Eleanor Rigby, I, you and me.

It was a clear night, otherwise.

Music, gaiety, wine, laughter. A typical Friday night of cities that don't sleep, just move fluidly from one moment to the next. Here is not found that pause between breath; the pause that gathers, remembers, ponders before letting go. This time is one of movement so constant and stacked that all and one sensory experience feel the same.

It was one more such night. I was stringing myself along the conveyor belt of a "fun time"..... wine, dancing, dinner, live music, stars, water... all and everything without the pause. Stumbled into an elegant wine bar full of people doing exactly the same. Absorbed in music that even the musicians couldn't hear, without missing a beat.

Among this crowd of revelers, one other walked in looking for her place. She attempted to sit down but the server told her the table was already allotted. She looked for a face but couldn't see one. Not because she is partially blind. There were not faces to see, just one large mass of movement without purpose. She didn't see anyone and nobody saw her. So she picked up her cane and walked out into the clear night of dimly lit souls.

Perhaps if the table wasn't allotted to me, I would not have seen her either. Or maybe it was because I was looking for myself, that I couldn't bear to let her go. It was no selfless act when I rushed out and slid my arm in hers, asked her if she would come back for a while for the music? No, she answered. She would come back, but not for the music; she had really come looking for conversation.

It wasn't her that I smuggled back into the cozy wine bar. I had reached out to my future, alone on a chilly evening and wanted to wrap it up with her warm smile.

For the next hour, her eyes twinkled with light as she regaled us through the operas of Salzburg, the streets of Paris, the summer of Malaga. It felt like spring in Sausalito. She led the path to her home, where she drew me into lines, black and white for that is her world now. And all around her, the walls were adorned with colors of a different decade, a different continent she had captured and removed from time. We will meet again today, to talk, to listen to Tango and share a cup of tea.

But what about the others? What about me? All the lonely people......where do they all belong.

Blood, Borscht and the year of the Brave - 2012

"Mommy, I'm OK, but all my friends are dead." - 6 year old survivor, Sandy Hook Elementary School, December 14th, 2012.

Courage.

It is not a display of strength, rather an acknowledgement of humility.
In Courage, we learn of fear; Courage we find when faced with hate, pain, sadness, anger.
In Courage, I acknowledge emotion, acknowledge weakness and know the truth that something outside of me, can hold me, move me but it can never conquer that immutable inimitable me that is here, now and eternal.


2012 has given me this gift of knowledge. I know now that I know nothing of Courage.

Before this dawn, I was increasingly pompous; believing I am the brave, walking alongside the brave. With every pain conquered, I congratulated myself on my ability to survive. After all, isn't it quite enough to be dealt with change, death, separation, illness, love, loss... and still not have forgotten to smile?

With such naive ramblings, convinced of my invincibility, I undertook the "Borscht" journey. The tasks appeared to be quite daunting ...not for the faint of the heart, I boasted! I delegated as much of the work as I could, putting of the final moments of opening the foil and touching the blood red beets, indelibly staining my hands. I trembled in fear gazing at the post-Borscht nightmarish counters and floors. But blood washes away; the counters restored to like new again, and I greedily grabbed credit for the Borscht, an unparalleled success.

And then it was time to serve the soup. I looked around and within, and wondered who would be worthy of a seat at His table, to partake of a true covenant of blood and courage? Not I, not I.

That teacher, who shielded her 6yr old children from death at the cost of her own life. Yes, her. Those children who huddled together in strength when faced with a fear they knew nothing of, yes them. Those parents who can still breathe, love and forgive, yes them. Nirbhaya, who didn't lose her light and her will to live, despite being touched by the hands of evil, yes her. Yes them, all of them and countless of them who know not just an "I", but who have found the oneness of us. And only oneness can be served to them, as truth, love and humanity.

If I could make such a Borscht every day and every night, from scratch, without help, without fear and serve it to all those whose light is a beacon of hope..... perhaps one day the color of my blood could be the same as theirs.

"I want to live" - Damini, the fearless 'Nirbhaya', New Delhi, December 2012 and for all time.



[For the authentic Borscht recipe used in my experiments with the beets, visit - http://russianmomcooks.com/2012/04/06/borsch/]