Ornamental

life with the ones that we love

  I’ve been out at my parents’ cabin for a few days now, where there is absolutely no cell phone reception, no television, no dvd player, no good radio reception, and absolutely no computer connection.  Their land phone line is out of order.  I thought I would climb the whitewashed log walls, after three days straight of no communication with the “outside” world, the world I know through email and internet, the news and words and images I sit and peruse every single morning, noon, and most evenings.   I’ve not felt that way out there before, and am usually more than happy to while away the hours sitting talking with either one or both of my parents, sipping tea and wine, eating dinner, snacks, working on jewelry.

I loaded up the car with books, beads, wire, jewelry pliers, and set up a little work station just beside the stone hearth, where I’d be out of everyone’s way.  The days came and went, and it wasn’t until yesterday late afternoon when I threw a shawl over my shoulders and went out to the white painted iron porch chairs that sway front to back, that remind me of my father’s mother with her pink flamingos out in the yard.  I carried a tray full of the usual necessities for jewelry design, and for an hour I wrapped and threaded and worked on a necklace in all the piercing blues of this October sky. 

 I came back into the cabin, shivering with the sudden chill that always falls once the sun has gone down behind the western mountains, and built for daddy a lovely little fire in the green enamel jotel woodburning stove.  This much to me is pure contentment – the fire building, the cheerful patter that comes with our first glass of evening wine, the memories we pull out of our hats and spread out to share with one another. 

 

My mother busies herself happily in the kitchen, in full view of us so we can continue to chat and reminisce, and daddy and I continue to talk about whatever subject that lightly and quite temporarily passes through his mind.  Do I still see that gal that gave us the birdhouse art?  Yes, daddy I do.  How is she doing? Does she know how much we love that little bird house?  She seems to be fine.  And yes, she knows, or at least she did last time I talked with her.  Where did that pressed tin come from, up there on the wall?  I purchased it, daddy, on ebay years ago.  You sure do look like your mother.  Have I told you that?  And I don’t.  but I love her, so much.  Yes, daddy, I do.  And no, you do not look like her, and yes I think I do.  Who built that fire?  I did, daddy.  For you.  Five minutes pass, and the conversation circles around and becomes the same conversation again.  And again. 

 

There are a lot of you out there who know precisely of what I speak, for what I lament.  The times are tender, more tender with each passing week and month, even each passing day, each hour that I spend with both of my parents.  I don’t even know what to say beyond this point, or why I am sharing it with all of you, except that this is my life, and these are my loved ones, and this is what it is like now when we sit and visit and talk.  We remember, and we forget.  And life goes on.  And I like to be open, and share.

The drive to the cabin is an exquisite one, past rolling meadows and round steep inclines, under trees of gold and red and yellow, firs of green, all along a bold stream that borders the road for the last five miles of the trip.  Aspen sits in the front seat of the car, leaning against the curves, watching for horses and cows and random bales of hay.  We pass a green wooden house, tin roof on top, and spot a black cat stalking across the tin.  How very Halloween of it, to slink across the top that way.  We round a corner and pass some Brahmin bulls, and I remember the episode of This American Life about a bull named Chance, and its clone named Second Chance.  I spot chimney smoke curling upwards into the sky and think that it will be a nice thing to get a fire going before my parents’ arrival.  I sweep up the bugs, shake the sofa cover outside to banish the dust, I wipe the long wooden table off and set out the baskets in the shapes and color of pumpkins.  I gather branches of red, red maple leaves and stick them in an old bubbly bottle that once held malted milk, from Racine, Wisconsin. 

i carry logs up from the basement, kindling too, and start the fire that will greet them as they walk in the door from a long and winding journey’s drive from  central Alabama.  They are getting older, even older now, and the steps that lead from the drive up to the cabin, the steps of the cabin themselves, the steps that carry us upstairs to the second floor seem to get steeper with each and every visit.  But the view from the screened porch, the view from the front porch are both worth the climb and the breathless effort.

