It may be that making room
for mercy, letting it take hold
of you, does so only at a price.
You may never again see yourself
or another without feeling
a deep release of tenderness,
an upsurge in benevolence
like a music unfurled by light.
Many suffer, pass by day or night and
you will recognize a hoard of hurts
and consolation will spill unbidden,
even in your smile or nod of your head,
a flash meeting of your eyes and another’s.
Charity rises from the soul’s wellspring,
and fills you. It will long to act.
Even if what is returned is
disconsolate anger, even if a
you will offer a gentling of more mercy.
And when someone pains you,
compassion and forbearance
will take charge in spite
of unjust, fearful jarrings.
You can endure much in mercy.
Who knows what being merciful can bring?
Perhaps a revolution of wholeness: begin.
Who said our human lives will be a lark?
Can we be generous if we are lazy, only smart?
Can we be kind and be selfish, then hope to heal?
We learn to be humble, then wings can grow.
You alone know your true reflection
in the mirrored passages of time,
if you answered yes when
someone needed forgiveness,
if you answered no when revenge
bellowed your name.
Either way, mercy lives on
best when you claim it, free it, use it.
It moves in the power of opening hands,
in reverberations of simple, decent care.
Some may welcome it and perhaps even you.
Many will not ever notice.
You are the one
who will be
changed by mercy
reigniting your valiant life
Though my eyes were open, I wasn’t even out of bed this morning when I was planning on a day stuffed with creative choices: drawing and/or painting, starting on a montage, dancing to some bossa nova, electronica, soul or flamenco, maybe singing a song or two, taking my daily walk if the rain let up a bit, and perhaps starting a poem that I felt in sync with rather than a moderate connection to, for once. Or at least two or three of these. Because it is my earthly birthday. And one should do what one wants to do if one possibly can for at least this particular day. Or ignore it altogether, some years the best choice. Like when my oldest sister passed away a week before my birthday two years ago and we were all heading to Texas for her service. Or when there are better things to do than have dinner with cake, like becoming submerged in recreation and rest of a real vacation. Just skipping the intense focus on one more year survived (one hopefully made a little worthwhile), with the attendant hullabaloo. Additionally, much of my closest family–three of our five adult children plus son-in-law plus two twenty-something adult grandkids–do not even live within a four day’s drive nearby. Birthday fuss seems overrated, even though I have gratitude that my difficult heart continues to pump and pound with great diligence. Despite its often fast jazzy blips and propped open vessels, I live pretty darned well.
Seven days ago I had anticipated that second choice: simply not being here. Because Marc and I were going to San Diego, California. Where a semi-arid Mediterranean climate (bordering on subtropical at least in summer) landscape and the Pacific Ocean’s rolling waves have been calling to our souls and bare toes. We can avail ourselves of a plethora of interesting experiences in and around that city and on an island nearby. My husband has been there often via business trips. So he got me all revved up, enthusiastically describing the place. What a birthday gift. It was also a reward for him–time away from labor’s grind. He works harder now than he did ten years ago; it’s that sort of job.
But it didn’t happen. It was his work, of course, the boss’ directive (despite having told him we would not lose our vacation). Marc never knows exactly what day or time he will be finished, when he will have quelled another manufacturing crisis. Not until he is good-enough done, for the time being. I well know this; I’m a seasoned “corporate widow” spouse (bad way to phrase that….). Deep inside I didn’t really believe we were going anywhere for this birthday though we’ve managed it many other years. So when he called three days before our departing flight and said there had been “a change in plans”, I accepted it without serious complaint. No use wasting the energy since this has more often been the “norm” than not. So I had another plan, sketched out as above: create more diversely a few hours and enjoy more time outdoors, say, visit the Japanese Garden which just re-opened after redevelopment.
Okay, wait, greater honesty is required. I was disappointed to not go on the trip. Deflated, just enough that it hovered at the edges of my consciousness for days. Butting into my honest desire to exercise acceptance and tranquility. I know it wasn’t like he was taking me to Tuscany or the Great Wall of China…but, still.
