The Reed Flute’s Song

“Language and music are possible only because we’re empty, hollow, and separated from the source. All language is a longing for home.” ~ Coleman Barks

The Reed Flute’s Song

Stay where you are

inside such a pure, hollow note. ~ Rumi

The last few years, perhaps because of Covid and the enforced isolation, each time I say good-bye when family leaves after a visit, I am filled with sadness. The scale of the sadness is in direct proportion to the joy I just shared while we were visiting. There are no words to convey the depth of my feeling. There are no words to hold all the love I wish to pour onto my loved ones. Although I have just spent a wonderful afternoon or evening with my children, or siblings, or cousins, I immediately long for more time with them once the door is closed and they are on their way. Is this even close to the longing Rumi is expressing?

Spring Equinox

internet photo of a Hawthorn tree
Today I am sharing from Sharlyn HiDalgo's "The Healing Power of Trees."  In her book March 21 - April 17 is Hawthorn Month Here is a sample of what she says: "Despite the jubilant celebration of spring's arrival, this month is a time to quiet oneself and go within. refers to personal sovereignty in which we reclaim our personal power and pay attention to our own inner life.  Fasting, ritual cleansing, and refraining from one's usual habits and patterns is encouraged.  We may want to seek retreat and silence in order to reconnect with the divine and the unseen worlds."  How timely!! 

Wedding Feast Preparations

polish plate(internet photo)
Women gather in the kitchen
lots of chatter as they greet and hug.
Cousins giggle and dart underfoot
before they’re put in place with a firm tug.

Baba dusts off aprons, Aunty sharpens knives.
Mama orchestrates a sizzling bacon two-step, crisp and precise.
It’s like a kitchen polka where busy hands mince and chop,
links of kielbasa fall in unison, all the perfect size.

Pickled rich with dill and garlic
cellar jars of ogorki-kisome they bring;
use only those smaller than a finger
for a tiny, green appetizer zinger.

Sour cabbage mellows, rolls just right,
“pigs in a blanket” tradition wrapped up tight,
timed to explode flavour with the first bite.

Holubsti! Holubsti! children lick their lips,
women grease the pans. They sculpt savoury treats
to fill colourful plates for the feast.

Baba’s stories bake deep in the oven
Aunty prods, she pokes and tastes.
Mama’s laughter bubbles high,
she makes sure nothing goes to waste.

The table is set with fine china,
crystal rainbows arc cloth from a loom.
Steaming recipes from the old country
piggyback newlywed wishes into the room.