watermark

there are experiences so visually riveting, so emotionally moving, that they leave a permanent etching in your mind's eye.  recalling these frames of memory can transport you across years and miles of the years and miles you've traveled, to forever savor.  the impact of such a moment can touch you with such force -- it literally becomes a part of you.

and one day, many years and many miles ago, a little boy's unusual connection to a usual afternoon interruption became a part of me. 

it was late spring in mid 90's houston, texas.  when i say mid-90's, i refer to the decade and the temperature!   it was around 1995 and around 95 degrees.  quite possibly 95 percent humidity, too (!).  i had joined friends, and their young children, for an afternoon of visiting, kvelling, watching the kids run around and enjoy each other and the physical freedoms of an overcast, lazy saturday. 

there were about 8 of us, adults and kids all totaled, and the lively, impromtu gathering had somehow landed in the middle of the street. not a major thoroughfare, car traffic was so scant on this street, that it was an oft-chosen (and perfect!) playing/gathering surface for neighbors of all ages. 

and that was the place and the day: adults firmly planted at a meeting-place in the road, little ones racing and buzzing about the adults, squealing, chasing, laughing.   and, as was the place, sub-tropical houston, was the day, sub-tropical weather - and a rain storm out of nowhere was very common.  the conditions were ripe for it, too; warm, damp breezes washed us in bad-hair/good-skin caresses, and threatening clouds carrying booms of electricity moved in.  

and with a jarring flash and a crackling rumble, the deluge was on.  the sound of our collective fast foot steps could not keep tempo with the steady smatter of fierce-falling raindrops all around us.  the girlie squeals and little boy roars added to the wet cacophony as we darted for cover.

we stampeded onto the safe shelter of the porch, out of breath and laughing now at each other's skin-soaked clothes and drop-dotted hair.  someone went inside to get towels, kids wriggled little feet out of wet socks and soaked sandals.  and that was when i noticed that one of us was missing.  

through the heavy sheets of warm rain, i could see one of "our" little boys standing right where he was when the skies opened.  and what i saw next, i will carry with me in my mind's eye forever.  you see, this little boy, ryan (a grown man now), has autism.  at the time, i knew very little (read: nothing) about autism.  rainman was my only frame of reference.  rainman.  oh the irony.  now, one thing i DID "know" about autism (at the time), was that children have emotional (and seeming physical) disconnect from others around them.  and this was the case whenever i was around ryan.  he interacted sometimes, not always, on his terms, and that was just how it was.  he was clearly loved and safe and cared for, so i never really focused too much time on him or crowded his space the very few times i was in his company.

but on this day, from my vantagepoint on the porch -- ryan was all i saw, and he was all i felt.  at this point,  my only hope is that i can render the words to paint the picture  i'll try:

the image of this little child's lanky pre-tween body, dark rain-matted hair, pale-skinned face up to the sky, thin arms wide open, thin little fingers, outstretched in 10 directions of up,  water running over him shellacking a shiny sheen onto his form -- this image is seared in my memory.  but it wasn't just what i SAW that stopped me in my tracks, it was what i imagined he was feeling - what i felt.  how could this little boy, whose condition dictates disconnect -- HOW could this child had opened himself with all of his being, to mother nature, to the universe?  i swear i was witnessing this little boy having an extra-sensory experience, a FEARLESS AND TOTAL CONNECTION --  with his whole little body and his entire being.  this child was connected to something that was just his, and nothing could pry him from his moment -- not his mother's calm, sweet pleas for him to get out of the road, not his siblings' coaxing, not the deafening echo-roars of thunder.  nothing.

it was intense and beautiful and sweet and mysterious all at once.

and i was so happy for him.  and i was so happy for ME that i saw this.  and felt this.  and would keep this.   for a fleeting couple of seconds, i felt equally sad that i could not possibly convey to him what his moment did to me, but that was ok - it was HIS, after all.

at this point, in my trance-like state, by another of "our" kids, also named ryan, noticed my staring.  sweet little diplomatic child that he was, he came up and sort of hugged my arm with his arms and said "andrea, ryan is autistic (very slight little lisp on the "s" in autistic); he doesn't really know any better".  i looked down at this ryan, smiled at him and said "dude, i think he knows MORE", and this ryan next to me issued a wonderful little giggle of relief, and said "yeah, cuz you know what? really it's just water" and on that note, a bigger grin and a high five, i started home.  any other day, i'd have asked for an umbrella, or waited for the storm to pass.

but this day, this now very new day, i just put one foot in front of the other, into the downpour, past the ryan who was now being gently escorted out of the road by his mother, and squish-squashed up the street to my home.  i walked, lightly, gently and happily, and of the thousands of rain drops that landed on my skin, i swear i remember the feel every single one.

many years and as many miles have passed.  but that memory, that feeling, my watermark, is still alive inside of me.  i carry it whever i go.  and when it rains,  if my feet get soaked, my clothes drenched, my hair messed -- all i have to do is remember the gift that was given to me by a little boy's unusual connection to a usual afternoon interruption.

cuz you know what?  it's really just water. 

