Chocolat!

I have had a love/hate relationship with chocolate all my life. It is my passion, my addiction, and my doom. My mouth, mind, heart, and soul worship at the chocolate altar. Conversely, my body rejects it full out. Inflamed joints, headaches, digestive problems and initial hyperactivity which then gives way to dysphoria – these are the gifts with which chocolate rewards me for my homage. It is not a compatible substance for my physical being. I suspect that the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil that is said to have gotten Adam and Eve in so much trouble was probably hung with cocoa beans instead of apples… irresistible, but with disenchanting after effects, to say the least. That, in a cocoa bean shell, is the definition of chocolate and me.

Today I found a small nugget of Dove milk chocolate lurking near the bottom of my backpack. I had picked it up from the candy dish in a friend’s office, and then miraculously forgotten about it. Finding it was like discovering a chest full of gold doubloons. Here was this tiny, 1½ inch x ¾ inch rectangle of delight in a deep royal blue and gold foil wrapper, sitting there waiting to be discovered. It was just there among my books and backpack minutiae – enticing me – calling alluringly, “I won’t hurt you. I’m so small. Savor me. Melt me on your tongue. Relish my sensual richness. You know you want me.” It was such a tiny indulgence – and I immediately convinced myself it was not enough to really cause any trouble. Just an infant piece of chocolate. Innocent. There was no other choice but to yield to its pleadings.

The thought immediately came to me; “I will eat this mindfully. I will fully explore the experience of this tiny miracle I have been given. Being mindful will make it okay. This will truly bring a moment of enlightenment for me.”

I set the stage for my experience with classical music so that the lilting tones of Mozart or Chopin would enrich my mindful state, and a fountain on my headboard added the bubbling sound of water over rocks. I placed my body in a semi lotus position in the middle of the quilt covering my waterbed. How Zen of me. I cleansed my palate with a drink of cool clear filtered water, then began to examine my treasure. The shiny wrapper gleamed in my hand, and I listened attentively to the crackle of the foil as I gingerly unwrapped the ends. Immediately, the wonderful aroma began drifting up to me. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. “Ahhh.” Joanne Harris’ book came to my mind. "Chocolat." Speaking French, I realized, was just another meaningful part of this transformational experience. "Chocolat."

Always being one to follow instructions, I tore where the wrapper said, “tear here.” It parted easily and I once again inhaled the fragrance of my obsession. Then I thought, “How should I best indulge myself? Should I bite it in two pieces, giving the illusion of increased quantity?” I quickly decided that it would be more mindful to luxuriate in the entire bite all at once. Gently placing the morsel on my tongue, I tenderly closed my mouth around it.

The first sensation was the sweet smoothness… the deep richness of it. I ran my tongue across the rectangular bottom, defining the distinct edges, and then over the smooth rounded top. “Do not bite it.” I warned myself. “Let it melt slowly, savoring each tiny delectable drop.” The sweetness was intense, leaving an odd but pleasurable sensation in the back of my throat. “This is the way to do it. Let it melt in your mouth. You won’t even need to chew. Just let it vanish. Do not bite it!”

I bit once on the left side and twice on the right. I couldn’t control myself. I had to feel it – that exquisite sensation of teeth gliding through dense chocolate. Then I continued to let the smooth sweet confection melt down the back of my palate.

“This is the epitome of being ‘in the moment,’ ” I told myself smugly. “There is no way anyone can tell me I don’t have this mindfulness thing down-pat.” The last creamy drops of milk chocolate were meandering down the back of my tongue and sliding down my throat.

“Ahhh, Chocolat.” I repeated.

Mindfully I put on my shoes, paying attention to the way the shoe slipped onto my foot and the way the shoe strings felt under my hands. As I grabbed my car keys I fully experienced the cool metal and the jingle as they clinked gently together. I felt the soft leather of my wallet as I tucked it under my arm. The night air felt cool on my cheek, and the road was bathed in the golden glow of a full moon as I turned my car toward my destination. I wandered thoughtfully through the aisles with a renewed appreciation for the bounty that we have in our land. And as I drove away, I knowingly patted the small bag next to me on the seat. I knew in my heart that just as I had mindfully savored that single nugget of delicious chocolate just moments before, so would I be fully in the moment as I indulged in these additional 24 pieces of Dove milk chocolate nestled on the seat beside me.

