Salt

I can't tell if the crunchy stuff in my salad is salt or dirt.  I didn't rinse the greens from the farmers market because I assumed they were already clean, but I'm thinking now that I was very wrong about that, and now I'm sure that I should watch my salad very closely as I eat it because there is a good chance I'll end up eating a bug if I don't.  You should always look at your food while you're eating it.  I've seen lots of half-eaten bugs in my time as a waitress in a farm-to-table restaurant and I'm sure it's something I don't want to experience.

I'm memorizing a poem as a part of the Writing Workshop I'm currently teaching (despite my lack of qualifications).  The poem is The Happiest Day, by Linda Pastan.  I'll attempt to rewrite it here from memory, right now.

It was early May, I think
A moment of lilac or dogwood
when so many promises are made it hardly matters if a few are broken.
My mother and father still hovered in the background, part of the scenery,
like the houses I grew up in.
And if they would be torn down
that was something I knew but didn't believe.
Our children were asleep or playing,
the youngest as new
as the new smell of lilacs.
And how could I have guessed their roots were shallow
and would be easily transplanted.
I didn't even guess that I was happy.
The small irritations that are like salt on melon
were what I dwelt on,
though in truth they only made the fruit taste sweeter.
So we sat on the porch in the cool morning, sipping hot coffee
behind the news of the day --
strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere--
I could see the top of your dark head
and thought not of public conflagrations,
but of how it might feel on my bare shoulder.

If someone could stop the camera then.
If someone could just stop the camera and ask me,
Are you happy?
Perhaps I would have noticed the way
the morning sun shown in the reflected color of lilac.
Yes, I might have said,
and offered a steaming cup of coffee.

(Linda Pastan)

So, I almost have it.  I cheated a little.  I'll practice again tomorrow.

There are many lines I love in this poem, but one in particular has been speaking to me recently: The small irritations that are like salt on melon were what I dwelt on, though in truth they only made the fruit taste sweeter. I am becoming more and more aware of myself looking at the small irritations and taking them so very personally.  I've noticed how I notice them, and how they become focal points for my life -- ways to dissect and analyze relationships, or push away, deny, dislike, expect more, etc.  Without too much analysis, let's just say, I notice this line, and I notice that I'm noticing it for a reason.

My blog is looking strange right now, which worries me.  It's says things like 'eggs os' where it used to say Endings & Beginnings.  This makes me nervous because it makes me think I've been hacked again.  We'll see soon enough. I've already found the sweetness from that salted fruit, but if I'm meant to taste it again, so be it.

Also, I'm on Facebook again, so.