But back to the opening scene. My phone rang. It was my other sister, the one still energetically engaged in sentient life, reminding me of a birthday lunch date. I hadn’t forgotten; it would fit nicely around noon. Then I noticed a few birthday text messages, including one from my busy fifteen year old granddaughter who took time to say sweet things. I hopped out of bed, got myself together for a minor, rather ordinary, quiet rainy morning sort of birthday. In truth, I’d already had a good celebration with two close friends over the week-end. They each got me beautiful flowers, loving cards. Another friend called. One took me out for brunch and a good gab; the other took me to see the film “Beauty and the Beast” which was fun entertainment and well done. I felt cared about; I didn’t actually need anything more.
I am good on my own, anyway. I am independent, pretty tough when the going gets bumpy. And sure don’t need presents or people hovering about as if I am a pitiful lone woman during a sparse birthday I wasn’t going to count as important.
I sure didn’t think I needed anything else. We don’t always know what we need.
As I was cleaning up after breakfast, my brother and sister-in-law called from back East to sing me “Happy Birthday” in a perfectly harmonious duet (being professional singers). A treat in itself but we caught up a bit, too. They are dear family; it was heart-filling to get the call.
I also had received some gifts in the mail. Totally unexpected, not even necessary. I tend to not want anything. I have books and music and a few other valued objects. I always feel “superfluous goodies” are something to give to my children, grandchildren and sometimes other adults. However, I got three more excellent books, a handcrafted pewter necklace and an interesting language game that can be used in play or also as prompts for my writing. To my surprise, I felt more than touched by them all this year.
Maybe because it was a more difficult twelve months than some years. But I’m resilient, adaptable, life does go on as it shall, I chant daily. One will prevail!
Then I spent the entire afternoon with my fabulous sister, Allanya, and some with her partner, enjoying stimulating talk as we ate at a favorite neighborhood spot. My lunch was tasty if unfancy (grilled chicken panini with avocado, pesto, tomato; steaming split pea/vegetable soup, freshly brewed iced tea with lemon, slices of a perfect orange). I thought as we talked: how good it is to be right here, to love these two people. After two hours at that restaurant, her partner went home.
My sister and I were off to a fine French bakery and cafe. We availed ourselves of a tantalizing array of choices that beamed at us from behind gleaming glass. I felt excited by all of them. I chose a tender, flaky, royal-sized apple turnover; she, a lemon-drizzled-with-chocolate torte. Dessert in late afternoon! With an aromatic coffee. You need to understand I am a minimalist eater so eat very simply, even carefully due to a lifelong digestive disorder. So a good meal that is happy with my taste buds plus innards is a successful, even outstanding experience. This day was entirely satisfying in that regard–another not-so-small gift, believe me.
As I sat sipping coffee with Allanya, covering various topics and making plans for a small road trip we hope to take soon in Oregon, Marc left me a text message.
Where are you,are you home?
No, I responded, I’m out having fun.
Well, there is something to be delivered to our doorstep. I hope it’s safe. Must go.
He hadn’t yet mentioned my birthday, hadn’t called to wish me a happy birthday. Likely he forgot, I mused, in the midst of his mad work day, as he sometimes has. I try to overlook this; it’s not as if we are a new couple in need of constant attention or thrilled to get older each year. But this message left me perplexed. I could not imagine one thing that might be delivered he has been ensconced in Mexico three weeks. Allanya and I continued to chortle and hold forth in the candle-lit and lively cafe. I noticed through distant windows that sunshine appeared to be challenging, even perhaps defeating rainfall and accompanying dreariness. She can be a frequent time checker but not this day. I watched her unwind, ignore those streaming shadows of later afternoon. My own mind and body indulged in all the stimulating sensory input, savored our emotional and intellectual exchanges.
Another gift. They were sure adding up.
