Among The Dead And The Living Encased

[Pavan Outlaw]

After years of writing about anti-GMO sentiment in the US and elsewhere, I felt it was time to have some fun with biotech. These plants are among the first direct-to-consumer GM organisms you can buy, and they certainly seem like the coolest.

But when I unboxed my two petunias this week, they were in bad shape, with rotted leaves. And in a day, they were dead crisps. My first attempt to do biotech at home is a total bust, and it cost me $84, shipping included.

My plants did arrive in a handsome black box with neon lettering that alerted me to the living creature within. The petunias, about five inches tall, were each encased in a see-through plastic pod to keep them upright. Government warnings on the back of the box assured me they were free of Japanese beetles, sweet potato weevils, the snail Helix aspera, and gypsy moths.

My fault? Perhaps. But I had no idea when Light Bio would ship my order. And others have had similar experiences. Mat Honan, the editor in chief of MIT Technology Review, told me his petunia arrived the day his family flew to Japan. Luckily, a house sitter feeding his lizard eventually opened the box, and Mat reports the plant is still clinging to life in his yard.

When full of the trials of life, it is a sobering thing to walk through a cemetery. It is best to do so when it is quiet, on a weekday, and, at this time of year, at twilight if possible. The experience will offer an antidote to much that ails us.

The older the cemetery, the greater the sense of history: cemeteries testify both to time passing and to its inexorable progress. It is impossible when in such a place not to pause, if but for a moment. And, after pausing, it is equally impossible not to look upon the inscriptions: the names, the dates, brief snatches carved in stone of the lives of people who were once a beloved husband, a much-missed daughter, an infant dead soon after birth. Most inscriptions record little more than the date upon entering this world and the date of passing from it; even these dates now are often obscured by lichen or worn away by wind and rain.

Nevertheless, for Catholics, this is not the end of the story; we believe in a God that escaped the tomb, rose from it, transcended death, and, is proclaimed the Author of Life. Looking across the many graves in a cemetery, one can seem to catch a glimpse, if only for a moment, of what it will be like on that much anticipated Great Day. Then those who lie in dust, whether encased in a grand tomb or in a humble unmarked grave, shall hear the same Trumpet blast and its summons to gather.

Passing through the cemetery gates, I returned once more to the electric bright bustle of city streets. As I did so, I turned back to gaze for a last time upon the graves and the tombs, the angels and crosses, all now silhouetted against the darkening evening sky.

It was then I grasped that here was no sad relic of former glory, no sad tribute to what once was, but rather a monument to the eternal future, to the glory yet to come; and I realised, too, that, in contrast around us we have here no abiding city. These cemeteries, sombre but tranquil resting places, point to that fact. They point, to something else besides, something more wondrous still, speaking, as they do, of a greater beauty than anything this earth can offer.

It was with these thoughts that I walked on, my heart lighter than when I had entered that dormitory of the dead; my troubles temporarily quelled; my spirit at rest; and my soul once more that of a child awaiting a promise.

Figs, honey, saffron, check check check. Wait, it's amber and not honey? Okay then. If honey does the indolic thing on you and you don't like it, this might be a good one to try. The saffron isn't as bitter as I was expecting, it just darkens the mix up enough to keep it out of fig jam territory. It's really lovely, and I predict people are going to react to me with "you always smell so delicious" rather than "what perfume are you wearing?"

the saffron in this strikes me as particularly hot and red at first, uniquely spicy at a low simmer but still recognizably saffron. as it mingles with that deeply rich, sweet fig it throws me a bit of a christmas vibe, like an eccentrically spiced figgy pudding. right now it's like something your crazy aunt might bring for the holiday meal that sounds weird but is actually delicious. (it's me. i'm the crazy aunt bringing the weird/delicious.)

as it settles in, the fig pudding recedes a bit and the amber comes out. i'd never smell this and say "hey, there's amber!" but it's a dryish lovely perfume background that shifts this firmly out of edible territory as it blooms. the saffron is less hot, but still spicier than i usually find saffron to be.

Sweet burning fig! Fig on fire. I keep thinking I lit a fig candle. It almost smells like apple cider, but that's fig encased in saffron amber. I never thought I'd love this, but it's delicious. This is so different and so comforting. It's heavy on fig, but not heavy in scent. I find it rather light, airy, but strong. It's a christmas dessert and a summer day. It is the opposite of the evening star among the dead. It's very alive. I may have to get a bottle cause this is so different than anything I've had from BPAL.

