Category Archives: contemplation

Put A Stake In It.

 

The last of the tomatoes were done.

Unlike squash, they wouldn’t have survived creeping across the garden soil; their vines required staking, this year by aluminum wire cages. Stepping into the collapsing mess of metal, I reached down and plucked the final fruit from its stem, inhaling for the last time that distinctive scent.

This season, everyone seemed to have had a stake in something.

I was a professional musician. Roughly half of my colleagues either’d had contracts with an established organization, or hoped for hire; the rest were investing in a newer venture, because it served them in familial ways.

After having taken a tally of all concerned I’d discovered that, just as my beloved would suggest, none of those involved had wanted to risk their own potential benefit by standing against anything – least of all, it seemed, any moral component in actions taken. None of them, that is, but me.

And, so, I’d been left facing my remaining options. They were few.

1.) Take whatever I could get, which would likely be a rare to never hire by the established organization’s newly created collective of contracted members;

2.) Join the new venture, which clearly served first those already attached – by either employ, or enrollment – to a local institution.

In short, both actions sidelined me. The possible motives had emerged, and none of them were attractive: a.) I was perceived as aging out? b.) I was not accepted, because I did not submit to those who sought authority over me?

The third option only became clear after I had confronted the initial two and found them both undesirable:

3.) Walk away.

Facing the reality that my net income would only be marginally affected, seeing as that generated by both options had never, in the past, even remotely covered the number of uncompensated hours, the likelihood of garnering more creative time had begun to feel more like a reward than a punishment.

And, so, the decision was actually easy.

The outcome, however, I could not have predicted.

First, there’d been the sheer relief. Had there really been that much pressure, and stress? Being locked into a work schedule, occupying weeknights and weekends, pre-determined by those outside of myself. Yes; yes, there had. The release of this weight was euphoric in its effect; I felt as if I’d just been granted an unlimited vacation!

But, secondly, I’d begun to note a silence. Nobody seemed interested in remaining in touch, even those I’d thought were friends.

My declaration of intent was never challenged, no attempts made to persuade a re-consideration, only two polite assurances of future, independent collaborations from among dozens. Stock replies, and more silence.

The stakes were just too high.

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A favorite metaphor among Biblical apologists is the fruit of the vine. Believers, so called, are to bear it; if they do not, they are cut off from the host.

I love tomatoes. I eat them, nearly every day when they are in season. But, maybe I am more like a squash, or a pumpkin. Meant to grow on another vine, close to the soil.

I’ll stake my life on that, instead.

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© 9/24/18   Ruth Ann Scanzillo.  All rights those of the author, whose story it is, and whose name appears above this line. Thank you for respecting original material, however unimportant.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Destined To Be Lost.

It was cold, again.
The chapel was often cold.
Not because of its grand hewn stone or stained glass, the height of its vaulted ceiling, or its inlaid flooring.
The chapel was cold because the door facing south was open – permitting access to the front by those unable (or, unwilling) to use the main entrance at the back of the church.
This open side door allowed the south westerly wind direction to thrust the front of the sanctuary into what, for my small frame and unprotected heart, were temperatures beyond chilly. And, those of us hired to play string quartet with added winds for the baccalaureate mass at the local university were very concerned. Not for our bodies, though they shivered, but for our valued instruments – collectively worth several thousand dollars, and not designed to withstand protracted cold drafts.
This was commencement week. Matriculating college seniors, being sent into the world to preach their own gospels by the administrators of the catholic institution granting their academic degrees, their presiding priest had chosen from among his readings passages intended to encourage all the young graduates in attendance. Wrapping my legs around the belly of my cello and crossing my arms over my heart I sat, listening keenly to the one from John’s Gospel, chapter 17:
“Holy Father, keep them in Thy Name which thou hast given me, that they be one…Those thou hast given me I have kept, and none of them is lost.”
My attention was captured by the single clause which followed that affirmation. Yes; Jesus had kept all those God had given him, and not one of them had perished – “ except he who was destined to be lost, that the scriptures might be fulfilled.”
Destined.
To be lost.
The mass ended, I hurried home – to get warm, and to do some digging.
My research brought me through several Biblical translations, finally discovering the International Standard Version. The King James, and those directly following ( including J.N.Darby’s, which I hold personally ) all maintained Judas to be “the son of perdition”; but, the International Standard referenced destiny in his characterization. Apparently, it was now considered archaic to think of the one who betrayed Jesus for a bag of silver as merely the “son of perdition”. Judas had been born to damnation, because it was his destiny.
Several months ago, I watched as something I held precious was snatched from me. Helpless to hold on to it, I could only hope that those determined to be capable of its rescue would step forward. But, due to the collective interests of everyone else involved, this was not to be. What I held dear had been unprotected; what I lost could not be saved.
Many argue that everything happens for a reason. In spite of the failings and fortitude of mere humans, the scripture of our lives will be fulfilled. For some, this means playing any number of roles, from savior to scapegoat. All for the greater good.
When one door opens, God closes another and opens a window. We choose both our entry, and our escape.
I just can’t, for the life of me, figure out why it has to be so damned cold.
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© 5/13/18   Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Thank you for respecting original material.
littlebarefeetblog.com

Bring It To The Table.

 

He probably had no idea.

But, many women crushed on Anthony Bourdain, myself included.

Given what we have now been told about his life, his worth, and the scope of his experience, this fact may have come to bear no importance to him. Like everything he’d touched, women were likely a “been there/done that” episode in an otherwise keenly focused and ultimately vital social intention.

Because, Anthony Bourdain wasn’t just a fantastic chef. He was an explorer, a journalist, and a visionary. He may also have been, in spite of his rugged earthiness, rather an idealist – receiving, with private reflection and no small frustration, the socio-political realities he encountered.

And, he found them all.

From the rapid fire race of the planet’s cosmopolitae to the cramped corners of primal civilization, Bourdain covered the story – by boat, rickshaw, taxi, mule and the boots on his own feet. And, he reached the very heart of it all, at table.

There is something about the art of not just preparing good food, but in the eating of it. When this man sat down to share a meal, be it finger fried or stew pan steamed, he brought his open mind. And, as his interviews sat with him, they ceased being subjects and became friends. And, so many of them had, until he came along, never been seen or heard by anyone outside of their tiny place in the sun.

In many cases, neither had the culture they represented. And, this was Bourdain’s fascination. He didn’t just bring his appetite. Anthony Bourdain was hungry. He really, genuinely, wanted to know them all, and everything about their lives.

And, they told him.

They told him, both through their food and the act of sharing it. By coming to the table, the story itself unfolded – unprovoked, and unrestrained. It spoke candidly, about the political upheavals of the day and the ancient history in a single pot of oil. It openly expressed the views of its people – their ideas, their needs, their hopes for survival and preservation.

I don’t know what happened in that hotel room in Paris. We are long past the proving of any of it. And, maybe that is just what Anthony Bourdain wanted. Beyond marketing and media ratings, release to our eyes and ears his legacy. Let the story tell itself.

But, do pass the mushy peas.

Please.

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©9/16/18  Ruth Ann Scanzillo    All right those of the author, who wonders just how many private islands there are. Really.   Thank you for respecting original material.

littlebarefeetblog.com