Spinning on a Dime; Tea Time

Spinning on a dime, friends, our tiny-toothed edges augmenting our rotation with wobbles. Love used to be a function of chemistry, a mingling of elementary romance; now it’s interdisciplinary, a little messy geometry mixed with theatre. Oh, such a masquerade, with such interesting shapes, distinctions made on circles and squares. Sit back, mon ami, soon drama and entertainment will ensue, and an interlude before the comic end, or tragic, depending on your view.

Today, I went on a long walk. The sun was out and the weather sat perfectly at eighty. Is it sad that only as I went outside I put shorts on? I’m always cold: how is that? The orchards smelled of newness and spring, and I walked past roses, hydrangeas, poppies, daisies, geraniums, nasturtiums, and dozens of flowers whose names I don’t know. Will someone tell me the names of flowers, please? I want to know the names of all of the flowers, and their stories, but I have no one to tell me.

I wrote this as a bit of silly poetry, and though it’s a tad lousy, it was fun. Someday, I’ll even edit things like this and they won’t be so completely ugly. I actually cringed a bit re-reading it, but figured any changes I made tonight would only be undone tomorrow if I look at it again. For now, here it is: Tea Time.

The Mad Hatter another tea party holds:

Psyche arrives in formal attire,

Bacchus, bearing a barrel of beer,

Pan appears in a flourish, theatrical,

piping a tune; a boy shuffles in tow.

Ah, tea time, as always, the Hatter sighs,

but Bacchus pays no mind, and starts

on wine, while Pan guffaws.

Psyche’s eyes are lost with love,

beautiful, sad, and demure.

The boy, however, with thoughtful eyes

asks what is the matter with tea time?

Nothing’s wrong, but it is ever the matter,

the Mad Hatter brusquely replies,

and never time for love or wine -

Bacchus, though, begged to differ.

What, my boy, begins the Hatter,

have a faun, a madman, a god,

woman and boy in common?

Drunkenness, remarks Bacchus.

Why yes, mused the faun, it is

what a tea party is for.

Love, mumbles Psyche.

Everything else, as this god, is a boor.

Bacchus, asinine, paid her no mind.

Only he is here, the rest are who

here is for, said the faun.

Ah, things have come to a tee,

The Hatter clapped with glee.

What may we do you for?

I don’t know, what do you mean?

Asks the boy, sipping his tea.
Mean? Mad, perhaps, not mean.

Psyche answered: a gift each

will bring, to guide you

to wherever it is you dream.

Bacchus began with a blessing:

be not an ass, revel and sing,

who knows what tomorrow may bring?

Psyche gave the boy a golden apple.

Choose what your heart desires

and pay dearly the cost for love.

Pan piped a ditty and passed over

a song and flower; remember

my boy, the earth and the water,

and the path the moon takes over sea.

The Mad Hatter, last, asked:

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

The boy, for this, had no answer.

And so it is with love, boy,

The impossible is possible if

You believe impossible things.

http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/05/spinning-on-a-dime-tea-time/

Expectations, Dreams

This week has been a smashing of expectations with a dash of adventure, a modicum of thought, a zealous smattering of joy and friendship: the recipe of my days. I'm sipping mint tea and contemplating my lack of desired success in writing, resting, exploring the world, hiking, playing soccer, all replaced with intimate discussions with friends over dinner, a sharing of hearts, and the blessing of listening ears.

I dreamt, last night, of an airport visit. All my friends were there, even a few surprises from far off places, from locales beyond the oceans. I remember sitting there, realizing I hadn't slept in the airport for days, just waiting for everyone to arrive and celebrate, and all I wanted was ice cream. As I reclined in an uncomfortable position along several airport seats, my friends arrived, each one carrying different varieties of ice cream of all my favorite flavors. I was overjoyed, but claimed I could not blithely accept their kindness. No, I must serve them instead. So I leaped to my feet and began serving everyone ice cream, even those around who were not my friends, until the ice cream was all eaten, and none remained for me, and I smiled, though I still was hungry.
Then, a friend I've not seen for many moons brought me a slice of cake, and I joined in the celebration. I remember thinking that I could not eat the cake, however, for it would be insensitive before my gluten free friends. So I gave it to a hungry child waiting for his parents to come out of the bathroom. For some reason, I was in a giant kitchen, and not an airport, and I remember waking and thinking, "how crafty am I, sneaking that cake to that child so clandestinely."

Such was, I suppose, the nature of this week. Seeing people I've missed so dearly (for they've been busy in other states and places or just being married), discussing lives and the dreams that drive us, and praying for each other.

Soul Tea

I've gleaned much this weekend, from restorative fields. Friday stretched on into forever, work demanding concentration I thought long dissipated throughout the week's hectic tumbling. And finally I burst into the clear. I felt like my submarine had imploded beneath the sea. I swam with all my might towards the surface, and the going became tougher and tougher until finally I broke free, the water tension of the surface breaking around me. It was none so difficult, nor so deadly or anxious, but the weekend was a breath of fresh air.

And once it arrived, it arrived with panache. Grey clouds covered the sky, but the sun cracked its way through and a light show danced towards earth, illuminating the cottonwood seeds floating about the sky like pixie dust or summer snow. I ran and ran for soccer, and grew tired and ran some more, through a beautiful sunset of cotton-candy clouds and into the early twilight. Arriving home, I collapsed in bed and wrote and read until I fell asleep. I woke bright and early and skyped with A and S for several hours, smiling and ponderously engaging in the diamonds and coals of life. Then P and guest came over and we explored Newberg, eating burritos and cilantro salsa and kicking around a soccer ball on the turf fields.

Finally, I rested half an hour before heading out to the lake for a bit of canoeing, picnicking, swinging on a giant swing between the trees, wire-walking, sunset canoeing, archery, and, eventually, goodbye hugs. I drove back beneath stars just peeping into being in the heavens. As a child, I remember books like "Chicken Soup for the Soul", and I think this was my chicken soup for my soul. A perfect Sabbath.

One thing I heard about Sabbath once was that God rested on the 7th day, and not the first. God did not rest to prepare for the upcoming week, but to celebrate a week that was good. It is a tiny difference, but one I really appreciate. I had a most excellent week, and celebrating it on the river with cider (they had beer) and bread was the perfect end to a week. Thank you, Lord, for the Soul Tea. I know I'm going to need it.