the basics

Getting back to the basics of "gardening a life," I thought I would explore the basics; ones that truly are basic to my life: shelter, bread, desire and rest. Can you find which one is not like the others?

Baking this bread a few days ago, my mother came to mind. She taught me and my sister how to make yeast bread many years ago, way before bread machines. What a way to learn patience and letting nature take her course, yeast rising is, though I still have a lot of patience to practice. This easy bread from 101cookbooks.com is really easy and enjoying it and sharing it is too. My friend Scout even likes it with peanut butter. Baking bread is very nourishing, like the *loaf itself. (To *loaf is a verb [ intrans. ] and means to idle one's time away, typically by aimless wandering; the word reminds me of Whitman and "Song of Myself").

My Pretty amazing grandmother turned 95 two days ago---an amazing woman we call "Pretty". By the end of the day when I spoke to her for the second time, she said, I "felt like a bride," her home full of flowers, her phone ringing many times, younger friends all of them wishing her well, loving her well, reminding her how important she is. Beau and Mary Ashley and Chapman visited her, while my Dad and his brothers took her to lunch where she imbibed a vodka/gin martini, her choice beverage, but only 1.-) Here's her Pretty doberge cake---wish we could all have a bite while we're here. Happy Birthday to You!

Part of my ritual of rest is reading before bed. It's basic to my day and I found a poem by Jane Hirshfield that speaks of another kind of basic we don't live without, "heat". How like horses, animals really to be absolutely honest about themselves! Another of Hirshfield's poems that I like is "The Conversation," which I found in a magazine recently while waiting for my student Katherine at the North Asheville Library. Here it is:

The Conversation

A woman moves close:
there is something she wants to say.
The currents take you one direction, her another.
All night you are aware of her presence,
aware of the conversation that did not happen.
Inside it are mountains, birds, a wide river,
a few sparse-leaved trees.
On the rivers, a wooden boat putters.
On its deck, a spider washes its face.
Years from now, the boat will reach a port by the sea,
and the generations of spider descendants upon it
will look out, from their near sighted, eightfold eyes,
at something unanswered.

The phrase "a spider washes its faces" shocks me every time. Seeing that spider wash its face makes me laugh; in my mind's eye and giggling. What animal isn't a beast of burden and beauty? What basic isn't a way to be grateful and satisfied? What bread isn't the best? What bed isn't home? What shelter isn't forever? As Whitman says, "Oh me, Oh life."