Thursday, October 13, 2022

Manna, Ambrosia and Soma – the Superfoods that Shaped Human History and Mythology?

 



 

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

Friday, September 16, 2022

Rumours of Beauty from However Far Away (From The Book of Wonder, by Lord Dunsany, 1912)

 



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”

“Yet in the blood of man there is a tide, an old sea-current rather, that is somehow akin to the twilight, which brings him rumours of beauty from however far away, as driftwood is found at sea from islands not yet discovered: and this spring-tide or current that visits the blood of man comes from the fabulous quarter of his lineage, from the legendary, the old; it takes him out to the woodlands, out to the hills; he listens to ancient song.”


The ancient song. From lineage. The jealousy of forgotten things that were thought to be forgotten. But they never are.

 PS/ Photo of a humble stream in downtown Prescott following autumnal rain.

September 16, 2022

©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022

Thursday, September 8, 2022

Saxum Volutum Non Abducitur Musco


 


 

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

Wednesday, August 24, 2022

Unnumbered Opus

 




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.



Friday, August 19, 2022

Omar Khayyám And the Arizona Monsoon Season

 




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….

 

 

 


Wednesday, August 10, 2022

Love Triangle

 




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?

 It was part of diary-like essays I used to write during my travels or when an event had captured my moment. I wrote these in a free format hoping that one day I can use the stories for new writings.

 I remembered the moment – it was at Gunpowder Park in Baltimore about 15 years ago. But I did not recall writing the lines.

 So, here it is. I did not edit. I did not add or subtract. I just added an old photo I had taken in Madrid sometime in the late 1990s. I think this photo was made for this essay!

 

 

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


Sunday, August 7, 2022

Niyati

 



 

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.