Kandinsky

My garden looks like a Kandinsky painting, with the cosmos and the calendula, bright masses of yellow and pink backed by the neighbors sunflowers, and the sun low in the sky, shading the western part of the garden, brightening a mass of dahlias. A good book for a look at the lovely chaos of avant-garde color see Theme and Improvisation: Kandinsky and American Avant-Garde

A chaotic garden. Chaos, the theory is that it will make sense at some point, that things, be they objects, natural elements, feelings, will make sense at some point. Where is that point, a distant point in space perhaps? From space the patterns are obvious, in my bedroom, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the chaos inside, nothing is obvious, everything is a wind storm blowing away the last petals of a lifetime.

Ah, the plums, they hang like flesh, and the tomatoes, so plump and soon ripe. Ah, I'm so poetic this morning. More rested in my own bed. This is good and the cat, he's mad because I left him—although I have a cat sitter, but when she doesn't stay here at my place, he gets into mischief. He pulled things out of the closet and knocked over a plant and the lamp. Nothing damaged, but he was indignant when I asked him why he'd made such a mess. Such chaos. He said he was mad because I was gone for too long time. It was no longer than before, I argued, but he wouldn't listen.

This morning the grandbaby comes for the day. I haven't spent much time with him in awhile, so am excited to see the little dickens. He has food intolerances and is being tested this week for wheat, oats and eggs. They want him off eggs for now and he can't have lactose. He has more allergies than I have. Another reason to eat well from the garden. Eat good food, stay away from sugar and white flour. Everyone knows that. During the war when they rationed sugar and they couldn't afford to bleach the flour, everyone grew healthier. Huh! It didn't stick.

Okay, happy day and happy garden and don't worry about the chaos.
Flower

Pancakes

Since I'm gluten-intolerant, I've developed many recipes that are tasty and easy to make using rice flour. The rice waffle is one of my favorites and this time of year the blackberries and blueberries can be used as a syrup or mixed into the batter and, viola—delicious, flavorful cakes for a Sunday morning breakfast. Sunshine coming through the window, a pot of coffee, a plate of waffles, perhaps some farm fresh eggs, and we're in like flin—fine dining. Oh, the recipe. I cup rice flour, 1 egg, 1 tbl. Baking powder, 1/4 cup Melted butter, a pinch of salt, milk or soy milk to make the batter the right consistency—approximately ½ cup. Don't stir much, barely in fact, so the rice flour will stay tender. If you want to mix in berries, toss ½ cup berries in a bit of flour first. I don't use sugar in my recipe because the flour is sweet and if you use maple syrup, another sweet. Ahhhh! Now I'm hungry. This recipe can also be made into pancakes. Try very thin slices of apple mixed in the batter. Always use real maple syrup.

So this is Labor Day. This was the weekend we moved into the condo. A honeymoon getaway to recharge our marriage. It was a year ago on the following weekend that I was asked for a divorce. So a year later, things are pretty tied up. It took longer all together, the demise of this union. It started back in 2003—when I knew I'd have to move on. Five years—that seems too long, but there was therapy in there and graduate school, and unexpected developments. Marriages like gardens have to be examined carefully to discover the real problem. Perhaps a year off is a good thing. In the bookThe Marriage Sabbatical the author says that women rarely get to take time away from their marriages without everyone thinking, oh the poor husband. He'll be lonely and therefore will cheat while she's gone. Whereas, if the man goes off on a business trip or is transferred to another town, everyone expects the wife to hold down the fort, they never say to the man, won't she cheat, she'll be lonely. It is an interesting book exploring women and retreat time.

Moving on: clean out closets, turn over garden, get the rugs cleaned, eat better, cry more, focus on your work. Well it is all good. All of it. My sister says she just thinks of everything as a blessing. Even when she lost her son two years ago. Me, I'm a little more callused and bitter. I'm emotional to a fault. I just can't help it—or perhaps I can. Perhaps like the garden, I could mend my soil. I could water myself more frequently, I could put more space between the rows. I'm not sure at this point. Everything is too new. Everything is different once again. I'll be at meditation at noon today watching my mind.

Happy happy,
Flower