Eventually she had to go home. I was ready to walk or maybe write. When we arrived at my apartment building I saw nothing at the outside door. She sat in the car, wondering what was awaiting me though I imagined it might have been stolen. I unlocked the door, looked in the foyer: there was a large, gloriously hued floral arrangement. It smelled softly sweet. There was a small card: “I know it isn’t San Diego, but it is something.” (The rest I’ll skip.) I carried it out and held the rainbow flowers up to her open window.
“Wow, nice!” Allanya exclaimed.
“He sent me flowers from Mexico! Well, okay, not exactly from there, but he didn’t forget!”
She admired them, then we hugged long and gently. Sisters we are first, but also best friends, more so now that there are just two of the original three of us left. I feel I hit the jackpot to have been born into a family with my unique sisters. (The brothers are good, too.)
I went inside and considered the unfolding of a day I had thought would be simply another day–a decent one, sure, but one spent mostly alone. Removed from any celebration of jut another year, now a total of 67 years. My eyes rested on the gifts, the flowers filling my home as reminders of people whom I care deeply about. My heart went to the top notes of gratitude.
As I started writing this post, two daughters from out-of-state called. One has been attending a conference on the arts in education with her (artist) husband; the other, an associate sculpture professor, was winding up a long day after lots of grading, consults with students, meetings. At first there was an impulse to cut it short and get back to writing. But it struck me: I have hard working daughters (among three other fine children, lest they read this–though unlikely) who took the time after jam-packed days to call, to speak with me and share some of their lives, as well. This despite having sent gifts and cards and texting me earlier. And one sang “Happy Birthday.” I then told them about my day. No, I did not feel lonely at all. No, I was not much sad about the cancelled trip. I had a day of joy right here.
I pulled on my jacket for a quick walk to clear my mind. To reorder my thoughts for more writing, to appreciate the bursting abundance of spring. I considered how my day had become something other than planned or expected, as days can do. But as far as birthdays are concerned, this one was superior. Maybe staying home instead of travelling was meant to be. Maybe I needed this one certain day, to be made to pause and open up to expansive, nourishing moments right in front of my nose. It was like a little tap on the shoulder from God. The beauties of life are sometimes not where you look and clearly see, but what you may miss when looking in the wrong direction. I had to let my soul and heart, my vision be directed by others today.
What it all boils down to is something I know, but that one can never tire of learning anew: I am well loved. Happy Day of Birth to me!
I offer a few photos of the lovely flowers. Click at bottoms of pictures to see captions.
I have not ever reblogged posts but I had to share this. It speaks to me in delicate and intense ways that few posts have. Extraordinary gifts from this photographer, with finely wrought words shining like lights in gloom, amid our struggles of living in this world. Read and look and be favored by a worldwide faith journey taken by Steve McCurry.
I have seen many manifestations of faith during my travels over the past three decades. Some have been spontaneous, some have been part of a liturgy, some have been prescribed rituals, Some have been in magnificent buildings, others have been outside under a tree. Many people’s faith is embedded in the way they live their lives. – Steve McCurry
Faith sees the invisible, believes the unbelievable, and receives the impossible. – Corrie Ten Boom
Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life. – Joseph Conrad
Lakeland, Florida, USA
Faith is a bird that feels dawn breaking and sings while it is still dark. – Rabindranath Tagore
What is Faith? When your good deed pleases you and your…
It’s not always true that where there’s smoke, there’s fire, not in the strictest sense. Vita sees no fire at all as she looks down from her balcony. It is the acrid odor that draws her, like someone has wantonly put down, then set afire an old wet buffalo. It’s not something she’s smelled much all winter–meat–and it seems almost terrible and foreign. There is a general wafting of grey smoke rising to the fifth floor–the top– where she lives. She leans over as much as she dares without plunging to her death. She wants to see where it’s coming from. Hard to say. She stifles an urge to yell out, “Stop all that meat charring!” because, of course, she can’t say that. Not unless she wants the majority of tenants to come racing down her hallway with spatulas and forks clutched in raised, angry hands.
