If Only

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments

If only what was said could be taken back, I could sleep at night.  Completely taken back as if the words were never uttered, never broke the barrier between thought and vocalization.  If only.

Julien May 29, 2022

If only what was done could be undone, I could move forward.  Completely undone as if the deed never provoked an outcome, a clean slate.  If only.

If only the thought could be lost before it sullied my heart.  Forgotten before it was acknowledged, never to leave its stain of discord on my psyche. If only.

If only, I could be a vehicle for harmony and peace.  Never to sow sadness or anger or criticism.  To be a nurturing soul to all I encounter.  If only.

If only, I could get to the core me, I would be perfect.   Radiating love and hope, a person of perfection in this imperfect world.  If only.

If only, I could return to the beginning.  Without scar or wound. Prejudice and temper, ego unfettered.   If only.

If only I could return to that state of grace of the newborn – one of wonder, content, suckling only love.  If only.

A Perfect Breakfast

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments

Livia had been up for hours already.  She’d done a load of clothes, unloaded the dishwasher, and had been in the garden cutting daffodils to set in a vase on the kitchen table.  Looking out the window at the sunrise it occurred to her she should be hungry. 

Mornings without Greg were difficult and she was aware she filled them with activity to keep from thinking.  But the sunrise caught her attention and she allowed herself to remember.

Photo by Edgar Castrejon on Unsplash

Sunday.  Today was Sunday.  Greg would be in the kitchen separating eggs, slicing chives, and grating gruyere.  Opening the refrigerator to get the heavy cream, he would burst into song.  Probably an aria she wasn’t familiar with.  His love of opera confounded her. 

Continue reading →

WWLD?

/ wvfurandroot / 1 Comment

I really, really dislike unkindness in any form.  This includes being rude, crass, thoughtless, and self-centered. 

Years ago now, I had an online friend who went by the name Ygg, short for Yggdrasil, the sacred tree of Norse mythology.  Norse mythology aside, she was Goth.  She might have invented Goth.  Lots of black lipstick, black corsets, black crinolines, and a splendid black cape.  She was married to a heavy metal musician who did IT stuff in his spare time.  Both of them are certified geniuses on the IQ scale, good looking, extremely talented, and scary smart.  I used to joke that if they ever had a child, it would be the Messiah. 

Photo by Dayne Topkin on Unsplash

We were both members of an online fan group for the author Tom Robbins.  People who like Tom Robbins enough to go looking for a fan club know how odd the members are likely to be.  Ygg’s oddness didn’t faze me in the least.

What did faze me that time we ran around D.C. together was Ygg’s sheer kindness.  She was unfailingly polite, the consummate hostess, thoughtful, and well-intentioned to everyone she encountered from the bus driver to her husband.

I didn’t equate Goth and heavy metal with kindness.  It kind of floored me.  That’s when I made a conscious decision to try and be more kind.

Continue reading →

The Great Beet Adventure of 1981

/ wvfurandroot / Leave a comment

Don’t even think about feeding me a beet.  It’s not going to happen. 

Tom Robbins is a favorite author of mine. Tom thought highly of beets.  Let me just quote him for a moment:

The beet is the most intense of vegetables. The radish, admittedly, is more feverish, but the fire of the radish is a cold fire, the fire of discontent not of passion. Tomatoes are lusty enough, yet there runs through tomatoes an undercurrent of frivolity. Beets are deadly serious.

Slavic peoples get their physical characteristics from potatoes, their smoldering inquietude from radishes, their seriousness from beets.

The beet is the melancholy vegetable, the one most willing to suffer. You can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip…

Jitterbug Perfume, Tom Robbins

Yes, Tom thought highly of beets. 

Photo by Monika Grabkowska on Unsplash

So did my father, I think.  Although I don’t remember ever seeing him eat a beet before that fateful summer.  He may have initially planted them for my mother who liked pickled beets.  Which are, arguably, the worst of all the beets.

Continue reading →