The sauce will burn if I’m not careful. It’s easy to make, you just boil down a large can of whole tomatoes with an onion cut into chunks until the liquid is reduced by half. Then throw it all, with half a stick of butter and a handful of fresh basil, and salt and pepper, into the Cuisinart and voila – the freshest tasting, easiest light tomato sauce ever, compliments of James Beard.

I’ve made it a million times. The only even vaguely tricky part is that you have to boil it hard enough and to get the liquid level down over the course of twenty

minutes or so, stir it once in a while so that it doesn’t stick, and pay attention so that you actually notice when the liquid level is right to move it from stove to Cuisinart. But who just watches the sauce, thinks about sauce when they cook? That’s my personal crime, really, I am the anti-zen. If I could just relax and be one with the process of cooking, which is occasionally quite a joy, everything would be fine. Well, at least the meals. But I’m a mother.

Tonight it’s sauteed chicken cutlets with linguine and fresh tomato sauce, spinach and watercress salad, and bread. I still have to make the dressing, the bread has to go in in five minutes, but maybe sooner since I can’t mind the bread and the cutlets and the pasta at the same time, they’re all pretty much five-minute items. So, turn down the oven and let the bread warm a little longer, no harm done. Pound the cutlets. Holler to the kids for one of them to put the butter and water on the table, and the other two can set it. I look through to the den, and I can see that they’re tuning into some science special on t.v.

Finally, I have the kitchen of my dreams – one that opens onto the den and the garden, an indoor-outdoor arena that helps me not feel like I’ve been quarantined while I spend a quarter of my life there. I can actually prepare meals and be a part of my small world at the same time, monitor the t.v. watching and sibling hijinks, fill in the calendar, return phonecalls and cook. In our old house, the door between the kitchen and dining room was so small and narrow that our gentle setter Ruby, who loved to lie precisely in that doorspace, could block my entire entry just by lying down. I think she knew it. Anyone who has ever mothered, or performed any significant childcare, knows that this one thing – dog in doorway - can be like water torture, because at 6 o’clock, it’s a law of physics or psyches or something, all young children begin to whine and fight and break things, credit card solicitation people call to see if you would just transfer any balance to kickstart your brand new account at the incredibly low interest rate of something.99%, your mother calls right behind them with that heavy, accusatory, you-never-call-me-so-I’ll-call-you tone, to make it sporting for you to serve two, three, or four different dinners to babes in highchairs, toddlers and maybe your spouse, while stepping over the dog. She knows I love her, so even a kick is unlikely to yield results. I learned to highstep and mediate fights and answer the phone and serve food simultaneously. Not resume-worthy, but certainly a jobskill of sorts.

This new space, though, is more beautiful and alluring than I had even hoped. My cool, chocolate concrete floors are acid-stained and scored in deep diamonds, creating a sense of ground and shade. Our walls, such as they are, are all creamy white; but in reality three walls are just all windows, reaching heights of twelve feet or more in parts of the den, creating a vast, three-faced lens onto the garden. Even here in the intense heat of Dallas it works because we are canopied by enormous oaks, so my view is just all shade and green except for those weighty trunks. If we were anywhere else, I would say we had a tropical house, with all this green and brown and white and light and shade. I can forget that we are landlocked.

I have it all now: husband, children, health, friends, doctorate, and finally, dappled light all day long. Aesthetically, it’s a treat to cook while the last long arms of the day reach across my counters.  As the sun dies it throws its rays upward, catching my fruitwood farm table and turning the wood to honey; then dusk eases into darkness, and candles with dinner.

It’s that light, working with light, that helps me feel at home. The sun hits certain angles, and when it strikes me I’m struck, in turn, by the force of love for my little tribe, and that force has to have an outlet. My only real relief is a range of small observances - of attention to light, to rhythm, to the balance of elements of earth, water, air and fire; to the sharing of flavors and beauty, to the creation of whole atmospheres in which people thrive. Timeless things. Somehow, I know about those things.

I think I got my training at the ranch. We would spend summers and holidays in those hills, alternately bored or thrilled by the vast emptiness of time in the country. The hills of the ranch aren’t like hills in the East. They’re not cozy, not verdant, not tame. Not like breasts, more like haunches: wide and spaceous, irregular, expansive. Just a few short million years ago, the place was all ocean, so evident in its contours are the silted swells and sandbars of an ancient sea bed. More than anything, though, those hills are just wild.