Chocolat… Sweet Chocolat. Namaste. 

 LAE 2002

THE AIR IS GONE (Caution - explicit post)

The air is gone.

I was breathing it - in and out… in and out…

and then I am sitting on the edge of the stirruped table

waiting for my yearly exam to begin

in a tiny half-gown only big enough for a child

the tissue-thin paper shredding as I try in vain

to cover my large adult nakedness…

sitting alone

waiting…

knowing in my head that I am safe

that I am choosing this wait

knowing in my head that I am not waiting for "him"

but the panic doesn't understand anything

except that I am naked

and waiting

and suddenly

there is no adult in the room,

but instead, a trembling 9 year old

struggling to cover her bare body…

waiting for the horror she knows is coming

the horror that has happened before…

and before…

and before…

and I cannot breath because

the air is gone. 

LAE  5/28/15

 

PEEPERS

It was 20 years ago... a blustery spring in Tempe, AZ, and I suppose it was inevitable that at least one baby pigeon would be blown from its date palm nest high above our yard.  I found a baby, called someone who called someone, and the bird was safely delivered to a wildlife  "nursery."  But when a second baby fell from the same nest a few windy days later, the nursery was full, so I decided to try and save it myself.  I knew nothing about baby pigeons, but with the advise of an experienced friend, the adventure began.

You know all those pictures with the tiny adorable baby birds holding their little beaks wide open while mommy drops in a worm?  Simple, right?  Well, first of all, baby pigeons start out big and bald and not very adorable.  Secondly, baby pigeons don't open their mouths to receive food... they stick their little beaks inside momma's big beak and slurp the food out like a straw.  So here I was with this strange looking creature, chirping frantically for food, and me not knowing how to feed it.   Then I had an idea.  Why not take a sports bottle, make the hole in the cap a little bigger, and fill the bottle with thin oatmeal?  I had to take little "Peepers" (named for his incessant "peep, peep, peeping") and force his beak inside the cap of the bottle, and naturally, he fought me at first.  But eventually we noted less of the gooey oatmeal on his chest, which meant some was actually going inside Peepers' little pigeon stomach.  This was also evidenced by the multiple biological "gifts" that Peepers left in his box.  (If you live anywhere near where pigeons hang out, you know that irregularity is never an issue for them.)  The process of feeding our new baby was eventually mastered, and not only did I learn about pigeon nutrition, but I also learned that oatmeal, when hardened, has cement-like qualities and can only be removed with a jack-hammer.

Although I am a great animal lover, I had blindly accepted the stereotype that pigeons were dirty, stupid creatures who spent their time depositing another cement-like substance on my car and driveway.  But raising Peepers gave me a whole new perspective on the Columba livia  (Domestic Pigeon or Rock Dove).   Pigeons are actually very user friendly birds.  This little guy grew very quickly and adapted to our household as if he were one of the family.  We had a large guinea pig cage that served as his "nest," but when we were home he spent most of his time on a newspaper covered table in the living room.  He would waddle around and check out the world, waiting for us to wrap him in a towel and hold him for his feeding.  Then he would eat, a process which involved coating himself inside and out with soggy oats.  Periodic soaks in the bathroom sink were necessary to prevent his body from a potentially life-threatening encasement of dried oatmeal, but he really didn't seem to mind his bath-time. Eventually my bird-lover friend suggested we switch

his "gruel" to mashed up graham crackers and milk, which didn't have the concrete qualities of oatmeal and which Peepers consumed with relish. The young bird grew cuter as gray fuzz began to develop, and slowly, actual feathers started to form.  He would sit on the table and peep away, sometimes looking out the window, or watching "Star Trek" with the family.   It was an interesting phenomenon, since our household also included three cats and a 90 pound Golden Retriever/St. Bernard.  What a picture it made to see Canine and Avis, almost muzzle to beak, with only curiosity flowing between them.  The cats had to be watched more closely, but after a time, Peepers became just another family member.

