Ornamental

tumbling

headfirst.  that's what it feels like - the falling, the catapulting, the somersaulting i've been experiencing these last few months, these lingering days of summer.  does anyone know when june disappeared?  i know, i know, the obvious answer is the 30th of june - of course.  but, really, wasn't it just yesterday when the lightning bugs were out in flickering abundance, the light stayed in the western sky til almost 10pm, the days were smelling of mimosa and fresh growth, and not of hay and a distant trace of fall? 
i look back to the beginning of june, when i had just come back from california to alabama, when robin's graduation was two weeks past, when aspen's passing was a black hole in my aching heart.  nothing seemed to make sense; time was loopy; i skimmed the surface of each day, skipping and hopping from one dusk to another morning just like that.  time meant nothing, really.  i couldn't hold it in my hands; it's still that way, mercurial and slippery, shimmery and liquid and nebulous in its passage from now to later.  but i had the whole of summer stretching before me, i had nothing and everything.   looking back, i'm amazed that i couldn't somehow sense the incredible, overwhelming changes that were moving into position to spring themselves upon me.  the changes had begun, of course - robin graduated, aspen died - but i had no clue that those were just the beginnings of a better life ahead.  not easier, certainly - not softer - just, better. there were many, many highlights this summer of 2009 -i'm not sure i should even attempt to name and list them one by one, i think you know the things i hold in highest regard.  it's soothing for me, though, to go back and gaze at photographs, at images i've recorded as documentation of my throbbing heart.  people, places, animals - everything shines through to me in all its radiance and glory.  do you see? oh, aspen.  my old friend.  little did i know when i snapped this photograph at my feet that it would be the final image i have of him.  he'd just had his summer cut, and looked so very dapper.  but old.  he was old.  he was old and he was grand, and he was my dearest friend.  i love you, friend.  i know that you are walking these wooden floors with me still.  you'd be so proud of me, i think, of the way i've handled your passing, and my passing into another brighter chapter in my life. just look at the pride here, the love.  beautiful young man son of mine - crooked collar, huge stud earrings and all.  this shows the depth of love i have for him, if you can see it there in my eyes.  how far we've come, my boys and i. the road wasn't easy, it was winding and sometimes confusing, but i'd go right back and do it all again.  it was that much pleasure to raise them, every single step of the way.  time passes so quickly, i tell all of my young mother friends.  grab it.  take a million photos.  write little notes on scrap paper when your children say something special (every day, every day) and pull those scraps together so you won't forget.  because you do.  you forget, and you turn around and suddenly they are great big adults sitting there beside you, laughing and crying and sharing eye to eye.  and you wonder where that nebulous time went again.  poof!  gone.  just like that. oh how i love this photograph of my beloved friend joyce, taken at the mission in santa barbara against rosy pink stucco walls.  she saw me through a difficult time, she welcomed me with open, loving arms to her california, she drove me from the south of the state up to the beautiful central coast simply because she wanted me to be treated like the queen that she thinks i am, because she did not want me to be alone.  i am a queen; we all are queens, or kings.  sometimes we forget to treat ourselves that way, do we not?  but joyce loves me unconditionally, she loves me with grace and with joy.  and i owe her so much, emotionally.  thank you, beloved friend.  thank you for my sanity and for my happiness in what could have been a very unhappy time.

i love this photograph of myself - i love the quirky, goofy easy smile on my face, i love the favored soft blue linen dress (thank you, colleen, for guiding me in these regards), i love the favorite blue scarf that i wrap around my head more often than not.  i love the memory of walking with joyce through our dear friend sharron's avocado grove, love the way the late afternoon sun was shining low at an angle across yellow leaves, wildflowers, twisted branches and roots, across our faces, across our day.  i was walking into a new world, here.  i was walking.  it was new.  goodness, little did i know what lay ahead in wait for me.  i didn't know.  no.  i truly didn't.

