128 rmb. It arrived. It has a large thick glass pitcher, the motor casing looks like it holds a powerful engine, and it also has the smaller cup and blade for grinding beans.

This time the first rise was almost a full two hours before the finger-press test was successful. I took it from the bowl and held it in the air. I let it ooze down, stretch itself out. I ever so gently pushed it to a square on the board. The texture was rough with all the bran; lovely. I was careful not to damage the air pockets. I folded each side in towards the center, then returned it to the bowl. The next rise took about 1 1/2 hours. I shaped it into a long loaf, and put it in the one long pan. It seemed to come up the side just about 1/4 of the way. I let it rise with the cover 3/4 closed, on the sunny ledge of the balcony. After an hour it had doubled. It looked ready, though I thought it looked small. I closed the lid and put it in the preheated oven at 190 degrees C. I forgot the ice cubes, at first; added them later. I had the solid pan set in the lowest slots, less than an inch from the bottom heating rods.

After 40 minutes of baking I removed the lid, turned off the top burner, and reduced the heat to 180 C. (the recommended baking temperature). Ten minutes later I removed it from the oven. It slipped out of the pan easily. I used the oven rack to cool it, as I haven't yet found cooling racks.

The bottom of brown, one little spot was dark brown but not quite burnt. The top looked quite lovely toast brown.

I had invited Lori over to celebrate the new loaf. The loaf had cooled over an hour, so I sliced up the whole loaf and divided into about six slices each group. Maybe two dozen slices altogether, maybe more. I set the end crust and few slices on a plate for when Lori arrived.

She called to say she was on the bus just then. I still had one more task to complete before my 'weekend' break was over. So I quickly shampooed my hair and set to with scissors, to trim off an inch on the top and sides.

By the time she arrived I had moussed and blown it dry.

Ah, the loaf. You want to know how it turned out. Lori brought a bottle of Cava pink bubbly. She said she felt like new beginnings were in the air and were to be celebrated.

We dove into the bread, slavering it with soft unsalted butter. The smell was fragrant with aromatics of almond and sweet healthy smells. The crumb was excellent. It was firm, yet airy. It was an explosion of tastes on the tongue. Realizing that we were eating bread and drinking wine on empty stomachs, I pulled out some cheese and olives. But by then our bread allotment was done! I still had some of Sundays bread, so I sliced and toasted the last of that. Yes, it was good, but it couldn't hold a candle to this lighter-than-air heavy whole grain bread.

My only regret is that I have to wait a whole week to do it again.

I sent Lori home with a packet of slices, to share with her colleagues, advertising this new product. I will bring a few slices to work today. I hope to get a packet to Oliver and Blake down at the CZU. The last packet I hope to send to my new Australian friend, Vicki, who lives a block away. Slowly building the business, one loaf at a time.

Bakery setting things straight with Sophia

Same day, an hour later. Wednesday:

Monday and Tuesday are my days off. This is the logical time to do some serious bread experiments. But Monday got eaten up by other errands. Sadly, life must go on with all her mundane chores.

In the afternoon Sophia came over, and we had a serious talk. I explained to her that from our previous meeting with Mike and Blake I was getting an image of what the wanted, and that it amounted to just riding the wave of the current trend and expecting to make a big splash by adding a small twist.

What I had in mind was something new, a whole new concept. Maybe it would start a new trend, maybe it wouldn't.

She told me Mike was eager to sell his home in Suzhou and his current business, and move to Changzhou to take over the 'bakery'.

I said that was entirely too much pressure. If he did that, he would soon be forcing us to conform to the existing successful model in order to earn him some money.

Our model needed time, at least a year, before we could expect to see any kind of growth and profit.

In China, people open up new shops without market research, following a trend, and quickly the business folds. If the person has a large circle of friends and family, the business has a slightly better chance of succeeding. At the shopping center area where I work, there are five shops in a row offering coffee in one version or another. All are espresso based, and the customers probably seldom actually order coffee. That's another story.

Sophia said Mike wanted to know what I expected his role to be. Sophia also asked the same question about herself. Mike's message to me was: will he be the manager of the shop, or do I simply want him to be my supplier of bread flour, in which case of course he'd take his profit.

I said, for the moment, the latter.

After she left I made supper. I was very tired, but I forced myself to put together a sponge for tomorrow. I put it in the cat-proof microwave, and crawl between the sheets. I hoped I'd read for an hour and then transfer the sponge to the fridge. But I fell asleep after a few pages.

The phone on my nightstand gave a chirp. A text message arrived. It woke me; it was from Tim, "I'm still up, you wanna Skype?" It was 11:15 pm.

I didn't answer the message, but did retrieve the batter and put it in the fridge, well within the four-hour limit. Thank you, Tim.

Bakery first loaf, results

Wednesday, April 11, 7 a.m.

Sunday's dough was slapstick. On the good side, when I dumped the dough onto the board after the first rise my eyes were bulging. The dough had risen amazingly high, the holes were large, I knew this new farmer's flour would be a very acceptable choice for the business. It is the lowest cost of the samples, and very acceptable results.

But I couldn't allow it a longer rise than about 70 minutes. It sprang back when I pressed it, the finger hole filled in quickly, but I had no time to wait. I had planned to meet with Traci for an Easter morning breakfast.

I gently pushed and pulled it into a haphazard square and folded each side over. Put it back into the glass bowl, turned it over, pressed it flat, and covered it again. I left it to rise in the microwave so the cats wouldn't attack it. I jumped on the ebike and rode out to the TV tower, near my Web school. On the way I noticed that my battery was running in the red when I throttled, and only showing half power when resting.

She showed up two minutes later, and we walked to the Manabe Japanese cafe where, a friend told me, we could get a western breakfast. It was locked! The hours posted on the door said it should have opened a half hour ago, but it was locked. Is it, too, like so many other Chinese businesses, folding after less than a year in business?

I invited Traci back to my place, where I would make our breakfast. We left the bike in the Yonghui Shopping Center lot and took the 69A bus back to the Renmin Rd stop. A five minute walk and we were in the kitchen.

The dough had risen nicely. I eased it out of the glass bowl and put it back on the board. I looked at it, looked at my one bread pan, and knew I had made a two-loaf dough. I hadn't thought about it; it has been too long since I've done this. Last year when I was cooking the bread as flat rolls on the stove top, as far as I can recall I didn't halve the recipe and only got a dozen rolls.

What to do? I cut the dough in half, and shaped one into a loaf. I gently made it into a rectangle, folded the long ends in, and then from the long side rolled the dough towards me. I pinched the ends and tucked them under, and put them into the pan.

This pan I bought has three raised holes on the bottom. It also has small openings in the corners, where the sheets of metal had been folded. Not like American pans, that to my recollection are all of one piece. So I cut a piece of parchment paper to fit along the bottom, and covered those three holes. I greased the whole pan with olive oil.