***UPDATE.  ryan, the little boy who inspired this entry, is now living in austin, texas with his family.  he is featured in many interesting independent film and animation films.  in fact, one film was on exhibit at MOMA for a while!   i have viewed several, but have 2 favorites.  please watch the even more fun trip here and ryan's capitol tour here.  both are just beautiful.    

and this is, perhaps why these pages have been dormant for more than a year.  i will do better.

just kids

i started reading it in a blizzard blackout, shivering under the covers with a flashlight under my chin.  i deliberately slowed the pace, taking in once chapter at a time, not wanting to let go of this love story. 
i finished it just as the colorburst of spring finished painting the landscape.

just kids.

it's patti smith's memoir of her and robert mappelthorpe's relationship.  if you have ever experssed your love to another with creativity you never knew you had inside, just

because the energy of your connection inspired it, you will feel yourself in patti and robert. 

saying goodbye to the book was perhaps as sad as saying goodbye to robert through patti's words.   

it is everything love:

tender;  thoughtful;  artistic;  raw;  bittersweet.

just read it

accidental tapioca

a friend of mine is as big on breakfast as i am.  she and i we realized we were sisters in the most important meal of the day when we found out that each of us, without the other one knowing, takes steel cut oats, stirs in a yogurt (or soy yogurt, or just tofu sometimes), adds some berries and lets it "marinate" overnight in the 'fridge for the next morning's "grab and go" breakfast.  well, i recently, and completely by accident, discovered something similar. 

do you like tapioca pudding?  i have to say it's not my favorite, but that could be because it's hard to find a "clean" tapioca out there.  and by clean, i also mean non-dairy.  milk does a body no good.  no body.  no good.  nobody.  ok ok this is a not an anti-dairy rant.  there's plenty of time for that later. 

so, part of this discovery came about when i was reading about foods that helped with muscle regerneration and recovery.  i had pulled a calf muscle while training for a half marathon, and needed to see what i could eat to aid in its repair.  my quest yielded the obvious results, like potassium-rich fruits and veggies and of course, water.  but i also found out that quinoa and buckwheat (soba) were two wonderful sources of anti-inflamatory and other healing properties for muscles. 

who knew?

off to the store i went for a bag of buckwheat.  i have had buckwheat pancakes and you know, buckwheat has that distinctive taste somwewhere between dirt and tree bark.  now, in soba noodles (which usually have some wonderful tamari mixed in), it is not so harsh, but in its grain form, well, it needs flavor accompaniment as far as i am concerned -- and i LOVE this sort of culinary challenge.  well, i got home and made the buckwheat and decided to eat it with soy vanilla yogurt stirred into it, and just a sprinkle of cinamon.  the almost-crunch  of the whoe buckwheat grain was an interesting, but not really great "feel" on my tongue with the yogurt,  but whatever, i had muscles to heal, so i  had a few bites and put the rest in a container and in the 'fridge.

now we get to the good part. 

the next day, i find that container in the 'fridge and i have no idea what it is.  i open it and see that it's my buck/yo/cin concoction and i can see that the buckwheat grains have expanded quite a bit and they actually look like they had softened.  then a sweet waft of vanilla tempered by the subtle blunt of the buckwheat hits my nose and i can't get a spoon in my hand fast enough to see what this forgotten muscle-healing potion now tastes like.  what a wonderful surprise -- the soft buckwheat and the yogurt had formed a gel that not only tasted but FELT like tapioca -- a clean, DAIRY FREE tapioca! 

and voi la -- there you have accidental tapioca.  make it for dessert!  bon apetit!

the best history teacher? just listen.

as a child, like most kids, i was often accused of not listening.  but i pretty sure it's a scientific fact that words like 'don't slam the door' and 'clean your room' are inaudible to humans under the age of 16.  so, those accusations feel on deaf ears. 

there were times that i was all ears, though, and these times brought me such joy that i just could not get enough of it.  these were the times when my grandparents would tell stories about their childhoods, or how they met, or stories of their struggle to "make it" through the Depression, WW2, etc.  i remember being awestruck by their stories, so foreign to anything in my spoiled sense of reality or any of my frames of reference.  their stories connected me not just via the family tree, but to their work ethic and their pride and their modesty.  their stories made me feel so important and so relevant. 

even as a little kid, i realized that i was proud of them for how they lived their lives, and how lucky i was to be loved by them.

my grandparents' stories are america's stories, and i retell their tales with pride to anyone who will listen :)  so, the other day, i ran across a newspaper article that reached inside of me and touched that sweet place where i keep those memories, and i want to share it with you.    

below the asterisks on this blog entry is the article. when i come across pieces like this i am reminded of how important it is that we sit down and TALK TO this generation of americans. their stories and their spirit are so humbling and inspiring at the same time. their hardships got us to our lives of creature comfort and endless opportunity. next time you find yourself bitching about your life, read this article and remind yourself how good you've got it.

