Inadvertent Altars

Part 1: Kitchen Window Altars

For a year now, I’ve been taking silent inventory of altars that pop-up casually in people’s homes, like impromptu displays of great beauty in nature. Each of us has treasured objects that cause a joyful response or remind us of that special time… so we put them in plain view around our home  in places where we tend to spend a lot of time. The kitchen sink is one such place.

My mother had a twelve-inch wide terra-cotta tile ledge above her sink and beyond it sliding glass doors that looked out on a cinderblock wall that she painted herself with large paisley shapes in maroon, green and black on a background of pale teal. The ledge gathered unwanted items sometimes, but those she placed with care had meaning to her. Photos of her children and grandchildren. A low profile black ceramic planter with thriving jade plant leaning toward the light. Tall spindly orange opaque bottle with its old pointy spout still intact. From her travels in Mexico, I believe. What did she ponder with her hands in sudsy sink water? What did she wonder in the house on the hill?

The window over J’s kitchen sink looks out on the lanai. In summer, she teaches childbirth out there on mats placed with care for her students on the red cement floor. What could be lovelier than  birdsong and crickets, bathing in warmth and dark and heady scents of orange blossom and night blooming jasmine, while learning how to relax and breathe through labor contractions? The entire perimeter of the curved wall screened-in lanai is full of plants. Hanging plants, plants on iron scrollwork stands, on tables, on pots turned upside down, and on the red floor. Standing at her sink and looking out beyond the lanai, I see the chicken coop and rabbit hutch and more fruit trees than I can name. There are no curtains to cut the view. Beauty beyond the  glass becomes the altar of the kitchen.

M has a one-inch sill at the bottom of the window over her sink. The window sits high and looks out on the driveway and hot white wall of the house next door. On the narrow ledge is a three inch plastic dinosaur planter with a teeny tiny succulent trying its best to survive in the meager dry soil. Maybe the glare from the white house fries it in late afternoon. Next to the dinosaur is a jaunty solar-powered panda doing non-stop hula during daylight hours. The first time I heard its small tick tick tick in the silence of M's kitchen, it took me a long while to link the sound with the visual of the panda hip action. I had a good laugh as relief washed over me. My catastrophizing brain frantically sought the source because I thought the steady sound was a drip drip drip under the sink or behind the wall. Thank Goddess for Hula Panda's Hippy Happiness! M’s real altar is on the move. An eight-year-old often helps her with kitchen tasks, and that’s about the most beautiful, bouncy, and joy-bringing sight in the whole neighborhood.

S’s kitchen was devoid of decoration, but the efficiency of his space was gobsmackingly gorgeous. A rectangular magnet on the wall to the left of the sink at the perfect height for him, seemed to puff its chest in pride because on it was stuck a collection of the best knives I have ever used. S kept them perfectly honed, a trait which I admire and shall always remember. I aspire to keep my knives as sharp. Glass jars on open shelves to the right of the sink held beans, grains, and pasta, immaculately organized, though by the time I first entered his home, he was already in end-of-life struggles so keeping up with his preferences for order was lower on the list than they had been before cancer came to live with him. The intent of kitchen as altar was clear. Golden light poured in through the over-the-sink window from 4:00 to 4:40 during that one month window of my spending time with him. Then the light faded.

Hummingbirds dart outside my current kitchen window altar. I hung a red glass feeder in the plum tree just twelve feet away from the front of the house. No matter the season, their territorial dances and chirps that sound like junior high school boys practicing kissing noises delight me. Rare moments of stillness, when one lucky feathered friend gets to settle and sip in solitude are my favorite. Behind the sink, between the faucet and the diamond light window, is a twenty-four inch deep black and brown granite countertop that runs the entire width of the window wall of the kitchen. Beyond the hummingbird tree is an expanse of redwood bark with the sleepy street beyond that. Even though the counter is deep, the flat altar space is narrow because we lower the shade each evening till it meets the counter, leaving only four or five inches between the shade and the glass for altarations, except for a half dozen plants to the right of the sink that the movement up and down of the shade doesn’t bother. The plants are happy there. Three green glass bottles fit nicely up against the window. I put a small crystal on top of one. Morning sun through it sparkles up the brick wall behind the stove with rainbows. Straw flowers in the tallest bottle make me think of working at an office downtown L.A. in my twenties. I longed to be out of doors, so I put strawflowers in a tiny clay weed pot and glued it to a poster of an open window with sill that I’d hung on the diarrhea green adobe wall in front of my desk to remind me there was life after work. Also tucked into the tallest bottle are several wishbones ready to break with the grandie, holding my half very low on the bone to make sure she gets the wish. A little red plastic hotel sits atop the last of the green bottles. Sometimes it falls off when the shade comes down. I found the lost toy in the bark out front - probably from when the family before ours had young kids. It reminds me to cherish the fun times and to be grateful for the hours of playing Monopoly with Jacky when we were eight or nine. 

