The Furious Spinner

The clouds are lifting from the gorge. Snow dusts the tops of the trees and bunches up in crevices like discarded blankies. Rain splashes the window I am looking through, and the wind shakes the rhododendron bush that presses itself against the house. Still, the light is too bright, so I close the shades.

It has rained for days. I feel cottony. Covered in quilts. I'm in my organic cotton pajamas. I wear them like everyday clothes. Why not? Earlier, I jumped in the car with Mario (in my pjs), and we drove the short distance down to Rock Creek. The coffee-with-milk colored river was jumping, splashing, coursing over its banks. It was lower than it had been three days ago, though. We were perplexed by this, since it has been raining for days. It has also gotten colder, so it's possible the rain has turned to snow in the higher elevations: thus lessening the flooding.

We don't really know. A week ago our rivers were perilously low. Now they're in that trance dance called the flood. You can hear the sighs of relief up and down the gorge.

This morning, I awakened at 6:30 to the sound of the wind and rain. The entire house felt like a giant cocoon. I went downstairs and meditated for a bit. After ,I put a load of laundry in the washer. Then I made breakfast, something I usually do much later on Tuesdays mornings. Mario had made tofu strips last night.

(Cut a brick of tofu into 1/4 inch to 1/2 slices. Put a tablespoon or more of olive oil in a lasagne-sized pyrex dish. Add cumin, marjoram, and basil to taste—about a teaspoon each. Then drop in between a teaspoon and tablespoon of soy sauce. Mix it all together and move the mixture around to cover the bottom. Make certain both sides of the tofu slices get covered with the oil and herbs as you puzzle them into the pan. Bake at 350 for 30-40 minutes, depending upon how you like them.)

I put a few slices of the tofu in the toaster oven to heat up, along with rye toast. As I sliced up shitake mushrooms, I thought of all the times I had walked in the woods with my friends while they hunted mushrooms. I never took any home with me; I just liked being in the woods. They all thought I was crazy for not eating the mushrooms even though they all had tales of getting sick from one that turned out not to be quite what they thought it was. After I finished chopping the ‘shrooms, I went out the front door and pinched up the top of a sprig of rosemary. Back at the bamboo cutting board, I cut the rosemary into tiny pieces. Then I put olive oil in a skillet, heated it, dropped the rosemary in and stirred it around a bit, and then I added the mushrooms. I asked for their healing and nourishment as I watched the mushrooms turn dark, small, and wet.

I cracked four eggs into a pea green glass bowl. I whipped them with a fork. I thought of all the breakfasts I had had in my grandma's kitchen when I was a girl. I ate eggs I had collected from the chicken coop. For some reason this morning, I also thought of the horses who would sometimes escape the pastures after my grandfather died. We'd get the call and Dad would drive us the mile to Grandma's house, and we would run through the countryside looking for a herd of horses. Once we found them, my dad (and an uncle or two) would herd them toward us (me and a sister or cousin) and then we would have to keep them from going past us, make them turn toward home just by our presence—by the mere fact of our bodies. My heart thumped in my chest, my stomach churned, but I stayed my ground as the herd galloped toward me. They looked determined, they looked terrified, and I held up my arms. And somehow, for some reason, they turned.

I poured the sun yellow liquid of eggs into the shitakes mixture. I asked them for their healing, too. Eggs are "contracted" food. All the energy of the bird is supposedly held in that shell, so if you have "contracted" symptoms, yang symptoms, some say you shouldn't eat eggs. But I have too contracted and too expansive symptoms. I have to eat something. So this morning I am eating these eggs.

I put garlic and oil on the rye toast and then scooped half of the egg mixture onto my plate. I sat at the kitchen table looking out the window at my rosemary bush. Now that I've taken down the fence, the cats have decided the garden is a new hangout, which I wouldn't mind if that was all they were doing. However, with the fence down, I get an unobstructed view of the garden, which currently consists of the rosemary and lavender bushes. I've had this rosemary bush for about thirteen years. I grew it from a start that was 2-4 inches tall. Every time I moved, I dug this rosemary bush up and took it with me. I'd replant it, give it some rescue remedy, and hope for the best. It is a Mediterranean plant, so it was happier east of the Cascades, but it has down well here, too. It is nearly my height (five feet tall), and it spreads out to probably about six feet wide. Right now it is blooming. Small lavender-colored flowers decorate the branches. As I ate my breakfast, I watched it sway in the wind. Behind it stood the small blue house, which provided a colorful backdrop to the green (and now lavender) herb. Beyond the house, the sky was dark gray. A seagull flew overhead. Blossoms from the cherry tree floated near the rosemary, like tiny surfboards trying to catch a breeze or wave or raindrop.

Now it is time for me to go to work. The laundry is almost all dry. My father made me a beautiful quilt for my birthday. It is drying now. I may go get it and curl up on the couch. Just rest my eyes for a moment before I really start the day.

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All photographs and written material copyright © 2003-2008 by Kim Antieau unless otherwise indicated. May not be used without permission.