She determines she’ll have to scout out the nuisance from another vantage point, from the ground where she can see all. Vita slips on her clogs and clatters down the stairs, thinking a repaired elevator would be reasonable to demand. Mistral Manor Apartments, indeed. Every week it’s something, leaky faucets, stove threatening to roast nothing, windows sticking.
Once on the ground she peers up, hand creating shade for her eyes. She counts a dozen people lounging on their balconies. Just stop the rain and everyone crawls out of burrows like moles blinking in the garrulous sun, gathering up energy and courage to re-enter a dazzling world. Or maybe not. Residents instead look like they’re are drinking, leading up to carousing or barbecuing who knows what on their balconies and patios. No roaring fires that she can see from here but smokey, meaty cooking smells could come from anywhere. A couple people wave and Vita ignores them.
Then she sees it. A plate balanced on the balcony railing of Mr. Carpenter, third floor. The foolish old guy has put his food out to–what? Bask in the sun? Age for a fortnight? Send waves of meat stinkiness to her place? Birds seem to swoop closer to his plate and a squirrel is trying to decide if it can jump from tree limb to Mr. Carpenter’s open air cafe. Are they actually omnivores? What a thought. The man now sticks his head out of his French doors and sees her eyeing his set-up.
“What is it?” He yells down at her, voice so gravelly it could scrape the air. “You don’t like the menu again?”
“You know full well that things come right up to my place. Heat rises, so what you cook, I get to taste and smell.” Her hand went to thin hips and she glared at him. “Can’t you cook indoors and leave doors closed?”
“I’m the only one who cooks and opens a window or door? My foods’ ghastly smells pick on you, that right? Oh my goodness, hop on up so you can have that conversation with the cooling culprit.”
There is a spattering of laughter from other balconies. He now puts hands on his own hips and they both look to courtyard onlookers as if they’re going to have a real face-off. Except Mr. Carpenter is by far the least likely to mean harm, is just teasing Vita and as usual she is slow to get it and fast to react.
“I already am,” she says. “Really, it can be disgusting.”
“No, really, come on up, Vita. That offending buffalo burger–to me it stinks, too–was lethally burned. I’ll get rid of it, the grill is just smoldering. I’m throwing in the towel.”
“Oh no, you mean it is a buffalo?” She covers her nose and mouth with her hands.
“Oh for crying out loud, forget it, I have something to ask you.”
His demeanor projects a cordial nature more now that he smiles at her. He may as well smile for their attentive audience. Everyone likes Mr. Carpenter, it seems, except her. He aggravates her with his penchant for teasing her about being vegan, for one. She doesn’t like how he always insist on speaking to her and everyone else as they pass each other, as if people yearn to be stalled by his inane and cheery banter. He’s like a balloon that bobs in your face. He doesn’t know how to mind his own business, ignore others, and stick to his own kind. Like those in the retirement home four blocks east–why isn’t he living his last regrettable years there?
“I have things to do, cover up that animal carcass. Not everyone eats badly like you.”
Vita waves off Mr. Carpenter, then tries to hop up the steps two at a time to get exercise. She turns an ankle but rights herself and resumes. She ate a huge breakfast of oatmeal stuffed with currents and walnuts plus gluten-free toast plus an orange and it feels like it’s gone to belly fat already. This is what happens when your girl buddy and your boyfriend are too busy to bother with you.
This odorous incident is all she needs today to pummel her fragile mood. She did have plans. She was going out to dinner with Charles, but he has a last minute business trip or so he says. And reliable Terry hasn’t been such a fine best friend lately, ever since she got that promotion. Also since getting married. As if being wedded and climbing the ladder to success has power to dismantle an eight year friendship. How fair is it that two women of about forty end up like this, one now married and promoted and the other, herself, uncoupling (she fears) from Charles and finding her job as accountant at Sparling Paperworks so easy she cannot budge herself from its hypnotic lull to find another?