I pondered whether or not to experiment with putting the remaining batter in the fridge, baking it another time. I've never done that, read it could be done, but am leery of what it would do to the rise.

I looked at the loaf in the pan, before covering it, and it looked awfully small. I cut the remaining dough again and awkwardly blended it into the already shaped loaf. I tried to flatten the larger piece out again, flatten the new piece, and roll them together.

I covered the pan with its lid, to keep the cats away from it, and put it on the sunny ledge of my balcony. Now, what to do with the remaining quarter of the batter?

No worries mate! I resorted to last year's technique of cooking the bread as rolls on the stove top in the wok. They would be our breakfast rolls. I shaped them into three hearty rolls while Traci and I chatted away. She is such lively company!

I made us a simple omelet with some frozen sliced onions, eggs, a dash of milk, and a covering of Irish Kerrygold Dubliner, which is close to a very mild cheddar.

She was very gracious, complimenting the simple repast as a treat.

I put the loaf pan into the heated oven at 11:45, along with some ice cubes tossed onto the bottom of the oven. I normally walk out the door at 12:30 to catch the bus for my one o'clock shift. The bread needed 50 minutes in the oven!

As Traci and I chatted away at the table inches from the little oven, we watched the bread dough oozing out of the corners of the lid, dropping like pale worms onto the pan below.

Traci left at about 12:15, and I started getting cleaned up for work.

I decided that on this day I would have to be late for work. After all, I knew my first class wasn't until 2:00.

I took the lid off the pan about ten minutes before it was due to be done. I was so rushed I never thought to turn off the top burner. Luckily, the finished loaf was not too dark.

At 12:35 I took the pan out of the oven. What a mess! I had little time to let it cool. As soon as I could touch it, I started chipping away at the encrusted pan, trying to free the loaf. I slammed it on the bread board to loosen it. That used to work, with my good pans years ago.

Next I took a thin knife and started slicing along all sides of the loaf. The first cut didn't do it. It took a long time to pry it loose. I dumped it on the board. One side had a paper-fine sliver the length of the bread, from two passes with the knife. The color was pale.

I bundled it up in parchment paper, along with a bread knife, and took it to work. I set it out to cool, while I prepared my classes.

As soon as I could, I went across the street to grab my bike and bring it into the office, where I hooked up the charger.

During a break between classes I sliced the loaf. I wrapped a couple of pieces and put them in the freezer, so I could later compare them with other experiments.

The crumb was way too moist, and crumbly. It was useless for sandwiches. I buttered up some slices and had the staff sample it. They gave detailed comments.

Rena: I like the feel it leaves in my mouth after I swallow it.

Of course, the excess moisture and lousy crumb were the results of a) rushing the rise, and b) patching in the third quarter of the raw dough.

My strongest criticism was the taste of the olive oil. It was much too strong! I suspect that last year I used less oil (because I misunderstood the markings on the side of the rice measuring cup), and the flavor of that oil was not as strong as this Spanish oil.

Last year I measured everything by volume, I didn't have a scale.

Conclusion: Entirely too many firsts at one time, combined with insufficient time for the whole process, yields one weird loaf of bread.

Bakery Easter Sunday, preparing the first loaf

Easter Sunday

I've been trying to find a baking stone on Taobao. So far no luck. Sophia has sent me a number of links, but haven't found it yet.

Last night about 14 ex pats gathered at a local Chinese (Cantonese style) restaurant for an Easter Eve dinner. We all went our separate ways upon leaving the restaurant. But I was still wound up, so I decided to start a sponge with my new dough.

I had forgotten that Traci and I had agreed to meet Sunday morning for breakfast. Whoops.

Using Beranbaum's The Bread Bible, and a recipe I've done a gazillion times, I chose the hard wheat from the small Hebei farmer. It's the one I'm rooting for, since it is the least expensive.

Weighing carefully on my new digital scale, I started with 341 gms of flour (I included some fine bran, maybe 1/4 cup, didn't measure), 405 gms water, 45 gms honey (not the best tasting I've had) and 2.4 gms instant yeast.

I beat that together, and it seemed quite thin. Usually I use less water, when I was using the local soft wheat flour.

I covered it with a blanket of 2.4 gms yeast, 311 gms flour (I included another 1/4 ~ 1/3 fine bran), dry milk (fat included).

I let it sit for an hour, then I refrigerated overnight. At 6 a.m. I removed it from fridge so it could warm up to room temperature. At 7, I add the oil and salt ( 40 gms, olive oil 128 gms, 15 gms salt), and another 1/4 cup flour. I was afraid it would be too moist.

Mixed it as best I could with a wooden spoon. It always has streaks of oil in it after mixing that way, which bothers me, but through the different rises it all seems to get incorporated. I worked it as long as I had energy, a few minutes once it was coagulated, and then dumped it on the floured bread board. I covered it with the mixing bowl, while I checked the instructions again. It has been a while since I made an actual loaf. More recently, without an oven, I've been limited to making rolls like English Muffins on the stove top.

Following directions I gently kneaded it a few minutes more (not the full 5 called for, since I've got rough bran in it), then let it sit 20 minutes again under the inverted bowl.

Washed out the bowl, coated it with oil, put the dough in it. Flattened it out and turned it over. It seemed huge! I had read that fresh dough rises better, and this certainly seems to be what I am observing.

Because I'm meeting Traci for breakfast, and also because I have to be to work sooner than all the rises and baking calls for, I'll just let it rise for a little over an hour. Before going to breakfast I'll flatten it, fold the four sides in "like an envelope", and put it back in the bowl. After breakfast I'll shape it for the loaf, and hope it rises enough to bake before I leave for work.

Bakery April 6, a talk with Blake

Friday, April 6

Blake came in early for his evening shift, so we had a chance to talk. He'll spend the summer in the States, plus a trip to Guatemala to take care of personal family business. He'll set up contacts through his parents to meet with 'coffee people' in Costa Rica. 'Everyone drinks coffee in Costa Rica, they all know about coffee.' He thought he'd try to get three roasts; regular, french and espresso or dark. I introduced the idea that within coffee bean culture there are a lot of different varieties of beans. 'Oh.'

He talked more about the pastries and funnel cakes and muffins. I asked if he planned to take a pastry course while he was there during the summer. 'Sure.'

Finally, after 20 minutes, he asked, 'What do you think?'

I said I had something much simpler in mind. That for years I have wanted to teach the Chinese how to enjoy simple coffee with all its subtle flavors. That I was tired of Chinese saying coffee was bitter, when all they'd tasted was low-quality espresso.

