The Patio Tables, Part 2

This is part 2 of two posts about a pair of patio tables my parents bought in the 1960s or early ’70s: Repainting them was one of my summertime projects this year! Click here for part 1, the history of these little tables.

So here we are in 2015, and the tables are renewed. This is at least the sixth redo! I wanted them to scintillate again, to have something “groovy” on them.

Preparing the surfaces is always a bear—scraping, sanding, and scouring off the rust and flaking paint is never fun, but it gives you time to think, and to visualize.

Since I’ve been enjoying the Bhagavad Gita in recent years, I thought the symbol for Om would be kinda neat. I visualized it as being so large that it kind of dripped off the edges.



Sue scanned the quarter-inch-high Om character that appears as a decorative type dingbat at the end of each chapter in my book, then enlarged it to table-size with her amazing computer graphics skills. She printed it out for me, tiling it on four sheets of typing paper, making me a pattern.

From the moment I hatched the plan, I envisioned the character as dark or forest green on a lilac background . . . but as I kept thinking about it, I decided I wanted it to be more energetic, less restful. I wanted it to scintillate!



Why the Om? I like the idea that sound, vibration, music underlies or permeates all of creation. This sound, this music, is not only creation itself but also the name of God, the true nature of reality, and Om is a sound we can produce that connects us to all of the above. And I don’t see it as a counterculture or anti-Christian symbol at all. I see it as one of many human efforts to express and celebrate the vast, majestic, all-encompassing oneness of God, the All That Is.

Plus, it’s an elegant symbol, appealing on a purely visual level. (Especially when it scintillates!)



The second table was much more challenging to paint, with all its persnickety straight lines and perfect corners. At its center is a pan-Asian, Greek, European, African, and Native American symbol for good luck, eternity, and other sacred and auspicious ideas. Before Hitler appropriated that symbol and gave it evil connotations, it was a commonly used decorative element worldwide, with nothing but positive connotations. (Gee, thanks, Hitler, ya asshole. You also ruined a perfectly good mustache style, as well as the once-fine name of Adolph.)



As you can see, my table includes a much more elaborate design than just “that symbol” (long called a gammadion, from the Greek)—and hopefully by making the positive and negative spaces somewhat ambiguous I’ve downplayed anything startling, and emphasized the symbol’s original meaning. Visually, you kind of have to follow a maze before you can see the “eternity” symbol in the center. Hopefully, by then, the act of looking at the entire design has gotten my intended meaning across intuitively.

What do you think? Pretty cool, eh?



. . . Anyway, I’m happy with ’em!

And yes, we’ll be bringing them inside when we’re not actively using them outdoors. I think I want to keep them nice for a while!


Bonus fun! I made a wonderful discovery soon after I’d finished painting the first table: If I stare steadily at the center of these designs for about 20 or 30 seconds, then close my eyes or look at a blank paper or wall, the image remains as a retinal negative-colored afterimage—the red parts of the designs appear as blue, which fades gradually into turquoise and green. What a cool surprise! Try it with the images above! (Remember, you can click on any image on my blog to see it larger.)

The Moment

I hope I’m not writing about “old news” here. It’s already January 3, and I have a backlog of holiday things I’m still mulling over, wanting to share. But I suspect most everyone is ready to move on to the next thing, whatever that is. January. Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Getting back to the job . . .

But each year, I find myself appreciating New Year’s more and more. I think it’s become my favorite holiday. Not just because it’s “fun”; I find it full of significance, and I grow simultaneously reflective and projective.

I think for me, and for many other moderns, New Year’s Eve has supplanted the Winter Solstice as the moment when we suddenly, keenly realize that we are standing not in the past, nor in the future, but in the moment.

In my head, it becomes as a professional-level question in conceptual physics, and thus far beyond my mental grasp. But when I consider this instant that serves as the fulcrum between What Has Been and What Might Be, innate faculties surpassing mentality can somehow, fleetingly comprehend what’s going on.

At times like midnight on New Year’s Eve, we realize that our lives, however long or short, exist within the tiny constriction of the hourglass, where the sand flows the fastest. And our “now” is forever an instant—not a minute, a second, or even a quarter of a second, but an instant—which, discrete and indivisible, doesn’t actually exist in time, or even in space.