On the third floor landing she nearly runs right into Mr. Carpenter who steps aside in time, thus sending Vita bouncing onto the wall as she tries to avoid a crash.
“Sorry,” he says, “thought it better to not break my bones from a fall.”
“Really, Mr. Carpenter, can you only aggravate people?”
He makes a long face as if terribly hurt, then shrugs. “Do I? Well, why not come in? Only for a minute? I’ve been working on something. And I locked out beastly remains.”
Vita stares at his crooked black rimmed glasses which tend to slip down his distinctive narrow nose. What if it smells frightening in there? She doesn’t want to be entirely rude, has never been inside his place, not in over a year. Why on earth should she enter now, though? It’s likely piled up with detritus from his bumbling life, overcome with relics he sees as decorative and that he must tell her about in detail. Maybe he paints things, like green ware vases or velvet pictures. She suppresses a shudder, sets her head at an angle and looks him hard in the eyes.
“Oh, we won’t be much alone, don’t worry. I have Tobias and Ethel, Lucille and Gideon and so on.”
Mr. Carpenter opens his door. Curious despite his manner, she obliges more from being tired of it all. The conversation. The whole day.
It is not close to what she expects. For one thing, he introduces the inhabitants of his aquarium right off, those which he has already named and a slew of others. It takes up half a living room wall and is impressively lovely, making the warm blue room feel like a seascape, each fish gracefully making its way from one end to the other as if entirely pleased to do so. And no dirty clumps of disorder. No relics unless you want to consider paintings and a scattering of photographs as too aged and boring. But no, they are interesting to look at even as she is trying not to gawk. The furniture is mid-century modern and cleanly gleaming; there are lush potted plants placed at choice spots; a china cabinet filled with beautiful glass objects. It is almost elegant, if that’s possible in a less than stellar vintage apartment. It all does justice to the high ceilings and spacious rooms unlike her more pedestrian, haphazard interiors, she thinks, and finds herself following him through the rooms to the… kitchen.
Vita stops in the doorway, puts up her hands in protest. She can still smell some of his ruined dinner but not too badly; he likely cooked outside on that little hibachi she’s seen him use. Plus, there is a light room spray essence hanging in the air. She can deal with a quasi-tangerine scent since it masks the other.
“I salvaged some but it’s put away, no worries. What I have to show you is right over here…”
Mr. Carpenter moves to the farthest cupboard, turns and grins at her in anticipation before pulling out two small bluish glass bottles with stoppers. Vita crosses her arms against her chest and frowns.
He walks past her and takes a seat in the wallpapered–swans on a pond and willows overhanging, no less–breakfast nook. He sets the bottles on the round table.
“Come, have a seat there and help me decide.”
Vita sits down, suddenly worries he might be asking her to taste something. Perhaps he thinks he’s a gourmet cook and has developed fermenting sauces or worse. The rectangular bottles are about three inches tall. As sunlight falls across the space the contents look clear and harmless. She looks from the bottles to the hands that hold them, all spotty and edging toward wrinkly and fragile. Vita sighs audibly.
“What I have here are two of my newest creations. I have worked a long while, months, in fact. It has been dependent on my nose, rather my olfactory nerve functioning, and it was damaged by chemotherapy. I ended up with anosmia, no smell, then it became hyposmia, reduced sense of smell…Yes,” he squints at her over top of his glasses making their slow way downward,”I had cancer–throat–but now I don’t. And in the past year my it is coming back, slowly but surely! So I have begun again.”
Vita feels quite uncomfortable hearing this, yet she also feels a little nudge somewhere inside, something that asks her to be patient and fair. She wants to toss the nudge aside and just open the bottles but she sits still.
“I see. Well, what have you been whipping up here in your tidy kitchen? That I might want to know about?” Surely she could be nicer than this but no, she is not feeling it and she would rather get this over with and go back home. And bury herself in an eighties television series with a cold beer.
