The North Sea
Forgot its north
And its ripples
When
A
profound shadow
Of brown eyes and of
await
Invited me
To see through
… There was an island
And a stormy night
There was a parrot
Older than its cage
And a fallen tree
Behind which Vidar,
Petar and Saša
Let me see through
Again
What I had seen once
Or twice
… But next to the North
Sea
All felt new
That stormy night
Even
When the parrot cage
door
Was left open
But the old
Parrot
Stayed
In
December 4, 2022
© Vahé A. Kazandjian,
2022
I met an artist at a local art studio who had just moved to town. A man with ample silver-gray hair, a moustache reminiscent of William Saroyan, and an aura that says “I have done what I wanted to do; now I just play with colours on canvas.”
That was probably why I was attracted to him and his work.
“So you are retired too?” he asked. “I am sure you are having a good time since you look healthy.”
When I asked if he still paints for others, he said “No.”
“I paint because that is what I know to do, but I now do it for myself. For decades I burned the midnight oil to survive on what others would appreciate in my work. I also burned my candle at both ends as an artist in California and somehow I made it to an age when all is extra time I had not counted on having.”
“You have done a lot of burning” I teased him.
“Yes, but hope some of it did brighten people’s dark moments a bit” he pensively replied.
… That night, I searched for a century old poem without remembering the poet’s name. I had read the lines years ago and the conversation with the painter made me think about them.
The author was Edna St. Vincent Millay and the poem was published in 1918. The lines I recalled were:
My candle burns at
both ends;
It will not last the night:
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!
The Californian artist’s candle lasted more than a night—in fact decades as he said. And during this time, his works found walls in countless houses to “brighten people’s dark moments a bit.”
And the creativity of the artist did not get affected by the burning of that inspirational candle -- he is still painting, although more as an impulse than a survival need.
… Candles have inspired imagery in all forms of art as symbolic of the fragility of life yet representing beauty, coziness and surprising resilience to the drifts of our days.
There is a saying by Buddha that goes beyond these symbolisms regarding candles – it places the candle as a source of light and enlightment, philosophically taking the darkness of other candles away. It reads:
Thousands of candles
can be lighted from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be
shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared.
... So as my first email to the artist, I sent him the above quote.
He replied with this:
“Buddha was a smart man! Yet I do not know if we can share happiness through art. We can share evasion; and we can share scars from wounds that can only be healed from inside out. The rest is to those who take my art home and try to find themselves in it.
You know? Of all those poetic and philosophical lines we know about candles, my favorite is from the late Welsh comedian Tommy Cooper who said:
Electricity is a
wonderful thing. Do you realise that if we didn't have electricity, we'd be
watching television by candle light?
In our phase of life, we need to remember that a candle is just goat fat and a wicker – don’t you agree?”
Indeed, I often do.
PS/ The photo at the top of the page is from my backyard, on a windy afternoon. The Pampas grass, native of South America, can be spectacular in growth following sustained rainfall.
To my eye, they looked like candles flickering with the wind.
November 16, 2022
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022
Among the blessings life has allowed me is
the joy of staying in touch with many of my childhood friends. Sure, belonging
to a generation where communication became the easiest and fastest in human
history, helps to keep that blessing ongoing.
A friend with whom I shared a primary
school desk sent me an email about his trip this summer. It started:
“Do
you remember the Lebanese tennis-ball-size nougat confiserie we used to eat? It
was made with Manna and filled with pine nuts. It was called Mann wa Salwa or
Mann el Sama’a – perfect name for what falls from the sky! Say, you remember?”
And he continued:
“Well,
we thought it was a Lebanese, or an Iraqi sweet confection but, we were wrong!
This summer my wife wanted to see Sardinia, so we did. And, Manna does not fall
from the sky on that island, my friend – they harvest it like Canadians do with
maple syrup – they make holes in the ash trees and the sap that comes out is
Manna!
We
stayed in Palermo and I ate Manna made in Castelbuono whenever my wife was not
looking!!!”
Wow, that was more than half a century ago
when we used to get either Baba au rhum
(from a special tray made without rhum for the kids…) or Mann el Sama from the confectionery on our way home from school.