 

I hate that I’ve craved the internet as much as I have while I was away, that I had to come home this afternoon from the cabin while my uncle is visiting (an hour from here) and race inside to get the laptop up and running again.  My world has gotten increasingly smaller, quieter in this immediate vicinity, yet it has expanded beyond the borders of our country and on into places like finland, portugal, italy, germany, denmark, belgium, canada.   new zealand.  australia.  All of them, places that are home to friends I’ve grown to know through this odd conception we call the internet.  I talk to you, those of you who are there to listen, of my family, of my sorrows, of my joys and blues and confusion and busy, hectic life away from home.  I share with you the stories that I gather along the way, which is a good thing because I do love to tell a good story and as aspen is deaf, the audience these days at home is rather limited.  I tell you of my ups and downs, my upside downs, my right side ups, my parallel visions, my dreams, my fears, my laughs and tears and everything that comes with the changing of the seasons.   I snap photo after photo to illustrate the stories, and in doing so, I’m documenting a life that is racing by me, by my parents, by the boys, at a rate that alarms me each time I stop to check the speed.  I wrote someone today that I agree with her on this season being a favorite; but my goodness, every season is a favorite, all four of them, and my favorite moment is now.  Right now.  Right here.  Right away.

Autumn has been particularly beautiful this year - I’m not sure why, we’ve had no frost that I know of (late sleeper that I am), and I had assumed the summer’s drought would have affected the leaves quite differently.  Never mind, it is a startling beauty that surrounds these mountains, and each day I think to myself that the colors are even lovelier than the day before.  One day soon enough, all of us realize, those colors will begin to fade and disappear.  I was told by a former student/now friend and reader, that the western mountains of north carolina may expect an inch or two of snow tonight, snow that is coming in with the high winds we’ve experienced today.  Snow.  (10:30pm - weather update:  i just stepped outside with aspen, and was surprised by little white flakes drifting down like powdered sugar.  wonders never cease).  I recall a photograph I took of myself last year, striped gloves on my hands, standing just outside the twinkling lights of my studio and looking up to the sky and to the tiny flakes of the first snow that were falling and falling, down into the late afternoon of a day in November.  Well, November is almost here.  November, and bare trees, and woolen socks, and a down comforter tucked tightly around my cheeks at night, and pajamas of blue flannel with white fluffy clouds across the blue.  I wear the clouds in the winter months, and the winter months wear me.  We share the world, these seasons and I, and I’d like to think I’ll continue to share these things with my mother, my father, my sons, and have them remember them for many years to come. 

We can’t know how long we have with one another – whether a friendship abruptly ends, a loved one dies, a beloved pet passes on to another beautiful place in another happy life, somewhere beyond the here.  All we can know are the moments that we share with one another, as we share them – to know them as they happen, to acknowledge the beauty of those moments, their intensity, their precious tenderness, their pricelessness.   There is only the now, heady or corny as that sounds.  And that is enough, I think, for some.  I know, as I’ve said before, that it certainly is for me. xo

 

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

                                                                   - t. s. eliot

autumn finery

 

it rained here in the beautiful western north carolina mountains yesterday; it rained, and it rained, and it rained, and i sat here at the window writing and creating and dreaming into the fog and the rain and the mist.  yellow blended with white to make my immediate world radiant and quiet all at once.  i love this time of year, and am always looking up and down and all around so i won't miss a single beautiful thing.  i've been working on some lovely pieces incorporating some more of my beloved antique french silk ribbon (what will i do when i finally run out, after having a stash for ten years?!); i think that the tactile sensation of fingering silk and working it into jewelry to be worn softly around the neck is what has me sitting here at my wide windows day after day,threading miniscule french antique cut steel beads together with czech glass drops that remind me of rain, with faceted smoky quartz that is the hue of evening mountains.  it isn't a bad way to make a living, or to spend one's idle time, while yellow and red and orange swirl outside all around this little place... at any rate, go have a peek at my little etsy shop and see what i've been doing; and remember to look, taste, smell, touch everything that you possibly can that is of and in this season.

 

goodness

1.  autumn leaves - on the ground, floating through the air, twirling, spinning, floating in water, clinging to trees.

 

 

wrapped around parcels with rough twine and love.

 

2.  gates and windows that go and see out to nowhere.  that allow me to imagine what could be waiting on the other side.  waiting for me, for you.  for anyone who gazes, who dreams.

 

 

3.  color.  all of it.  in my hair, around my neck, on pages of books, in nighttime memories, hovering in the air.

 

 

 

 

4.  unconditional love in all its warmth and beauty.  love that does not blame or condemn, that is not jealous, that is there in weather fair or blustery, sunny or dark.

 

5.  freedom of expression.  the written word, in all its forms:  journals, novels, ornamental reveries, tea bags, dictionaries, poems on a scrap of brown paper.  love notes.  grocery lists, abandoned.  prayer trees.  words scrawled in the palm of one's hand, when paper won't do.  words hung around one's neck as ornament, as decoration.  cardboard words stitched to linen blowing in the breeze.  a letter in the mail.  something hammered into metal, for all eternity.  something written in the snow or sand, that won't last past high tide or warmer temperatures. 

