Turning on the faucet
I know I am washing the dishes.
I am grateful for the warm water
and I feel love for the abundant Earth.
I feel the warm food in my belly
and remember the smell
of love and blessed food
I was so lucky to cook with.
The soap in my hands,
I pick up the garlic press
that brings flavor to my plate
and lovingly squishes the crap out of the little cloves of garlic.
This tool makes my life so much easier;
as I breathe I meditate:
breathing in, I wash this with gratitude,
breathing out, I wash this with love.
May all that is cooked with this
love infused garlic press
serve to nourish and inspire
those who are lucky enough to consume it.
The knife in my hand, I marvel at its
dangerous beauty. So sharp and strong,
skilled at both dividing and uniting,
food gets it texture from the preparations it makes.
I recently experienced a life with dull knives.
For the last three months, none of the roommates at Calle Baeza 7
wanted to pay the price or trip to the local Chino
where the knives only cost 3 or 4 Euros.
Oh, cutting board, you glorious beautiful tree
that still is just as sturdy and dependable
as you were out in the wild, always there
to support those who depend on your branches.
Skillet! You’re the best and most seasoned yet
of this Spanish kitchen.
Lord knows how many huevos, ajos, jamon
and hours of loving work you’ve seen.
You know, there’s this man who lives above us
I always hear him singing while he cooks.
His window looks out into the same air shaft
as my own kitchen window.
I like to imagine him cheerfully and lovingly
preparing dinner with all the care in the world,
infusing precious nourishment with the best
and most glorious ingredients for the family he loves.
I like to share his warm homey vibes
and imagine the happy little family
I will someday have.
I will sing and dance and nourish and love.
Just like this useful little wooden spatula
that I use as an extension of my hand,
messenger of the heart who imbues the truest
and deepest love I have for the people it serves.
As I wash the final dish, somewhat hurriedly,
I suddenly stop rushing and feel
the clean, smooth, circular form between my fingers
reminding me of the path I’m on, the one we all share.
Why not take every circle in the kitchen, every circle in the home,
as an opportunity to recognize the perfect
balance that exists at all times and
of which we never cease to be a part.
Although a Buddhist would point out the circle of Samsara
is escapable by the path to enlightenment…
I say that “never” and “always”
interare and that words are only symbols.
How can the purest truth, that which existed
before humans and the words we made up,
be described by a language we invented?
The ultimate truth is felt, not said.
We can (only) feel and hear and smell and taste
and SEE that glorious truth in every new present moment.
It surrounds us at all times but
the truth can not be described.
What do you think?