…So my mind left the present moment and
went back where memories await us.
Manna is known as the “bread
of angels” since when Moses and the people of Israel
left Egypt for the promised land they faced starvation in the desert. But they ate quail and Manna
came down the sky to assist them during the 40 year journey across the desert.
The Bible refers to Manna as a bread-like substance, tasking sweet and of white
colour like snow. The Old testament has
descriptions of how manna was snowed over Israelites in Exodus, Numbers,
Deuteronomy, Joshua, Nehemiah, and Psalms.
But manna and the exodus of Israelites from Egypt are also
described in the New Testament, and the Quran. In a 10th century
Persian medical book, one finds a more scientific description of Manna (called taranjabin
in Farsi) as the sap of the Tamarisk tree, which is still commonly found in
today’s Iraq and Iran.
… And with the Middle East as my context, I grew up with my
mother’s sayings as guide. One such saying was about manna:
“May in your difficult
times, blessings fall upon you my son, just like Mannana once did”
I worked in Arabian Gulf for a few years and was told that there
was an annual manna collection excursion to the desert. Since manna is the sap
of ash trees, and since there were no ash trees in the desert (at least in the
1970s when I was there…) but there was a shrub called Rimth in Arabic that was said to drip its sap when punctured by
insects. That is when I heard the term Manna-Rimth as yet another possible
source of manna proposed by Arabian desert Bedouins.
No matter, the name given in Iraq to the sweet substance they to
this day collect, be that as ash tree sap or the sap of the Rimth shrub (Haloxylon
salicornicum) remains Mann El Sama’a
(or Manna
from the sky or From the sky), perhaps staying
within the historical context of manna being “food of angels” that came down
from the sky as if snowflakes tasting like honey.
But for me manna has specific association with the Armenian Apostolic Church, an Eastern Christian
denomination in communion with the other Oriental Orthodox churches. And that
association is with incense smoked during religious or cultural ceremonies.
Indeed, similar to Eastern Orthodox churches (Greek, Russian), frankincense
offering is made during religious ceremonies in the Armenian Apostolic Church.
The connection between manna and frankincense comes from ancient Greek when
this incense was called livanománna
(λῐβᾰνομάννα)
or powdered frankincense.
Frankincense is the hardened resin obtained from Boswellia trees
after cuts are made to drain the sap. So manna and frankincense are either sap
or resin from trees and shrubs. Interestingly, while manna was called the “food of angels”, ancient Egyptians called frankincense the 'Sweat of the Gods.’
I have
written more about frankincense and the historic Spice Road here:
https://vahezen.blogspot.com/2015/01/the-spice-road-from-lebanon-to-mongolia.html
… So now, my mind was curiously navigating through history, religion
and the magic powers given to manna and frankincense. And that takes me to two
other historical “superfoods” – ambrosia and suma, both enshrined in myth and
mythology.
In ancient Greek myth, the gods on Mount Olympus feasted on ambrosia brought to them by doves. Just
like manna, the true composition or origin of ambrosia remains unknown,
although in Homer’s writings nectar is usually the drink
and ambrosia represent the food of the gods assuring immortality, while nectar is the drink of gods. Needless
to say that does not explain much more about what ἀμβροσία (ambrosia) or
nectar are or contain!
Finally,
there is Soma, a drink used in ancient India, by the Vedic culture.
Just like ambrosia, the true nature of Soma remains unknown, although it is a
drink that gave Vedic gods power and longevity. Although it is a myth, Soma as
a drink, is believed to contain Ephedra
elata (Alanda in Arabic) known to modern medicine to have anti-oxidant,
anti-obesity and anti-diabetic characteristics.
Is that enough, however, to give gods immortality?
… It was a long journey into myth and mythology based on an email
I got from a childhood friend who reported on eating “manna”, a sweet
– tasting sap from Fraxinus ornus ash
trees in Castelbuono during a trip in Sardinia.
As a scientist, I do not know what
manna, ambrosia, nectar and soma really are. They represent a myth but also enablers
of how humans have faced adversity, challenged death, and risen above the earthly
banalities.