 

 

 

6.  ritual.  the art of drinking tea.  of sitting with a friend by candlelight.  walking round and round in cool grass guided by stone.  breathing in, breathing out.  meditation.  reflection.  standing  tall in the grass and the trees. 

 

 

 

7.  honesty.  openness.  integrity.  the ability to listen.  the ability to be heard.  discussion.  conversation.  gospel.  old hymns.  singing "i'll fly away" with a lump in one's throat.  flying.  floating.  dancing.  walking.  resting.  looking.  imagining.  being.

8.  life.

9.  living it.

10.  knowing the moment as it happens.  acknowledgment.  deepest appreciation.  life.  xo

 

 

time on the wall

i've been waiting these past weeks for the arrival of a very special package all the way from scotland, something that is going to bring much pleasure to my studio, to this house, to me.  a good while back, an australian friend and reader guided me over to the hermitage, where magical things happen.  i quickly became enamored of beautiful rima and her enchanting life - the storybook artwork she creates, her wonderful soon to be house on wheels that she and her partner are fashioning by hand.  rima's work speaks quite deeply to me on many levels - yes, it is a bit "dark" at times, in that odd, dreamy storybook way that brothers grimm fairy tales always were, and i think that is one of the many reasons why i'm attracted so strongly to her paintings and drawings.  i think the perfect way to give you a true feeling for it is to tell you to close your eyes and imagine yourself standing at the edge of friendly early winter woods at dusk, where the air is crisp and smells in a comforting way of chimney wood smoke, and leaves rattle about at your feet in the breeze.  if you squint your eyes, you just might be able to see a bit of movement in that gnarly hole in the tree - and catch a glimpse of a pointed gnome's hat peering up above the edge of the hole.  that is what i love about her work - that and the fact that it is very much her own original style.  i feel that way about misty's work as well, and the two go together here in my home in a quirky sort of off beat way.  rima has a site that is dedicated solely to her production of commissioned clock pieces - mine was her fifth, and i  told her simply that i wanted a moth, and red roof tops, with a moon.  i remember loving the tight, medieval look of the hilltop villages of tuscan italy, particularly that of cortona, where i taught and visited in the first ten days of november 2006.  i loved the crooked patterns of red tile roofs, the cobblestone roads and leaning walls that took me here and there and every unexpected place i could ever imagine; i loved the crooked, nonsensical twists and turns, the windows that looked out over tiny courtyards, the black and white spotted cats that slumbered in sunny, wide window ledges and walked across the tops of roofs acting nonchalant in their proprietory ways.  (i'd share with you some photos, but remember my old computer that ate every photo i had?). this is what i wanted for a clock to adorn my studio wall, and this is precisely what i got.  rima added a wonderful profiled moon, with a smoking pipe, and haunting words from t.s. eliot, who just so happens to be a favorite poet of mine.  see?  i could not have been any happier, or excited, as i unwrapped the bundle from across the wide atlantic waters, and now it hangs snugly on the wall just below a lovely piece of tree artwork from friend katie kendrick.  they'll make good company for one another, and i can watch the filigree hands wind themselves in circles round and round and round that painted wooden tree surface, over and over again, through winter, into spring, on into summer, and back to autumn one year further down time's circular path.  i was thinking about moths just the other evening as i watched a couple circle 'round the outside light, and knew i'd be missing them once the frost has fallen; now all i'll have to do is look up from my work table and see the lovely luna moth dancing in the silvery light of mister smoking moon.  and that will be enough for me, for now.

opera fairies

 

sweet and demure - worn long, long, long or doubled with the ribbon tied around the fairy's belly:  either way, you are sure to step into magic once these are placed around your neck....

available now in my little etsy shop....

the circle of life

  this is what i see every late afternoon when aspen and i step out back for a breath of fresh air; i've two driveways, and this is the "upper" one, where a grassy path leads from the back of my house down to the road.  right now it is covered in last green grass, dried leaves, and hickory nuts that fall loudly through the autumn brush and klunk onto the ground (or my car, if i've not remembered to park it free of nut bearing trees, a difficult thing to do around here).  the last sunlight of the day shoots through low western skies and illuminates everything with a heightened, saturated glow.

below is a series of one single sunset, on friday evening, the night before my birthday.  i sat and watched in stunned silence as the colors shifted and changed within a five or seven minute frame.

 

 

 

this one i took when the flash accidentally engaged, something i do not normally like in a photograph - but see how the leaves of the trees show up against that fiery sky?

pretty amazing, isn't it?  and i live here.  lucky, blessed me... i stood out on the deck, and finally sat, watching the entire sky transform before my eyes, spreading light then exploding and then fading slowly, slowly away.  to the sky, i lifted my outstretched hand, to the sky.  to the sky.  to the sky.