Mr. Carpenter twists open one bottle and pushes it across the table, right in front of Vita.
She can already smell it, however, cinnamon, perhaps citrus with a dab of vanilla and oddly, a bit of peppery something…or maybe something woodsy, a sharpness to it with flowery softness in there. It confounds her, and she can’t really find names for this amalgamation of fragrances unleashed.
She lifts it to her nose, holds it an inch away, sniffs very lightly. “It’s… perfume?”
“That’s the best you can do? What did you think, soy sauce? It’s a mixture of perfume essences, yes.” He slaps a palm against his forehead.
“I realize you’re unschooled. But you have a fine acute sense of smell. So I wondered what you could smell and what you think.”
Vita lists the disparate things she is able to sniff out and then shakes her head. She sniffs again, more generously.
“It’s like you let out a genie, it is taking over my brain! I can’t describe it exactly.”
“Yes, that might be part of the problem…part of solution…which top notes, which middle or base should be strengthened?”
“Wait a minute. How is it that you’re making perfume? Is it a late in life hobby? Is it a hidden quirkiness–you have this desire to inhale such scents? I mean, you have to admit, not very many…well, older men are making perfumes out there. And what do you mean by me having a good sense of smell? How do you even know that?”
Mr. Carpenter sat back and grinned at her. “It’s my profession, it was my life, my perfumery. But then it ended, I don’t make my living making perfume anymore. But once–and quite successfully.” He leans forward on his elbows, then holds hands out to her. “You think I moved here because I loved the place? It’s alright, more than okay. But I lived much differently before the cancer. Before my wife died.” He lifts his bony shoulders high and lets them fall, hands rising and falling with them, an exaggerated nonchalance. “It’s what happens in life, you work, you get ahead if you can, you lose some and win some and then you get old. But I still love perfume making. So I start again. Who knows?”
Vita closes her mouth, which has hung open as he spoke frankly. “My gosh, that’s something,” she says then opens the second bottle. She is immediately enveloped by a thickly musky fragrance that is odd but warm, then there comes to her an underlying amber and something more. She closes her eyes.
“I know you have a nose because of all the smells you complain about. And some that you like are noted clearly, as well. Look at you.”
She opens her eyes and takes a fresh breath. “But you’re not around me very much, how do you know things like that.”
“I have friends here, “he says and laughs.”I have not lost my hearing, either. What do you think?”
“I like them, I have to admit. I mean, they seem a little unrefined, but–I don’t know anything about this. I just know what my nose takes in and they’re pretty good so far.” She sniffs one, then the other. “Ahhh. But they need work.”
“You should clear the nose first–coffee beans, one way, surely you’ve been to perfume counters. The synthetic perfumes are a different breed of thing altogether, don’t get me started…Anyway, it’s a start and I thank you for stopping by. I think they may have promise.”
He leans back and folds his hands in his lap, content.
“Yes, perhaps they do. But you tricked me, lured me in somehow.” She smiles despite herself. He looks so benign but she knows he’s sharp and crafty and that makes her like him a bit more.
“It is what it is, you’re here. It was my ruined meat dinner smell, remember, that started it all?”
“Please, no food talk. But you’re right. Mom used to say I could smell things from miles away or smell what no one else could. I smelled a gas leak way before anyone else when I was seven, so saved us, I guess. I have a sense of smell that can cause me issues at times, unfortunately…some people’s body odors that they don’t seem to realize emitting. A few food or cooking odors. Noxious plants or just too strong flowers–gardenias and lilies are way too much …I could go on. And I really don’t like most perfumes, either. Sorry.”
“You don’t like them because your nose is extremely discriminating and so many perfumes are not naturally derived. Ah, well. Much to learn but you might manage it, and help out. As I thought.”
Vita sits up. “What? Oh, no. I’m certainly not going to be some old guy’s accomplice in–in, well, an illegally run perfume manufacturing operation right in Mistral Manor! I have my standards, too!”