In my observations, I’ve learned that objects or views that I choose to focus on either bring me joy in the moment or stir memories of times of stillness, wonder, or feeling connected to or part of something beyond the mundane mechanical drudgery of doing dishes. Not that washing dishes can't be an activity of symbolic impact: We’re cleaning up after a meal - however meager or grand, however solitary or filled with communion with other folk. 

Gratitude could be part of the ritual as warmth and suds and textures of sponge, scratcher, or cloth restore our dishes, utensils, pots and pans for use during a future filling with sustenance and communion. 

Secret altars created consciously or haphazardly are an oracle. What am I choosing to focus on in this moment, in this space, in this part of my life?

Because...

Because my beloved rescued a dog by his office on Beverly Boulevard near Fairfax in 1973 and

Because we couldn’t call him “Beverly” 

Because he was a skinny, wiry beige Terrier with a fragile ego, bruises, and worn out pads, we called him “Fairfax” and bought a yard for him 

Because the house we were renting in Laurel Canyon was a cracker-box on stilts with no yard at all and

Because the yard we bought conveniently had a house in front of it for us to live in, we invited in some stray cats

Because, you know, once you open the door to one, you can’t close it mid-stream. 

The first cat was all white, and, naturally, we named her Beverly in honor of Fairfax’s founding street.

The second cat we called Pico, after a very  l - o - n - g  street in Los Angeles, 

Because he needed something long about him

Because he was an all black Manx cat with a short nubbin of a tail and was always on the wrong side of the door…  Meoooow, let me in; Meoooow, let me out.

Then we got pregnant and decided to move to a home with a yard and a pet door and room enough for three humans and three four-leggeds, and…

Because, when our first child was born at home, Fairfax was a hero-protector, and he got steak one night,

Because I was feeling blue on day three after the birth and sent Fairfax to get my beloved husband Mark who had fallen asleep on the couch with the mail and Fairfax did get him! So, steak it was!

When our first daughter was eighteen months old and knew already that cats were cool and

Because we had refrained from calling her by some weird street name, or freeway but rather named her Mosa and

Because our friends were moving back to Australia and couldn’t take their cat Mao we took the cat in and

Because she’d had a “bit of a romp” (our friend Rona said) “with a male cat” Mao gave birth within nine weeks to three kittens named Little Girl, Bow-Tie, and Stripey and

Because of that, we were now a household of three humans outnumbered by six cats and one dog. And it was good…

Because when we walked Fairfax on leash with baby Mosa in the back pack carrier, Beverly Cat would hide in the bushes up-street and jump out and attack unsuspecting Fairfax, whack-a-whacking his nose. This made all of us giggle… except for Fairfax

Because, my husband said, Fairfax was an old Jewish man in a dog suit and was good at rolling his eyes but felt beholden to put up with all this chazarai, poor dog

Because he owed my beloved for saving his life.

Because Mama Mao and two of her kittens and poor Beverly and dear Mr. Pico all died, so all we had left was Mr. Bow-Tie, we got another cat from Pet Rescue and Mosa named her Punkin

Because she looked like a Halloween cat

Because she was black and orange with a little bit of white on her. And

Because by then our second daughter Megan was born, and

Because, when she was little she mispronounced Fairfax’s name “Fuck-a,” and at seven was old enough to rescue her own cats, and name them pronounceable names, she and I brought home two from outside Ralph’s supermarket. 

Megan named them “Wart” and “Mort”

Because Wart had a bump on one ear and

Because Mort rhymed with Wart and 

Because they were twin brothers and

Because our favorite dinnertime game was Family Rhyme-Time, so Wart and Mort joined the family and then… 

Because Fairfax was thirteen we celebrated his Bark Mitzvah and he read from the “Arf-Torah” and again, he had steak.