 

i touched the opal sky.  goodbye, evening sun.  it would be a comforting thing to wait for it to rise in the morning, again.

see what awaited me, back in my cozy abode?  soft new sheets, the wonderful sheets with words splashed across from side to side.  i love that i can now sleep with peace and hope and dream and wish and joy all draped across me like sweet sentinels in the deepest night. 

 

early on my birthday morning, aspen and i piled into the car and drove northeast for three hours into the higher mountains of north carolina, where my older son robin is completing his final year of school - i did not under any circumstances want to spend that day alone, staring out the window, thinking of things that could or could not have been.  what a wise decision, i told myself, and actually patted my own knee several times as we looped through scenes of rolling christmas tree farms, a mountain with a grandfather's profile, produce stands overflowing with corn stalks, sugar cane, apples, piles of happy pumpkins, and always the red and orange leaves that filtered the light like that of early morning church stained glass.  to be surrounded by robin and his tight knit group of lovely, lovely friends was to feel surrounded by family.  i sat (from a safe distance) on the sofa and watched as a group of five or more slapped tie dye on dripping wet t shirts in the middle of the kitchen.  color reigned.

 

 

i was called birthday girl, birthday mom, for two days straight.  i love those kids, and loved being in the center of so much loving attention.

boone is a beautiful little town - surrounded by steep mountains, a sweet historical downtown, lots of young people and tourists alike all out to enjoy the peak of autumn color.

 

 

i lost count of the times that robin thanked me for coming to visit.  profusely, earnestly.  how many young adult college men do you know who frequently invite their mom to come see them?  to stay in their house?  who give up their beds for company?  not many, i'm willing to bet.  but robin did all of that, and seemed reluctant for me to go.  i love that about my boys. 

i didn't leave until 5pm yesterday, when the sun was already dipping down and shining low and sharply through the trees.  it is a three hour drive, and i dreaded heading home to a dark and empty house.  then the phone rang, just before i left robin's drive, with robin standing at the car door wishing me safe journeys.  roy was calling to say he was headed home, on that long, dull seven hour interstate drive, to be with his best friend whose father passed away on saturday.  my heart sank.  this man was larger than life - a robust, outdoor lover, one who spent good and fine and plenty time with his two sweet boys.  his last name is even, literally, large.  how do i help roy with his grief?  i'm not even sure i'll see him while he is back; he drove straight to the large house last night after midnight, to be with his grieving friend.  life moves in circles, i see; i celebrate a birthday, a life, and on that day another life moves out, moves on to some new beautiful place.  away from here - out there.

godspeed, raymond.  your love surrounds the world in ways that we don't yet as humble humans comprehend.  and for raymond, for those who knew and love him, for all of you who are here today reading these words, i offer this beloved song. xo

 

 

 

for this i am grateful

 

 for morning light, and for the way it shines on trees, on my hands, on my feet, on everything i see today, i am grateful.

for the midnight moon, fat and full, shining through the silent, guardian trees, i'm grateful.

to each of you who've written to express concerns, to offer warmth and love and kind thoughts and support, i thank you.  i am grateful - for the time you've taken to tell me things of your heart, to say it will be ok, to remind me that there are so many beautiful people and thoughts and things in this intricate, exquisite world, i am forever thankful.

for the view that greets me here where i sit, every single morning, i am in awe.  for the way the light changes as it slowly spills across mountains and trees, i am grateful.

 

for the new day to arrive, every morning, just like this - or not like this - i am grateful.

 

for the home where i live, for the place where i am, for the person i aspire to be, i am ever thankful.

 

for the memories of the painful things that have happened to me, for the painful things themselves that teach me strength and patience and fortitude, that give me wisdom, maturity, insight and a passion to move ahead, i am a little thankful.  at least a little thankful.  for the hurt and confusion and doubts and pain, i am a little grateful.  for the ability to express myself in times of need, to clarify my emotions and thoughts, to set them out in the open so i can see them, touch them, prod them, knead them, punch them like rising dough to let the hot air out, i am eternally thankful.  for all my many blessings, i shall always and forever be full of tender awe and grace and deepest, richest appreciation.