Hence what we should be looking at are comparisons in cost and feasibility between importing and then roasting our own green beans, or importing already-roasted beans. Since I was doing all the research and incurring expenses for the bread-making end of it, and since he has said all along that he could access Costa Rican coffee easily, I was leaving the coffee research up to him.

I pointed out that if we had a small cafe, five or seven tables, offering different brewed coffee flavors with or without milk and sugar, offering only cookies and muffins to go with the coffee, and sold a limited number of whole-grain breads to go, our overhead would be much lower. If we failed, we'd lose less.

My unexpressed thoughts were that if we have the Chinese Mike and Sophia investing in us for a big spread, they would then exert pressure on us to conform to the Chinese taste. While that made good business sense to them, I believe that if we offered something truly unique it had a greater chance of creating a new trend, which is after all what $Mike$ was after.

We'll see whose opinions prevail.

Bakery April 5, partnership questions

Thursday, April 5

None related, went to see the traditional doctor today, to find out how to keep my blood pressure from hovering around the 150/100 line. I already changed diet and exercise towards that end, but had a spike of 200/?? that scared the daylights out of me. He said, simply, 'sleep'. I needed to take care to get adequate sleep, and I will be able to maintain a 130/95. I'm jake with that!

Emailed Sophia and asked her to meet with me Monday, to have a sit-down. So, Monday afternoon I will try to make her see that Blake and I don't want what she and Mike want. If we followed their lead, we would be opening just another bakery/coffee shop like so many others already in town, trying to compete by adding a few extras, like whole grain bread and real coffee. I don't think that will fly, and it is far too big a venture than I am capable of handling.

We'll see how she reacts.

Bakery, first stirrings

I first came to China in 2001. I like to drink good coffee. If it's tasty, one cup a day will do. Since I've been in China, I've had to lower my coffee standards. Fresh roasted French Roast is just not available.

Since moving to Changzhou in 2009 I've found that coffee drinking has become very popular among the young generation. But what coffee!! It is either instant coffee with sugar and creamer; Nestle's and Maxwell House are big sellers. Or it is espresso. I drank espresso regularly when I lived in Germany, and discovered that though there are many brands, only espresso fresh from Italy has the great subtle flavors that make for a delicious coffee. All else is just bitter.

You will not find a Chinese person asking for a shot of espresso. All coffee they drink is gooped up with milks and sugar and syrups.

I have thought for a couple years now that I'd love to buy a coffee roaster, and green coffee beans, and begin to experiment. I considered that I might be able to produce delicious flavors with simply the choice of bean and roasting, and slowly educate the Chinese pallet, one student at a time.

As for baking bread, during the years I spent in Sichuan I made my own bread weekly, sharing it as best I could with my ex-pat neighbors on campus. I did the same during my year in Somalia, so that by now I take bread-making for granted. It's a snap.

It was no surprise, then, when I started having these conversatons with Blake, a young Guatemalan-American from California who arrived here in September. We talked, as dreaming people do, about opening a place where we could share these American tastes. With his contacts in Central America, he thought he could access good coffee. I lamented the lack of hard and whole wheats, which are essential to making good breads.

He shared this conversation with a mutual Chinese friend, and she grabbed the bit and took off running. She contacted a cousin who is a businessman and also interested in founding a successful chain of food suited to ex-pat tastes. These quickly become trendy here in China.

Suddenly Blake and I were swept into their whirlwind. They wanted to know what help we needed to get this idea transformed into reality; and they wanted it NOW.

Gulp. We had just been day dreaming. Now the pressure is on to produce produce produce. I had my year laid out until December, and it did not include doing a lot of baking. I have no oven in Changzhou, and so I haven't been baking at all.

This year Lantern Festival landed around my birthday. The Chinese woman, Sophia, invited me to her home to meet Mike. Was this a romantic liaison? Setting me up for a blind date? I was sick as a dog, with bronchitis. I couldn't venture out. So she brought him to me, in my pajamas and robe I entertained them.

Turns out, Mike wanted to go partners with Blake and me. He wanted to know my strategy. I laid it out for him. He nodded, he liked what he heard.

Then I get an email from him, translated by Sophia, asking me what samples I wanted from wheat country. Huh? I had told him I wouldn't have time for this until the very earliest, summer. Even then, I wouldn't have much time to give it. No matter, the pressure was on. Sophia had a conversation with Blake in which she told him, if Satina isn't ready, let's find another baker.

Sophia is a real go-getter.

I fumed for a few days, playing all different scenarios in my head about this. In the end, I decided to play the game, string them along, keep the dream alive. I sent my request.

It took a month, but at last Mike came to Changzhou for a meeting with us four, and loaded with sample flours, wheat germ, bran and gluten.

It was a strange meeting. The more we talked, the more Blake got cut out. He and I had envisioned a small cafe with tables, bookshelves with English paperbacks for trade, and a small assortment of breads to take away.

They wanted a bakery starting with 12 types of breads, with plans to expand the line in time. Coffee would be offered over the counter.

I kept trying to draw Blake into the conversation, asking concrete questions to add weight to his end. But he could only pipe dream, about maybe this and maybe that, add churros and funnel cakes, pastries. He still had not researched what his Central American relatives could offer him. He had no vision that centered around American coffee culture.

After the meeting, the three Chinese and me jumped into Mike's car. Sophia had invited me to a concert that evening, and Mike had insisted on driving us. Blake wandered off, with a bummed look on his face.

I called Blake the next day. I reminded him that our 'partners' had tried to cut me out of the picture earlier, and now it seemed like they were doing it to him. I wanted to commiserate, to make him feel better, to rally our strength and take back our creative property. But he said he was teaching at the moment, and couldn't talk.

I wrote him offering some suggestions of concrete steps he could take to make the dream take form. The written reply was full of observations he had made in the brief six months he'd been here. Some of them were accurate, others were naive. Still talking about what he will do in the future. He did give me one concrete answer to a question I'd included. When was he thinking to go full-time into this business? His reply, never. That is, he'd dabble in getting it set up, but someone else would have to run it. He is not investing himself in it.

Wednesday, April 4. Went to Metro to buy baking pans. Looked at their ovens. They offered one that was cheaper and better than the ones at Suning. I had wanted a professional oven, but the one I found during a round of restaurant equipment stores was so large. It seemed criminal to bake fewer than four loaves. The one I had in Sichuan was smaller. I was in a quandary what to do until I found this one at Metro, for a mere 428 rmb. I bought it, and a bread loaf with lid.

I should have made a loaf as soon as I brought it home, but the cleaning lady was here. And I was tired; I just wanted to kick back. Soon, the adventure will begin in earnest.

True love dies hard

True love dies hard. What is true love? These deep feelings I still have for Gregg, what is their source? Is it ego? Loneliness? A simple desire to be loved?

