using the arrow buttons.
by clicking on the page.
the page around when zoomed in by dragging it.
the zoom using the slider when zoomed-in.
by clicking on the zoomed-in page.
by entering text in the search field, and select "This Issue" or "All Issues"
by clicking on thumbnails to select pages, and then press the print button.
displays sections with thumbnails and descriptions.
displays a slider of thumbnails. Click on a page to jump.
allows you to browse the full archive.
about your subscription?
Lions Roar : March 2013
punch her in the face. Stranger still, that a woman who once took home first place in a rifle-shooting competition would continue to cook that man his dinner. But people are funny like that. When my grandma got cancer and was too sick to get out of bed, my dad brought clay up to her room. He made the basic forms of the four cups, and she sat in bed and molded each weird little face. She had made face cups before, lots of them. But she made the four cups that sit on our top shelf when she was in her bed, dying. Then she died. And in that way, the cups became special. That’s why they sit in a row on the top shelf. That’s why they aren’t filled with coffee or tea or mint-chocolate-chip ice cream like cups should be. When I left home for my freshman year of college, my dad told me that I should take one of the cups to school with me. “Pick one,” he said. “Which one do you like?” I wanted one. I still want one. But they are safer on the top shelf. I never picked the one I like best. I don’t touch them. Maybe it seems like a juvenile thing to think that your dad can do anything, but I believe that too. At least, it seems that way sometimes. My dad can bake half-moon cookies. He can knit a sweater. He can make spinach roll-ups with lasagna noodles and ricotta cheese. He can fix a wicker chair with a hole through the seat. He can plant a garden. He can do those things because my grandma was his mother. My dad is also a potter. When I moved to my new apartment in Boston, I picked out six bowls that my dad had made. My dad makes his own glazes, and I chose the six colors I liked best: white with black speckles, cerulean blue, earth brown, rust red, purple, and cream. They are good bowls for cereal or soup or pasta. Yesterday, I went to throw something away in my kitchen, and beneath a translucent, empty cereal bag, I saw the broken pieces of the cream-colored bowl. “Hmm,” I thought. “Looks like somebody broke a bowl.” I didn’t feel angry with my roommates for breaking it. I didn’t feel annoyed that no one told me. I didn’t feel sad to see it in the trash. I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel anything because it was just a bowl. And my dad wasn’t dead. It occurred to me, when I saw that broken bowl in the trash, that I might as well go home and pick out which cup I like best. Because it is just a cup. And my grandma is dead. It occurred to me, when I saw that broken bowl in the trash, that I might as well take that cup off of the shelf and fill it to the brim with hot tea. I might as well drink from it. I might as well wrap my hands around the sides and let the ceramic warm the tips of my fingers. Because if I asked my dad to teach me how to make spinach roll-ups with lasagna noodles and ricotta cheese or how to knit a sweater or even how to make a cup, I’m sure that he would. ♦ SHAMBHALA SUN MARCH 2013 30