Only those Momma invited shared in the fortune reading.
- Eating With The Angels.
All who took part were amazed at her coffee--it was dark, bitter, hot, and energizing, they said. But there was something else--beginning the ritual and drinking the coffee, the "sippers" said made them feel "uneasy," "anxious," "unsettled"--the apprehension that one has on "a first date. At the end of the ritual, she would have answered the question and told them their heart's desire. The one that she read that stopped her fortune readings was particularly accurate, or so it seemed.
Vincent and Susan had been married for five years; they had a three-year-old son. They were friends of friends, and they had stopped on their way to the East Coast to see their parents. My mother made Turkish coffee and went through the ritual--bringing out cups and saucers, filling the cups, and giving the instructions.
Susan went first and hers was the "married with children" fortune telling--the wife and mother who would have another child, a girl, Momma said--oh, and they would be moving to the East Coast soon--a new job.
When it came time for Vincent's cup, Momma spent a long time staring at the inside of the cup. She finally turned to me and, in Assyrian, her native Aramaic language, she asked, "How long have they been married? Momma turned to Vincent. Vincent did get a job teaching in the East, and he and Susan did have a daughter the year they moved.
Chocolate Heaven Cookies: eat with the angels – Blueprint
They divorced two years later, and he married a former student and bought a house two blocks away from Susan. Susan sent Momma Christmas cards every year after the visit. One day I saw Momma on a ladder, putting the demitasse cups up on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinets. I asked her why. I pray when I look in those cups and I listen. Then a voice, not my own, talks to me and tells me what I see.
It's not 'seeing,' exactly--it's like a dream, and I just repeat what's in my mind's eye. And if you know your own heart, you don't need me. And if you don't know your own heart, you don't need me. All I know is what God shows me. That's all they need to know. Momma knew something about angels and love. She sensed that force so strongly, she could sense a parallel universe where meanings and symbols held a multitude of this world's harmonies--revealing some of the depths of the laws of love that govern this world. She saw a stream of personal memories join the current of spiritual memories, and her awareness, unlike her personal memories, came from a shared source.
In that state she knew she was connected in essence to all essences. She became aware after that reading that she was not separate. And when she read what was in their future, she read what was in their hearts, and she broke--broken-hearted at her own complicity. She had misread her angels with her own desires. But those desires led her to understand better the ways she had to know to then feel responsible and compassionate.
The cups weren't useless; they could be provocative, purposeful, and perilous, depending on her own widening awareness of the whole. The divine image grid. Back to martyrs and lions. If we answer the call and go beyond our borders, we can get the angel. Hunters that we are, we will make them "food for thought. What is in them gives us what we are lacking. The angels have taken the visible to another dimension of reality--one that is invisible to us. Our intuition senses it but because we still believe and love the senses, we find the angels awful--the beginning of terror.
So if we can't see them, how can they enter us. We must eat them! Whatever way we can. We, the ovens and hearts hearths of the alchemists, take them in, digest them, heat them up with our bodies so we are them, they are burning up inside of us in every cell, in every atom. To know in this sense is to love so completely, without judgment, without condition of any sort, without expectation or possession, to love that which is created and uncreated so profoundly that its becoming and its way of becoming conscious could kill us, help us destroy ourselves.
And if we don't die from its overwhelming beauty and justice, we find we can live no other way, and that living without that sense of connectedness would make life intolerable.
When we do eat them, we will know it. Like lions to their prey, we will mutilate and shred them, stuffing their faces and entrails into our mouths unthinkingly.
Eating with the Angels
Think of your first love, the last one. What angel did you eat? How many mouthfuls before you knew you were eating each other alive--one or the other screaming in joyful terror or muted in pain, loving both the pain and the passion that accompanied it.
That's the other problem. Angels come in human form--our hearts. Angels are our necessary love equipment--a spiritual genetic super helix whose purpose it is to evolve to an awareness of its divine source and to remain lovingly vulnerable in its search. I can compare it best to when my oldest child was learning to walk; in that mode I can say with some authority that no one could teach her to walk.
She responded to her heart's own rhythms--calls, if you will. But there were times, especially at the beginning, when she would rise to her feet, see the surrounding terrain in a new and altered state of consciousness--and in delight. She would move, again with delight, but suddenly, slipping and falling, she would fall backward and bang her head on the floor. If you have ever seen a child who is just learning to walk fall, then you know the look of outrage, one in which she is certain that she has been punished and unjustly.
Learning to walk means falling, it means misunderstanding, it means it has its own punishments and its own rewards. Loving is the beginning of learning to walk vulnerably--angels, our call to get up, search. All we can know is that we must connect to the All-one that has been seemingly withdrawing, abandoning, unnameable, inaccessible, except as we learn to take it in. And just as Alice, at the threshold of Wonderland, we might get too big to enter or become so small we will float in through the keyhole.
- Eating Angels | Sarah A. Odishoo?
- Eating With The Angels by Sarah-Kate Lynch - Penguin Books New Zealand.
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We simply don't know enough until we follow what we love, in no matter what form or message it comes. Angels may be the divine hiding in the ordinary vastness within and outside our being, and we don't know what we are eating, nourished as we are by the extraordinary. Odishoo is a poet and writer. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee.
Hurtak, The Book of Knowledge: The Keys of Enoch i So if we are born with a spiritual genetic helix--a God gene--and if we evolved to become conscious that we had a choice--to choose to reflect the image of God or to choose not to reflect--and we chose to break the mirror of that reflection--then what? She was dead-but her face-her face was painted white-I never saw her like that-and, boy, did we crack up-but Leslie-I never saw him cry before-but he did-I didn't mean to laugh, honest, I didn't mean to-" He started sobbing and he couldn't stop-the more he tried to stop, the more he shook-trying-I threw my arms around his shoulders and held him.
He was shaking so hard- "Don't, Chuckie, don't-you didn't do anything wrong-and you don't know what happened to her-nobody knows-that's her body-but Leslie's mom-she hasn't left him-she just went back to God-" iii When I said that to him I didn't know what I was saying--the words tumbled from another place into the space between us. We didn't go back to the railway tracks after that. Her instructions were simple: Ask a question that is important before you drink the coffee.
Don't tell any one what the question is. Sip the coffee to the dregs. Then make a wish. She would end with, "Then I will tell you your heart's desire. Am I a 'Big Fish'? Maybe a small pond. And you love to teach, yes? But Connie also has a hankering for something with a bit more zest, something muscled and tanned with silver hair and an honest heart going by the name of Luca. All second honeymoons should be so sweet! Back home in New York, however, there's more than amore on Connie's plate and none of it to her taste.
Her husband is gone, her lover is a stranger, her mother is disappointed. Connie has lost sight of the simple things in life but can the cruellest of blows bring them back?
See a Problem?
Or is it too late? A mouth-watering novel about love, food, heartbreak. Also by Sarah-Kate Lynch.