Buddha Board

The Buddha Board -- above is a picture of the mini version which I have but there's a larger version as well -- is a mediation device I purchased for myself after I found the larger version was a major success with my grandson and his family. If you go to the main website you will find a calming experience right on screen. This is a trademarked item and others sites offer several ways you can order one. I first saw the Buddha board at the wonderful Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art in NYC. When I showed it to Rachel she suggested I buy one for her oldest son as a graduation present. Huh? I said. He'd love it, she said. In fact he told me later that he had it in his college room and several friends were so fascinated they went onlne and ordered their own. Since then I've followed Rachel's advice and bought one for grandson #2 for a graduation present.

What is the Buddha board? It's a painting surface on an easel that comes with a Chinese calligraphy type brush. One draws on the surface only with a water-wet brush. The image will slowly fade. As a meditation device it offers a time-limited object to look at as some mediators look at a candle flame. To me there's a special effectiveness of writing one's name on the board and watching it slowly fade to nothing -- a gentle kind of memento mori, although I believe any drawing, even random lines, speak to the meditator of the impermanence of all things.

In general I very much dislike writing about very personal practices like meditations. I am very put off by people who practice yoga in public places. I cannot believe any public display is other than hubris. I write about the Buddha board here because it's an ingenious device and I believe others might find it calming and useful.

As I just wrote about public display I remembered a very egregious example: during my African trip I took a sunset cruise on the Zambezi river near Victoria Falls. About half the people on the smallish, flat bottomed little boat were a Polish tourist group who were disruptively noisy as they drank up the supply of brandy. One of their members chose to sit on the very front of the ship in the lotus position, his hands in a mudra, his back to everyone. Okay -- that bothered me, but then he decided to do a headstand, there on the very front. One of the women spotted him as he took the position to make sure he didn't tumble forward into the river. Once he was steady he remained in that position for about five minutes. None of the boat's crew suggested he stop -- I'm not sure why because it was, in fact, a dangerous thing to do. Had there been any kind of bump he could easily have fallen in the river which had a number of always territorial hippopotami not far away. It was a great relief to see him finally resume a normal sitting posture and beam with pride when his friends applauded him. It was not yoga, it was arobatics.

Richard Neal, portraits

Richard Neal's portraits now at the Cape Cod Art Museum in Dennis are unlike any portraits I've seen. I'm afraid these photographs are totally inadequate to show the amount of texture and detail involved. For those who have large screen monitors with good resolution some of the intricacy may be visible but very few really good photographers could capture the wonderful combination of apparently found objects and paint used to give meaning to these faces which are strong faces in the first place.

Before painting the portraits Neal affixed pieces of old blue jeans with their zippers and buttons, packaging materials, cardboard, flat and corrugated, netting, even an iron bolt, to the surface of the canvas and very skillfully used them to give form and texture to the faces. The reference that came immediately to mind was Rauschenberg; Neal's purpose is not abstract but in the service of showing human strength within the randomness of prosaic experience.

For me the above painting was the strongest -- Rachel did not agree, she preferred others although we both agree that the top portrait was very, very strong -- one has to see the texture to appreciate it fully. This painting is call PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. By adding the name the painting acquired one more dimension -- in general paintings don't, or shouldn't, need names. But sometimes this kind of reference gives the viewer just that much more frisson.

The museum is not at all large but was a pleasure. Other rooms held more expected sorts of paintings, landscapes mostly. A small porch -- the building apparently was built as a private home -- has a fascinating collection of sculptures, mostly in iron and found objects. The gardens around are beautifully kept and hold more sculpture among the flowers and trees. Finding paintings with as much force and depth as Neal's in this setting is a wonderful surprise.

Family Tournament

Two weeks of gray days with only a few hours of sun here and there -- none since Saturday. I have plenty to occupy me but simply feeling closed in by a force beyond my control has given me cabin fever. Rachel and Cori were feeling it too. We've long talked of having a Scrabble tournament among ourselves and even had a "prelim" warm up game over two weeks ago.