But, though the cultural and social symbolism
represented in the form of food or drinks, even when their chemical composition
is unknown, the effect they had on the course of human history and our vision
of cosmic powers, remain undeniably potent.
PS/ I took this photo of a female camel herder in Morocco.
Although I have lived in the Arabian Peninsula desert and now I am a permanent
resident in the high desert of Arizona, the ecosystem of each desert is
different. Yet, all make me think of our history more than forests of Aspen
trees and snow covered blue spruce trees do.
October 13, 2022
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022
The story always begins in the middle. Where it
matters most.
No one sees the fallen branches next to a river till
they fall in. Till they become driftwood.
Just like the middle of a story when we realize that
it is time to become driftwood. To let time find us accepting what we have
become. Because we always become what we once were. Driftwood is still a fallen
branch.
… In my student dormitory I had a few posters on the
walls. One was from Lord Dunsany, the prolific Anglo-Irish writer and poet
whose lines had resonance in my days as a young man. The poster I had the
opening lines from his poem “Where the
Tides ebb and flow” (circa 1910)
The ebb came
And I saw the dead eyes of the houses
And the jealousy of other forgotten things
That storm had not carried thence.
The poster faced my bed and every night those words
helped me dream. Of all that my life’s storms had not carried away.
Instead, these memories remained untouched, like the
fallen branches next to a river that no one notices.
Till the branches become driftwood. And the river celebrates
their journey.
… More than 40 years after these graduate student
days, I thought about Lord Dunsany. This time when I came across new lines from
him that I had not read before. But this time, his words did not made me
rejoice about what life’s storms had not carried away. Rather, they made me
think about the story that starts in the middle, when a river carries fallen
branches. And makes them driftwood.
Here is the passage I read from his “The Book of Wonder”
The
ancient song. From lineage. The jealousy
of forgotten things that were
thought to be forgotten. But they never are.
September 16,
2022
©Vahé A.
Kazandjian, 2022
I was recording random thoughts on my laptop when an old friend from England sent me an email.
“Yet another change we have been allowed to witness – even the Queen of England is mortal” he wrote.
I have known him for many decades. I wrote of another communication with him a decade ago which has been read around the globe (https://vahezen.blogspot.com/2014/09/veronicas-veil_2.html).
“You recall the old saying that rolling stone does not gather moss? You have been a rolling stone and I assume you have been through a lot of change in all the places where you did not g row roots. For us, many have their roots in England and her history, so this is a major event.”
… Here is what I was writing on the screen when his email arrived:
Misfortune or Fortuna?
In the shade
Of a pine tree
Next to the sea
I left a note
For me to read
So I sent it to him.
“Your timing is impeccable. My mind was in the past, next to
the bluest sea, wondering if it is fortune or misfortune to have been a rolling
stone. “
“It is always both of those things” he replied in his usual manner. “You have the ability to not feeling lonely. So, it is a fortune. But do you sometimes wonder about belonging?”
Hmm.
I took my time to respond.
“I do not belong to material things or to trees, oceans and rainbows over mountains. I probably belong to the moment with people. That is what stays with me to be grateful to have had those moments, to learn about ideas, feelings and eventually about myself. Funny, in some ways it is like photography – being in that moment and capturing it as a blessing is always in shades of gray.”
“Ah, your love of B&W photography that goes beyond taking photos. It is a life philosophy, isn’t it?”
… Not gathering moss.
“Tell me” I said “what is moss for you?”
“Well, in its larger meaning it would be belonging. If you move around, willingly or by necessity, you do not belong to any of the places you moved to and from. Yes, you would gather joy, sorrow, and perhaps wisdom from the passages, but you will have had no time to growing roots. Or perhaps simply growing. Does that make you devoted of that joy I have of following my favorite football team for years, having bitter beer, or hearing “God save the King”? Simple things that often can mean a lot and make gathering moss a needed human path to inner comfort.”
And then he added:
“In those lines you were writing when I knocked at your door, what did you write on the note that was destined to you?”
I could not resist:
“If you had not interrupted my train of thought by your email, I was about to discover that myself!”