Time and space are components of the natural world, the world of physics, a realm that can be weighed, measured, and possibly predicted, whereas, to my thinking, the “instant” must belong to something “beyond,” something “meta-.” Thus metaphysical, supernatural, the realm of faith and spirituality.

I can’t shake the idea that the elusive moment of time called an “instant,” or “the now,” is the only aspect of “eternity” that we living mortals can occupy, or even sense. It’s at times when we are truly “present”—as when praying or meditating, or allowing creativity, joy, or passion to flow through us, or experiencing a moment of great wonder or discovery—that time stops and we sense “God” being with us, that we sense Eternity.

This winter, in part because I’ve been seeking solace about some circumstances that deeply sadden me and about which I can do nothing, I’ve been dipping into the Bhagavad Gita, which is basically a cheerleading session from God to a human who’s so dejected he’s lost the will to go on.

One of the steady drumbeats in the Bhagavad Gita is the idea of Eternity, which of course is a concept common to all religions. We humans are defined by our mortality, locked by the one-way road of time into our inescapable ultimate demise. There will be an end to each one of us—of that we are certain. Yet human religions constantly tell us that our most cherished wish can come true: though we die, we will yet live on, somehow, some way.

Of course the notion of an afterlife and immortality might all be wishful thinking, but the Bhagavad Gita at least puts our little lives and struggles into a natural, cosmic perspective from which even a devout skeptic can find some comfort. In chapter 2, the deity consoles us, explaining things in the light of eternity:

“Thy tears are for those beyond tears; and are thy words words of wisdom? The wise grieve not for those who live; and they grieve not for those who die—for life and death shall pass away.” (2.11)

“From the world of the senses . . . comes heat and comes cold, and pleasure and pain. They come and they go: they are transient. Arise above them, strong soul.” (2.14)

“For all things born in truth must die, and out of death in truth comes life. Face to face with what must be, cease thou from sorrow.” (2.27)

“Invisible before birth are all beings and after death invisible again. They are seen between two unseens. Why in this truth find sorrow?” (2.28)

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There is nothing like New Year’s Eve to make me realize that I am standing exactly midway between past and present and forever occupy a space that is neither: the Now. Yes, I appreciate the richness of the past and rely on it as a great tree relies on its roots for nourishment, structure, and anchorage. And the pathways of the future, like the branches sprawling and dividing toward the sun, represent the directions of fate and all the decisions I will make; it is forever undetermined, alterable, ever in need of nourishment, pruning, and shaping.


It is no wonder that New Year’s is the time for formulating our resolutions, making proposals, going through one’s business and tax paperwork, and so many other cleanup and startup activities. And it is no wonder that we greet 12:00 a.m. on January 1 with a time-stopping smooch with our sweetie-pie, an intoxicating glass of Champagne, and a raucous cacophony to frighten away any evil spirits that might think of plaguing our future.

This year seemed particularly auspicious, with the full, blue moon directly overhead. And thus at midnight I piped to the future, in notes loud and broken and full of what power I possess: The future, do you hear me? It might take me a while, but I am coming to get you.

Eurasian Collared-Dove

Streptopelia decaocto

This is the first year we’ve noticed a new kind of bird in Central Missouri. We have a pair, and they’ve been hanging around our neighborhood. They feed beneath our bird feeders.

We generally only see one at a time. At first we thought it was just an odd-looking mourning dove, but no: It’s too large, too chunky, and it’s a lot paler. And there’s the distinctive black collar that only goes around the back half of the neck.

The overall effect? It’s as if a mourning dove and a pigeon “got it on,” and their offspring accidentally got dipped in bleach.

The call is an almost owl-like hooting: Hoo HOO, hoo, all more or less on the same pitch. Unlike mourning doves, these don’t twitter their feathers as they take off and land, though they sometimes call a gravelly, nasal, caaaawww as they swoop in to land.

Oh, yeah, and if you get close enough or use binoculars, you’ll see they have reddish irises. Reddish eyes always look positively satanic to me. (Okay, I’ve seen too much TV, haven’t I.)

But maybe the “evil” angle isn’t far off—some have described the ECD as the “beige starling of the future”—it was introduced into the Bahamas in the 1970s and has already spread as far as the Dakotas. Likening anything to a starling sounds incredibly grim.

Within the last century, the ECD has pushed its way all through Western Europe.

