The Cat

This is Poetry Thursday, so here's an old poem.

The Cat     

 

 

When I would meditate,

I felt I sat beneath a cat.

He was seated, too, and his front paws

Filled my upturned palms,

And the rest of him was seated

At my back.

 

I spoke this fancy to a friend.

She was my mentor in this business,

And when I told her of the cat,

She gave a little snort. Not a big snort,

For she was compassionate. But a snort.

I lagged aback. My poor idea. Not to be true.

Too bad. But I forgot to tell the cat

And back he comes, ever  as I sit the lotus;

Paws in my palms, and towering at my back,

Quiet in the everlasting stillness.

Just Buddha, and kitty, and me.

DNA is Interesting

This past spring  I decided to send off my saliva to Ancestry.com, who for a price were willing to analyze it with a view to where my DNA was from.

Off it went, and when the results came back I was astounded.  Look--my father was Mexican, which means an amalgam of Spanish and Native American, right? He impressed that idea on me when I was young; he said nearly all Mexicans had Indian blood, so don't get any high falutin' ideas. Also, you've heard the saying, "Scratch a Spaniard, find a Jew."  My dad's family came over in 1740, and I believe though  never was told that they were conversos who became Catholics to save their lives. I thought Sephardic Jew was a large part of my DNA.  I also thought, "Scratch a Spaniard, find a Moor," because the three groups lived in a fairly liveable truce for many years in Spain.

My mother's roots are English (the Temples and the Proctors, etc) and Scotch-Irish (The McClearys and the Dickeys).  So there you go, my DNA...half Spanish, half British Isles. Apparently it's not so simple.

When my results came back, I was astounded by them.  Sixty plus percent---Greek and Italian! What?
About 20 percent British Isles...OK, that.
Another largish percent...Iberian Peninsula (I guess that means the indigenous people or just a mix of all the above.)
And a little scrap of Native American and Jewish (by which I think they mean Ashkenazy, Sephardics are never mentioned), and a little scrap of African.

Greek and Italian? I was astounded. Where did those guys get into the woodpile? I couldn't believe it. So I went looking on the Internet, which is the library of our days.  

Well, it seems to be like this. The Romans were in Britain (the main time, there were other intrusions)..from about 45 AD to about 409 AD.  When they were called home and expelled from the cities, there were some who did not want to go, and went to--Ireland.  I am sure there were others who went to other places in the British Isles.  But sure it is from the bunch that went to Ireland that came my mother's ivory skin, brown eyes, and black hair. Anyway, so my Roman genes got into the British Isles but managed to stay kind of pure, pure enough to be recognized in the year 2014 by Ancestry.com.  And those Greeks? Well, many Greeks were enslaved by the Romans and I am sure, conquerors being what they are, managed to get their DNA into the line too.

So, good. From those genes comes my classically tragi-comic face and expression of pain which has made even dentists stop in mid-drill and ask, "Am I hurting you?"  No, I say, that's just my face.  Nothing erases it but smiling, which works well when I think of it.

So, as I get it, and I am not sure I have it, for Ancestry did not explain anything much, our genes are our very own.  If each of my four sisters got their DNA done by Ancestry, each might come out different: there's a huge tub of genes for our Maker to choose from.  I urge my sisters, who have been hanging back hoping they would not have to send in the seventy dollars and vial of spit, to get their DNA done, so we can see what each one got from the barrel. Interesting, no? It is to me.

The Marina

This will be an easy, quiet posting today. I am waiting for the rain to stop so I can take Foxy to the Marina. Hey, it's stopped!  This will be short.

My husband and I used to take our two chihuahuas to the Marina. We went to several different parks around CV like "June Bug" (on May Bud st.) but the Marina was the most pleasant and there we would meet the Dog Club.

The Dog Club was what we called a rather largish group of people who took their dogs every day and would at some point relax and converse for a while.  We met some nice people. When my husband became more ill, and when the dogs died, we did not go any more so it's only recently since having Foxy that I've started going again.  The old Dog Club are gone, meeting somewhere else perhaps, but I have met quite a few nice folks en passant as we struggled with our animals. An ironworker, a plumber, two grandmas, several younger women including one interesting out of work living in her car girl whom I 've not seen since. Pleasant to talk to them all; they are all interesting.

