Goose dinner
Remember how we spoke about the traditions that come organically into our lives? Not the forced ones, the real ones. Last night, we went to our dear friend’s for goose dinner, a German tradition in the finest sense. Last year, she had us over and entertained us with a shadow puppet play along with a big fat roast goose and sauerkraut, red cabbage, brussel sprouts, Moroccan Chicken, cous cous, potatoes, and cakes galore. This year we had the same delicious feast in her house that is so warm with all of her beautiful things, pharmacy cabinets she found that hold her china and crystal, a menorah she came across in San Francisco, a modern light over her traditional wood dining table. Someone said, “It’s a woman’s house.” And? I thought.
Instead of a play, we all brought a poem for the occasion – I brought one to dedicate to my mom:
Prayer by Mary Oliver
May I never not be frisky,
May I never not be risqué.
May my ashes, when you have them, friend,
and give them to the ocean,
leap into the froth of the waves,
still loving movement,
still ready, beyond all else,
to dance for the world.