Spring
Bird songs
Bougainvillea wall climbing
Essence of orange
Peach blossoms
Beauty
Joy


Fascinated since childhood by the lands surrounding the Mediterranean Sea, I accidentally discovered this book when I had to go to a new LA County library because the one near me is closed for renovations. The book describes in detail the life of Mohammed and the controversy that ensued after his death as to who should be in charge. This dispute ultimately caused the division into Sunni and Shia which continues today. It also covers other less well known groups such as Ismailis, a missionary sect of Shia Islam, and Sufiis, Muslim mystics.
I found the book extremely informative in describing how a small group of Arabs managed to conquer most of the land south of the Mediterranean and the lands to the east and eventually convert Central Asia and a substantial portion of West Africa. It also details the reign of many of the more famous caliphs, wars among various Muslim ruling families, and the building of Alhambra. While most of Europe was still feudal and in the Dark Ages, many Muslim cities such as Cairo and Damascus were centers of scientific research and learning as well as the arts and literature. Unlike what many continue to believe, Muslim women often held jobs and sometimes positions of considerable power and had legal guarantees to property and inheritance when women in Europe did not.

There is nothing like meeting a goal while enjoying it to bring a sense of delight as well as accomplishment. I walk daily–today I arrived at day 707 without ever missing a day–looking at the flowers, visiting with all the other walkers. I live in a walking neighborhood with friendly walkers who at a minimum wave. Some stop to chat and some check on me if they have not seen me out walking in a while because of the different routes we take or different times we walk. One particular person who checks on me taught me how to make some of her native food–India. Another lady several blocks away prefers to walk with others, not alone, so if she sees me out, we join together in the company of her little dog, June, whom I have never seen actually walking. June rides in a baby carriage.
Now, as I write this, I’m enjoying another late afternoon of delight in my backyard. The hibiscus is full of ruby flowers. Freeway daisies, bright white and purple, pop up everywhere. Four different colors of bougainvillea sport their joy. One nasturtium–they are popping in places I never even planted–is sporting the same color of ruby as the hibiscus. The lemon tree is full of almost ripe lemons some of which I have promised to friends and neighbors. One woman cannot eat all these lemons. Meanwhile, I listen to different birds singing their varied songs and to the gurgle of the water fountain by the Nile Blue French doors and watch the hummingbird who is watching me.
I feel grateful to be surrounded in beauty and quiet joy.

As I mentioned in a previous post, his books on delights were mentioned to me by two different people in two totally different settings so I decided to stay sane in all the seriousness of my life, reading something lighter might be a good thing to do. I guess I was thinking delights like flowers, food, etc. but this is more like a series of short essays about life all written in the span of one year–his gardening, experiences strolling around his neighborhood and favorite coffee shops, food, his parents, his wife, some personal history, his experience as a college professor, children. However, he also addresses serious issues–his meeting a homeless veteran just out from a stint in a mental facility and how he was compelled to help out after first driving off, racism he has experienced, his issues with the government and social media, family death, and life in general. And above all, what it means to him to identify as a poet.

As a person who works with high school students mostly non-white, many of whom have family members who are undocumented, I worry and need to find daily delights to stay sane. I decided to make a list of some of the past week’s delights:
-afternoons 70 degrees, sunny, no wind
-hummingbirds sipping nectar from both flowers and the two feeders
-singing a song the lyrics of which come from a poem by Langston Hughes where he dreams a world with no racism
-sitting on the back patio, listening to birdsong while I read a book about delights
-learning that all the rains have eliminated drought in California
-appreciating all the colors of the flowers blooming in my yard