********************************************************** from The Houston Chronicle April 5 2010 And now to blow out that 110th candle … Ahead of party, Harris County’s oldest ward ever reflects By PAIGE HEWITT HOUSTON CHRONICLE April 5, 2010, 6:10AM Like any bright-eyed birthday girl, Louvenia Posey welcomes the attention. She's certainly experienced in such celebration — the soft-spoken country girl who grew up picking cotton in Central Texas turns 110 today. As the oldest ward ever of Harris County's guardianship program, Posey will celebrate today with a party, attended by her caseworker, friends and staff at the Windsong Village Convalescent Center in Pearland. She's outlived virtually everyone else in her long life — siblings, cousins and three husbands, one of whom fought in World War 1. “I was born April 5, in the year 1900,” Posey said, emphasizing the year. “I'm not bragging, but I have lived a clean life.” Posey, the granddaughter of a Louisiana slave — “who cooked the best corn bread you ever saw” — was born in the Central Texas town of Fayetteville, where more than a century ago she learned how to cut, chop and pick cotton on the family farm. She also learned to cook, wash and iron as a child, and she taught herself how to sew. Her father was murdered in a rowdy card game before she was born; her mother died giving birth to twin boys when Posey was 12. She and six siblings went to live with her nearby “auntie,” and she left school after seventh grade to cook and clean for families. “We had to make a living,” Posey said Saturday. “You have to learn to do a job, and do it well, or don't do it at all.” For fun, the youngsters played checkers and rode mules. When she was 17, Posey, whose maiden name is Womley, set off for Houston looking for work. “After I got grown, I cooked for white people,” she said. “I washed and ironed and took care of their children. I loved the children, white and black. It didn't make a difference to me. I loved the children, and they loved me.” Posey lived in Acres Homes and over the years worked primarily for two families. She also earned money as a seamstress, making women's dresses and coats for $2 or $3. Posey said the world is a changed place. She recalled the years when she had to yield to white people and go to the back of lines, and eat at separate tables. Today, the world is fairer. She looked up at a photograph on her bulletin board of President Barack Obama. “I didn't think I'd ever see it,” she said. “God is working in there. They've changed it up for the better. Now we've got black teachers, lawyers, doctors and all.”

UPDATE to defining soul (see happy birthday, soul sister 2.26.10)

UPDATE!  mark morford, writer extraordinaire whose work graces The San Francisco Chronicle and sfgate.com (plus his new book...) says he recently read someone's claim that:


 "soul is to be found in the vicinity of taboo".  


well at least i am in the vicinity.  HA 

happy birthday, soul sister

ah, i met her my first day of work at at a natural foods grocery store in texas...nearly 20 years ago.  she knew all about wine.  i knew a lot about food, and wanted to know more about wine. and there you have it: the recipe to feed a friendship that has lasted half my lifetime.  we spent 16 years together in the same city, several of those as upstairs/downstairs neighbors and at the same workplace.  whether we see each other 3 times a day, or 3 times a year, each new time picks up right where the old one leaves off.  a seamless continuum of human connection -- the connection for whom you always pick up the phone,for whom you always have a shoulder for tears or an ear for laughs, for whom you are a ready rescuer from a bad date, for whom your futon and extra pillows are always available.  THAT person.  

i was able to visit THAT person's neck of the woods for a few months recently.  i had not seen her in 3 years, maybe more.  we poured wine.  we broke bread.  we relived our memories of each other, our lives, our loves, our laughs, our foibles, our sorrows.   we confessed to one another how "that little thing you did, that simple gesture back in 19_ _ or 20_ _ it saved me", each of us having no idea how the actions of our friendship sustained each other in challenging times.  

we toasted and smiled.   we were warm and wonderful. 

as i watched my friend cook (as she insisted while i sit at the table and sip my wine), our conversation veered into the most magically stimulating discussion.  i cannot recall what preceded or triggered the topic, but we found ourselves wrangling with the meaning of the word soul.   

soul.  the human soul.  

that oh so ponderable never-never-place that is touched but not with hands, that is felt but not by nerves, that is seared but not with heat, that is rocked but not by music, that is pierced but not with arrows, that is soothed but not with medicine.  

from soul, we meandered to afterlife, heaven, religion, politics, art, literature, humor, food, wine and friendship and back full circle to soul.  and, no closer to a tangible understanding, we decided, or maybe we let the wine decide, that we are not here to define soul, but rather to live it, and let it live, and that eventually, we would understand soul better, but also respect it as undefinable, not finite, not absolute.  we toasted to our wine-laden revelation and thanked our lucky souls for these things:

  happy birthday my dear friend.  i can't wait to see you in a few weeks and pick up where we left off.