But I really go to the Marina for the sky. More than the water, it's the sky that draws me there.  It's huge, and has a guaranteed larger accumulation of clouds when the weather is like this than any other place in town. Wonderful to see. On the clear bright blue days, it is lovely too, uncannily silent in the noontime suspension of workaday matters.  We walk and look.

I sometimes go in the afternoon when there's a busy morning; in fact of late I have gone more in the afternoon than any other time.
Fewer chatty people, more quiet and space. It's strange. There are always a number of cars, parked, each with one person in them. Are they seeking solitude? Listening to the silence? Getting away from it all? Waiting for someone? You always wonder.

If you wait too late, the sun sets and you are treated to a time of glory which often is unbelieveably lovely. But it isn't the place for one little lady with one little dog, so I do not linger.  After dark the Marina changes its mood very subtly. It is more sinister in tone, not comfortable. Some men told me that (other) men bring big fierce dogs and let them roam in the dusk when no one will stop them. Probably true, altogether believeable. I don't stay even for sunset any more. Too prudent, but--that's life.

Epiphany!!

Today's Epiphany, the Twelfth Day of Christmas!

Happy Epiphany to all!!

If I had something to give, I'd give it to you!!

Today I got up determined to celebrate Epiphany as best I might. I thought I'd go up to St Paul's for noontime Communion as I never go and it is going on there at noon very day...a waste to me so far.

Then I also thought that I'd like some joyfulness, so decided to attend St John's School Chapel service at 8:50 a.m. Cramming the dog into his crate, I went off and took full pleasure in being with all those kids in such a great atmosphere.  I can't say enough what a beautiful service that always is, geared to the children's taste but strictly following the Episcopal canon, which is to my taste.  

Then the boring but needed errands, and a quick dash home to consume one old fashioned donut with a cup of cold coffee from breakfast...then, doubly offended dog to cage (let's not mince words now) and a quick zoom up to Fifth Avenue. What a surprise to find it so completely crammed with cars everywhere, not a parking place to be had. Could it be that Epiphany has gained a popularity I don't know of? 

Found a lucky parking place a half block away by the Mexican restaurant, and scurried up to be met by a great wave of beautiful and well-dressed people coming out of a funeral. I stood in the doorway with ushers and greeters, feeling like the Queen in an assembly line, nodding and smiling to the mourners as they passed.  I had known the man who died, but was not a close friend of the family although I taught one of the girls in Sunday School long ago.But I greeted a number of people I haven't seen in a long time, and escorted some strangers toward the restroom and the elevator, and returned to find the church empty and quiet, waiting for the noontime Communion Service.

I did not know the priest who conducted the service. He chose good prayers, preached a good sermon or homily (I do not know the difference) and chose the Liturgy set D which I have never heard before. It is absolutely beautiful and we should use it more often. There were seven of us including the priest and I was the only person of the female persuasion.

One of my FB friends who was present said, "Now you can't say I didnt call you by name!"  And I said, "Did you? No, you didnt!" and he reminded me that he had indeed called me Linda when we passed the Peace.  Oh dear! Now that's something to put away in my think about it box...Maybe people have been saying my name all the time and I just wasn't listening....Oh dear. A new idea.  Is that my epiphany for today? I don't think so...but something to think on.

Then the rush for home as we  left the church under a suddenly darkening sky, trying to beat the storm and take Foxy to the Marina avant le deluge which I just managed to do.  We had a good pull up and down the Marina with and against a strong wind, with the drops just starting to fall on my $40 haircut and comb (that's how to make it rain, my friends, get your hair done) as we hurried to the car.

So, my leftovers from Sunday's Chinese dinner are warming up on the stove as I write, and I'll say farewell till next time. It was a good Epiphany.  No fancy party, no Rosca de Reyes (I could make one but a donut will have to do), no favors...and maybe when I sleep tonight there'll be an epiphany in my dream as has been known to occur. It could happen!

Call Me Yazzybel

Recently, I wrote a question on Facebook: If you go to church and nobody says your name, were you really there?

I got a few answers but none of them answered the question for me.

