Piñon - Manna from the Heavens

She was laying in her hammock in the late afternoon sun, taking a nap. A few birds were whistling. In her dream it was hailing. She could feel it hit her face and bare arms. Wiping it off, she woke up, realizing that whatever hit her was neither wet nor cold. Her eyes still closed, she could hear different sounds coming from falling, yet unidentified objects. The wind picked up and a unique, short lasting symphony of sounds was created all around her. Then the wind dissipated. It turned still again with the exception of a raven croaking. She finally opened her eyes, too curious to discover what was sent by the heavens. On her chest laid a few piñon nuts. She had forgotten about them. The last time she checked the cones where still tight shut and covered with divinely smelling pine pitch. “They must have all of a sudden ripened and opened up,” she thought. Falling on the ground they were hitting hard surfaces of metal, wood, chimes creating this music of the spheres she had just heard.

Not too long ago something similar had happened to her on a trip to the mountains. Squirrels had climbed up pine trees and thrown the cones down to the ground to pick them up and hide the stash for the coming winter. 

This thought gave her an idea. She got out of her hammock, went inside to grab a bag and started to pick the piñon nuts herself, knowing the protein value of this little nut. Also the cones require two years to mature. Not every year will the crop be so abundant. She suddenly had a feeling of déjà vu.

Pine-nut harvest has for ever been a great social time of the year, bringing people together to gather this staple for winter food. Often they would pull the cones from the trees in the early autumn before they had fully ripened and dropped.

Using poles, the men would beat the trees to get the cones to fall. One could wait for the cones to open later on, use a stone hammer or so to brake them open to collect the seeds or roast them around hot coals, turning them often, which would open them up. The other, more laborious way of collecting the pine nuts was to pick the seeds from the forest floor after the cones had dried and opened on the tree. 

Once the seeds were removed from the cones, they were roasted to then be stored in woven sacks or pits, or ground into a flour.

For the flour they were placed onto a grinding stone, the metate. They were lightly pounded with a mano until all of the shells would had cracked free the inner fruit.

The same process with the grinding stone and the mano would turn the fruit of the nut into meal or flour.

This was indeed a manna from the heavens.

Face-to-Face with Face-Book

Face what?! It is all in the wording. Face and book, Facebook.

For a long time she didn’t even know what it was. Then it slowly creeped into her peripheral vision. She knew it, but ignored it. It inched closer.  It knocked at the door. She still kept it at bay.  Her husband finally invited it in.  Hiding behind his face but peaking occasionally over his shoulder she watched how the world of the past re-entered their lives with long forgotten acquaintances and longtime-no-see friends. She felt the warmth of these reunions touching their hearts and saw the caring for each other permeate the time space continuum. The world had an appointment in their living room. She would have never imagined.

At night like with the Waltons she could read “good night, John Boy, good night… .

The lights would go out and the computer recharge.

Now her buttons got pushed. Facebook’s foot is in her door. No more hiding. The time being a hermit is passed. Timid at first, but curious to share, she starts to embrace Facebook. At the beginning the things she posts go to no man’s land. It might been because of Mercury retrograde. Her e-mails too seem to have a Wanderlust for elsewhere, but for where she needs them.

A Market - A Crossroad of the World

The drums are resonating throughout the whole market. People are  moving slowly, some rhythmically from booth to booth making their path through the dense crowd, but also admiring the crafts from artists of over a hundred countries. Fine basketry made of sisal fibers, plant needles, raffia, vetiver, beautifully woven fabrics, blown glass work, jewels, pottery, carpets, gourd carvings, just to name a few, are offered to the public’s delight; old traditions kept alive. 

It is hard to figure out in which country the market is happening. It could be anywhere, Africa, Peru, India. It doesn’t matter. One can feel the love, patience and caring put in every single piece of art. The colors are a joy to the eye and the heart. 

This time the topic is the tree of life, represented in many cultures all over the world. A few artists of the different countries come here to introduce the world to their work. They then go back teaching others how they can become a more sustainable community and improve their quality of life using their traditional crafts.

I remember having read the story about an anthropologist who invited a group of children somewhere in Africa to race against each other. He put a basket full of fresh fruits in the shadow of a tree and told them that this would be the winner’s prize. He gave the start signal. Instead of everybody racing towards the goal, the children held hand and run together, enjoying each others company. They all reached the finish line at the same time. They split the fruits in the basket under each other, savoring together every bite of it. 

The anthropologist was curious of what initiated this behavior. They replied: “ubuntu” - “How could one of us be happy while the rest of us is not?” In the Xhosa culture “ubuntu” means “I am, because we are.” (1)

How profound. I just had to remember. The idea of community is one of the building blocks of society and I could feel it today.

(1) https://2012spiritinaction.wordpress.com/2013/04/18/ubuntu-in-the-xhosa-culture-means-i-am-because-we-are/