Grainy Goodness and Beauty

She was perfectly quiet now, but not asleep — only soothed by sweet porridge and warmth into that wide-gazing calm which makes us older human beings, with our inward turmoil, feel a certain awe in the presence of a little child, such as we feel before some quiet majesty or beauty in the earth or sky — before a steady glowing planet, or a full-flowered eglantine, or the bending trees over a silent pathway.

George Eliot (a.k.a. Mary Ann Evans), English Victorian novelist (1819-1880)

Every morning for the past few weeks I relive wonderful breakfasts beside a cool, clear lake and amidst towering trees by making "Obed porridge". I feel as soothed and as warmed as George Elliot's child.

The instructions I received are quite simple: "Just mix one portion of whatever grains you like with a double portion oats; pour over some dried fruit in the bottom of a pot; sprinkle in some salt; pour four portions of boiling water over top; cover pot and let it sit overnight. In the morning, cook over medium heat until it comes to a boil."

As I mix the grains together I'm struck by their beauty. They are the epitome of health. Tomorrow's porridge is a mix of kamut, spelt and kasha grains with sunflower, sesame, flax and chia seeds, hemp hearts and steel cut and rolled oats, and sweetened with coconut chips and dried cherries. The next morning will be different. I'm not a breakfast eater but I love this grainy goodness!

To Market

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig;

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.

To market, to market, to buy a fine hog;

Home again, home again, joggety-jog.

To market, to market, to buy a plum bun,

Home again, home again, market is done.

English Nursery Rhyme, first published in 1598

The larder needed stocking so we took a drive to the village of St. Jacob's to shop at its famous farmers market. Have you heard of the 100-mile diet which urges people to eat local produce? Well, the "eat local" movement is catching on in southern Ontario: it seemed that just about everyone who lives within a 100-mile radius of this small town came out today to buy their veggies, back bacon, sausage and Cheddar cheese. The crowds brought back memories of my Tuesday expeditions to the vegetable souk in Luxor -- only I didn't feel quite so overwhelmed there.

May Light Shine Out

May the blessing of light be on you –
light without and light within.
May the blessed sunlight shine on you like a great peat fire,
so that stranger and friend may come and warm himself at it.
And may light shine out of the two eyes of you,
like a candle set in the window of a house,
bidding the wanderer come in out of the storm.
And may the blessing of the rain be on you,
may it beat upon your Spirit and wash it fair and clean,
and leave there a shining pool where the blue of Heaven shines,
and sometimes a star.
And may the blessing of the earth be on you,
soft under your feet as you pass along the roads,
soft under you as you lie out on it, tired at the end of day;
and may it rest easy over you when, at last, you lie out under it.
May it rest so lightly over you
that your soul may be out from under it quickly;
Up and off and on its way to God.
Peace to you, as you journey home,
And may the Lord bless you, and bless you kindly.

Scottish Blessing

Today we celebrated the life of a gentle-man. I didn't know Jack well; only as a kindly older man who sang from his heart in the choir as he had done since a wee lad in Scotland. I came away from his service of remembrance wishing that I had made the effort to get to know him better. The Scottish Blessing are words to live by and I think Jack did. With his blessing, may the light shine out of the two eyes of mine.

Feline Approval

For me, one of the pleasures of cats' company is their devotion to bodily comfort.

Sir Compton Mackenzie, Scottish writer (1883–1972)

Today's email brought a smile with its visual proof that "Houston" - the quilt - has been approved by the feline connoisseur of comfort at its new home. Purr-fect!

Of Wind and Water

The past rumbles beneath the watery surface . . .
a gutteral repose . . .
and then – in a flash – the present leaps out –
thrusts high – catches wind – and in its pause, touches – for a moment –
the future.

Poem accompanying "Ráfaga - Unleashed" sculpture by Veronica and Edwin Dam de Nogales (2004)

I took an afternoon walk along the bayfront. A light southerly wind blew in my face carrying with it water's sweet scent. Some might turn up their noses and say "It smells of fish," but a watery breeze smells sweet to me.

Preserving Preserving

Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine, In those old days of the lost sunshine Of youth—when the Saturday's chores were through, And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen, too, And we went visiting, "me and you," Out to Old Aunt Mary's?

It all comes back so clear today! Though I am as bald as you are gray—Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane, We patter along in the dust again. As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, Out to Old Aunt Mary's!

. . . .

The jelly—the jam and the marmalade, And the cherry and quince "preserves" she made! And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear, With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare!— And the more we ate was the more to spare, Out to Old Aunt Mary's!

James Whitcomb Riley, American writer and poet (1853-1916) in his poem "Out to Old Aunt Mary's"

The multicoloured jars of jams, jellies and relishes laid out at the annual church fundraiser had my mouth watering. The combinations were amazing: chocolate and raspberry jam, peach infused with lavender jelly, hot pineapple salsa, to name just a few. How creative! How delicious! How nourishing! Thank goodness people are back to preserving the earth's bounty.

Rainy Days

The canoe especially connects us to rivers – timeless pathways of the wilderness. Wave after wave of users have passed by. Gentle rains falling onto a paddler evaporate skyward to form clouds and then to descend on a fellow traveller, perhaps in another era. Likewise, our waterways contain something of the substance of our ancestors. The canoe connects us to the spirit of these people who walk beside us as we glide silently along riverine trails.

Kirk Wipper, founder of the Canadian Canoe Museum (1923–2011), in the foreword to Canexus: The Canoe in Canadian Culture (1988)

My head is still in a hammock and the sound of rain on the roof outside remains me of a similar, but oh so different, sound that it made on the cabin's roof. And so my mind drifts quietly.

Perhaps this is the same rain that fell days ago and miles away, that nourished the earth, heightened the colours, evaporated, and then drifted eastwards to fall again and again, repeating the cycle. I am here, but my mind is connected to a lake miles away.