Today we started in earnest. A real game with each of us looking for the triple letter score, the double word score the the optimal way to use good words already on the board. It was a close game with different ones ahead at different times. That's the best way to play a game, with equals -- so what if we are three generations. We all read a lot, and we have good vocabularies and all are subject to the chance of the draw. I won this one, by only a little. More will ensue, it's highly unlikely I will win the next -- though I'll try my best. It lifted the ennui and the gloom for all of us. We are hoping to see the sun soon -- it's supposed to be summer.

New England Clam Chowder Contest

Two very nice things combined this afternoon: one is a friend made on an Swap-bot, an internet group, by the name of Jan, and the other is New England clam chowder. [There are several web sites as I've just discovered that give recipes and step by step directions -- Google it].

Jan lives not too far away and invited me to be a part of of the vote counting committee for an annual chowder contest held quite near where I live. This was wonderful for two very good reasons. One is I got to meet some of Jan's friends and being new here it's very, very nice

Another positive was that I got to taste the chowders from some local restaurants and began to appreciate the differences in taste. This was not something I'd ever thought about but now I realize that with New England clam chowder there are many, many subtlties. For those readers from other parts of the US and world: New England makes a clam chowder on a white sauce base with only potatoes and possibly onions added as well as the minced clams. There is what New Englanders consider a perversion which is Manhattan clam chowder. It is essentially a red vegetable soup with chopped clams added. I've always preferred the New England variety [but never knew there were so many slights differences and this was only in one small contest. There must be many more.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon until we emerged from the counting room -- which is the green room of the Music Tent - a Hyannis landmark = to discover that the gray and damp day was revealng now the effects of a Nor'easter wtth chilling winds and a serious drop in temperature over a couple of hours. And this is the summer solstice, for heaven sakes! I've only been this kind of chilly on June 21st the year I was in Alaska for summer solstice. Global warming in it's most erratic manifestation. Brrrr....

Respite from Rain

By some mistake of air currents, the sun actually forced it's face through the rain clouds for about an hour. I quickly took advantage of what I then hoped would be an all afternoon phenomenon. Hurried out, umbrella along just in case, and quickly walked to R's office to fax something and then the post office to mail a couple envelopes. She suggested we have an early lunch on Main Street. Good idea.

Main Street of this major summer tourist attraction as one would expect is full of restaurants. The one R. wanted to try was not open so we went across the street to another where we had Cajun tuna cakes on a green salad [with many mild raw onion rings under the very spicy, very crumbly but quite delicious tuna cakes. A new idea, a new taste in tuna. We liked it a lot. As we sat looking out the window the umbrellas appeared again.

We decided I should not walk home in the rain but she had another hour of work. No prob. Across the street is Tim's used books store of surprisingly large dimensions with a wonderful variety of serious books as well as one long, long wall of junk beach reading paperbacks. I have avoided the store since my move here knowing I cannot go in without finding books I didn't know I wanted but suddenly wanted very much. I did know I wanted more about Isabella Bird's adventures in the Rockies. I read a short selection early this year, loved it, wanted more. There I found it. I've seen Bill Bryson's early travel book about the US but read only one short excerpt about Iowa, I haven't purchased it before but now wondered why I had never read it since I his writing and personality are delightful. I did not know about The Diblos Notebook by James Merrill -- a fascinating non-novel/novel in notebook form. And so it went, another travel book, a book of interesting poetry. In short six books for under $25, half were hardbacks. I DO have space on my bookshelves having ruthlessly given away books when I moved. I must avoid Tim's Books as much as possible because it is likely any trip in there would yield a similar haul. With books, as with quilting fabric stash, I'm trying to use up not stock up.

So I've had a successful rainy day. Now I'm totally ready for the sun to reappear and the clouds to vanish. I'd love to sit on my little patio with the book I've just started -- no, none of the new ones although one of them will probably be next in line. For now it's Simon Winchester's, The Professor and the Madman which I've long been meaning to read. A bang up first 30 pages so far. And a novel by my bedside

Sea, Sand and ... Sun?