Eventually we were able to wean our baby bird from the bottle and switch to plain graham crackers.  Next came bread and small bird seed, and then almost anything at all could be used to satisfy the voracious appetite of this little beastie.  His feathers filled in, and except for a small glob of dried oatmeal permanently attached to his forehead, Peepers looked like any other normal (although somewhat overfed) teenage Domestic Pigeon.

Finally the time came when we knew Peepers' days in the house were over... because he was old enough to fly.  But how were we to teach this chunky fledgling to take to the air? We set him in the grass to accustom him to the outside, and as long as we stayed with him, his world was a happy place.  But if we tried to go inside for a moment, he would peep piteously and waddle along behind us into the house like a puppy dog.  We tried placing him on a low tree limb, but he just sat there and peeped pathetically until we rescued him. What could we do to restore him to his natural environment?

Peepers and Mother Nature solved the problem for us.  Maybe he was a little older than the other teenage pigeons when he got this "flyer's license," but he did eventually take off on his own.  He definitely knew where home was, and would always come back to the house and return to his cage or his place on the table.  Our older house had windows down to the floor by the front door, so we would look out and see a fat little pigeon standing on the welcome mat, waiting impatiently for us to "welcome" him home.   Other times we would hear a tiny rapping noise at the door and there would stand Peepers, who had actually figured out how to "knock!!"

Even domestic pigeons are intended to be "wild" birds, so we knew that eventually Peepers would have to leave home.  The process began with a plastic potato bin nailed to one of the eves of our house near the front door.  It was located in view of the living room window, so I could keep an eye on my youngest "child."  We lined the bin with grass and leaves, nailed it to the rafter, placed Peepers inside with some food and water available, and waited to see what would happen.  He stayed in his new home for some time, then fluttered down to the welcome mat.  Of course we opened the door... this was Peepers, our  “oatmeal-headed”  son and brother!  We visited for a bit and then put him back in his nest.  He perched on the edge of his bin, took off for a brief flight around the neighborhood, and came back to the welcome mat.  After another visit inside, we returned him to his outside home.  This process continued through the day, but we began to make him wait longer and longer to come inside. 

The first night was rough.  I was determined to make him sleep in his new nest, but I eventually relented to his pitiful peeping and let him sleep indoors.   The next day I was even more resolute, and instead of taking Peepers inside each time he came to the door, I simply held him for a while, and then placed him back in his new abode.   I saw him eating the food I left for him and drinking from the outside water dish under the faucet, so I knew his needs were being met.  Persistent peeping made me feel like a monster, but I knew this was important... and he did finally get it.  The third night he slept in his basket in the eves (I know because I have a very powerful flashlight!) and after that he began being gone longer amounts of time and becoming more of an explorer.  Talk about empty nest syndrome!  I would fret and worry if he was gone too long, but our little "potato" would always come home to sleep in his bin.  His inside visits were reinstated once we were certain he was truly an outside creature once again.

It didn't take long for Peepers to make a new home and leave the potato bin for good.  But for many months the pigeon remained a part of our household, perching in the mulberry tree in our front yard or settling on one of the wooden crossbars on our large front window.  He would still occasionally come in for a visit, but these times came less and less often until they stopped completely.  Our boy had re-acclimated to his natural environment, and I felt that the process of hand-raising a wild bird had been successfully completed.

I never imagined that I would have a close personal relationship with a pigeon.  I especially never imagined that I would adopt one into my family.  But when I'm gone and the lawyer reads my "Last Will and Testament," a small codicil will be found, bequeathing a living room table, a plastic potato bin, and a 100 boxes of Nabisco Honey Grahams to a beloved pigeon named Peepers.  The lawyer will be able to find him by the small glob of fossilized oatmeal on his forehead.