 

for the gift of a sunset at the end of each day, for the ability to lay my head down with a conscience that is clear, to sleep the sleep of babies and dogs, to start the day over again the following morning - for all of these things i am grateful. 

thank you, one and all, for your tender words of empathy and encouragement.  i've read them all, listened and utterly absorbed what you had to say.  the words give me the strength and the vision to square my shoulders and set my sights directly ahead; they all help to protect and shield me, and remind me that i have dozens of kindest guardian angels out there in the world watching quietly over me.  and for that, i am ever thankful. xo

lost

 

it's not all it's cracked up to be, this solitary life out in the middle of nowhere, when sometimes you can get sick of your own continual company, sick of listening to your own thoughts circling back over themselves over and over and over again.  did i do this the right way?  was it all my imagination, or did things really happen as they seemed?  am i really that upside down?

do you ever want to unravel the past, so the hurt will go away?

do you ever want to curl up into a ball and tuck the night around you, pin it in place with some stars, and not come up for sunshine or morning for a couple of days?

have you ever fallen so far that you don't know which way is up again?

do you ever fall?

have you ever had vertigo?  a case so bad that you can't open your eyes or else you'll go flying backwards when sitting up and hit the bed?  do you know how that feels?  it feels like this.

i hate days like this - weeks, months, a lifetime.  and wasted time, no time.

i'm not a bad person.  i'm not mean.  i'm not vindictive.  i'm never hateful, never vicious, and never ever closed.  maybe i need to learn to be that way, so i'll feel safe.  maybe i need to shove emotions away, push them deep down under, turn a cold back to them.  maybe i need to be more like that.  then maybe i won't have the ups and the downs, the raw open wounds, the feeling of utter and complete failure and gloom.  maybe i should fake the way i feel, write cryptically about the sunshine and the autumn trees and tops of mountains.  maybe i'd be confident, then, and feel wonderful and sure about myself.  how sad, to think that would be a remedy.

maybe i shouldn't express myself.

maybe i should, after all, just disappear.

“Lost”

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you

Are not lost. Where you are is called Here,

And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,

Must ask permission to know it and be known.

The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,

I have made this place around you.

If you leave it, you may come

 back again, saying Here.

No two trees are the same to Raven.

No two branches are the same to Wren.

If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,

You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows

Where you are. You must let it find you.

David Wagoner

 

 

 

musings and beauties

  it was another one of those gorgeous october days again - still is, in fact, as i sit here at my little yellow table before the window and type, edit, write, ponder, muse.  the sun in the mornings shoots straight in through the "front" door, which is actually at the side of the house off a narrow open porch, then part of that porch is nicely screened in and i can sit in one of the wicker chairs to watch the world not pass by. this stained glass was given to me by daddy, who had it hanging in his office for quite a few years.  it faces the east, as well it should, and this morning all the reds of the dogwood tree just beyond the porch were shining through the orange orb and making things glow like latest afternoon. 

it is always a lovely pleasure to walk out in the back with aspen after that sun has finally peeked up over the mountain to the east and washes everything with that golden honey color.  i'm finding beauty in every leaf that has graced the yard, that falls on the car, the tops of tables, that covers the ground, the deck, the steps beside the house.  they crunch when i walk over them, they rattle in the wind, they fall from the walnut trees twirling and swirling radiant yellow in the off again, on again breeze.  i step out back, (i've gotten off track) and gather walnuts that are falling with more and faster frequency to the ground.  lemony in scent, lemon-peel in texture, it is a decadent pleasure to pick them up and hold them in my hand, to rub their skin and smell the fragrance that my warm fingers release. you'll laugh when i tell you this, i laugh at myself every time i stand there playing this game, but every single time i step out back these days, any time of night or day, i gather three or four of them into my outstretched hand and try to pitch them right into the middle of a huge galvanized pipe that lies on a steep hill at the edge of the yard. most times i miss, as you can see, but sometimes i hit dead on and take a silly pleasure in listening to the walnut bump bump bump its way down through the tunnel and out onto the lower ground below.  even after midnight, when aspen and i walk out for one more time before the lights go off, i am out there with flashlight in hand (it's dark out here where there are blessedly no streetlights, no neighbors to light up the night), pitching walnut after walnut into that pipe like some little girl trying to win a fat stuffed animal from the county fair.  the moon was egg shaped last night, and i wanted very badly to call my sister ellen and tell her, look!  your eggs have floated into the nighttime sky!  (and as i write this, i am reminded of a book i used to love to read to the boys, called Grandfather Twilight, while holding an oversized costume pearl in my hand).  you think i've lost my mind, i know you do.  it matters not; i'll still be out there late tonight, craning my neck up to look at the fattening moon, searching for lemony round things at my feet in the dark to toss down the echoing hole. xo

heads up

 