I was hoping for more of a fig center scent. Unfortunately the saffron quickly surpasses the fig as the strongest note on me in this scent. The fig is still there and noticeable, while the amber is purely in the background, softening the scent. Overall, I'd describe this as more fig fell into the saffron jar than saffron infused fig jam.

This smells musty yet dry on me, like old carpet that really needs to be ripped out and is full of decades of dust and dirt. Dry, dusty, powdery, and sickly sweet with a weird spiciness like old potpourri. I scrubbed this off after only a couple minutes because I just couldn't handle it. The sweetness of the fig with the powderiness of the amber and the dry spiciness of the saffron is not working for me at all.

Send your thoughts to Letters to the Editor. Learn moreMay 7, 2022Share on FacebookShare on TwitterEmail to a friendPrint Few, if any, aspire to writing obituaries, a dead-end job for sure. When, 25 years ago, I was asked to perform this service for the deceased members of our Mercy community, I agreed to give it a try. My hesitancy was born of the fact that my life ministry in health care did not seem to prepare me for such a solemn task. Now, approximately 125 obituaries later, I gratefully acknowledge this as a life-enriching experience.

The first thing I received on my assignment was the factual unfolding of each sister's life on an index card: date of birth, parents' names, entrance into community life and ministerial assignments. But surely there was more. Who really knew her? What did she enjoy? Singing? Reading? Cooking? Travel? What were her successes? Her disappointments? What can we learn from her? What can I say that will give a glimpse of her soul? A treasure hunt of conversations, photographs, newspaper clippings, scrapbooks, diplomas, awards and sometimes small items she enjoyed to be treasured by those who would follow. Then, weaving the remnants of her life would result in a unique tapestry to be treasured by all who would follow.

Now the richness of the numerous obituaries I wrote during those 25 years lies is encased in the community's archives and I pause to remember the life-giving spirits of these dedicated women. Let me share with you a reflection on several who are symbols of the love and inspiration I knew in recording their lives.

When a sister I'll call Mary Rose died, I could write of her as a nurse who quietly spent her life in health care ministry. She was pleasant, unassuming and patient as she cared for the sick in several Mercy hospitals, usually in charge of a nursing unit, pleased she could be of comfort.

But few knew her well. Some recalled that she learned to play a concertina and would occasionally bring it to community gatherings for a little singalong. We also discovered a number of poems she had written, some of them published by the Iowa Poetry Association. She wrote of clouds and sunshine, of faraway places, of dreams. These glimpses of a treasured life, of seeing beauty in small places live on.

A community member I'll call Sr. Mary Alexis enjoyed dancing and brought love and life wherever she went. Who could resist her smile, her enthusiasm? Why did she die so young? We would have enjoyed her beautiful spirit many more days. Glimpses of her joy lighten our hearts.

Sr. Mary Noreen spent about 50 years as a primary grade school teacher. She always remained young at heart. Her classroom radiated warmth and creativity, was always attractive with brightly colored bulletin boards, a fish tank, games to play when weather would not allow for outdoor recess.

When she died at 95, few of her contemporaries survived, but hundreds of men and women who learned to read and write, add and subtract remembered this little woman who made learning an adventure. To experience the wonder in a child who discovers the joy of reading, the pride of parents when their children really enjoyed school, the knowledge that these little people would build on a solid foundation of the faith and learning experienced here. These were her soul treasures. And ours.

There was an abundance of material from which to write about Sr. Jean Marie, a woman so gifted that someone remarked she could have managed General Motors. She did, indeed, have leadership skills that matched and often surpassed those of her male counterparts. Her ministry incorporated moving in prestigious circles, endless board meetings, difficult decisions and countless miles of national and international travel.

Yet it was not her marvelous accomplishments that made her a beloved community member. She enjoyed simple pleasures such as playing cards or going on a picnic and was reluctant to share some of her exciting travel experiences lest others think she was enjoying privileges they would not have. She once commented to a friend that it was often "lonely at the top." Retirement years, however, gave her the opportunity to be with her sisters and enjoy just being herself. Why do we not really get to know each other, regardless of the positions we hold? And why do we wait so long?

c80f0f1006