My sister and I would ride our horses everywhere, stopping to pee on strategically slanted rocks, or to collect fossils - stone bones of old clams or oysters; or we’d swim under the waterfall if the summer wasn’t a dry one. Inevitably, one of us would notice that the light was dwindling, and we would race, flat out, to reach home before the sun was gone. The most serious trouble you could get into was worrying Mother, or arriving late for dinner. Returning after dark would mean guilt on both counts – certain death- so we watched: we knew to pay attention when the day wound down. We would fly back on caliche clouds, through pecan groves, over the creekbed, behind the barns and back to the house as the rays went longer, then upward, then vanishing, the two of us madly wrenching off girth straps and tossing saddles upside down to dry, ambling bowlegged to beat the deadline of darkness. Our days’ adventures gave way to rest, and fires, and quiet. Without really planning, we ended up moving through light, through time, in a rich mix of adventure and shelter punctuated by the sun’s appearances and disappearances. We took so much in, took so much for granted, but somehow the linkage of light and rhythm, I must have soaked up through the skin.

Buckle down, dinner’s about five minutes out. Maybe six. The pasta water is boiling, good. The bread can go into the oven. The oil for the cutlets, good: hot, but not smoking too much. The flour mix is ready but lacks spice. More white pepper, more thyme. Douse the cutlets, ease them in. Shit! The salad dressing. I’ve still got to make the dressing. Stir the sauce. Don’t let it stick. Raise the volume – Kids! Seriously! Get the table set, NOW, and don’t forget the butter and the water! (Usual replies.)  No, not at the next commercial! NOW! Max, my youngest, races in to beat the others so he can light the candles.

Where is that blasted dressing jar? I don’t have time to go searching, not now. Oh, phew, there it is.  I can hear the trailer for the upcoming show, it’s going to be about killer whales. I’m distracted. Killer whales. Stir. Don’t stick. “Tonight, on Discovery, delve into the mystery of killer whales, the darlings of aquarium parks around the country. Why are they so difficult to breed in captivity? What can researchers tell us about these amazing creatures? What aspects of captivity seem to interfere with mothers’ ability to nuture their young? Learn how the latest findings by researchers are helping aquarium managers feel more hopeful. This, and more, only on Discovery.” 

Idiots. Get down the oil, vinegar, dry mustard, measuring cups and spoons. Whack the garlic clove, drop it into the jar. I’m not an animal lover, don’t even like science shows, even though I’m a scientist. But I gotta hand it to them, they’ve got my attention. Are we down to this? Scientists, supposed to be so smart, supposed to be committed to the systematic practice of intelligent observation, are thinking this is a mystery? Who, I want to know, would do well in captivity? Why would mothers and infants be any different?  I mean really, if you were a whale, and you were a mother, would you feel motivated to swim, to teach, to nurture a baby, so that it too could grow up to hang out in a small pool? When you were a whale?

Tears come, just like that. Tears? Weird; I would wonder, but I have to concentrate on other things. But then I circle back, I wonder anyway. Why this? In my own research, I’ve asked questions nearly as stupid, written whole papers even, just as obvious. Tears? I don’t know why (yes you do), but sure enough I stand, gazing over the back of the sofa bearing the heads of my lounging kids with all their homework detritus, my own pots simmering behind me, mouth open, then covered, while the sauce drips off my spoon onto the floor. I get a glimpse of the screen, an arc of black and white over blue, and I know why I cry. There she is, and I’m with her. Tears. This is how the trouble starts, and dinner can get wrecked.

Backhand the tears, wipe your nose. Not now.You can’t do this now. Flip the cutlets. Measure the oil, measure the vinegar, fast, careful. It’s all in the proportions. Salt, pepper, mustard, sugar - measure and dump. Why now, why now? Is this some conspiracy to unseat my reputation as a great cook, destroy my lovely scene? Turn the cutlets one more time. Shake the dressing, what else. Oh the colander to the sink to catch the linguine, and platters to the oven. Hot food. Timing.