Another intriguing novel by an author who has won both the Pulitzer and the National Book Award. Initially the four main characters do not seem to have any interactions with each other. 12 year old Evie’s life is changed forever when her father, the inventor of the first aqualung, makes her submerge in a pool to prove it works. She becomes one of the world’s most famous divers and oceanographers. Ina, an artist, grew up in US naval bases all over the South Pacific and eventually finds herself at a university in Illinois. Rafi, a genius black child, is pushed by his dad to apply to a private Jesuit high school where he meets Todd, a rich kid whose whose family provides scholarships to the school. The two become best friends in spite of different interests. Rafi loves literature and Todd loves computers. They bond over a thousands of years old Chinese game with which they become obsessed. They become roommates at the same university where Ina is a student. The three become best friends.
Decades later all these lives become intertwined on an island in the South Pacific–Makatea in French Polynesia, an island where the harvesting of giant phosphorus deposits nearly ruined it while furnishing the rest of the world with fuel to make planets grows faster and better and feed the world. Because of Evie’s obsession with the sea, I learned enormous amounts about the ocean and the varied animals that live there, some of which I had never heard of before. Because of Todd’s obsession with computers and his invention of an AI game, I learned a lot about how gaming works and how people become addicted. For Rafi, the agony and anger of often being the one left out, the one seen as the smart Black kid, and the only one in many circumstances affect how he views the world and himself and where life eventually takes him. From his character I learned new things about literature and how books and writing affect people and their relationships.
I could not stop reading this book. Years ago, when it first came out, I read the author’s novel, “The Overstay”. While the topics and characters are totally different, in some ways this novel reminded me of that story, of how our lives are often intertwined in all sorts of ways we never expected.

Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto, a country boy who grew up in a remote, rainy, forested area in southern Chile, an area called Araucania, an indigenous name, became Pablo Neruda, a name he created so he could publish poetry without his father’s knowledge. His father and mother, who died less than a month after his birth, originally came from the wine country of central Chile. His father became a conductor for a ballast train in this southern region. His descriptions of his childhood are of a shy boy who loved nature in all its forms and books. Later, he wrote letters to girls for his friends. Yet, he says he wrote his first poem when he had barely learned to read. Overcome with emotion, he wrote a poem to his stepmother, the only mother he knew. When he showed it to his father, his father asked to know what he had copied it from.
Later, he moves to Santiago to attend university, always poor, always wearing black, always carrying books. He joins a Student Federation and becomes acquainted with other young poets. He writes, “I saw a refuge in poetry with the intensity of someone timid.” After he struggled paying for the printing of his first book, he wrote, “…the writer’s task…must be a personal effort for the benefit of all.”
He wins a literary prize at school, his books are popular, and he finds himself acquiring a job at a Chilean consul in Rangoon but to get there he and a friend end up in France and Portugal, then Japan, then Singapore, before finally arriving at his destination. Thus, began his life as a consul official in places all over the world, including Spain just before and at the beginning of Franco’s rise to power.
After witnessing so much poverty, so many conflicts benefiting the rich, he becomes an avid supporter of the Chilean Communist Party–a form of communism unlike what most think of when they think of communism. The communism he and his friends support includes working on behalf of the poor, the common laborer, the disenfranchised against the wealthy elite who controlled most Latin American countries during his lifetime and in many cases still do.
He states, “I want to live in a world where beings are only human with no other title but that, without worrying their heads about rules, a word, a label…I want the great majority, the only majority, everyone, to be able to speak out, read, listen, thrive…I have taken a road because I believe that road leads us all to a lasting brotherhood…an inexhaustible goodness…”
Later, he chose to live at Isla Negra, a sort of hideout especially in winter where he could write. Then he returned to Chile. He helped his friend Salvatore Allende campaign for the presidency of Chile. After Allende became president, he appointed Neruda to be ambassador to France. In 1971, Neruda won the Nobel Prize. In 1972, the US blockaded Chile and Neruda returned and completed the final edit of his memoirs. He was welcomed back with a ceremony at the National Stadium in Santiago with a huge crowd in attendance. In 1973, a military coup, supported by the US, overturned the government and assassinated Allende. Less than one month later, Neruda died. Shortly thereafter, news spread worldwide that his two houses in different parts of Chile had been ransacked and vandalized by the new government and its forces.

