1-26-2013

Three cheers for the simple joys of domesticity! Radio 4 plays a panel documentary about Romulus and Remus, the tea kettle gurgles to a boil, I fold my various jumpers and arrange my new-bought groceries in a pretty array over the chest and microwave. The dairy items I have had to put in the fridge, understandably, and the strawberries, but as for the rest, I think I shall leave it where it lies, a pleasing produce patchwork, a testament to ethical consumerism and a hint at yesterday's lesson learned. Everything we do is significant; everything matters to the severest degree. The tidy bags of seed and grain are organic, as are the biscuits and soups; the strawberries are American grown, as are the rolled oats; the honey is raw and fair-trade; every item, save the one concession of mandarin oranges, is carefully chosen to cause the least harm as best I can foresee it.

"Do I dare disturb the universe?" Oh, Eliot, we do not have any choice. In a minute there is not "time for decisions and revisions that a minute will reverse." Everything matters. You shall disturb the universe with every mouthful of peach. Pray, then, make the mouthful count. Sit in the aisle of the grocery store, on the tiles, crouched by buckwheat and hazelnut flours, sit and unfurl the story of the honey in both directions, both its history and its future. Ask yourself: what were the bees that made this comb? What were their dances? What their flowers? What was the ancestor that came before them? What was the need that gave them wings? What was the predator that couple-colored their backs? What were the blooms? What painted these blooms and numbered their petals? What was the soil from which the blooms grew? What were the micro-organisms that unapplauded nourished that soil? What was the sun that gave of itself to the leaves? What were the atoms that fused and fled and fed the chloroplasts on those filigreed flagstaffs? What hands dove for the honeycomb? What history had she who wore the netted mask? What parents and what progeny? What battles did her great-uncles fight? What poetry did her foremothers know? And ask yourself: what shall become of this honey, once the jar is in my basket? What shall the taste of it, dripped thick on coconut butter and rice cakes, do to me? What peace and comfort shall it foster? What satiation? What cells shall it vitalize? What energy produce? What shall be accomplished with that energy? What strength? What sorrow? What love? What shall become of my body with the honey in it? What shall become of the million dominoes the honey-eating sends toppling? What shall become of the honey-eaten world, and the universe, and of the future itself? How much depends upon a jaw of raw honey? So much. So much. Everything matters so very much.