have you ever thought about how much a clothes line is like a life line, in the way it stretches across your vision, across a horizon close or far, how you hang things on it now, and later taken them off, or maybe you leave a special something hanging near the end there, never to be removed?  (how much i long for a line out back, to hang my linens and things; i long to see them blowing in the breeze, i long to hold them under my nose when dry so i can smell the outdoor smell on them... ).  this clothes line stretches across the grass beneath a favorite burred oak tree at beloved valley ridge studio, and provides a splendid view of rolling farmland, blue skies, green trees.  i love this place, so much; i've always, since the very first time i walked through the doors, have felt like it was also my home, a place away from this place where i can wander aimlessly, where i can curl up and be grounded and loved.  (beautiful, isn't she, all swan-like neck and radiant smile?)  i have my dear friends bill and kathy to thank for that; they invite me back, year after year after year, and back i go, excited to be riding those roads through sliced banks of sandstone, past beautiful old barns and dairy farms, where birds perch on roof corners and telephone wires, where cows sigh in the dusk, where they often forlornly call out in the still of night.  i go there to teach, yes, and to be with bill and kathy as much as anything; they've become some of my very closest friends, and love me for the kooky, open spirit that i am.  i wept profusely one evening this summer at their dinner table when some innocuous, completely innocent statement triggered a sudden rush of consuming grief; i hurriedly excused myself from that beautiful table, just as bill had lit the candles and served us our food that he had proudly prepared, i had to go to my room and fitfully wait for kathy to come and hold me, a limp rag in her arms, while i wordlessly sobbed and sobbed.  she is good for that, my kathy; she knows just when to talk, just when to quietly hold without saying a word - the perfect friend, i'd say.  o, lucky, lucky me.  what riches i hold in this world.  oh, valley ridge, oh wisconsin family, i miss you so.  i'll see you again next year, if not before, when july summer settles in with blue, blue skies and dusky evenings graced by the haunting song of the thrush off in the surrounding woods. i left wisconsin for alabama, where i planned to spend a leisurely few days with my folks before heading into a life with little walter.  my mother hung the kimono you see here next to my window to dry; something i had found at my favorite thrift store in madison, it waved and fluttered in the late afternoon breeze that came in, thankfully, through open alabama summer windows scented with the fragrance of waxy, huge magnolia blossoms on the tree that daddy stood and watered for hours at a time each day last year.  little did i know, i'm thinking now, when i packed that garment and headed home, that i'd be entering an entirely new part of this life.  oh, how strange to think back to the day i found this hanging on the rack in a corner of the store, when i showed it to kathy, when i packed it away to carry to alabama with me on the plane.  then home to north carolina, from the stifling heat of my heart of dixie hometown - a town where ben grew up, a town that led us to meet one day in high school some thirty six years ago.  imagine the magic, the miracle of that.  i'm sitting here remembering and shaking my head in amazement over that one, still.  hello again, old friend.  hello, ben.  hello.  hello.  hello. hello, ben's pups, hello ben's shoes.  hello, red sofa, hello new world.  hello. remember this little fella?  i took this photo back around the fourth of july, when walter was all fat tummy and paws, his hair still short, his fear of the steps still large.  oh, dear beautiful walter.  hello. just look at him now - droopy spaniel eyes, long silky ears, feathers on the backs of his legs.  beautiful, gorgeous boy.  learning something new every single day, loving the fact that he can now jump up on the sofa, the chairs, up on top of the coffee table where my other laptop sits, standing there like a mountain goat, so proud of his accomplishments.  choose your battles, i say.  choose them well.  life's too short to worry about dog hair on red linen, anyway.  