So I moved to this very beautiful place where the sea is never more than three miles away, the beaches are beautiful and everyone seems impelled by pure civil good will to fill their lawns with beautiful flowers. What have I to be grumpy about -- other than the quality of fruits and vegetables in the markets? [I will add that yesterday an outing to a market yielded a very presentable ear of fresh corn which had fresh, moist tassls, plus totally delicious sugar peas]. Today my only complaint is that we seem this season to be allotted only one day of sun a week. That was yesterday. The gray has so dispirited me that I've been out only to take out garbage although it didn't rain and I COULD have taken a walk and SHOULD have done so for my own frame of mind and good health. Instead, when not sewing blocks for the almost completed chain patterned quilt, I gazed at the lawn which has been full of very chubby robins and a dramatic blue jay as well as various LBBs -- a small flock of which settled on a spindly little bush and literally bounced like trampoline gymnasts on the scrawny branches.

So why be grumpy? I had an hour with Schubert who seems to master me and not vice versa but I'm trying to meet him half way -- if only he'd stay in one key! But he loved changing keys and since he's dead there's nothing I can do about it but bend to his will. He had the misfortune to die in his mid-30s, half my age. What wonders we would have had he lived longer! The town is full of roses now and I'll happily dedicate these two simple roses to Franz S.

A food rant

A few days ago I saw some lovely nectarines in the grocery store. They were a bit too firm but not rock hard. I thought they would be very nice if ripened at room temperature a couple of days. Yesterday decided to eat one for breakfast. One bite and -- ugh! Sour! And a little styrofoam-ish in texture. I rarely purchase nectarines or peaches simply because that seems to be their usual condition. But I had been lulled because for last summer happened to be a good one for peaches. Ripe, juicy, lusious. Each season I can find only one fruit that's properly ripe and good to eat. Sometimes it's plums. It is NEVER strawberries. I turned those nectarines into kucken.

A contradictory and horrible thing has happened to grocery produce -- and at some farmers' markets too. It seems the purveyors of fruit and vegetables think the public has no idea what ripe fruit tastes like. They insult us by thinking that we want large fruit [those giant flavorless strawberries] and perfectly shaped fruit [those apparently plastic red delicious apples]. I actually believe a generation exists now that does not know that the essence of ripe fruit is sweetness, and in many fruits that is accompanied by juiciness. I have seen many people gnawing on hard, unripe pears as if they think that is what a pear is supposed to be like.

On that same shopping trip I purchased a bag of cherries. They are beautiful, they range from bright [unripe] red to deep red. Some will be delicious, many will not be. I resent that the stores insist on packaging them in two pound baggies and that I cannot pick out my own cherries from a big pile. I love the good ones enough to purchase them anyway but I protest whenever I get a chance.

A good pineapple is a miracle of flavor and delight, and a great rarity. I think few Americans know that kiwis can actually be very sweet and delicious. We still have good watermelons -- hurray! -- but cantaloupes are horribly iffy and so are honeydews. Tomatoes are the strawberries of the vegetable world -- tasteless and artificially pretty. Upon rare occasions the tiny grape tomatoes have flavor, but one can't count on it. And then there's this ridiculous idea stores have of sprinkling veggies to make us think they are newly picked. Like the pretty brocolli I purchased, as wet as if it had just been brought in from the showery weather outside although it was probably picked at least three days ago.

Grocery stores are not really to blame. They get food from giant wholesalers who in turn get it from giant agribusiness. Meanwhile the medical writers and some conscientious MDs lecture that we Americans need to eat much more fruit and veggies and less fast food. Perhaps if the fruit and veggies tasted -- like food instead of something concocted in a laboratory -- people might enjoy them. As it is, we clearly want taste. There's a craving for flavor. Think pizza, salsa, Buffalo wings,and all those salt-saturated snack foods.

I'm old enough to remember when I could be convinced a tomato was a fruit because it was so sweet and tasty. I remember small, field picked strawberries that were so sweet and full of flavor I'd sneak into the refrigerator over and over for more. I'd be happy to live on fruit and veggies if it weren't an exercise in disappointment. As it is, some are truly eye candy no more satisfying than those disgusting gummy bears that have a minimum of flavor and a maximum of gluey-ness.