Alchemy

I have buttermilk I need to use. How do you turn aging buttermilk, this morning's leftover oatmeal, a few frozen raspberries, a lot of geriatric strawberries, maybe some flour and butter and eggs into something like palatable food? A coffeecake? A quick bread? Sure. That's pretty easy. Baking and cooking are a lot like magic. Well, really more like alchemy.
As defined in my beloved but ancient and obscure Winston Dictionary, "alchemy" is alternately from the Old French "alquimie," the Arabic "alkimia," or the Greek "khemia," a mingling or pouring together. It is defined there as "1.) the chemistry of the Middle Ages popularly associated with magic, and especially devoted to the elixir of life... 2.) the professed art of transmuting, or changing, the common metals into gold..." Yesterday Sparky magicked a little cocoa powder and old milk and cornstarch into wonderful pudding, and today I will bake the aforementioned cake. We are alchemists, turning base materials into elixirs of life, food for the body.
So what about the other daily materials of life? The view from our windows, whether of city streets or dripping green leaves. The fading flowers of late summer in gardens or abandoned lots. The faces of those we love, whether sleeping or laughing or in a snit because we've forgotten to turn on the dishwasher. The drive to work, and the ragged man we see offering to squeegee our car windows for a dollar at a traffic light. All this can be magicked as well, turning the base metals of our lives into gold, the elixir of life, food for the soul. That's what committing Acts of Attention will do for us, and the writing, and the drawing. Make us into alchemists of our own lives.
So today, perform some Alchemy. Take stock of the leftover moments, the minor bits and pieces of the every day. What's there for you to make something out of? Is it the trip to the mall to get emergency school supplies, where you rushed through Macy's to the dollar store, but stopped to spray some new, citrusy perfume on your wrists? Is it the slog through the rain to get your dogs some exercise, and the peculiar grace of the dusky light in the forest? Add up the tiny, lucid and lovely moments. You may find more than you think possible. Then write them, draw them. Let them become your elixir of life, and you the alchemist.