Bowl 22: Paul

He is lying on a bench,
looking up at the trees.

that's an ancient one, he says.
not too many that old around here.
and this one,
I think it's sassafras. . .
and I learn that sassafras has three different kinds of leaves --
one oval, one mitten shaped, and one with three lobes.

then he tells me about a banyan tree where he grew up in Florida . . .
so big it spread across three yards!
we used to climb them and crawl along the branches
 to the mango trees in our neighbor's yards . . .
delicious! and we never needed to touch the ground.

we talk of clay, and of seeing contemporary ceramics in ancient settings --
he in Oaxaca, me in Certaldo,
and of a Chinese teacup he once held that was made for an emperor
so fine that when you held it to the light, the emperor's portrait was visible in the porcelain.

he talks on, about music and musical geniuses he's met,
about painting houses for billionaires
and at a certain point I begin to wonder how much he is making up
for my benefit
and how gullible I am for believing it all . . .

and then I decide
it doesn't matter in the least
the stories are fascinating
the day is beautiful
and I am totally enjoying our encounter.

Bowl 21: Chris

It's been a difficult few days. . . 

things that I thought were done and tied up neatly

have been unravelling,

falling apart,

plunging me back into uncertainty.

Feeling the sinking in the pit of my stomach

I begin walking,

breathing,

allowing myself to touch back into just this moment

just this step.

I see Chris fishing, his mom nearby.

Although he appears to be no more than 10 or 11

he is a surprisingly knowledgeable and competent fisherman,

Arcing the line far over the water

and pulling it in with adept flicks 

so that it truly seems that a live frog is on the end --

tempting bait for the large-mouthed bass that swim the pond.

"I always throw them back," he tells me. 

I'm very careful with them. Sometimes I have to cut the line and leave the hook,

but the acid in the fish's stomach will dissolve it," he says.

Then I give him the bowl and start to photograph..

"Wait," he says, "wouldn't it look great if I hold it up and you can see the water behind it."

He is absolutely right! Much better than the first few against his shirt.

Later, I encounter the shards of a goddess left three years before.

I walk home.

Things are still unraveling . . .

but I am more at peace with that . . . 

for this moment at least.

Bowl 20: Laurie

The space is huge, but intimate, 

perhaps because of the warm wood that surrounds me.

Wooden beams soar high above.

And looking up it's as if we are in a ship turned topsy-turvy.

She is leading a tour for two contractors who know a lot about buildings.

I join in. 

They talk of the curved beams, unnecessary from a structural point of view,

but beautiful nonetheless.

And how churches in England were built this way 

because they had used up all of the straight trees, 

and only curved ones remained.

 

After they leave she shows me the Victorian wallpaper 

installed during one of several renovations. 

And photos of the interior all dressed up in Victorian garb.

It is so different from the plain beauty of the wooden pews 

and simple walls that surround me now.

And she tells me that when they removed the box pews, 

some families took them home and stored them.

And when they decided to restore the church,

 families brought them back again . . . 

more than 100 years later!

I leave, and return, catching her as she heads out down the driveway.

Grateful that she has shared this bit of history with me.

I offer her a gift in return.

 

Bowl 19: Laura

She appears so content, 

sitting on a bench,

reading.

On a screen, not a book!

Curious, I ask if she likes it.

"Yes," she tells me, "and I never thought I would."

And, I am struck once again

by how we all make assumptions.

Every day.

This will work for me. . . 

this won't.

I will never give up the feel of a real book in my hands.

I could never enjoy reading a newspaper online.

So definite about so much.

She reminds me to try to hold these thoughts more lightly.

To leave space for possibility.

To allow that today I might feel differently.

I have given her a bowl.

And she has given me a gift.

Of inestimable value. 

Bowl 18: Michael

There's a pile of stuff on the sidewalk,
interesting stuff.
And being someone who likes to find treasures
in someone else's trash
I begin to look through it.

Someone else joins me and we look together . . .
78 records, an "original authentic desk blotter", empty violin cases.

The person responsible for the pile emerges from the brick-front town house.
He carries a Russian poster of Lenin, clearly old, clearly original,
and offers it to my comrade.
I am chagrined . . . I want it!

But he invites me inside and says I can choose anything I want,
there is nothing I need, but I am intrigued by the decrepit beauty of the building.
"It was my father's he tells me . . . he was born in 1920"
the same year as mine, I note.
And he shows me photos of four generations . . .
his father,
his grandfather,
himself,
and his daughters.

And now he is leaving it all behind.
Clearing out the remains of lives lived here.
Leaving it on the street
for others to find and recycle into their lives.

Later I pass by again.
Almost nothing remains
but some very old books, pre- and early 20th century
I pick them up and bring them home.

Bowl 17: Angela

July at the farmer's market.

Humming

buzzing

bursting with energy.

Vegetables, flowers, cheeses, baked goods.

Tables overflowing.

People overflowing.

Long lines, 

arms heaped with produce.

But her space is quiet.

Monastic even.

A few beautifully packaged raw food offerings.

Crackers, pâté, spreads, nut/fruit goodies.

She offers a taste. 

Delicious!

The kind of sweet that satisfies with a single, small bite.

She's turned her passion into her business over the past year

and seems really content.

Though I can't help but wonder how it feels

to be in her island of peace,

in the midst of the chaotic energy of the summer market.

. . . and I forgot to ask.

Bowl 16: Joan

"My name is Joan," I say.

"So is mine," she laughs.

It's noon.

Sun beating down, relentless.

But her lunch bench is perfect.

shade.

breeze.

water view.

I remark on a bright red bird flashing by.

She says she comes often.

Sees rabbits, chipmunks, squirrels

the ubiquitous geese,

pairs of swans.

She knows Olmsted and his parks.

Here, and in New York and Buffalo

where she lived as a girl.

"Not so many Joans," she says.

"It's so bland."

"Plain," I agree.

But what's in a name?

I google it.

so many Joans! 

Joan of Arc

Joan Baez

Joan Halifax

Joan Jett

Joan Cusak

Joan Miro

Joan Rivers, to name a few.

and even,

Jo-an (teahouse), a National Treasure in Inuyama, Aichi Prefecture, Japan.