We’ve noticed that the two ECDs that frequent our bird feeders peck at and boss away the other birds, particularly the (native) mourning doves. Hmmm. That’s not fun to see.

Do you think in the next decade or so we’ll have big bossy flocks of ECDs swarming our bird feeders the way starlings do? Ugh. But then maybe the ECDs will push away some starlings—and that would be okay, I think . . .

Meanwhile, it is cool to think that, say, the Buddha might have had one of these little guys hooting away in a tree about the time that he attained enlightenment. Or that these doves might have provided the background music when the great Sanskrit classics were composed. Anywhere you go, the cooing of doves can add a note of calm, of peace. Do you think this is the kind of dove the writers of the Bible had in mind when telling the Noah story?

And another thought: At least a few people have posited that the ECD is poised to take advantage of the ecological niche that was formerly occupied by the native American passenger pigeon, exterminated by humans, which became extinct on September 1, 1914. There is something rather poetic about that. But are we ready for thundering, miles-long flocks of Eurasian collared-doves?

Something tells me it won’t come to that. In Missouri at least, ECDs are being treated just like mourning doves for hunting purposes, and I suspect their numbers won’t get out of hand, as long as people love to eat delicious, tender squab . . .

(A photography note—we’ve been trying to get close enough to get a decent picture of these little goobers, but so far no luck. Despite reports of the species’ gregariousness and comfort around humans, the two we have are rather wary of us. So these pictures of one of their feathers, left behind beneath our bird feeders, are the best I can offer for now. I don’t want to copy someone else’s picture without permission. I’m not that kind of girl. Of course, you can find lots of pictures of them on the Internet and in recent editions of North American field guides.)

God’s Own Potato Chips

I just had lunch, and I’m listening to Hindu Devotional Sounds on BBC Asian Network. So I hope you’ll indulge me here in the connection I’m about to make.

Mmm, yes, lunch was really tasty today. I did the Jeff City thang and had myself a braunschweiger sandwich. I’ll bet if you took a poll of the eating habits of Missourians, you’d find that Jefferson Citians eat way more braunschweiger per capita than all the other people in the state.

I did it up good—nice wheat bread with a thin slice of Swiss cheese, lightly toasted, then topped with lettuce, sliced green onion, tomatoes, cucumber, and braunschweiger from Williams Brothers in Washington, Missouri. (Remember I told you about the Wurstfest?)

But more about braunschweiger later; along with my sandwich I enjoyed a handful of God’s own potato chips. You think I’m joking? I’m not. I’m serious—ask my friends. I don’t even like potato chips, popcorn, and all that kind of stuff very much. So if I’m motivated to sing devotional praises about some kinda potato chip, you’re going to pay attention, right? Right.

These chips—Ballreich’s—are from Tiffin, Ohio. We pick them up when we’re doing car trips to visit Sue’s folks in northern Ohio; we get a few bags at a time and then try to make them last. (And indeed, you can buy them online.)

There is something different about them. The kind we like the most are the original “marcelled” type—the term was popular as a way of describing that wavy-ironed hairstyle popular among women in the 1920s, doncha know; apparently Bellreich’s is the only potato chip company to use the term.

So what makes them so dang good? Is it that they use specific types of potatoes, Norchip, Snowden, and Atlanta, all (I’m pretty sure) Ohio-grown? . . . Maybe it’s the fat they fry them in? I don’t know. But they have a je ne sais quoi that sets them apart.

So here was my thought today as I experienced potato chip heaven. (Forgive me.)

In chapter 7 of the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna is explaining his nature to Arjuna. It’s a lovely passage, full of poetry, that’s been sticking with me recently. No wonder it came to me as I was munching this afternoon. So here it is, BG 7.8-10, from the Juan Mascaró translation (Penguin, 1962):

I am the taste of living waters and the light of the sun and the moon. I am OM, the sacred word of the Vedas, sound in silence, heroism in men.

I am the pure fragrance that comes from the earth and the brightness of fire I am. I am the life of all living beings, and the austere life of those who train their souls.

And I am from everlasting the seed of eternal life. I am the intelligence of the intelligent. I am the beauty of the beautiful.

. . . To which I would like to add, “I am the yum of the Ballreich’s potato chip.”

(Apologies to Lord Krishna, but I suspect the deity knows what I mean and laughs merrily at my enthusiasms.)