i've listed some ornamental lovelies in my etsy shop - and will be adding more monday as well....x

october skies and a wash of sunlight

 

hard to believe, aren't they?  those clouds, that blue?  and i get to see it all day long, from the deck or from this very window where i sit and do my online work.  where i sit and drink a cup of tea, where i sit and stare into space.  incredible.  these past few days have been almost painful in their beauty - this is such a gorgeous time of the year, with crisp mornings and evenings, warm afternoons.  when i walk outside with aspen, the air smells like ripening muscadines or scuppernongs; i stare and stare up into the trees, can see the vines but not the berries.  i never see them; they hang there, uneaten, scenting this place with a heady, autumn aroma.  that's enough for me.

i've actually been back in the studio again, messy as it always is right after a series of teaching and vending trips, and am thrilled with how these blue skies of october have inspired me to make things blue, blue, blue.  some design accidents led me to a new closure with ribbon, and that has me all fired up to go back and make another batch.  this piece i'm sharing with you here today (see it in my new banner?) is the first that i've shown on etsy using my sister ellen's new eggs (i took a batch of them to sell at art and soul, and not a one was left; i also took new jewelry pieces incorporating the eggs and sold most of those as well).  never fear; i've new things to list, as soon as i can get them photographed, edited, and listed in my shop.  the light does different things this time of year, with all these wide windows facing south; there is bright, direct sunlight streaming in from 9am until well after 6, and taking a photograph of anything in that wash of sun is tricky at best.  i find myself dashing to the table with jewelry in hand if clouds suddenly obscure the sun.  light boxes don't work for me, not so much anyway; do you like flourescent light?  i don't, either.  and i was raised by a mother who shunned overhead lights; consequently, i developed a disgust for the things, and have passed that on to both of my boys. (NECKLACE SOLD)

i keep thinking of new things to add to my list of wishes - the chance to ride an elephant in its native country, the chance to ride in a hot air balloon (i even researched going by myself when i turned 50, but who wants to do that alone?!), a visit to the christmas markets of germany, a barge trip down the danube.  one can dream.

i wish you a clear blue weekend, and a heightened passion for life....xo

some wishes for myself

 

next week i'm turning 52, and at this ripe age i'm finally beginning to come into a true sense of who and what i really am.  i'm far from thinking i've reached the point of enlightenment - far from it - but the square placement of being in the middle of one's life (hopefully) allows some notions of where i've come, where i've been, which direction i think i'll be going.  yesterday morning i decided to treat myself to a new set of thick portugese flannel sheets; the last time i bought some was all the way back in 1999, when i was going through a very painful separation and wanted a fresh beginning for the bed, and for my life, so to speak.  chaste.  solitary.  luxuriously alone with my books and thoughts late into the night.  and now it's time again, with threadbare winter sheets.  the last two sets i've used for some nine years are both soft green in color - one set a large gingham, the other leafy fronds.  when i set out looking online yesterday (thankfully i'm not on many catalog mailing lists - think of the paper that is saved from this one address alone), i typed in the word "branches" and "flannel".  alas, no branches - only frondy martha stewart things in a dull, mousy shade of pale brown.  but these - these!  i can't wait for them to be delivered to my door.  the shop description:  "The wish tree appears in the histories of many cultures around the globe; from the British Isles to India and Japan. Ours takes its graphic simplicity from the traditional folk craft of paper cutting, and its message expresses joyous wishes for the world. This supersoft cotton-flannel sheeting from Portugal is printed with wishes in a cheerful cut-paper style."  they had me with paper cutting; i've been a fan of british artist rob ryan ever since i read the wonderful novel The World to Come by dara horn two years ago, and a few months back i also ran across some of his more recent work on his etsy site.  friendly fellow, he is - when i wrote him to babble about his artwork, he promptly and warmly responded.  (be sure to visit his website and prowl around - there is some amazing work, including whimsical set of clothing designs for Project Alabama.  the artwork at the left adorns the cover of a book by the same name that misty found for me at barnes and noble - wonderful, wonderful work!  at any rate - all this to say that i flipped when i saw these sheets, so vibrant in their quirky red and white, the birds, the leaves, the words as affirmation draped over me in autumn and winter sleep all made me hit the purchase button without a single look back.  and seeing the paper cut words - joy, dream, wish, hope, love - got me to thinking about a list i should create for things i'd like to accomplish in the aging years to come.  i could list forever, of course i could.  but reading attention spans are short, my hands are achy, and i won't bore you with too many details of someone else's personal dreams and aspirations.  for now, though:

1.  i'd really like to one day sit on a rock looking out over valleys or mountains, in the company of the dali lama.  we wouldn't have to talk; i know i'd have to keep myself from nervously chattering, so the beauty of silence - deep, cleansing, gentle silence - in his presence would be something to carry me through the rest of my days.

