A baby bonnet, autumn pears and a book about changing seasons
One thing that I struggle with is slowing down. It's strange, because when I do, it's always wonderful. I found some beautiful pears the other day and made a snack with pears and cheese. I then ate it slowly, without doing anything else. It was the best snack I had all year.
The pear was plump and ripe. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, allowing the pear's aroma to weave stories of orchards and harvests in the tapestry of my mind. Each bite was a little, surprising, and it carried notes of honeyed sweetness and subtle tang. The juice trickled down my chin. How are pears so wonderfully perfect in autumn?
How to eat a pear
Ingredients:
1 ripe pear
A tranquil setting
Instructions:
Select Your Pear:
Choose a ripe pear that appeals to your senses with its aroma and appearance.
Find Your Space:
Seek a peaceful setting to enjoy your pear, free from distractions.
Engage Your Senses:
Close your eyes, inhale the pear's fragrance deeply, and explore its texture with your fingertips.
Savor Each Bite:
With eyes closed, take mindful bites, focusing on the flavors, sensations, and the symphony of senses it creates.
Reflect and Be Grateful:
Conclude your mindful pear eating by opening your eyes, reflecting on the experience, and expressing gratitude for this sensory journey.
What I am making
This week, I got to meet my best friend's first child, a daughter with the name of a flower. The encounter with the tiny creature was magical. I wished her that the colorful tapestry of life would unfurl endless possibilities.
Making this bonnet, which as the pattern Anker's Bonnet by PetiteKnit, was so delightful. I didn't get gauge, so I needed to fudge it as usual. A couple of rips back, I understood the construction and the pattern.
I love these lightbulb moments, when something mysterious becomes clear as day. Now I kind of want to make another one. Happily, the bonnet was too small, so I will *need* to do just that!
Book of the week
I read this book in Spanish and the only other language I could find it in was French, but I still think it is worth mentioning, because it's a beautiful essay.
Sekiguchi translates the Japanese word Nagori as the nostalgia for leaving the season that has just passed.
She talks about the relationship between seasonal food, nature, and our emotions associated with the changing seasons. Seasonless, always available, food is portrayed as a refuge, a constant in a world of change. However, the author argues, this just makes life monotonous and uniform. Boring.
Seasons are tied to specific natural elements in specific states, and when we cease to perceive the changes of those elements, our emotions fade into indifference, the author argues. When we stop looking and observing, we stop living.
The concept of “nagori,” which relates to the desire to remain in the season, is particularly intense in some cultures, such as the French during the summer. People may feel nostalgic about the last harvest of tomatoes, for example, as if it marks the departure of the last warm rays of the sun. It's not just that nature inspires these emotions, but that we are more open and receptive to the season's influence during these times.
The text also touches on the concept of “omiokuri,” a Japanese tradition of extending one's gaze or presence until the person leaving is out of sight, which leaves a lasting impression and connection even after parting. This is contrasted with the Western tradition of a quick farewell, like turning a page abruptly.
Below, a few excerpts, translation my own.
Every time I went to my grandfather's house, when we said goodbye he would omiokuri until I finished climbing the hill and we stopped seeing each other. The look prolongs the bond between two people, even after parting.
Is it because we Japanese have no other gesture to mark separation, like the kiss? Be it as it may, the separation leaves a trail, just like the trail of a comet; it's not like turning the page with a sudden gesture.
We could say that a season is the time of emotions. Botanical temporality and its oscillation, which moves us, are opposed to historical and biological temporality.
It is true that the seasons allow us to understand, however little, the life of nature that surrounds us, while plants lead a life so completely and radically foreign to ours that it transcends our imagination due to their ability to clone itself, to live for hundreds of years, to remain dormant and subsist exclusively through the roots, and then sprout again or be transplanted. The seasons are bridges that link us with other living beings.
What about you? What changing natural elements have you noticed lately?
May your days be filled with mindful moments. Until next time, be present.
Sky