i am no fool when it comes to this, i have to say; tucked away out of sight now are the beloved needlepoint pillows that my mother sketched out and crafted, using artwork of the boys they executed at the ripe ages of seven and nine.  i'm not taking that chance, no way. i'm writing this today while ben is on his way to cincinnati from here, on his way and then back again tonight.  i'm keeping the girls for him, here with mr. walter who is thrilled to be a part of the older, bigger crowd.  it feels right to be surrounded by these loving creatures, and as you can see, they've grown accustomed to this place.  to me.  to this.  thank goodness for grace.  as writer anne lamott has said, "I do not at all understand the mystery of grace - only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us".

it is grace that has carried me along through these latest days, has kept me buoyed with hope as i walk into the coming months ahead.  for those of you who've written about my journey as i slowly wean myself (with my beloved doctor's careful guidance and supervision) from an anxiety and depression medication, i thought i'd let you know that it has not been easy, but it has been opening me up to change in a better way.  i've felt the effects on me both mentally and physically, i've spent more than a few anxious moments questioning myself, my plan, my life with walter, with ben, the ups and downs and even the in betweens.  there are still 2.5 more weeks before i'm completely off the medication, and i'm hoping that by that time, i'll have the results for which i aim.  and then, i intend to walk in the light, to stay in a place where i can handle the darkness when it falls, as it surely at some point will do.   light and dark, up and down, in and out, close up and far away - i want to be able to handle it all, my friends, to be able to handle it without the assistance of a drug that i'd been faithfully taking for years.  and if i can't?  believe me, i will not be a martyr.  i'll do the thing that is the very best for me. your comments have been very supportive and understanding, with the exception of one person who was (kindly, innocently) horrified that i, who am so attuned to nature, had been taking chemicals all these many years.  another commenter and friend said at times i seem quite fragile.  i will say this:  there are those of us who suffer, at some point in our lives, from chemical imbalances - whether the reason be stress, trauma, or just plain old genetic make up that causes things to go tilted to one side.  medication has saved lives, and has most assuredly saved marriages and relationships as well.  try to be more understanding, those of you who might object, of those who seek help and balance and peace.   we do the best we can, with what we've got.  not everyone can walk his or her path without a helping hand.

and so.  i leave you with this.  i'm sure, so sure, that i've featured this poem by mary oliver in posts of the past, but it seems so very fitting for today.  be well, everyone.  and most of all, be kind and understanding to yourself.  this is your life, your chance to live it proudly, and live it well. xo

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.

 