Then we moved to a new house that was closer to a Junior High School Mosa wanted to attend. A short while later Fairfax died. And

Because we were all sad and not ready for another dog, we bought a stuffed dog and named him Fairfax-simily… and 

Because zero dogs and two cats weren’t quite enough, one day, when our older daughter was almost sixteen, she and her dad went to Animal Rescue and brought home a female dog which Mosa named Daisy McDougal

Because that was the name of a character in a play she was doing at school, and Mosa really liked plays and drama, but…

Because Daisy McDougal promptly tried to bite two children, we took her back to Animal Rescue so she could go live on a farm with lots of space and no children, and instead brought home Mr. McDougal - a mutt, which

Because he’d lived on the streets and knew how to fend for himself, would always pick up trash and chase squirrels, and

Because that wasn’t enough, on the way home from our younger daughter Megan’s Junior High School, we rescued a seven month old Golden Retriever puppy from the middle of a busy street and 

Because we couldn’t find his people and no one claimed him, we found him a good home and named him “Marvin Gardens”

Because, in his case, “gardens” was a verb and he would bring in entire branches from the nectarine tree when the nectarines were green and he would say, Look what I found, guys! A bunch of tennis balls! and he would eat them all and get terrible gas and sleep near my side of the bed and fart all night so it smelled of burning tires in our bedroom which was also filled with the sounds of all-night licking and scratching and tags jingling and nobody was getting much sleep, but, 

Because it’s such a short time in our lifetime we put up with it - even when Street Dog Doogie McDougal ate carpet and a light-bulb and chewed the top off of some furniture polish and decorated the back lawn 

Because he’d eaten four vials of teeny tiny glass beads and left on the grass for us: blue sparkly poops and pink sparkly poops and gold sparkly poops and green sparkly poops and he’d also eaten one entire chocolate cake from way up high on a bar counter that pushed all those beads through.

Then he ate what would become a fifteen hundred dollar chicken bone from someone’s trash on our river walk one Sunday and by Tuesday morning, it was clear he was in pain, so we took him to the vet who surgically removed that chicken bone from his stomach 

Because otherwise he would have died. But he didn’t. And it was good. 

Because Marvin had missed him, and not known what to do when the letter carrier came by

Because, even though Marvin weighed twice what McDougal weighed, McDougal was always alpha dog and showed Marvin what to do.

When McDougal did die, and Marvin was the last of the fur tribe

Because Punkin had come to a bad end, and Wart and Mort died, and Bow-Tie was long dead, Marvin Gardens became the sweetest, most lovable only dog and in his old age, he gave so much love, that when he too died, we decided that we would end our open door policy

Because our hearts were hurting and it was ever-so-much easier to travel to camp weekends and family events out of state

Because both our daughters were out of the house and

Because then, we wouldn’t have to hire a pet sitter, so we didn’t open the door to any more critters… but the doors to our hearts are always open and 

Because we can get our four-legged fixes from other people’s fur-babies and

Because we are content to have both grown daughter’s cats walk around on our laps and snuggle up and play whack-a-whack-a games with yarn and paper while the granddaughter charms us with her wit and humor and

Because at eight she too loves cats, dogs, and critters, and playing Family Rhyme Time, we are happy.

Taking My Temper-atcha

“What’s your temper?” my writing buddy asked. (Maybe she meant temperament.)

“Depends,” I said. “When my Depends need changing, I’m cranky. Yuk yuk!”

OK. There ya go. In my family of origin, I was the designated deflector, anger-dance-arounder, and  de-escalator of rage, the clown to change the subject when storm clouds gathered in the living room. When Mom & Dad - and later, Mom and Step-Dad or Mom and my older brother - were gloving up to duke it out, I’d point out the poor butterfly struggling in the web in the corner of the dining room.

I’d re-direct rather than engage the rage. That role became my default setting.

As my chosen and created family grew, I became aware of the costs of sublimating my own anger. It was safe enough in my head to express upset, frustration, even roiling anger, but my teeth were wearing down from grinding and it took me a long while to unhook myself from the default settings of deflect, freeze, or bite my tongue.

I keep the cookie sheet with the dented-in corner from where it hit the wall about twenty-five years ago as I hurled it across the room in protest of my husband’s retreating figure. He’d made some snide remark and walked away. He chose not to engage and listen to how that made me feel, and it infuriated me. I had no intention of hitting him with the cookie sheet, but the swift swing of my arm and satisfying thud of metal impacting wood about twelve feet from his back were satisfying. I keep it as a trophy; a testament to the power of my Irish red-hot tempered temperament when unleashed. It’s also still a useful cookie sheet.