Certainly, if it is a desire to be loved, then these feelings have no right to exist. Gregg loves himself, all others stand in line. He has not shown me love. He has shown me benign neglect, abuse, abandonment. There is no logical reason why I should still have strong feelings for the man.

That he is intelligent and well read is becoming. That he has a wicked sense of humor and a boyish playfulness is endearing. I find his form beautiful.

It breaks down when relationship enters in. He cannot relate to another human being with love and compassion, because he does not feel those things for himself. He does have a huge ego, but somehow self-love does not enter into it. How can it be?

The human being is a complex creation. There is the spirit, the consciousness that allows us to be part of the Universal Consciousness, which ebbs and flows through us. Then there is the constructed ego, one might call it the soul, others might call it the mind, but it manifests as ego. This is the image we project out into the world, how we want the world to see us, the images and beliefs we have created as we have developed our perception of the world.

This is a construct. It has been growing along with the body. One might say that at some point in a man’s life, the two merge. The ego grows thinner, the spirit grows stronger, until there is a bleeding through. When we see a 60 year old making his life choices at the level of wisdom and emotional development of an adolescent, we know somewhere along the line growth has been inhibited.

What is this construct, this ego? From the earliest years we strive to please, to fit in, to conform. If we are sheltered in a family of adults who are self-actualized, who have allowed the spirit its proper place in balance with the ego, then that which we seek to conform to can be harmonious to our nature. But if we attempt to grow in a hostile environment, where the adults are still striving in an adolescent mind frame to manifest a composite ego that is full of unresolved conflict, the newly forming ego will be riddled with conflict and uneasy.

Dysfunctional families come in all shapes. His is the dysfunction spawned from alcohol addiction. I don’t think alcoholism is itself a monolithic entity, but rather a covering for a complex underlying malaise. One type evolves from the unwillingness to resolve childhood ego conflicts, perhaps because it will set us at odds with people we love, and so the drug of choice becomes the medication to numb the pain and discomfort. Early social drinking creates a feeling of fitting in, of belonging, which is in contrast to the isolation and feelings of unworthiness of a child’s conflicted ego.

With the drinking come all kinds of pathologies. One great obstructer is the need to keep secrets. “Son, don’t let your mother know I’ve been drinking.” Dad comes home stumbling drunk, but we must not remark on it. We must ignore it, take care of father’s needs and prop him up as if this is normal behavior. Lie to oneself about what is really going on. If a child feels vulnerable, frightened, confused to see his loving parent suddenly emotionally abusive and out of control, or weak and stumbling, he must stuff these feelings down. There is no one with whom it is safe to acknowledge these feelings. So he locks them away.

Then the cycle is repeated, as the child becomes an adult. Feelings are difficult to deal with, having no instructions or healthy modeling. It is easier to join the party, medicate away these painful feelings with the drug of father’s choice. Be a man; drink with the guys.
This is the man I am in love with. What am I in love with? The promise that was born inside him, which cringes in fetal form yet while the body withers, prematurely ravished by alcohol abuse. That is one theory.

AA counselors would call this a ‘rescue’ complex.

Perhaps I am a megalomaniac, a Svengali looking to bring a weaker human under my control.
Perhaps I have reached the end of my tether of loneliness and isolation. This is the first viable man who has looked at me romantically in easily twenty years, maybe more. [What a dog I must be, eh?] I am just grasping at the faintest glimmer of hope that I might not spend my dotage alone. Even if it means spending it with a crazed pickled immature addict.

And maybe I am in love with love. Not the romantic love that springs up at first blush, but the feelings that go way deep from the hair roots down to the toenails. The feeling of surrendering yourself to anothers will, needs, wishes, of blending into One.

Will I ever know the answers. One thing is for sure. It is best, wisest, if I never let that man back into my life. I must amend that to say, there is only one condition under which I would let that man back into my life, and it is upon the successful completion of a 4-week 12-step addiction recovery program.

I post this here on a somewhat public forum to make myself accountable for these words.

I Want to Address the Second Coming

The second coming of Christ will be more glorious than the first. I believe there may be a return of Christ, descending in a cloud in the East. A glorious return, with full fanfare. The gospels and epistles tell us this is what we long for. But hearts grow weary! It is contrary to human nature to have hope so strong that it counteracts the basic needs of belonging, to be loved, to be recognized. And what comfort can so vague a reward bring to someone lifting his wrecked child from the twisted remains of car.

‘In His second coming he will be clothed in light as a garment.’ ‘And the Lord whom you seek will come suddenly to his temple.’ ‘…he comes like a refiner’s fire, a fuller’s herb, and he will sit refining and cleansing.’ ‘…waiting for…the appearance of the glory of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ.’

The mystics talk about Divine Union with God. We emerge from the Cloud of Unknowing into a light that has no shadow. There is radiance and joy, full of love.

To get to that place, we sit and wait for him. Over the years of sitting and waiting, we dwell in an internal space. There we participate in a parade of life, and death. We begin with the uphill struggle of just sitting in the confusion, not running away. How long does it take, before we can unwrap the swirl of thoughts and emotions and learn to just sit there, quietly observing.

Then the parade begins in earnest. We begin to relive past events. Painfully, we observe scenarios that wounded, the source of wounds that drive our external lives out of control. As in a holograph, we see and hear ourselves and another saying and doing hurtful things. In the safety of this internal space, we watch the dynamic with cool detachment, and see what a jerk we really are. Tenderness arises for that poor Other who has been roughly treated.

And so the parade continues through the years, as layer upon layer of images play out over each of the emotions that trap us. Attachment to things and people, and its opposite aversion. Pride driving us to be always first. Sloth quelling the inner voice that taps on the shoulder and whispers, “This is the path, walk ye in it.” Fear and anger, the firestorms that arise from the forces of attachment, aversion, pride, sloth.

Eventually the parade subsides. The forces that drive us are subdued and replaced. We become more like the bareback horse who is so melded to his master that the slightest touch against the withers, a mere leaning this way or that and the horse goes where his Master wills.

Now when we sit in His presence, there is a silence like standing at dawn after a rain, enveloped in a dense fog. We hear the beating of our heart, the whining of neurons firing signals on their paths, the drip of rain from the trees, the cool moist air on the face. We are there in the center of it all, calm, alone, in touch with All and nothing.

And still we sit and wait.

And one day, as awakening from a dream, we see Him as He truly is. In all the splendor and glory of creation, we see His majesty. As love arises from the core to fill and irradiant all of existence, we see things as they really are. Stripped of the illusion of right and wrong, good and bad, we truly understand the judgment and the judge. And then we know, this is His glorious Second Coming, for here we are truly in the presence of our Lord and King.

What does a broken heart feel like?

What does a broken heart feel like?

The joy of a hello kiss that tingles down to the toes.

