Saturday Morning

The storybook ideal of fall: A neighborhood of large, old stone houses and vividly colored trees. All around a maple, the ground is carpeted with orange and red, and the sun slants through the tree's remaining leaves.

Late October

Cold air, dark blue sky. Stillness and the chirping and twittering of night things.

Last Light

Just before the sun sets, it bursts across the tops of things. Then the autumn trees look like Tiffany lamps, mosaics of green and gold and crimson.

Fall Fruit

A friend posts to Facebook about eating pomegranates. I consider how far I am from the pomegranates that grew in my backyard and think of all the crisp-tart apples I picked last weekend.

Glow

A string of white lights in a glass jar, like a hundred fireflies on a summer evening.

Haunt

A chill October night. A one room schoolhouse in the middle of a graveyard: Candles flicker across walls, pumpkins, dried corn stalks. The smell of hot cider. Ghost stories.

The Brain and the Heart

Why is the language of the brain so much easier to understand than the language of the heart? The brain has an unfair advantage, of course--it speaks in words, in concrete images. The languages we use every day to engage with other people. The brain stores information, and it warns us to stay out of traffic, or keeps us from putting our hands down on hot stoves. Its practical value makes the brain cocky. It believes its own hype and so do we. If it's wise enough to tell us that we shouldn't burn our hands, surely it should be listened to in all other situations, right?

But keeping our hands away from flames isn't wisdom. It's only common sense. Despite its clear, blunt communication tactics; its loud voice; its brute strength; its stash of facts, the brain is often misguided. It panics, it jumps forward and backward in time. It's afraid of pain. It's afraid of what other people will think. It's afraid, ironically, of making wrong decisions. 

It's afraid of the wrong things. And mine resents me for even writing that.

My heart knows better. My heart, after all, knows what's in my heart. And my heart's signals are as clear as my brain's, but they take different forms and I'm less practiced at reading them. There are physical signs when my heart knows a decision is wrong--crying I can't control, nausea, pain or coldness, awful electric shocks of anxiety at the very idea of settling on a particular decision. Or more subtle discomforts. Just...a feeling that something isn't right.

And you would think it'd be easy to pay attention. If something feels bad, why would I want to do it? But if the right decision might cause extraordinary pain, my brain is all in favor of living with my heart's discomfort, and it mounts the most amazing arguments in favor of a bad decision. In favor of ignoring my heart. And any time my heart is conflicted, my brain leaps in to fill the gap, to "take care of" things. And it's loud, it's a bully--it drowns out my heart as much as it can; it tells my heart it's naive or foolish or cowardly. And so my heart is often beaten down by my brain.

But ignoring my heart isn't wisdom. It's not even, it turns out, common sense. It always, always ends up being tremendously painful, in a way that's much harder to recover from than the pain of missing out on something potentially great, or the pain of necessary loss, or whatever other clean, pure pain the brain is trying to avoid.

So how to learn? How to learn to quiet my brain so I can listen to my heart or give it time to reach a decision? How to learn to calm the brain's fears, to comfort it enough that it's willing to work together with my heart? 

How to keep myself whole?

•spinach squares•

My mom used to make these squares for parties, and it was impossible to eat just one. Happy American Independence Day! We've been quiet, but we're still here. xox

SPINACH SQUARES OF THE GODS

2 T butter
3 eggs
1 C milk
1 C flour
1/2 tsp table salt (reduce)
1/2 tsp seasoned salt
1/2 tsp baking powder
2 10-ounce packages of frozen chopped spinach, thawed and drained, or the equivalent of broccoli

• For the record, I think roughly any amount of spinach will do. I inherited a bunch of frozen chopped spinach from a massive freezer clean-out (why does this always happen to me, Amy?), and have been draining it in preparation. I'm about to squash all the moisture out of it, using a colander and my brawn.

1 lb half sharp cheddar, half monterey jack cheese, grated
1/4 chopped onion

Preheat oven to 350, melt butter in huge glass baking pan (9 by 17 inches is what the recipe says, but who has that?). Beat eggs, add milk, flour, salt, baking powder. Mix well. Stir in spinach, cheese, onion. Bake 35 minutes, remove. Let cool 45 minutes. Cut into 90 (ninety!!!) small squares, or larger if serving for a main dish. These things freeze well, and thaw easy for last-minute meals and unexpected guests.

• candy •

Penn is rummaging around for piece of candy. "Mommy, look: a dumpling! I want to save it." He made off with a chocolate umbrella and a dum-dum pop. The peep remains. xox

Forsythia

One spring, when I was in high school, a friend taught me the Korean word for forsythia. I didn't know what it was called in English, so I couldn't tell her, and for quite a while after that, I only knew the Korean word for it.

I don't remember when I learned the word "forsythia," or when the Korean word or my friend's name fell from my memory. But every spring, I see the yellow blossoms and I think of her.