A garden of delights
my my new goal.
Why do I/we need
such a garden?
Sanity, yours and mine.
Genocide in Gaza, Sudan,
eastern Congo, probably
even in other places where
there’s no news.
Poverty here in the richest
nation on Earth.
Poverty my neighbor seems
shocked when I tell her.
People living in condemned
trailers, no heat, no water–
It’s freezing inside.
People surviving, barely.
Malnourished children, big
hungry eyes, staring.
A garden of delights
my new goal.
Why do I/we need
such a garden?
Masked men and some women
attacking people in the streets,
in their homes,
knocking down doors.
smashing windows.
You’d think I’m describing
Russia, Nazi Germany
but no, I’m describing
happenings in my own
county and
across the US.
A garden of delights
my new goal.
Sanity = Delights
I look out my window
purple mountains loom
in crystalline air.
Recent rains create
emerald hills,
blooming freeway daisies,
roses in my garden,
pink, sunset colors, snow.
Bougainvillea the color of blood
climbs my garden wall.
The turquoise fountain gurgles.
Photo of daughter and grandson
make me smile.
Symbols, sacred corn grace
walls and make me
remember cornfields in summer
when on a hot day
I could hear corn grow.
Three different pine trees whisper,
the Soleri bell rings in wind.
Ah, yes, I live in a garden,
a garden of delights.
And I remain sane
for at least one
more day.

Last week a writer friend commented on the notion that writers are known for wearing turtlenecks. That’s news to me even though I am a writer and I wear turtlenecks plus multiple layers. I’m cold. I’m cold at least half of the year even here in Southern California. This comment caused me to count mine. It seems I own 25 turtlenecks–white, off-white, various shades of beige and brown but none dark, several black, two red, two orange, two coral one of which one is darker than the other, two striped (one black and white, one tan and creme), deep green, two hot pink, and one sheer in shades of black and brown and creme and a sort of burgundy color. Another is a color I am not even sure how to describe which I will call pale peach. Since I’ve been the same size for decades, I am guessing some of these border on the ancient but not worn out. I never dry them in the dryer. Drying clothes in the dryer wears them out faster and changes their color.
About one-third of the way through his “Memoirs”, Pablo Neruda talks about a poet friend of his in Spain who wore turtlenecks which Neruda claims was a huge no-no at the time. What does he say poets should wear? Black from head to toe. He had been wearing black practically since birth. His mother died from tuberculosis a month after he was born. Perhaps the endless rain and endless mud he describes in the area of southern Chile where he grew up made wearing black the most practical color. Doubtless the poverty he witnessed as a young man working as a poor employee of tiny Chilean consulates in places like Ceylon (now SriLanka), Indonesia, and India did not inspire him to wear colorful clothes. Then not long after he arrives in Spain, Franco comes to power and one of his best friends, Federico Garcia Lorca is assassinated. As for me, when I am not wearing colorful clothes, I wear black, not due to rain or mud or sadness. The reason I am drawn to black mystifies me–another thing to ponder.

Not sure this qualifies as a turtleneck but it comes close.
Two days ago I drove to the local library to return “The Historian” and inquire about a book an acquaintance had recommended. The library houses a used book section at its front hall entrance. I usually only glance at it because mostly it contains books in which I have zero interest. I glanced once again. There in nonfiction I saw NERUDA painted in big, bold bright colors-blue, red, green, purple–across the top half of a book cover. Just below this was a parade of flowers marching across the middle of the cover in the same bold, bright colors. Finally, at the bottom painted in bright red on a black background in capital letters it read, “MEMOIRS.” Inside the O is printed in the same red these words,”confieso que he vivido.” I snatched it up. The little sign said 25 cents. Although I’ve read Neruda poems mostly translated into English, I had no idea he had written anything about his own life. I knew I had to read this. I knew some things about his fascinating life. I wanted to know more. I dug around in my wallet, found a quarter, and deposited in the little brown box one of the librarians had indicated.
Later at home, I read the beginning, his brief introduction, explaining there are gaps here and there. He also explains, “What the memoir writer remembers is not the same as what the poet remembers.” He goes on to explain this. I will need to contemplate this more. Then in the beginning of the first chapter, “The Country Boy”, he describes “The Chilean Forest”. It starts, “Under the volcanoes, beside the snow-capped mountains, among the huge lakes, the fragrant, the silent, the tangled Chilean forest…” What continues is a prose poem describing this forest with intense sensory detail so clear the reader can see the details, the mystery, the lushness. He ends with this poem with the words, “Anyone who hasn’t been in the Chilean forest does not know this planet. I have come out of this landscape, that mud, that silence to roam, to go singing through the world.” Reading this beginning instantly linked me to his poetry I had read, to its sensory detail, to its lyricism.
They say we are all products of the environment in which we grew up whether we like it or not. Reading this is making me view this truism in a new light.

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