A Spiritually Enlightening Online Magazine. January's Theme: "Path"
Volume 9 Issue 2 ISSN# 1708-3265

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Illuminations Aleesha Sattva About the Cover Claudette Dean Shhh… Self Is Speaking Dj Brown-Jewett Finding The Way Home Julie Hoyle The Pain of Why John Ptacek And Then I Grew a Pair! David Reber Mystical Paths Cheryl Jewett-Brown Ph.D. Two Poems; Love and Meant to Be Jennifer Kusz The Garden Parzival Sattva Pet-Sense Jean Hofve, DVM Let's Talk Tarot Marcia McCord Living… Naturally Nicole Gardner Lifetalks Dawn Baumann Brunke Walk Your Talk Aleesha Sattva Po and the Stones Phil Kotofskie Wiccan Voices Crystal Blanton, HPs Meditate a Moment Parzival Sattva Password Deva Premal Oasis Gary Stroutsos

Po and the Stones ~ Message from Mexico ~ with Phil Kotofskie A few weeks ago I purchased a half-gallon of Mexican Praline ice cream. Pralines and Cream ice cream being one of my favourites, I wondered how the new flavour would differ. Also curious, to me, was how I intended to try the flavour, yet forgot about it each time I bought ice cream. Such forgetting signals something I may not be seeing in life. The first bite tasted great: pralines! Then I bit into a chunk of Mexican burned milk candy, leche quemada. Yuck! Although I eat and enjoy most foods, this was not one of them. I finished the bowl, then wondered what to do with the ice cream, a premium regional brand that always included generous chunks of cookies, chocolate, nuts, or in this case, candy. A few days later I considered my disgust at biting into the soft, brown candy. As usual, my question "Why?" opened me to experiential answers. I recalled walking with my family through the streets of Nogales, Mexico, as a young boy. After listening to a man's pitch to rent space next to his photogenic donkey, we worked through the crowd into an open area filled with vendor tables. Viewed from my shorter boyhood height, the tables seemed to hold endless treasures. Vendors vied for attention, waving products in their hands and shouting prices. Merchants dickered with customers, who bought, pondered, or walked away. Silver jewelry sparkled in the hot air. Line after line of carved stone figures stood ready to come home with us, including my favourite, the chess sets. Marionettes caught my eye: mythological figures, Mexicanos in diverse garb and animals promised fun if only I could take one home. So far hounding my mother yielded no treasure. "We'll shop around, then buy where we can get the best deals," Mom said. Once again I spotted the light brown bars of candy I had been trying to taste all morning. Mom didn't think my sister or I would like the candy. "Can I pleeeeease have some of that?" I said for the umpteenth time. The hounding finally paid off and Mom let me buy a bar. As I took a bite, I anticipated such wonderful, creamy sweetness from the mysterious candy. "Yuck!" I puckered at the soft, dry, grainy texture and bland flavour. How could such pretty candy taste so terrible? It wasn't sweet! I tried to eat it, but checked to make sure the vendor wasn't looking and spit the mouthful into the gutter. "Here's the candy," I said, handing it to Mom. "No, you wanted it, now you carry it," she said with a knowing look on her face. Angry to be wrong, I tensed up, a reaction that has faded with decades of rash choices catalogued in my bones. With a twinge of guilt—wasting food—and with Mom's permission, I threw the candy into a smelly garbage can. Over the years I resampled leche quemada a few times, but disliked it. Upon recalling the Mexican candy incident, I experienced a rush of my feelings and thoughts at the time—rather than vividly returning as we have here. I smiled at my childhood ignorance of how we suffer due to our expectations. Since I was raised eating U.S. candy bars and homemade treats, I expected a flavour within that family. When the candy tasted nothing like the imaginary flavours I anticipated, my disappointment masked the true flavour. Thus, I disliked the candy without having really tasted it. Nowadays I understand this process of creating unhappiness for ourselves. However, back in Nogales that day I felt pure disgust, free of understanding why. The recollection presented a priceless look at Phil sowing the seeds of his own discontent. Would remembering change my experience of the candy? I let the question rest, went about life, then one day remembered the ice cream in the freezer. I dished out a bowl, bit into the first chunk and laughed when I found that it tasted okay after all. Burned milk candy may not be something I eat often, but I enjoyed it. My disgust at leche quemada forty-odd years ago bookmarked boyhood impressions of the sights, sounds and smells of Nogales, Mexico. And I didn't waste the ice cream. Phil Kotofskie is a longtime student of life. His sharing is based on years of working with himself in diverse jobs and relationships ranging from Army Soldier to Overnight Grocery Stocker, from spouse to stranger. His specialty is everyday life as a spiritual path. Phil is a Reiki Master who offers healing assistance and a musician who plays didgeridoo and West African drums. He is currently finishing a book with the Stones that guides the reader to answer the question "Who am I?" Phil lives in Tucson, Arizona with Popurrie and the Stones and can be contacted via email.

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