September 8, 2022
©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022
Behind every silver lining
There is
the specter of a dark cloud
Above
every quiet chimney
The
memory of hickory trees
Swirls in
smoke
And in
the eyes of a wounded dog
Remains
the promise of warm fields
Where he
chased rabbits and quail
While
wolves watched his tail wag high
Upon
every long strain cotton pillow
The last
night sleeps until the next moon
Embracing
a promise whispered to a name
Five syllables
long, a letter at a time
To make
the promise last
Behind
every silver lining
There is
the specter of a lingering cloud
August
24, 2022
© Vahé A.
Kazandjian, 2022
Photo taken with a Russian Salyut 120mm camera.
It is the rainy season, called monsoon, in the desert. There is something comforting in seeing the desert varicosed by flash streams, sometimes even rivers carving the sand into small ponds. And there is something unsettling to see the essence of a desert absorb all the fluid gifts from above in the space of a moment. And return to being a dry land where a few weeds will soon grow, yet disappear as fast as they appeared.
Perhaps that is the most
vivid image of “the moment”. That elusive passage that we all ignore while
charmed by the “tomorrow”. By the promises we hope for in the “next”.
Rather, we see the “moment”
as a means to the promised. And thus, we ignore our own passage as well by
leaving it empty of the joy we could have had.
… It is raining now and I am
degustating, perhaps as a hummingbird does with the nectar of desert flowers,
that “moment”. My senses are awake, alive and grateful for every rain drop’s
landing sound on dry stones and prickly cactus. For the “smell of the desert”
where fragrances of musk, sandalwood, patchouli and amber mix into an incense
to celebrate the rain.
Omar Khayyám, the 9th
century Persian philosopher, scientist and poet celebrated the moment in his
quatrains called Rubaiyat.
One of his famous lines is
both scientific and philosophical:
Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.
This morning, my senses inebriated
by the fragrance of patchouli and sandalwood, I recalled one of Khayyám’s quatrains
that had influenced my adolescent soul years before I knew about the moment and
what happens next. Years before I put my lips upon the brim of life’s chalices
to learn the difference between bitter and soothing; about passion sometimes leading
to love; and about how unkept promises leave scars upon trusting hearts, and
make them untrusting.
Here is the quatrain:
To wisely live your life, you don't need to know much
Just remember two main rules for the beginning:
You better starve, than eat whatever
And better be alone, than with whomever.
… And it is raining upon the
desert.
August 19, 2022
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022
PS/ I took this photo right
after last year’s monsoon. With water and sun, the desert becomes host to life
that had patiently remained dormant during the year. And that happens
overnight, and becomes the glorious moment.
The Horse lubber grasshopper appears after the rainy season and is my
favorite “decoration” of cacti as hundreds climb into a single cactus and, with
their vivid colours, light it up like a Christmas tree!
This photo is almost anthropomorphic
and may echo Omar Khayyám’s suggestions that even in the most harsh moment and
environment, being with the right grasshopper makes that moment cheerful and
kind….
Prologue
I was looking for past healthcare articles for an academic article I am writing. I knew I had saved them on a thumb drive years ago.
A quick look at the list of the saved document and I stopped
on one that said “Twooldmen”. Hmm?
Two old men sat by the tree. It was August and they were wearing coats. The felt casquette was very becoming to both of them. And yet they sat down on the ground.
I was waiting to see them
pull a plastic bag from the bulging coat pocket. A bag full of crumbled stale bread. Rye bread perhaps, which is too dry even when
it is fresh. Bread they could not finish
last week. Bread for the pigeons they
probably knew by name.
They hardly talked. I was on a park bench shaded by an ash
tree. I was feeling lazy. My big toe was hurting so I cut my walk
short. My foot got caught on a root end
a few days ago. I thought my toe was
fractured but wanted to wait and see.
I could see the green eyes of
the man facing me. It was the sun on his
face adding color to his eyes. He looked
my way but not at me. I took my shoe off
to rub my toe. It was very tender.
And the other man, the one I
did not know the color of his eyes, pulled a small bag out of his pocket. It was a leather pouch, a large one. It had a string tied around its neck. Something one sees in movies. And he held it in the palm of his hands,
without looking at it.
