Traveling Onions
A poem on how to become a translucent person
Friends,
Years ago I heard the poet Naomi Shihab Nye speak at my small Christian college in the middle of nowhere Arkansas. We were in a glass-walled auditorium on the second floor above the president’s office, and you could see a whole canopy of trees behind her while she read. I don’t remember much about the specific poems she read that evening, but I do remember the quality of her presence. Nye seemed unencumbered, generous, present. When you talked with her, you were the only person in the world, and her kindness felt immediate and obvious.
I learned from the dean of the English Department that earlier in the day, she had refused a car and instead walked down Race Street for a few hours. Race Street—the paved thoroughfare most of only drove down in a blur on the way to Sonic for drinks or Walmart for dorm supplies. She walked, notebooks and papers in hand, making friends with locals and taking in all these mundane sights along the way.
I didn’t know how to write poems but I knew I wanted to be that way too, to not let ordinary things pass me by, to walk through the world with that kind of direct and open attention. How did she do it? How does any person? If I could ask her she’d probably say it takes practice just like anything else—one poem, one walk, one meal at a time.
Take care,
Michael
p.s. This month we’re celebrating National Poetry Month with letters on poems that start with simple food and spiral into spiritual wisdom. Missed the previous weeks? Here’s letters on radishes, grapefruit, and tomatoes.
“The Traveling Onion” by Naomi Shihab Nye “It is believed that the onion originally came from India. In Egypt it was an object of worship —why I haven’t been able to find out. From Egypt the onion entered Greece and on to Italy, thence into all of Europe.” — Better Living Cookbook When I think how far the onion has traveled just to enter my stew today, I could kneel and praise all small forgotten miracles, crackly paper peeling on the drainboard, pearly layers in smooth agreement, the way the knife enters onion and onion falls apart on the chopping block, a history revealed. And I would never scold the onion for causing tears. It is right that tears fall for something small and forgotten. How at meal, we sit to eat, commenting on texture of meat or herbal aroma but never on the translucence of onion, now limp, now divided, or its traditionally honorable career: For the sake of others, disappear.
When I think how far the onion has traveled
just to enter my stew today, I could kneel and praise
all small forgotten miracles,
From India to Egypt to Greece to Italy and onward….I can’t say I’ve ever thought about how a vegetable travels from one place to another. My sense of place and veggies is replaced with memories of grocery stores: plastic containers, rubber bands, the country of origin shrunk down to fine print. In this poem, Naomi Shihab Nye travels the other direction—from placeless stores to land, from the fluorescent aimless now to the long stretch of history. Where did my food come from? Who picked it? What’s the pilgrimage of a single onion anyway? If we let our minds go with her down this path toward small forgotten miracles, we might feel tempted to join her and bow.
crackly paper peeling on the drainboard,
pearly layers in smooth agreement,
the way the knife enters onion
and onion falls apart on the chopping block,
a history revealed.
Lindsey and I made curry this week—parsnips, carrots, rice, onion, and the best blend of spices you’ve ever smelled. She reminded me how to cut the onion: trim the two edges, cut from top and bottom, and then slice it down to slivers. With just a few cuts, the onion went from a whole orb to small threads—ready to be the base of the curry. What I like about these lines is how the poet reminds us that in that process of cutting we’re revealing a whole life: the layering growth of the veggie, and the centuries of history that brought the onion to our door. Did I notice? Did I pause to consider?
And I would never scold the onion
for causing tears.
It is right that tears fall
for something small and forgotten.
Cutting onions is no joke—we often have to stop, walk away from the kitchen, squint and stumble around through our tears. Lindsey calls them our “spicy eyes” and even our cats Milo and Abel have them whenever we cut through this veggie. But where we respond with a strong desire for the pain to stop, this poet says: welcome them. Welcome the tears, welcome them instead as a reminder to be grateful for the onion and its journey from seed to kitchen, to not avoid the moment, to notice something overlooked.
How at meal, we sit to eat,
commenting on texture of meat or herbal aroma
but never on the translucence of onion,
now limp, now divided,
or its traditionally honorable career:
For the sake of others,
disappear.
An honorable and hidden career: even though it’s cut and chopped and blends into other ingredients, it’s still a foundational flavor for basically every cuisine around the world. The onion is a hearty vegetable, it does its work in support of the whole dish, content to not be celebrated, “For the sake of others, / disappear.” Certainly, there are lessons here for us, too. To live hearty and generous lives, to give of ourselves for the sake of the whole. To not worry about being flashy or getting attention, but to just be ourselves and do our work. Though……….let me save you years of therapy here with an important caveat on dying to the self. “Disappearing” for the “sake of others” (or “ego death” or “being humble” or “selflessness” or whatever you want to call it) does not mean that we squash our hopes and desires and loves, it does not mean that we give up our agency to others, it does not mean that we fearfully withhold our opinions, it does not mean saying “sorry” to strangers for no reason at all, it does not mean any other forms of life-dampening self-denial we can devise. The key here is in that word translucence—literally to “shine through.” That kind of “disappearing” is less about squashing the self and more about clearing out the debris that gets in the way. The goal is for the debris to disappear, not the person. So what does it mean to be translucent? Heck if I know, but I can tell you it still includes having opinions, speaking openly, and having agency. That’s a kind of mature generosity worth aiming for.
Don’t miss this Episcopal priest’s spiritual essay on peeling an onion
Finding wellbeing through poetry
Thank you for sharing your thoughts and reflections with joy. They remind me of Parker Palmer's appreciation of Mary Oliver. You all provide opportunities to start the day in quiet, thoughtful moments.
Please tell me you've read Father Capon's chapter on the onion from Supper of the Lamb?