well, hello again

once, long ago, i visited a beautiful little lake tucked into a quiet spot here in the heart of these mountains, perhaps an hour from here.  or there.  an hour from somewhere, anyway.  i spent the night in a cabin owned by the forest service, woke in the morning to spectacular fall colors and a crisp blue, blue october sky.  there was no one there, and i wandered down to a tiny little dock at the edge of a trail that circled the lake.  because my brother's name was ben, and because i thought at the time that he'd get a kick out of seeing his name carved into wood, i snapped this photograph.  a good six years later, i look at this image and it is not my brother that i think about as much as it is the man who came to me, out of the blue, after half of my lifetime had passed me by.  i love seeing this again, a name scratched hurriedly into the railing above the water there, above the reflection of autumn trees and sky.  the heart was my own addition, today; i scratched it into the surface of this photograph, and am showing it to you because it matches the way that i'm feeling as i sit here in this day, alone, walter slumbering deeply behind me.  
i've heard from quite a few of you who've said that my story of love has given you hope, has made you feel that all can be made right with your world one day, again.  i never knew i'd be the one giving you this hope.  i never knew that i would be the one who did not go seeking, who did not expect - after so much hurt, so much pain - to ever, ever, ever fall so deeply into love again.  yet i have.  oh, i have, and i have, and i have.  i, who live so remotely surrounded by woods and sky, by the distant sight of mountains, by the sounds of water rushing, i never thought that love would come to me like this.  but it did.
my moods have been so up and down, so inside out, so frenzied and loopy and anything but stable that i've hesitated to come here to write things down, to write about my emotions.  that's all i feel that i am right now - "a parcel of vain strivings", thoreau once said - "tied by a chance bond together".  i had made a tentative decision to back off from posting until the end of september; i thought perhaps it might be good to give you folks a little time to rest from the ongoing story of my self absorptions, of my life.  there is walter, there is ben.  there are the boys, there are my parents, my sister, there is me.  why would you want to read about any of these things at all?  i thought that in limiting my number of posts, i'd give you a chance to take a break, i'd give myself a chance to clear my head and sit back to see things from a fresher, more organized (re:  more stable) perspective.  ben was here yesterday, stayed until this morning, and at some point yesterday i shared with him my thoughts on writing or not.  it was not until we were sitting out on the screened porch this morning, before he left to go back home, when he turned to me and said that perhaps it might not be a good idea to abstain from writing, like that.  this, coming from a man who has shied away from the spotlight i've cast on him here, who is modestly embarrassed to see himself up in spotlights before the folks who read these words.  well, ben.  you said to keep posting, and if i am to post, i cannot help but post about beautiful you. he can be so very right sometimes - ben is an observer, and he listens...  he truly listens.  he pays attention, he processes, he connects, and sometimes (not always, mind you) he speaks his mind on something, wisely, only if i ask what he thinks i should do.  and he's been right more often than not, this sage ben of mine.  he astounds me with his clarity, his astute and pointed observations.  it's just that when i am feeling strongly about something this important to me, it is difficult for me to draw the line between what to say, what not.  and right now i am feeling a little like a soft shelled crab, one who has shed her skin and is tender, easily scarred, most certainly easily wounded.
i don't think i've ever shared with you that i've been on anxiety/depression medication for over ten years, ever since i suffered my way through two years of a miserable separation and divorce.  i don't know if you'll remember the creature in the movie Nightmare Before Christmas, the one made of burlap like a pillow, coming unstitched at the corners with all manner of nasty bugs and things spilling out; that is how i felt about myself at the time - completely coming apart at the seams with nothing to stop the unraveling.  with regular therapy and finely tuned medication, i slowly worked my way back to what might be considered normalcy, and the years continued to faithfully march past.  i gained weight, i quit walking, but i was not morosely sad, despondent for no visible reason.  when i went for a check up two and 1/2 weeks ago, my doctor said he'd not seen me doing as well as i now am for over six years, and that i should try life without medication.  i've been gradually, carefully weaning my body and mind from something i'd been taking once or twice a day as regularly as getting up and getting dressed.  it hasn't been easy.  my moods have swung from happy to blue, from genuinely blissful to absolutely scared to death of what might lie ahead for me.  but right now, there is much happiness in my life - this life is so full - that i think i'll be able to handle a reasonable swing of highs and lows.  last week was a tough one; i have to offer much praise to my ben, for listening to me try to sort out my anxious pinings over the phone.  he is a fine man, this ben.  he is a keeper.  i'm not sure he can say the same about me, but remarkably, he does say this to me, over and over and over again. and so.  i do continue to reach for the light, to allow it to wrap itself around me in all shapes and sizes and forms; i continue to open myself up more and more and more, i continue to work on trust and faith and honesty, on sharing and giving and receiving, on striving for absolute happiness in a world that doesn't always encourage or allow us to be that way.  i nuzzle walter when he allows (usually when he is tired or preoccupied), i go to ben with my ups and my downs, but bottom line, i go to ben.  and let him come to me.  that has been the greatest gift of this incredible summer - the coming of both walter and ben into this crazy life of mine, when i very least expected it.  i'll continue to write, even if it may be reduced to once a week for a while.  and i'll pour my heart into my upcoming jewelry, the pieces that speak now of hope and transformation and love, of lingering in these soft, last days of one very special, magical summer. xo 

 

 

ed. note, wednesday 8/26:  a good many of you have written to say how brave i am.  that is far from the truth.  i'm not brave - just very, very open.  try that sometime and see how it makes you feel, after you've bared your soul for the zillionth time.  vulnerable, yes.  tender, you bet.  even a little bit raw.  brave?  ah, no.  i wish i could say that was the case. 