It was not bread for pigeons,
I realized. But he was holding the bag
as a magician would hold a white pigeon in his hands after pulling it out of a
hat. A pigeon which would fly for a
short while before landing on his head.
Or his shoulder.
They did not talk. And I was wondering why they were sitting on
the ground, near a tree. I felt bad that
I had taken the bench from them. I wore
my shoe, got up and walked toward them.
“You have to take care of
that foot,” the man holding the pouch told me.
His eyes were brown, yet they seemed red. He was still holding the pouch in both hands. I could not see a pigeon in it.
“Please use the bench.”
They looked at each other and
smiled. It was a capricious smile, one I
did not expect from old men wearing coats on a balmy August afternoon.
“We used that bench for
years.” The blue eyes of the other man
were of a color a jeweler would dream of before going to bed. They were not only blue, but of an old blue
hidden in the shade the large casquette had shielded them.
“Please, sit with us.”
The three of us sat without
talking. Nor looking at each other. My toe was not hurting anymore: my heart was
racing and I could hear its rate. We
were like monks in an urban park. One of
us was holding a leather pouch. I was
the only one who did not know what was happening.
“We were hoping for a windy
day,” finally the man with the leather pouch said. “But I do not think it will pick up.”
It was an oppressingly hot
August day near Baltimore. Nothing was
moving. The forecast was for passing
evening thunder and showers. But evening
was hours away.
Then the magician-man gave
his pouch to the blue-eyed third monk.
Slowly. As if he was giving his
liver. Then, after a slight clearing of
his throat, he adjusted his collar, pulled slightly on his shirt’s cuffs, and
dipped his hand in his coat pocket. I could
hear metal.
“Gracie would have loved a
bit of wind.”
And he pulled a red dog
collar from his pocket. I saw his hand
tremble. And slowly, he pulled out
perhaps five feet of a thin leather leash attached to the collar by a short
metal link chain. Now he looked like a
man pulling his entrails out. It seemed
as painful as him doing so. Slowly, yet
with conviction. It had to come out of
his pocket. Even if there was no breeze
in the park.
“Fifteen years of love,” the
other man said. And holding the pouch
close to his chest with his left hand, he turned around and hugged the
self-eviscerator. I could see his eyes—they were blue and red. More blue then red.
Then they looked at me,
holding each other’s hand, the pouch between their chests, as if birds
protecting their chick. And they held hands like lovers would. Not old men.
Perhaps like old men who were lovers.
“It is time for Gracie to be
in her favorite spot.”
The ashes looked like the
ashes one finds near a barbecue stand in the park. It was anti-climactic. It was Gracie.
…. I got up to leave the old
men lone. They were hugging and now in
tears. I felt the pain in my toe again.
As I was walking away, the
blue-eyed man softly bid me a good day.
“I was good that you joined
us,” he said. “Gracie loved meeting new
people.”
September 26, 2009
Posted on August 10, 2022
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022
No window stays open
Unless it learns to shut
In silence
When summer rain
Makes an old pillow
Wet
… And the room
Smells of sleeping dog
Next to an open bottle of wine
And of last night’s promise
That August rain showers
Make one forget
To say goodbye
But no window
Stays shut
When the pillow is turned
When the dog dreams of open spaces
Where cotton dresses tremble
Of the await
… Summer rain
A wet pillow
And a bed
Under the window
August 7, 2022
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022
Photo taken with a 1960s Soviet medium format camera
Salyut.
And the circle did not break
But followed, on an unmoon night,
The North wind to a new start
Veiled in cedar resin and myrrh
There was no start, no promise or
fear
For a name, a smile and a
farewell
Veiled in cedar resin and myrrh
To sooth all sharp edges of remembered
time
Time that got lost in the space of
the circle
Stolen by the North wind, an unmoon
night
In search of where all circles
have a start
That starts with a name, a smile and
a farewell
June 30, 2022
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022
Time, without a whisper
Washed away my memories
As the bluest sea once did
An August night
To four footprints
And a name
... Cities of steel, of old stone and blue smoke
Colicky children, men short of morning breath
Unmade beds, and burning lands
Stole all my new time
To fill
A silent old space
But,
An August night
On a balcony over a narrow street
I, again, inhaled the night song
Of a frothy, angry, and unforgiving
Dark sea
And, with gratitude,
I wiped my fears
With unfolding
Scar tissue
May 31, 2022
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022
The symbolism was attractive.
