Remember, I am a reader, not a writer. There is a good reason that the description of this blog includes the self-deprecating adjective that describes the commentary.
But, I do know how to read. And this is my first exposure to Charles Bowden. What I have discovered is that he is an acquired taste. I will read this essay many times over the next few years and months as I try to discover some depths that should be there, but that I can't seem to plumb just yet.
Charles lost a string of friends over a very short period of time. In this essay, he intertwines their waning lives with his unplanned exotic desert garden and his affinity for preparing and eating simple colorful powerful foods, mostly Italian, thought the essay opens with a preparation of machaca as the backdrop to introducing Art (a dying friend, not the practice of creation.)
Mr. Bowden's descriptions of his friends were poignant, sad, and emotional enough. His descriptions of food and the process of preparation were distinct and powerful like the flavors he describes (though it did bother me that the polenta required white wine for the sauce so soon after he dismissed white wine as untrustworthy.) His garden, in my mind's eye, is a massive arrangement of flora and earth and stone that becomes a natural setting for reverie and reflection. I could picture Mr. Bowden writing this essay there, under the shade of his Argentine mesquite.
The problem that I have with the essay is making all three of these elements come together into a cohesive whole. Maybe that's why I plan on rereading this essay over the coming months. I think that this essay does harmonize its elements. But I believe they do that most effectively, perhaps effortlessly, in the heart of Charles Bowden.
Words cannot help me truly know these men. Words cannot impart the flavors of the Italian dishes, which, Mr. Bowden apparently understands, because he provides us some back of the napkin styled recipes. Finally, without the experience of gardening, of the backbreaking labor of stacking rock and shoveling soil, without the satisfaction of sitting amongst your arranged creation, however unplanned, one simply cannot fathom the sacredness of such a place, even if, as in my mind, I see a garden hose laying on the gravel path and a pair of soiled gardening gloves on the rock wall.
Yes, there is power in these images, but they are pale reflections of the experiences. Mr. Bowden admits that failing within the essay as he relates attempting to describe his precious night blooming cactus to his inexperienced friends.
As a matter of fact, as I talk myself through this essay, I can sense that Mr. Bowden has the same issues regarding words of comfort that I am having with his essay. He doesn't want, need, or care for explanations about how his friends no longer suffer, about how they have gone on to better places. They don't soothe, they don't heal. They mask the real at best. At worst, they're a dishonest expression, no, suppression of grief. Or maybe they're used in the genuine absence of grief. These are, after all, words that you are likely to hear from clinicians, counselors, pastors, and distant friends and relatives.
Give me that glass of wine, Charles. Let me help you slice the scallions. Let honest tears fall in mourning. Let the feelings of loss do their work on my heart. Let this happen while I watch the flowers bloom at night and close at dawn. While I think of my own childhood, my own city, I will eat with gusto, I will taste.
You've honored your friends, Charles Bowden, and you've made me rethink grieving. Thanks.
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