Crunchy Jerusalem Artichokes

I did it! I popped a raw Jerusalem artichoke into my mouth and chewed. The flavor is ever-so-slightly sweet, and the crunch--like a water chestnut--is fun. I'm making raw kale/raw Jerusalem artichoke salad today.

Sometimes we prefer to hear the Buddha's teachings as they've been "cooked" by popular teachers. Sometimes, we're ready to read the raw words straight from the scriptures of the Pali Canon.

The phrase i've been crunching on this week comes from the Buddha's list of improper topics of conversation (for monks, anyway). The list begins, "Kings, robbers, ministers of state..." It doesn't take much to translate that into "Presidents, lobbyists, and Congress" or "Presidents, white collar crime, super PACs, and international affairs."

In this election week, it's hard to refrain from all the juicy news, so i limit my intake. Yes, friends bend my ear with their political views (Are any of these Wise View?). I listen to their fear, their anger, their relief.

It's an excellent opportunity to practice compassion--for everyone.

Photo from brooklynfarmhouse.com

Decreasing Stuff

The cold has wilted the Swiss chard. The Rainbow Lights mixture that delights me with its beautiful colored leaves is not as hardy as the white-stemmed variety. I wonder if i could remember to plant the white-stemmed Fordhook's Giant next August?

Fordhook Giant Swiss Chard

The cooling of the fires of desire causes us to look twice at the beautiful things we collected in our salad days. Some os us start to thin out our collections, prune back on our belongings.

Right now, i'm ready to part with my great-grandmother's rocking chair and my grandmother's sheets with the crocheted top edges.

Notice how our collections of stuff are constantly changing. This includes the collection that constitutes our body.


My collection of winter veggies from the garden has just decreased by one row of wilted Swiss chard.

Photo from geneticseed.com

Crowding Mindfulness into Our Day

The gardener cut down the 7-foot tall greenery of the Jerusalem artichokes last week. The 3' x 3' patch was beyond crowded. This week she harvested 3 grocery bags full of the sweet tubers that are bumpier than potatoes.

I give small bagfuls to the carpenter and to 2 neighbors. Now it's time to get creative with recipes. Last night, hash browns; today, mashed. Tomorrow, soup. Then there's eating them raw in a salad with their water chestnut-like crunch.

This week, i finished teaching 2 classes of Introduction to Insight Meditation. I'm delighted to see how mindfulness has rooted itself in people's lives, whether or not they've managed to establish a formal meditation practice.

Over the course of 7 or 8 weeks, we practiced
mindfulness of walking (perhaps with the dog),
mindfulness of standing (in line at the grocery store or at the kitchen sink),
mindfulness of lying down (a body scan while awake in the middle of the night),
mindfulness of driving (by practicing loving-kindness toward other drivers),
mindfulness of eating (probably a snack), and
mindfulness of a daily activity, such as showering or walking through a doorway.

By crowding our days with mindfulness, the mind calms down and doesn't leave much space for worry and anxiety, and not much space for obsessing.

I love giving away bagfuls of mindfulness :)

Photo from ifood.tv

Who Can Last the Longest?

I'm in a race with my last zinnia bouquet to see who can last the longest. Them? Or me?

They've been standing in a vase for 3 weeks--since before the first hard frost that killed the zinnia plants. If i could pick a fresh zinnia bouquet, i would, but that's no longer a choice.

The 5 remaining zinnias still look like zinnias while their many compatriots have shriveled and turned brown. But the survivors are pale. They don't look fresh, young, and colorful. Sort of like us as we age.

Around us, people shrivel and die, but we are still vibrant. Maybe we don't look as good as the fresh young things, but we still have plenty of life left in us.

I appreciate my zinnia bouquet more and more with each passing day.

Sweet Alyssum

In April, i buy 3 packets of sweet alyssum seed and sprinkle them alongside the walkways and edges of my white garden, the patio, and the little terrace beside the tiny fishpond. Then i forget about them until i see tiny alyssum seedlings a couple of weeks later.

The Farmers Markets open in early May, and i may be tempted to buy a 6-pack of alyssum, but by late May, my seed-sown alyssum start to bloom, and in early June catch up with the plants from the 6-packs.

For 5 months, alyssum are just a frothy white edging like he hem of the flower-ful garden bed. But now, in November, each sweet alyssum is a mound of white foam, and nothing remains in the flower bed to distract me from these steady 6-month bloomers.


Last evening at a hospice fundraiser, a friend listed the friends who have fallen ill or died recently. "So many," she said. "What's happening?"

What's happening is that we, like our flower beds, are aging. Some of us still bloom--like the sweet alyssum.

Mum Impermanence

The mums beside the front door lasted a good long time, but after 6 weeks, they've faded and turned brown. Another example of impermanence. Those flowers are gone. It's past time to plant them somewhere in the garden (and cross my fingers that they live).

Meanwhile, my fingers turned the steering wheel into the parking lot of the a nearby farmstand, and i bought 2 more pots of glorious mums.

I tried to talk myself out of it, but "30 days hath November." 30 days of late fall plus possibly a few days of early December. I handed over $10 for 2 pots of fresh mums. It seemed a small price to pay for a few weeks of flowers on the front step.

Impermanence always wins. These beautiful flowers will also come to an end, perhaps even very soon. We can easily see the impermanence of mums and mum "bodies". How about the impermanence of our bodies?

Set your impartial, equanimous mindfulness on the subject of the body to simply notice impermanence. Hairs fall out; skin flakes off; noses are picked; water flows into and out of the body; solid food flows into the body and solid waste flows out. A moment ago, these bits seemed to be "me," but now i see they are not me. The body is constantly changing--breath, heartbeat, eyeblinks. Yet, here i am, walking, talking, and breathing. What a miracle!

Growing Quietly Underground

I love cold weather crops :) Garlic is growing in the garden. How delightful and how rare to see small green shoots in these days of early dark.

Garlic is the only bulb that's sprouting. Well, the onions that escaped the hide-and-seek of harvest are also sprouting. Now that they've revealed their hiding places, i may pluck them any time for a soup or a stir-fry.

Many other bulbs are growing quietly underground. In fact, we gardeners may even be planting some--daffodils, snowdrops, or squill.

As we enter the darkest quarter of the year (October 31 to February 2), what is growing underground in your heart? Perhaps it's time to practice self-compassion.

For some of us, the outer darkness is reflected by an inner darkness, an inner heaviness or feeling of blah. Now is the time to practice the equanimity of "Hello, my old friend blah." Invite heaviness in for a cup of tea, and just listen to what she has to say. You don't have to believe every word she says. Simply be a good friend. Be a good friend to yourself.

Photo from colourbox.com