Hot. I remember, it was hot that day. I just wanted a little time on the porch to get the breeze. I didn’t want to go, I hate amusement parks; but there they all were, lined up in front of me like little owls in the night, unblinking, solemn; a row of round brown eyes, waiting. Even my husband, that kid, queued up with them. I knew this porch rocker would be more fantasy than reality. Oh, all right I give up. “Sea World, it is, then. But you’ve got to promise to stick with us, not get lost. Especially you, Max.”

My admonitions are wasted. They squeal, hop and scatter in all directions to collect cameras, caps, precious allowance savings. I ponder my last brief moment of tranquility and shove aside my grownup ambivalence about circus acts.

“Ready ready ready!” exclaims Max, our youngest. Of course he’s the fastest, he only has to tie his shoes. He leaves the real chores to the older two. I vow privately to buy a bottle of champagne if he hits his eighteenth birthday with no jailtime. The other two wing in, shoving past him to pry me loose. “Let’s go, Mom, c’mon, let’s go! You’re gonna love it!” They make a happy deathgrip on each of my arms, ready to defy physics to get me up faster. 

Oh, goody. Dan and I exchange that look. There are moments when it really is better to be loved, and disturbed, than alone and tranquil. Who could dam up all that delight? Take me, I’m ready. Seatbelts, everybody.

Anyone who has ever been to an amusement park knows that getting through college is easier than planning your day there. Substantial strategy, coordination and focus are necessary to render a satisfactory solution. We chart a course to make all the shows: Shamu first, dolphins second – get food on the way – picnic in the middle, walruses third, skiers dead last, fireworks at sunset. Check. Sunscreen. Check. Water bottles. Check. Visors. Check. Lost and found tags in case of separation. Check.

We set off for Shamu stadium. We make our way with no mishaps to the arena, the largest plastic theatre I have ever seen. We find seats close, of course, who wants to sit far away? Dan is in his element, smiling and snapping a shot of the kids that I know won’t come out since he can’t see and never stops moving; and he’s chatting up the trainers seated along the water’s edge, telling stories, offering up jokes and even giving advice, too, I can see by their polite expressions. He didn’t get the nickname “Camp Director” for nothing.

10:15. Showtime in 15 minutes. We listen to the stream of loudspeaker pitches of the wonders of Shamu, the special events of the day (Beluga show at noon!), the admonitions to steer clear of the splash zone if you are easily frightened or want to stay dry. O.k. My stomach is beginning to turn. I want to go, it’s as bad as I thought, maybe worse. I think I’m having an allergic reaction, it’s the plastic, too much plastic. The aversion sets in. I want to go. I stuff it. Your kids deserve this, it’s for them, now you behave.

The kids ask, so I tell them yes, I’ve seen a whale once before: I was in the Galapagos, on a cruise. We spotted a whale, which at first glance I had thought to be an island. No, not a killer whale; but terrific to approach a living creature the same size as your ship. Awesome. I wondered privately, would Shamu be cute, like the picture on the airplanes? Or big, like a whale? Anyone could see that pool was seriously deep. But I didn’t know, I mean, how big, exactly? We wait. Petty bickering escalates to shoving. I mediate, but Hallie’s snowcone is a casualty. She frets, Dan flies to score a replacement, fast. Puh-lease.

Finally, the drums begin to roll, the announcer sets up the anticipation. The trainers all stand at alert. Their stillness conveys seriousness. Someone does a fancy hand motion; gate mechanisms, barely perceptible below the surface, begin shiftng in the pool, while the water surface unveils a serrated rift.  And then, in one enormous, wet instant, out of the water springs a whole whale, maybe six stories high. Twenty feet wide? Upright. Out of the water, a birth of Venus. My god, oh my god, she was beautiful.

In that moment, I, too, was swept up. Into some vastness - not with her, I was her: we were the same, merged in a telepathic communion. We left the arena of time and space. And in that moment, one infinite moment, we shared a reunion, of our ageless history; of purpose and rhythm and knowledge of the fabric of life, and love, and intimacy, and order, and beauty, and abundance. Ecstasy was our shared nature.