My friend Pat wrote --or told me--that that question would never occur to her. That it had never happened to her. That's what made me really think about it now. Why is it so important to me that people say my name? 

My dad really wanted a son to carry his name.  I was the first child, and my destined name was his. When I turned out to be a girl, my parents seem to me to have been devoid of ideas or imagination, so I was named for my mother. A perfect copy of her Christian name, her maiden name, and her married name. Not even a middle name of my own. This sometimes caused problems in clerical situations as I grew up. Like when I applied in Texas for a copy of my teacher's certificate (credential in California) , I got my mother's.

When I was a kid, I was seldom Linda. Linda was my mother.

My mother was an extremely beautiful, outspoken and intense woman. She lived a Texas life of the woman of the early 20th Century, but she could have been anything. She had the great Celtic gift of speech and storytelling, and we daughters used to marvel at her way of recounting the common gossip of our city: "At two o' clock in the morning, her husband turned to her and said. ---, and she told him, ---," whatever, but detailed as if she'd been there listening to the whole thing. It made us laugh.

She was Linda, and I was Little Linda. Shy, wheezy, intelligent, not to be counted on much. Same as now!  Anyway, if they called me anything they called me Little Linda or Little Lindy.

My own husband addressed me by name only twice in our marriage, once early on, and once late in our married life did he say, "Linda, ----,"  Why did I notice this? It seemed to mean something to me.

When I was in my forties, I asked my mother why she couldn't have chosen another name for me. She was surprised that I even had the thought, and couldn't think of a reason. Could she have thought of a name?  "You could have named me Ysabel, after Daddy's mother, " I said. Well, that made her mad, and she started writing Ysabel  on the letters she addressed to me ( we wrote back then, with paper, and pen and stamps!!!) and one came to me in North Carolina when I was visiting my sister Christine and my brother in law, reading Ysabel, said to my sister, "WHO is this Yazzabel?"  It made us all laugh and then my Texas-y sister changed it to Yazzybel, and that's who I have been since then.  I have noticed that more people are willing to address me by that name for some reason. Maybe it's really me.

So call me Yazzybel or Yazzy if you like, ...but call me, as they saying goes. I dont know why it means anything to me but it seems to. If this has been TMI, you are welcome not to pursue the subject with me further, but also welcome to come along for the ride if you wish!

What Happened to Saturday?

Oh, dear...
What happened to Saturday? I'll tell you what happened to Saturday. Busy I was, that's what.

Got up with the idea that we would indeed make those tamales. And I have a vague idea of the proportions in my head...we'd bought the meat and leaves on Friday night at Gonzales Market...and the masa. Big mistake. I bought masa para tamales. Aready mixed up with inferior ingredients.

My grandmother would be rolling over in her grave if she knew.  I knew I should have done the right thing, and bought my own manteca and plain masa, and prepared it myself but thought I might be getting too elderly to finish a detailed job. Shame   on me. Next time I will know. 

I also bought the wrong meat; I bought pork already cut into thin steaks thinking that it would cook faster. (Of course, in the first place that is wrong; my grandmother would have used raw pork as always. But I am a child of caution in the 21st century.) I did not deal with the knowledge which I do know that the machine boners of today leave lots of tiny chips of bone in the meat which won't be detected until the teeth themselves bite into the tamal after it's cooked. Thus they were flawed from the beginning.

Then, I couldnt find my recipe. It is hiding away with my BCP and  Bible no doubt. Who 'd have thought it isnt in my hand-made cookbook on the page that I drew in ink, step by step, how to make the tamales, with illustrations.  It just isnt there. All is falling away, it is. So I faked it with the proportions of chile (I use anchos/pasillas like my grandmother did) to manteca to garlic to the quantity of meat. Did not fake well.

We made them up and they were okay. Kind of. I had a pleasant time working with Ben, who is a congenial sort as all three of my boys were. If I dont watch out I am going to get used to company and will be spoiled when I am alone again as I have been for two and a half years before this time.

The tamales cooked up pretty well in the aluminum (!) roaster I bought at the Goodwill, but they are an inferior product. Sorry, Mama Grande and Aunt by marriage Sarita, who did the actual teaching of me long ago. I'll do better next time. I'll do it all right next time, do it all from scratch. I will.