He laughs a little, then laughed harder, until his eyes watered and he took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Vita, honestly!”
Vita is embarrassed by her outburst, knows it is foolish and perhaps mean, and is ready to leave. But those little bottles on the table pull her like a magnet pulls snug to metal. She fingers one and wonders over what he has said and how he is offering to teach her something different. Maybe fascinating. How she finds her job a mind-numbing bore. And how Charles is leaving her, she knows it as she sits here discussing perfume. He always wears one that she’s never liked but has been afraid to mention.
She forces herself to not run out. Instead, she clears her constricting throat, asks, “Do you have any tea?”
Mr. Carpenter pushes himself away from the table and gets up. Chooses a delicately aromatic rooibos and honeybush tea that he feels she will enjoy, and turns on the kettle. He feels a quiver of hope.
Vita props chin in hand and looks out the window at the tableau of balcony and beyond, sunshine intensifying the light turquoise dome of spring sky.
“Want to get rid of that buffalo out there so we can sit on your balcony?”
He does so, then opens wide the doors and ushers her through. There’s the offending hibachi, a few coals glowing, crusted with meat. They stand there watching the courtyard activities, children romping, dogs playing tag with each other, neighbors chortling and chatting, drinking cheap wine. Leisurely dinner hours. It hurts her, all this pleasure.
“I’ve got leftover spaghetti from last night. I can toss a salad. Want to eat with me? I warn you–I subject food to the microwave for reheating.”
She offered a sidelong glance of relief and defeat all mixed up. Then a smirk. “Sure, why not? My birthday celebratory dinner. Tonight I’m turning forty-one. And my boyfriend ditched me. Whoopee!”
“Whoopee!” he shouts after her. “You’re still alive and able to live a good life. You’re a bit over half my age and here we are making dinner together. And perfume. Imagine that. I may have found another feisty, goodhearted daughterly sidekick, mine’s long gone to Louisiana… Anyway, there are better critters in the pond to catch.”
“Now don’t go saying things that are foolish, you’re annoying just when we were getting along okay. ‘Feisty’ sounds like one of those damned scrappy little dogs that are always fighting over someone else’s good bone…Oh… Well, then, what’s with the bit about being ‘goodhearted’? Watch out for misguided words and ideas. And further, I’m sure not looking for any frogs to kiss.”
She looks behind her but he’s shuffled into the kitchen. The kettle is whistling. There arise on both her arms sudden goose bumps despite the warm, sweet air. She can smell lilies of the valley, they’re down there beyond the grove of trees, under the bushes. Heaven. She goes inside.
“I’ll make the salad, I’m quite good with veggies. I might possibly be good with perfume. We’ll see.”
Mr. Carpenter pours the water for tea. He hums as he gives the casserole a preparatory stir, shoves it in the microwave and sets the timer. He then tears off a chunk of buffalo burger from a delicious patty he earlier stuck in a plastic baggie. Savors the taste, thanks in large part to having a gifted nose that delivers more and more flavors and aromas to his brain again. And now there are two: one with raw talent and one who may regain it. Life, he muses (as Vita gathers and sniffs tomatoes, onion, peppers and lettuce) is surprising and sweet far more often than he’d expected as a scrawny, tossed about, lonely kid. How fortunate to have been saved by his nose. As she could be, too.
The constancy of nature is the reprieve,
entering this country of luminescent green,
pausing amid stirrings of blooms like bells.
Such brave translucence, how it sings.
Ducks, humans settle into warmth and shine.
These days break open extravagant beauty.
I am unbound from winter’s shadowed ways,
given over to a sweep of miracles washing
eyes to feet with aromas, with colors of life.
I fill up with every perfection, this balance of life, joy.
An imperturbable demeanor comes from perfect patience. Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune and misfortune at their own private pace like a clock during a thunderstorm.—Robert Louis Stevenson