June 3, 2012

You can tell it's going to be hot today, the cicadas are already singing, birds have begun the trek to the water bowl, and the sun is rapidly burning away the thin veil of white over the deep blue.  There have been several quarrels in the yard already, mockingbird against cat, blue jay against cardinal, and, sort of by accident, dog versus cat, the cat fleeing as soon as a quartet of unleashed dogs rounded the corner.  First time in awhile I have see so many dogs running loose together, two large retriever types and two smaller terrier types, just trotting together down the road.  I'm sure the cat thought they were after him but they seemed unconcerned with anything but moving off at a good pace.  I'm surprised the fat squirrel did not hiss at the cat but it seemed to be more interested in taking a nap in the  thin branches of the crepe myrtle.  We have several squirrels that seem to consider this yard a home base, two fat ones that always seem to be arguing over something and several smaller skinnier ones.  The sleeping squirrel is one of the fat ones, who if the blue jay notice him, will find his nap cut short.  The blue jays seem to take great delight in harassing the squirrels.

It's Sunday and the day for the blessing . . .

On Being Called to Prayer
While Cooking Dinner for Forty

When the heavens and the earth
are snapped away like a painted shade,
and every creature called to account,
please forgive me my head
full of chickpeas, garlic and parsley.
I am in love with the lemon
on the counter, and the warmth
of my brother’s shoulder distracted me
when we stood to pray.
The imam takes us over
for the first prostration,
but I keep one ear cocked
for the cry of the kitchen timer,
thrilled to realize today’s cornbread
might become tomorrow’s stuffing.
This thrift may buy me ten warm minutes
in bed tomorrow, before the singer
climbs the minaret in the dark
to wake me again to the work
of thought, word, deed. 
I have so little time to finish;
only I know how to turn the dish, so the first taste
makes my brother’s eyes open wide--
forgive me, this pleasure
seems more urgent than the prayer--
too late to take refuge in You
from the inextricable mischief
of every thing You made,
eggs, milk, cinnamon, kisses, sleep.

Patrick Donnelly

This poem tickles me because of the way it blames God for distracting us from prayer by all the "inextricable mischief" in creation.  Here the poem imagines the daily work of cooking is a kind of prayer, as are the thoughts that flow from those tasks, and those tasks are themselves a kind of prayer, to nourish and bring pleasure to those that you love, to do the work of the world keeping in mind that it was all made for us to enjoy, to share with others.  The formal prayer of the day yields before the kitchen timer, and the stuffing, and the wish to make things to create an everyday joy.  You know, I think there is a place for formal prayer, and ritual, and that there is also a place for the daily prayer of work and joy, and sharing that joy with those you love.  So, today, while not making dinner for forty, I will go to the market so I can make dinner for us, bring pleasure to the close of the day, be grateful for the opportunity to show love and to share all the 'inextricable mischief" of this world!