2.  i would really like to see the temples of japan, as well as the japanese coastlines.  while there, i'd want to visit as many teahouses as i possibly could, to sit quietly on the floor at a table and drink cup after tiny cup of pristine tea.

3.  i want to see my children reach their own wild dreams - whether or not those dreams involve travel, quirky jobs, a house in a tree (their dad's own dream when he was young).

4.  one day i'd like to travel across ocean waters in a windjammer boat with enormous sails; i'd like to dock in tiny harbor towns, stroll the colorful streets, eat exotic island foods, take a thousand photographs of the trip and write a book about it.

5.  i'd like to publish (as a book) a daily journal i kept back in five months of 1983 while the boys' dad and i travelled by bicycle across greece, italy, corsica, france, england, and holland.  there are many wonderful slide images just begging to be reworked into polaroid transfers to garnish my younger, world hopping thoughts and observations.

6.  i'd like to travel to tibet and the himalayan mountains.

7.  i want to own a home here in these mountains, next to a very bold stream.

8.  i want to continue to grow as a jewelry designer until my hands will no longer comply.

9.   i want to know my sons as men in their 30's and 40's; i want to see and know their own children, should they decide to have them.

10.  i want to stay in a residential studio in the southwest, somewhere, and be inspired by reds and oranges and yellows, by the smell of mesquite smoke in the evening air.

11.  i really, truly would like to read Moby Dick just so i can see what all the fuss was about.  starbuck, ishmael, ahab - they're still there waiting for me to discover them.  after all, it took me 35 years to get to know and love holden caulfield. 

12.  i want to work on a collaboration of sticks and stones with british artist andy goldsworthy.  the man - his work - astounds me.  i've followed his art for years and years, have collected his books, own the movie rivers and tides, stack towers of rocks outside my door and at the hearth and drag branches and nests into this house until it no longer appears to have any delineation between out there and in here.  andy is exactly my age, maybe two months older, and for some odd reason this pleases me.  hell, i'd be happy just to meet the man and shake his weather worn hand.  somehow, some way.

13.  i want to build a labyrinth of grass and stone wherever i finally settle.  this can be done; goodness knows i've enough rocks to outline one the size of a cathedral's.  when it is finished, i'd like to take off my socks and shoes and walk round and round, up and down, on the cool grass in the path i've just completed.

14.  i'd like to learn and use sign language.

15.  i once tried, some ten years ago, to learn to play the violin.  it hurt my arthritic hands too much to hold the bow just so, and after two frustrating years of suzuki lessons and recitals where i was the only adult standing before an audience - surrounded by three, five, nine year olds - i finally gave up.  i wish i hadn't.

16.  i want to sleep in an apple orchard and wake in the middle of the night to see the northern lights wavering in the sky overhead.  a friend i once knew experienced just that, when he was picking apples in washington state for the summer.  lucky man.

17.  i'd love to dance under the moon in a meadow somewhere in the north of england, close to the moors.  to sit in tall grass in the dark and watch the clouds pass by under that moon.  maybe alone, maybe with a friend, maybe with someone who moments before had been a complete and total stranger.

18.  i'd like to read (and retain) a thousand, two thousand, three, four five thousand more books in this lifetime of mine.  i want the time to do just that.

19.  i want to always have new and old friends - the ones i've known forever, the ones i've known for a while, and friends i've only just met. 

20.  i want to help.  to always help.

21.  i hope i'll see forever.

 

22.  i'd love a life that is anger-free.  no conflicts, no drama.  just peace.  quiet, calm, enveloping peace.  one can hope, anyway.

22a.  i wish to move forward, without squeaky wheels, without fits and starts.  i wish to move on, without dwelling on failures or disappointments or hurt.  i wish to move forward, wisely, sagely, lessons learned.

23.  i want to grow older and older with grace, and dignity.

24.  i want to remain clear.

25.  i do not want to disappear....   xo

home

  this is my view here at my laptop, before the expanse of windows that flank my living room - you've seen it many times now, perhaps you remember, and you'll continue to be shown the variations that flow and unfold as seasons come and go.  we very obviously had not a single drop of rain while i was away this time, but early this morning i woke to dripping trees, reflective water on tables and deck, a few leaves glued like paper to the surface where they fell.  i love this.  i love the falling, the drifting, the somber mood of rainy weather in the fall and winter that tells me it is okay to be inside, it is perfectly alright to be feeling a little blue and "under the weather".  i stepped outside yesterday afternoon, late, with aspen and brought back inside with me a few of the leaves that lay at my feet.  the sun was out, as you can see (ignore the dirty glass windows, please?) and these colors made me realize how much faster and faster the days are passing in this little life of mine. 