Reaching out at night and finding a warm body,

and a hand reaching out for you.

All duded up, walking down the city street hand in hand.

The feel of his hand as it firmly grips yours

and steers you through the crowds.

A deep voice, velvety and soothing, saying mundane things.

Dreams of sailing boats, and living on a warm and sunny coast.

A tender heart, reaching out for a safe harbor.

A tender response, wanting always to wrap safely around.

Tendrils of love that weave from one heart to the other

Closing the space that separates their bodies.

A morning 'see ya' with the unspoken promise

That she is not forgotten, will be sought in the day

And missed at night.

And then the silence.

And silence.

“I need my space.”

Hopes and dreams put on a shelf called 'space'.

Tendrils of love shut out in mundane activities.

Doubts. Fears.

What happens when she finds out I am out of control?

She won't love me.

Hide.

And then it happens, and he spirals out of control.

And he is sick.

And he is ashamed.

And he is disgusted with himself.

And she comes to him, and nurses him well.

And he promises it will never happen again.

A very old, stale promise used many times with others.

Sometimes it works, at least for a while.

And when at last she sees he doesn't mean it,

A dark hole, dense gravity, opens in her chest.

Heavy, aching.

Walking, sleeping, working.

Deep empathy for the lost and hopeless.

That's what a broken heart feels like.

transcendental vs earthly love

Love hurts. It shouldn't be that way. Transcendental love may hurt if you are taking upon yourself the sorrows of another in prayer or meditation, but to walk in that state is sublime. It overcomes whatever road blocks life puts in your way, you 'float' over them.

But love between humans, love that does not also share the transcendental Reality, sucks. It seems to operate at the most base level of the human, the untranscended form. Is there a transcending love? I make observations of other humans that empirically seem to lean in that direction, but on an experiential level I have yet to discover the answer.

One friend may be on the right track. He remembers the woman who bore his children, and inspite of her rejecting and betraying him, he claims she is the only love of his life. He chooses to live his own independent life protected from making that mistake again by persuading himself that he has found his one true love. His natural bent is towards hermithood, so he has the best of two worlds.

What causes the pain? It is the rising up of untamed human emotions. Greed, ego gratification, ignorance, intolerance, impatience, the seven cardinal sins. How do people deal with it? I guess sometimes they just harden their heart, turn a blind eye, work a patch around that blind spot and move on. Denial: it wasn't my fault, it was YOU. Or they can face up to the pain together, look at it in clear light, and apply a remedy. People can change, if they are committed to change. But how many people really are?

I believe I am ready for change. I look at this shattered relationship, and I can name my faults. Because the other party is not committed to the relationship, not committed to change, I can not learn a new way to behave, when this fault tries to arise again. The fault doesn't go away just because I recognize it. It is like any other habit; it requires step by step action to reduce its power and to change. Like quitting smoking, where you have to learn to feel the impulse to smoke and then apply countermeasures to distract and eventually extinguish that impulse.

I can remember a time when I was living in community, in the early years of the new millennium. We could laugh at my clumsy, abrasive ways of expressing myself. They accepted me and all my faults. Their persistent friendship through the years and separation of miles shows that they went beyond the external appearances and saw the loving, caring heart beneath. Even with differences of age and perspectives, they love me. When in community, I found it easier to control those unrefined parts of me.

I do not believe that humans are meant to live alone, I don't care how realized they may be. A hermit in a cave is surrounded by the spirits he communes with. My living alone, my apartment inaccessible by distance from the students, the Chinese indifference to just another foreigner, no ex pat females on the staff or nearby, all this conspires to an unnatural situation. Add to that the work load put on me by my school contract, there is precious little time to search for companionship, to go out into the city to find an existing community.

I joined the gym. Usually I swim when the pool is fairly empty. But the pool was closed for weeks during the holiday, so once it opened I went for a swim regardless of the crowds. The pool was so crowded that there were two or three people in the same lane, trying to swim laps without bumping into anyone coming or going. I found that I did not watch the clock. I continued swimming longer than usual, simply because having other people there gave me energy. And that is my reality. Am I alone in this? It is not a defect, it is the way I was made. I was made to serve; to be part of a community. My positive energy flows out and into others, and this recharges me. My purpose cannot be fulfilled when I live in isolation. The only contact I have is with the students in front of the classroom. I serve them the best that I can, but I could do so much more. This looks, feels and tastes like frustration. May the grace of God keep it from slipping into despair.

Winter Love

Finding love in winter?? I don’t want to go there; don’t make me. Well, all right, if you really want to talk about it. But what’s the point?

Yes, it’s true. I have known for some time now that it is necessary to find a life partner. I am not getting any younger, I know I am growing weaker, and two are stronger than one.

Did I expect that finding that partner would bring joy in my life? I don’t need joy. I am at peace, content with my purpose in life and my efforts to realize to its fullest that purpose. I have found equilibrium, far more satisfying than joy.

Until, that is, I found my partner. Did I expect him to be Superman? Quite simply, I had no expectations. Surely he needed to be a traveler and on a spiritual path. Beyond that, the trivial things I asked for (a musician, no taller than 5’9”, to name two) were nonessential frills.

He has a noble name, although his parents ignobly denied him its full breadth, Gregory. They chose instead ‘Gregg’. And so the tone was set for his life. A luminous essence traversing a wobbly orbit, compass set to a noble course, on torturous tacks towards it. .

Surely finding each other was a joyous event. The joy was short lived, like a magnesium flash measured against the time span of eternity. Now comes the hard part. Two creaky cranky people learning how to appreciate, love and respect a space invader.

Too soon to move in together, our time is spent invading the others home for short spans, trying hard to adjust to an environment not conducive to our habits. I like my oatmeal every morning; he takes breakfast casually. I need my face cream, hair brush, morning toilet rituals not available at his cramped abode. At my abode, he wakes up wanting his own shower, not mine. He sits looking lost, finger crooked for a phantom cup of coffee, while I buzz around in my morning rituals.

And the physical! Oh don’t get me started. My atrophied body was not ready for the brutal assault of sexual awakenings. I had forgotten how messy sex is. In the habit of celibacy, desires long ago extinguished, how am I supposed to suddenly feel aroused? I remember the hot flames of desire, but weren’t they fueled by hormones now dissipated from my frame? I respect this man, I enjoy his company, I find him gentle and easy to be with, I lean on him happily. I would not want him to leave my life ever again. To return to my familiar single life would be a journey down to spiritual and emotional impoverishment where once there had been contentment. But he is still a man, hormones still course through his body, and he expects to be sexually desired and completed.