thanks to everyone who takes the time to write - it means so very much. xo

sunday morning

it's been a roller coaster of a week - up, down, in, out, upside down, inside out.  one very fine analogy is when i woke yesterday morning from an outlandishly exhausting dream in which i was staying in a foreign hotel room with friends, trying to get my endless supply of suitcases stuffed with the various sundry items that i'd dragged out and strung across the hotel room floor.  we were headed to the airport, but planned to make a stop at a museum on our way.  time was, as always in these dreams, escaping us.  i packed and unpacked three or four suitcases, couldn't find a pink pair of socks (i don't do pink), wasn't happy with the conservative black and pink corporate outfit i was wearing (i know!), was wearing my mother's shoes.  they fit.  to get from one hotel floor to the next, one had to climb backwards down a wooden ladder, and i stood at the bottom of one, coaxing daddy carefully down.  i woke up at 8am, exhausted, spent, relieved to be awake.  stumbling into the bathroom, i glanced into the mirror and saw that at some point during the night, i had removed my nightshirt (and recalled, then, a dream about ants) and put it back on with the v neck front in back, inside out.  then again, last night, i found myself in another travel dream (this time in the winter land of chicago) dressing and undressing into several office suits, finally pleased with a pencil charcoal skirt, pumps (this astounds me), and - i love this part - rainbow striped knee high socks.  my prime concern was if folks would see skin above the socks, if my legs would be warm in the winter cold.  my mother was driving the car; my brother ben and i were sitting in the back seat, and as she ran a red light, i turned to him and said "you used to do that, right?" and he nodded with an amused look on his face.  we passed a wooden building that had a huge sign in red and white exclaiming, "emmy nominee and renowned artist NINA BAGLEY appearing!".  see what i mean?!  i'm worn out every morning when i stumble out of bed, try to focus, try to shake off a fuzzy stupor that lingers with me for an hour or two. a good exercise to clear the head, i've learned, is to carry a puppy out into the wet early morning grass and toss the ball.  over and over and over again. it doesn't matter if the ball is tattered and torn, if it is a measily old tennis ball.  walter doesn't care.  neither do i. there's something to be said for a dog and a ball.   there's something to be said for a sunny sunday morning, a big grass yard, with a dog and a ball. i can see myself reflected here, in walter's amber eyes.  i can see a lot of myself in the way he is handling himself here; i've often said i'm like a dog with a bone when arguing my point.  i shake it around a lot, i will not let go.  and if the bone is tossed to the side, i run after it and grab it up again, for one last go.  funny, the things we see about ourselves in the behavior of other animals.  go, walter, go.  ok, fine.  don't go.  but listen to me, if you stay. being a puppy is a lot of work.  being the mama of a puppy is even harder than i thought.  yet, what's not to love about this face?   we're remembering to stop and look at the flowers, to smell our way about the place. good advice, a few of  you have given me:  a tired puppy is a happy puppy.  i'm not feeling like such a failure, after all.  xo

beautiful boy

“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”

                                          - Helen Keller

 

thank you, roy, for giving me - thus far - twenty two years of incredible, full hearted, breathtaking adventure.  happy, happy birthday, beautiful younger son of mine.  xo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJROPlu9lxc