I wept, and the tears brought me back. I moved them away fast, not sure what might break this spell, before she went under again. I sobbed. Oh my god, oh my god. What was this? Who, now, was I? Confused and omniscient, I swayed between worlds, pondering my homecoming. In an instant, the ecstasy had inverted me, reshaped me. No longer a thing-person in a thing-world, wondering about an ephemeral spirit, I was I spirit-person in a sea-world, flowing through an array of things.

I began to laugh, and cry, tears of absurd dead reckoning running over me.  Here, in this saltwater circus, I had been initiated by a leaping, trained killer whale. My kids discovered me, laughed and elbowed each other, I couldn’t stem the tears before they caught me. They love to see me laugh  – because I snort when I laugh – and cry. Then we all laughed, because they had caught me crying, snotty, a mess.  Wiping back tears, trying to hide that, that - Jesus – the sauce! How much time has passed? Grabbing a glove I sling the boiling contents from the fire and scrape the bottom, checking for telltale resistance, tears the least of my concerns.

No, not scorched. I can’t go back. I can’t resist the pull. Ten years, ten years, and the love and longing and confusion just swim around in me, surfacing when  - damn. Just don’t go there. Drop it. Drop the linguine in now.

Steady. This is the home stretch, I’ve got my grip, I might just make it.  I allow the laundry list to surface. Teacher conferences tomorrow. After dinner, I need to wash Sara and Charlie’s soccer uniforms. Lecture prep. What is tomorrow’s, anyway? Oh, right, theories of personality formation, no prep needed. Finish the last three thank you notes for the school auction sponsors. Parent-teacher conferences, oh god, the carpool. I should’ve already arranged to trade carpool days with Susan if I have to be there at 8. And now I remember Susan can’t drive for me, anyway, Gus’s knee split open and she took him to the ER, Joan told me in the carpool line yesterday. Shit. Who can cover my elementary school one while I do these conferences at the other? Why do I have to have three kids in three schools? Shit, shit, shit. I should have arranged this earlier. God, I’m so disorganized. Is this what it means to love your children? Don’t go there, you’ll screw up dinner for sure. Just keep going. Out of stamps. Don’t relax after dinner so much that you forget to remind Max to wear his headgear. Change Sara’s orthodontist appointment.

Strain the linguine, get the platters out of the oven. Melt the butter into the sauce. Dump it into the Cuisinart. Puree. The other mothers just seem to do all of this better than I do. Not once have I ever heard any of them say, gosh, I don’t know how I can hold this all together. For them it seems easy. They talk about where to get good cheap haircuts, and who makes the best SUV, and why Cindy and Gary are having trouble. But they all act like it’s easy, I mean, it must be or they would say something, right? I think, well o.k., maybe I know, I’m a little neurotic. But really, should I do better at all these things? I want to be a good mother; but when will I know, how will I know, that I did a good job? And what does this have to do with being transported to some primordial bliss by a big fish? What can I show, what can I share, why does this not feel right? Oh, God how can I fashion a fit from all of this? Stop that! No big questions! Not now, just focus. Dinner. Small things. Pull the bread out. Wrap it up. Take the cutlets and lay them over the pasta on the platter. Make it pretty.

I think it’s o.k., the sauce still smells sweet; not burned. It makes a lovely red pool over the meat, and I drop the basil leaves on top. My husband calls good-naturedly from the bedroom. How much more time? Just a few minutes. Give me a few minutes.

• • • • •

© 2007 Kathryn Davison. All Rights Reserved.
Published with Permission from the Author.
To contact Kathy, please visit her website at www.toniccapital.com.

About Kathryn Davison, Ph.D.

Kathy is a global expert on holistic wealth creation and wealth structures, advocating a more human perspective on value. Her early work in health psychology revealed massive waste associated with the biomedical viewpoint, which spurred her to examine more carefully human biases that diminish social value. Today she functions as consultant, catalyst and curator, helping groups create success in healthier ways through her company, Tonic Capital.

Finding the Muses

Kathy wrote this piece for one of the first classes offered by ImagineU, Finding the Muses: A Four Week Meeting with Inspiration, in Winter 2007. This course is an exploration of the archetypal energy of creativity: the Muses and Memory. You can find out more about ImagineU courses here.

Note: The image used above is a Tlingit representation of a killer whale.