Winter love, then, is a fascinating phenomenon. It is something new, altogether not expected, not predicted by media hype. They don’t try to sell products to us, so they project us no image to help us find our way. Not a love ruled by hormones, it is the discovery of a new way of caring. With the heart, with the mind, especially with the spirit, it is a reaching out, an opening up, an expanding of Self to accommodate Other who walks into your arms a stranger.

Just at that moment in life when we old people are reputed to be fixed in our ways, unchangeable, old dogs incapable of new tricks.

All right then, now you’ve heard. The good, the bad and the ugly. On to a brave new adventure, probably the most significant of a lifetime. Certainly the toughest. One can only hope the rewards will be equal to the challenge.

uncivil discourse

How do I work my way out of a social dilemma. I am Christian, important people in my life are Christian. I do not have any homosexual friends right now; in fact, it is safe to say that there are no close friendships in my life at the moment, gay or straight. But I move in a world that is rich in diversity, and I feel a need in my heart to be balanced. There is a war raging, but I cannot take sides.

On the one hand, there are those ‘eternal verities.’ There is a ‘creator’, a great intelligence we can only sense in our spirit, but cannot prove with scientific certainty. This created world has its natural laws that keep the planets orbiting in their proper space. There is inborn in humankind the longing for goodness, a distaste for hurting self and others. Alongside this there is also the urge to gratify ones own self. In a world governed by divine love it is possible to balance these divergent longings. Yet as man strives to live in society with other men, people do develop the capacity to hurt and to pursue what goes against the greater good of society. This fact only underscores another verity, that man is born with free will. He can choose to follow his yearning for goodness, or abandon it to his self interests.

The portion of the population that has chosen to follow Christ have as their guidebook for right living the many books and chapters that comprise the Bible. A large portion of this Book is shared by followers of Islam. Exercising that free will, these disciples of Christ and Muhammed have chosen to interpret this great book in many divergent ways. There are clear statements in different places of the Book that indicate a natural formation for society, and an unnatural one. Sexual love of man for man or woman for woman has clearly been placed in the latter camp. Even the word ‘abomination’ has been the English translation of choice from the original.

Weigh this against the teachings of Christ himself, as reported in the New Testament. He has asked us to learn how to love and to forgive. He identifies his people, speaking through the apostle Paul, as a peculiar people, set apart. In this world, but not of it. Even so, we must render to Caesar his due. We must abide by and respect the law of the land, and when that land is a republic functioning as a representational democracy, then we are called upon to participate in creating as well as abiding by this law.

I believe that all of this has led us to a cultural civil war. In ever increasing numbers, people are choosing to focus on their own gender in their search for loving companionship, for stability, for their fulfillment of the natural yearning to belong. This is an alarming trend when viewed from the perspective of social history, where the extended family has been the traditional bedrock of stability and cultural continuity.

This schism did not arise spontaneously. There is no virgin birth here. It is the inevitable outgrowth from the destruction of the traditional extended family unit. We have brought it on ourselves with the industrial age, where factories supplanted farms as the source of income. This apparently simple shift has spawned many unnatural alliances, sundering the natural order of society.

Workers left the extended family in order to find work. Without the natural support of the extended multi-generational family, the stressors that afflict all marriages could not be contained. Cracks formed in the nuclear family unit, infidelity became easier when greater distance was put between the home and the work place, and the inevitable divorce occurred. The restless spirit was no longer contained within the walls of the defining rural social community. The anonymity of the city permitted experimentation with alternate forms of gratification. With divorce comes single parenting, step-parenting, week-end parenting with divergent values. The suffering, confused and alienated children produced in these environments have grown to adults with a very different concept of home, family and community.

Arranged marriages such as seen in Asian cultures, and formerly in European cultures, has no formal part of the modern post industrial culture. In rural America, however, when young people grew up with their entire extended family living within miles of them, coupling of young people having similar values and temperament was a given. Choices were limited. This usually worked to the benefit of all involved, ensuring continuity of the family, of financial stability, and ultimately of the strong community. Droughts occurred as well as bounty, recession as well as plenty, but the community leaned upon its own resources and rode the tides of good and ill together.

There are hardly any such pockets of healthy communities left in America. Young people are faced with options that will easily take them away from the security of whatever community they came to know, and in spite of their best intentions they may not return except perhaps for weddings and funerals.

A good mother learns quickly that a child needs boundaries. As the child grows within these boundaries, gaining in confidence, experience and wisdom, the boundaries can safely expand. But even adults find comfort in boundaries. Given the breakdown of society, boundaries have expanded beyond anything healthy, yet humans need these boundaries no less, to feel safe. We all have heard the phrase, “It’s a scary world out there.” It has never been more true.

Single young adults have a daunting task in the search for a life partner. The 2009 film He’s just not into you portrays this world with humor that masks a deeper angst. It is economically practical to find a housemate, rather than living with parents or tackling the emotional uncertainty of living with an uncommitted lover. Compatibility can arise, making for a satisfying home life. The definition of ‘family’ blurs, when no blood relation lives in the same city, and the majority of your free time is spent with this housemate. Years can pass, and these two can become each others strongest supporters. But what if one suffers a medical emergency, or a car accident? Will these two not experience the same drama as any sibling or husband and wife in this situation? The injured person would want the security and comfort of that housemate by their side. It is that housemate who will carry on with the necessities of life—bill paying, pet caring, keeping friends and coworkers apprised of the situation. And here arises a conflict. The hospital has rules keeping ‘non family’ out of the ICU, for one example. After decades of growing numbers of people in this situation, policies have finally changed to give recognition to vital life relationships outside the traditional definition of ‘family.’ And so we have ‘civil union’ laws, to extend insurance and other benefits to householders not having a blood or legal relationship.

All of this makes perfect sense, so far. Then love and sexual gratification enter into the picture, and sensibility is fractured. The relationship takes on a whole new meaning within the context of community. Beyond civil union, there is the romantic notion of marriage, a gesture to all the world demonstrating that the universal search for love and marriage has been fulfilled. Who is it that desires this romantic gesture?

There are two camps, in my opinion. There are life partners who have a solid and discreet relationship. They have no desire to call attention to themselves, they have found stability as well as emotional fulfillment in their relationship. Having filed for ‘civil union’ status, they are ensured the civil right to take care of and protect each other. "Marriage" would be the icing on the cake, a cake perfectly edible without icing nonetheless.

The other side of the coin brings us back to that young adult search for a life partner. How does someone identify themselves as gay or straight? This is a complicated issue. Each person is born with the capacity to find beauty in the same gender as well as the opposite. We are acculturated to prefer the beauty of the opposite sex, a healthy natural urge built within us to propagate the species and continue the social order. But in an unhealthy society where natural boundaries have been torn down, a young person can be without a true compass. They may have gotten the message to seek love and marriage, but the traditional urges such as for species propagation may have been extinguished. It is also a scientific fact that a small number of people are born with gender ambiguity, a small number.