 

 

it's hard for me to believe that these colors in nature are real.  but, see?  they shine for me, like little beacons glowing on the ground, up in the branches of trees.  they glow for now, and soon they'll turn to crispy, musty brown and with the wind will dance and dance, away.  come, autumn, come winter; come be with me, as i'm finally ready to settle in to this house for a long, long quiet stay. 

my schedule, coming home from oregon was this:  i rose at 3:30am on sunday, arrived at the airport at 4:15, flew away at 6am to atlanta and then on to montgomery (that's my parents' house above, where autumn there looks remarkably like late summer); i was in bed by 8pm, and early the next morning i rose at six, ate breakfast with my mother, loaded the car with three suitcases, one dog, some tomatoes, home baked cookies, a casserole, and drove six more hours back up to north carolina.  roy was waiting here for me, having been home for fall break while i was away, and the two of us took full advantage of our short time together by sharing cocktails and stories out on the deck well past sunset, then by lounging around inside where it was warm and cozy and full of our little family love.  early the next morning (yesterday, it seems like a week ago) we rose and drove in separate cars to asheville (80 minutes) to see roy's knee doctor, then on to celebrate robin's birthday over a splendid lunch of sushi .  and afterwards, the three of us, with accompanying friends, went our different north, west, and east ways.   i'm now the middle aged mother of a twenty three year old, something that makes me both sad and proud, happy and full and aching all at once.  what fine, fine young men i've introduced to this world!  what beautiful souls they've embraced and filled.

art and soul was everything i expected it to be:  wonderful to see old friends, exciting and revitalizing to meet new ones, hectic with full schedules, rewarding with grateful and talented students, frustrating with feisty, tired temperaments, missed planes, added expenses.  there were many, many highlights - a glass of wine with friend lori after class one day, dinners out with acquaintances that are now fast friends, the development of what i hope will be a long and lasting friendship across the country with a lovely young woman named dan lyn who served us thai dinner one evening, and again the next, and went to the trouble to drive all the way out to the airport to help me endure the exhaustive craziness of vendor night.  dan lyn is robin's age, in love with a wonderful young man named michael who brought out a platter of lovely green basil martinis, and i feel as if there exists no age difference in mindset between us. 

 

i'm showing only bits and snippets of my students' work here today, for there were twenty four talented gals in my first day's gatherings class, and twenty five in the two day jewelry workshop; it would take me far too long to share individual artworks here, but i'll be listing an art and soul photo album as soon as i can finish editing and resizing the many, many photographs.   (i'll also add that there are very very few jewelry class photos because we were suddenly and unexpectedly shooed out of the room the second and final afternoon to make room for a "book signing", much to my chagrin).  i'm very, very proud of all who took my class - each one of them having something special to contribute, each one of them taking the techniques they learned and applying them to beautiful designs of their own.  from time to time i seriously consider backing off of teaching, or quitting altogether to focus entirely on jewelry design; the schedule is grueling, the travel getting more and more expensive (that square black bag of tools alone cost me $100.00 as "additional" baggage on the plane), the emotions at times too jagged and raw, the time away from home most times far too long.  but when i stand before a group of students and feel their enthusiasm, their excitement, their energy, their willingness to take risks, to learn, to grow, i remember what it is that keeps me going back for more.  i love my students - love them/you - and truly hope to see you all again, i do. 

 

 

i'll close with a wonderful, uplifting image (for me) that i captured yesterday while walking the downtown streets of asheville after lunch.  the words give me hope, hope, hope for fresh and better changes to come... xo

 

 

a thank you note from roy

i'm in portland, folks - but roy sent this via email, and it is for YOU.  xo

 

Hey everybody, I just wanted to thank all of yall for sending the get well cards. I got a real kick out of reading your beautiful letters and they kept me entertained while stuck on my back with that bum knee. For about a month my mom's red couch was my home and I kind of felt like a celebrity with so many people worried about me and my leg. As I'm sure you know the surgery went great and by now I have little trouble walking and all that good stuff. Due to my physical therapy I am able to run for moderate distances and before long I will be back to my old self, like it had never happened. I really appreciate the support that you gave me in my time of need and the support you give my mom everyday.
much love,
Roy