On a late-winter Saturday last year, my older daughter held a crafts day in her cozy home. She had invited her entire Montessori training class of eighteen, but only two came with their mothers in tow. So, we were three mother-daughter duos sipping hot soup and munching crudités, paleo persimmon bread and peanut chicken saté. We fashioned felted wool into pincushions and topped them with small beaded wire handles. Li Shen, whose mother spoke only Mandarin, translated her mom’s words for my daughter: “Oh, your mother is so calm. She must be Montessori Teacher.” My daughter Mosa and I both laughed. I joked that I put all my yoga students to sleep with that yoga teacher voice. Li Shen said directly to me, “Oh I see you with children all around you so calm so happy.”  

While I did enjoy teaching toddlers, and still like hanging out with young-uns, I say, “You’ve got to go camping with people for at least forty-eight hours before you can judge their temperament.” 

Maybe longer!

Watch out for tempers that may throw things atcha!

Epiphany, Please

Twelfth Night

Epiphany

Boxing Day

Gifts of the Maggi

Holiday cards to respond to.

Putting Christmas away

On Solstice, did I write down everything in my seed-to-nurture-this-year that I meant to?

Quicken

Taxes

New calendars up

Putting away the old year is like tucking an octopus into bed… Tendrils and tentacles, each with its own brain, each doing a different task, will not be unified and cooperate with my agenda. I keep finding bobbles and goo gaws hiding in decorative clusters on mantle and bathroom counters.

Why did I put it all up and out? For what purpose? 

The grandie fondled and played with every one of the table decorations I nestled into fresh juniper… the angel and choir-boy candles I used to marvel at on my grandmother’s table… sigh… that’s worth it, right? And I love the smell of fresh greens as I vacuum them up where they’ve fallen to the floor.

But now…

What do I do with the old calendar’s pretty nature photos? Toss or use for wrapping paper?

What do I do about found tissue wrappings lurking under couches from the grandie’s gift-opening spree on Capitalism Day? Recycling bin or fold and re-use?

How many boxes shall I save? There’s that really pretty gold-foil one that has a hinged lid… I’ll save that.

The rest of the detritus and hype go into the rubbish bin. 

Mercifully, every year gets easier and lower key. (Soon we’ll be in the bass register!)

My Grandmother Florence Stern started paring away all the madness in 1973 when she issued an edict stating that in this family we believe no one over the age of eighteen years is wanting for anything and that only the kiddies get gifties. We’ve (mostly) held true to that idea over the intervening forty-five years. Our daughters have had to remind us on occasion not to buy them stuff, but they don’t seem to mind the essential pouch of beautiful stationery hand-crafted of decoupaged flowers by their childhood dance-teacher Karen Fox. So that’s a given.

My oldest friend - meaning we’ve known one another since we were three - sends a box in the mail to me several times a year. Retail therapy is her sane-maker. Jewish Women’s Thrift Council Stores and Saint Anne’s are her go-to shops when the going gets tough. I no longer have wall space for the darling story-book character watercolor paintings, or the lithographs and woodcuts on friendship. I have a complete set of sock monkey dolls - one for every season and occasion you might think of. There is no more room in my house for the stuff she sends. Yet, she sends it. Ah, that’s what I forgot to put away… the Christmas-Tree-Apron-wearing Sock Monkey. She sits on the chair by the fire place, her jingle bells glowing in this morning’s cloudy light.

The new-fangled year of 2018 is upon us. I had hopes that it would be an easier one to navigate than 2017, but it seems to be off to a rocket’s red glare sort of start, as Kim Jong Un and  Mr. No-Collusion-Epitome-of-Sanity-Bigger-Button-Small-Fingered-POTUS trade insults. 

I do have that old folk album with the song made famous by the Kingston Trio in the 1950s or ‘60s which I still love…

They’re rioting in Africa

They’re starving in Spain

There are hurricanes in Florida

And Texas needs rain

The whole world is festering with unhappy souls

The French hate the Germans, the Germans hate the poles…

Italians hate Yugoslavs, South Africans hate the Dutch

And I don’t like anybody very much

But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud

For man’s been endowed with a mushroom shaped cloud

And we know for certain that some lovely day

Someone will set the sparks off and we will all be blown away

They’re rioting in Africa

There’re strikes in Iran

What Nature doesn’t do to us

Will be done by our fellow man

The whole charming song has cheerful whistling after each line.

May you find some semblance of JOY in the new year. May 2018 be kind to you and good for the planet.

Amen. Ah, woman.