Out there cruising for love and acceptance, it comes as it comes. We have heard that women are from venus, men from mars. This translates to mean that women tend to ‘get’ women easier than they ‘get’ men. Yet the acculturated desire for the romance of marriage to the object of love and adoration remains.

It shouldn’t be surprising that same-gender coupling is on the rise, an innovative solution to the breakdown of the more traditional means of find ones life mate. It is also a very practical solution to the complex personal finance dilemma, where the mortgage for a house requires two incomes. Can we heal these cultural diseases just by outlawing committed relationships between same gender couples? Oh, if only we could. In fact, homosexual marriage is just one more nail in the coffin of our decaying society.

The moral outrage of the more conservative, traditional minded to the idea of escalating the ‘civil union’ to the level of officially sanctioned marriage is a volley in this civil war, scorching and tearing as it flies. In the wake of its trajectory lies pain as much as ignorance. It accuses these relationships of tearing a rift in the community, of not carrying weight, of not bearing children. Would that I had statistics here to get a clearer picture of reality. Same-gender couples do raise children. Such children have an equal chance to socialize normally, following traditional gender roles. Are civil unions more or less stable than traditional marriages? The often heard statistic on male-female marriage is that there is a 50% chance it will end in divorce. We don’t yet have statistics on this recent innovation, same-sex marriage. Perhaps it will reflect the anecdotal breakdown of hetero couples who live together peaceably for years, only to get divorced after going through the wedding commitment.

I fear the outrage is misdirected, much like putting a band-aid on a broken bone. If we attempt to legislate who can get married, why not go a step further and revise the laws governing who can get divorced. Legislate against single parenting. Legislate against taking the influence of grandparents out of the lives of their grandchildren. Why don’t we make laws that will force 5% of the population to live in communities organized like the original kibbutz in Israel, which were self-contained communities. Children raised in those communities grew to be outstanding citizens. During the Yom Kippur war of 1973, 25% of the commanders of the army were products of these same kibbutzes, which were comprised of a mere 5% of the population of Israel. In fact, we cannot legislate behavior. It is closer to the truth if we say that behavior dictates legislation.

We have created a society with a heightened sense of entitlement to the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. A society where life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness has been redefined. Because these changes are being aired in a public forum, thanks to this era of all-pervasive multi-media technology, we cannot sit quietly and try to adjust to these changes. We are polarized, a rift is forming, social civil war seethes just below the surface.

I wish there were a solution—easy or difficult, if only we could find a path to chart through this morass. In fact, it will escalate. We have also seen alarming upheavals on the surface of our planet—tsunamis, earthquakes, war-induced famines and genocides. It is likely that nature will once again intervene, to take our minds off this social upheaval. In the face of disaster, we work side by side no matter what our social agendas might be, to feed and to bandage and to shelter the victims of tragedy. We ourselves might be such victims. Would we refuse to quench our burning thirst if the hand holding the bottle of water was a hand we saw betrothed in a same-sex marriage?

Laws change in two ways. Our elected officials can vote for change, and the citizenry can vote for a referendum to direct the lawmakers. Our citizenry has shown an appalling indifference to the great right and privilege that is our participatory democracy, as reflected by the percentage of eligible voters who actually cast a ballot when given the chance. I would like to see mandatory attendance at refresher courses periodically required of all citizens on our constitution and how government is supposed to work. But we can no more legislate that than we can legislate who will fall in love with whom. I do not like the idea of getting voters to the election poles by whipping them up with emotionally charged rhetoric, bypassing reason and logic. More often than not this is how it is done, and I abhor it. I would so much rather discuss ideas through civil discourse. But I am spitting in the wind.

What I would wish for is that people of power and influence would call our society to conscience, reminding us that we most of all desire to be a loving and forgiving people. That a self-regulating society that disciplines its self-interests to yield to the higher interests of the greater good is really what was intended for the United States of America. That includes tolerance for different interpretations of ‘greatest good’, allowing for separate but equal public services. That there would be hospitals that protected its staff against the act of abortion, and hospitals where abortion was protected. Schools where more traditional curriculums were taught, and schools for progressive curricular choices. That communities would have the right to permit public prayer in their schools, and communities that prohibited it.

These are the words of an idealist, ignoring the realities of the times. If such a vision were ever to come into being, it could only be at the hand of God allowing a great natural calamity to destroy the world as we know it. We all pray that will not happen. But we also pray that each one of us will seek within us for the voice of peace and love, from which can grow a greater respect and tolerance for each other. May this prayer stem the tide of civil war that threatens us all.

Night Encounter With Vermont Wildlife

Night driving never used to be a problem. On this night, I was returning from Chester to Ludlow after a lovely dinner with Ron at a fine restaurant. I know the unlit country roads around here well, and could take the 50 MPH speed limit comfortably. But that all changed last week, sitting in the optician’s office. The petite and efficient Viet Namese intern echoed the optometrist's warning, for emphasis. “Your vision will be blurred; it won’t be crisp like you’re used to.” I never dreamed these words would lead to a moment of terror behind the wheel.

It was time to get my eyeglass prescription renewed, before another year abroad. I went to WalMart for an eye exam. I didn’t intend to buy glasses, but only to have the prescription to take with me in case my three current pairs of bifocals all broke or got lost. On a whim, I asked if my prescription would be suitable for contact lenses. I have asked that question periodically over the years, waiting for technology to catch up. This time I was told that yes, there were bifocal soft contact lenses. I got fitted with a test pair that I was instructed to wear for a week.

I interpreted the ‘blurred vision’ caution to mean that in the distance objects would have soft edges. I was not prepared to lose the ability to read road signs, MPH markers, store marquees, and to see all lights as blurs.

I was driving home this evening at dusk. It was raining. What little traffic there was moved along at the speed limit, the road seemed fine. My headlights were on, but there was still light enough to see the colors of the flowers in the gardens I passed along the way. Then I came to the Proctorsville Gulf, a twisting road that rose up an escarpment through a canopy of trees. Suddenly my horizon shut down to the edge of my bright beams. There was no car ahead of me.

Around a bend I came upon the flashing lights of an 18-wheeler. I eased up on the gas a little as the lights of the truck grew larger in my windshield. The next 15 seconds are a blur. As soon as I saw that he was parked square in the middle of the downhill lane I took my foot off the gas completely, and edged halfway into my shoulder lane. The truck lights filled my view; all else was black as I peered through the windshield. Just as I came parallel with the truck a looming shadow jumped in front of my car and I felt a thud.

“What the…?!” I pulled all the way onto the shoulder and parked. I reviewed the flash that imprinted on my mind, of a dark shadow against bright lights, of what seemed to be a head and an outstretched arm and leg. A man waving me down, warning me to slow?