Someone had planted cut carnations into a dead tree’s trunk on the path I often take with my dog. The flowers were still alive, but when cut, even flowers know their destiny.
Like feelings.
So why plant dying flowers into a petrified container? Perhaps because it is difficult to just throw them away. Because they were once given with a kind gesture. Because they expressed what words could not.
Like a poem secretively written for the right time to read. In the right setting. By the right person.
… It was a last gesture by someone who left it on the path many others take. Alone or with their dogs. Perhaps to let them know that these carnations were once alive and fragrant. That they said what words could not easily say. To a special person.
And yet, there was hope. The one who now shared the carnations with strangers also left a bottle of water next to the cut tree trunk. As if to ask for their help in keeping the flowers alive for a short time. And celebrate them both for what they once were and what they have become.
The symbolism was attractive, but I did not water the flowers.
May 14, 2022
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022
This morning I was discussing the latest matches of tennis in Monte-Carlo Open with my friend who is an avid tennis fan and a retired Judge. He emailed that if a player he did not enjoy watching in this tournament loses, that outcome would warm the cockles of his heart.
I teasingly replied that from my knowledge of the heart there were no such structures as cockles.
“I got you this time” he wrote back. “The cockles are the ventricles, named by some 12th century medical explorer (probably Leonardo) in Latin as "cochleae cordis" from "cochlea" which refers to snail and which, according to that person, the ventricles resemble. And the idiom means to cause warm feelings in your ventricles/heart.”
And that made me think about the vena amoris.
It is believed that dating back to ancient Egypt, the Sun and Moon gods were worshiped and rings depicting them were worn to keep homes safe. The Latin name vena amoris comes from early Rome where it was believed that vein ran from the fourth finger of the left hand directly to the heart. The belief in this non-existent vein is shrouded in mythology and romanticism since human cadaveric dissection, or at least good knowledge of human anatomy goes back to Ancient Egypt at least around 1300 BC. This was established by the finding of an Ancient Egyptian medical text bought by Edwin Smith in 1862 and now known as the Edwin Smith Papyrus. So, after thousands years of anatomical knowledge, Romans would have known if that vein existed or not.
Still, the romantic and mythological attraction to such a love vein made it to the Western cultures and is one of the reasons the engagement or wedding bands are placed on the fourth or “ring finger”. It is to note however that such a tradition is not universal, even in Western cultures where the wedding ring can be found on the middle finger or even on the thumb of the left hand, perhaps still in belief of that mythical vein going from the left hand to the heart.
… In college I enjoyed the zoology course as there was a practicum lab where we dissected animals to add to our academic learning. Our teacher was a renaissance man, multilingual and well versed in literary works in all the languages he spoke. During one lecture he said:
“You now learn about veins, muscles and nerves and you will be experts as biologists and medical doctors to address issues with these structures though your professional lives. That will give you the false comfort and confidence that what you see, no matter how complex, is what exists to make all in the animalia kingdom exist.
But the anatomy of your wisdom will excel only in realising that there are non-structures that often define the members of that kingdom. Today, I would like you to look for a very delicate nerve, the nervus benignitas – it goes from the nervus cardiacus cervicalis superior to the medulla oblongata of the brain. The first one who finds it will get an extra point on his grade.”
We had never learned about that nerve from our books but we went on searching. It took many of us decades to find it. It was the nerve of kindness which went from the heart to the brain. And perhaps made Homo sapiens unique in the animalia kingdom.
… So today, a discussion about tennis took me from snail-shaped ventricles to the “nerve of kindness”.
And to renewing my gratitude to a teacher who almost 40 years ago made us look and cherish that non-structural connection between the heart and the brain, and made us better people by doing so.
April 16, 2022
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022