I grab the umbrella and jump out of the car, heading back down hill to check on the man who is surely lying on the road. A car drives past me going uphill, and in his lights I see a vision straight out of ‘Northern Exposure’[1] Across the road on the shoulder I see a moose walking uphill. I stop and stare at this amazing sight. I am not used to seeing wild moose walking along the side of a road.

On my soggy walk down hill a car slows to my pace, and the woman driver starts talking to me. She seems to be speaking softly from within her car, the dense trees and the sounds of the rain dampening what little voice escapes. I hear the questioning tone and in my tense concern I start to explain.

“I think I hit someone.”

“….hurt?”

“I am going to see if he’s hurt.”

“…moose?”

“Yes, I saw the moose up there. He seemed fine. I think I hit a man.”

“Oh!…moose…you mean…OK.”

And with that she drove away just as I came up parallel with the back of the truck. My eyes scoured the lane in front of me, and across to the downhill lane, the shoulders, and I saw no man lying in the road, no markers to ward off other travelers. The driver of the truck is walking around his vehicle, its Christmas-tree brightness bouncing off his red shirt. I toss my voice into the echoless night.

“Did I hit a man?”

“Oh, did you hit the moose?”

I turned my head uphill under the umbrella, as if I could still see the animal. “Well, I just saw him and he looked all right.”

“I turned my flashers on to slow down traffic…”

“So I didn’t hit anyone?” The rhetorical question hung in the air as the trucker moved through the bright lights with a rag in hand, oblivious to the drizzle.

I trudged uphill to my parked car, walking to the hood to check for damage. I didn’t see any, but I did see that the moose was trotting back down hill, still on the shoulder. I waited for a car to pass, then crossed over to him. I trailed behind him, like a squawking duck flapping my arms and bobbing the umbrella hissing ‘shoo, shoo’ in a vain attempt to get him to go back into the forest. But there was a guard rail impeding his egress.

Headlights rounding the bend from above redirected my focus. A large truck was coming down the hill. In fear of the moose making another dash into traffic, I began to pantomime for the driver to slow down. I didn’t hear an immediate easing off. Why wasn’t he getting my message? I flashed on what he must be seeing.

A red umbrella bobbing up and down. An outstretched hand held parallel to the ground, pushing the air down. An ankle-length dress, black with bright splashes of red, orange and yellow flowers, going up and down like an accordian. I would have thought that at least the absurdity of the sight would have caught his attention enough for him to ease off the gas…

There was nothing more I could do. I got back into my car and drove off. The canopy thinned as I reached the top of the hill, and dusky visibility returned. I hadn’t been on the road ten seconds before I saw clearly what had just transpired. Had I heeded the trucker’s flashing lights and pulled off the road immediately, together we could have herded the moose across the road to carry on his journey. Instead, he was trotting up and down the hill, up and down, frustrated and perhaps dazed by the blow of one of these two-eyed speeding monsters. Had I my normal clear vision I would have been quicker to recognize the situation ahead of me, and responded properly.

If I do decide to take a supply of contact lenses to China with me, I will remember not to wear them at night, when I need to see where I am going.

---

[1] Northern Exposure was a TV series of a fictional Alaska town. Each episode begins with credits rolling in front of a moose trotting down the main street of Roslyn.

Spring--A road trip beckons

It’s officially Spring. The earth turns, nature shifts into Spring gear, and I feel myself sliding. The winter job is over, there are decisions to be made. For a gypsy with no fixed abode, life is a series of transitions; there is no standing still.

Times like this I keenly feel the lack of a Significant Other. Such a relationship would offer an anchoring. In fact, I am set adrift with no home port, this is my life. It is not for everyone—I believe that’s the appropriate expression here. In weak moments I think perhaps it is not for me, either. But I know I am called to this life, a unique calling, of course it seems lonely at times.

The options that seem most viable to me are three. First, I could go back to China and earn some money. Money is important; no faulting that choice. Second option, go to India where I already have a visa, and live cheaply while focusing on Writing for Publication. Or, third, stick around for another winter season at the ski resort. That seems the least practical, the most expensive. At the moment, it seems to be my choice.

Now that I have a ‘new’ car, the road beckons me. I have unsettled business in Florida that I ignore at my own financial peril. Once on the open road, my diasporic community beckons me. My old friend in Kentucky and the Phoenix Institute calls for a brief visit. There is another newly unearthed old friend in Ohio, just three hours away from the Kentucky friend. She invites me to come and stay for a few days. An elderly aunt in New Jersey, who has an ancient claim on my heart but whose reclusive ways have kept me from her for far too many years. I will no longer allow her to keep me at a distance. Time is too short for us both. And then, of course, there are my siblings. For obvious reasons, it is for me to visit them and not the other way around, if we are to keep in touch. Their homes are on the path south to Florida.

It is simpler to take the trip first, then come back and resettle my meager possessions. I have put energy towards preliminary packing and sorting. This road trip should be less encumbered than previous ones, when I would carry all my possessions with me. Just one suitcase, my laptop, and a bag full of food. I was moving towards the point of departure, targeting Tuesday.

On Sunday I took a trip to the ski town in order to return Sylvia’s rental skis; we had rented them for the whole season. Knowing that Old Ron was feeling homebound, suffering from shingles, I offered to take him along. Late in the day we noticed that when I turned the steering wheel, a loud clicking or snapping noise rose from the front end. I dropped him off at his house with his groceries, plowed through the deep mud of his driveway, and just as I swung into our driveway the clicking turned into growling. A churning, mashing noise grew louder, so I shut down the engine half parked and left it.

I am happy that the CV joint decided to declare itself rotten at this moment, and not another. Still, I thought this mechanical drain on my purse had been shut off when I got rid of the ’92 Saturn. I was counting my pennies as it is, thinking to sleep in the car rather than pay a motel on the long hauls from north to south. I have to get over the affront. It could have been a lot worse, if indeed it had been a transmission problem. And I must remind myself—it is only money. Though at times it doesn’t seem so, in truth it is a renewable resource.

April will unfold itself outside my shuttle window. At times I will stop, leave my craft, sink into the damp green earth and enjoy the riot of colors and balmy breezes. The celebration of renewal and regeneration of friendships, of human bonds, will last for weeks, and leave a fragrant bouquet in my heart. With this green bounty I will settle on the mountain for the summer, and generate manuscripts that might produce some of that precious renewable resource.

Those are my tentative plans. Rent a condo on the ski mountain in the off season. Write. In the Fall, find a cheap apartment in town a mile or two from the mountain, and hope that I can work again at the ski resort. I think to provide myself one more season in which to learn to ski, and to enjoy the company of my grandchildren. These are my thoughts, my plans. In the end, another expression is appropriate: Man proposes, God disposes.