this, or there

floating... drifting... suspended.... whatever you want to call it, that is how i am feeling this week, with a computer that is refusing to cooperate (again, again, again), work that isn't getting accomplished, distractions times two.  i've felt, truth be told, like a horrible puppy mother, trying to reel walter in when he gets out of control (a dozen times a day), when i see the red scratch and bite marks, so deeply etched on ankles, legs and hands that they are likely to become fine hairline scars, maps that lead to the story of my failed attempts at raising a puppy from scratch.  i swear, that pun was unintentional.  i love walter.  i really do.  i love him when he looks at me with those droopy spaniel eyes, when he curls up next to my feet so that some part of his warm little body is touching mine, i love him when he looks at me each morning, silently, when i sit up in bed and see him in his crate, patiently waiting for me to rise and greet the day with him. i love him when he goes outside with me, when he runs and chases butterflies, moths, bees. i don't love him when he lunges at me, growling and barking and grabbing hold of my ankles, my pants, my skirt, coming back harder when i firmly say no, when i push him down, when i shove him away.  i want to cry when his excitement accelerates into a circling frenzy, the result of some little lunatic puppy gone rabid with his frenetic expressions of whatever it is he feels for me.  i'd like to think it is love, and that he just doesn't know how to express the depth of it.  to that, i could relate.  god knows, i can.  for that, i'd settle.  but right now i'm feeling like an utter failure in the puppy owner world.  it's time to call the trainer in town, it's time to sign up for school.  bless our hearts; we're trying, he and i, as best we can to settle in for a long and rewarding life together.  it is no easy feat, for either of us, i think.  he's young and unschooled in the relationship thing, i'm middle aged, opinionated, set in my stodgy old ways.  beautiful, isn't he?  beautiful and smart and spirited and wild.  i took the photograph of the two of us this morning, just after i'd stepped out of a shower into which i'd gone to regroup and hide.  he waited for me in his crate, and when i brought him back out, i showed him the reflection of the two of us in the oval bedroom mirror.  the reflection of him - of us - startled him, and when i set him down, he scooted out into the middle of the living room to sit and wait for me to come to him.  he does this when he is frightened,when loud noises startle.  and he did this when he saw one familiar face and one other puppy staring straight back at him.  i took this photograph of my "little" one yesterday afternoon, when he was either still exhausted from ben's visit or feeling malaise from vaccines he'd received at the vet's.  no matter the reason, i was thrilled to see him out of his pen, lying quietly at my feet.  funny thing is, the calm has continued on through yesterday into today...  in small stretches, mind you, but calm, comfortable patches nonetheless.  he rests at my feet as i write this, and i'm amazed.  perhaps we've made some more smalls steps towards sanity again, he and i.  you think? i mentioned the shower, my need to step in and let the water run over me as i tried to sort out just how i am feeling today. running water has that ability, for me:  if i'm hurting beyond control, if i'm confused, if i need enlightenment, off come the clothes, into the cascade of water i step.  it never fails.  it is my ritual, my sacrament, it is my saving grace.  i stood there today, letting the warmth spray down my back, and tried to pinpoint just why it was that i was feeling off kilter, out of sort.  i don't pray much, and to whom i pray i'm not certain - god?  the universal omnipotence?  a greater power than i?  but pray i sometimes do, and i asked for a little gift. a tiny parcel of clarity today.  and something worked.  through the water, through the mist came comfort, then, and with that comfort came clarity and deeper breaths.   i had been feeling out of touch with myself, with the world when i woke first thing today.  i didn't like that.  solitude comes easy for me, but not today.  that frightens me.  and when i stepped out of the shower, all i knew to do was to reach out through the mist and touch the glass that connected me to the rest of the world that lies beyond the windowsill.  i reached out, pressed my clean wet palm into the foggy glass, and left my handprint there as testament to the emotional need to reach out.  and to be touched in return.

i seem to be needing to express myself even more than usual these days.  i spend a lot of time sitting here at the computer, tapping words that will flow out from here to there, wherever 'there' may be.  i pour out my thoughts, i bleed my emotions as openly as i would brush my hair or bake a casserole.  jewelry has been on hold for weeks and weeks, my time here in the remote reaches of firefly road is not my usual time.  i want to be heard, i want to know that i am not going to disappear.  or fade to black and white.  i want to be held.  the addled state of this post perplexes me - i am so happy these days, so full of hope - but i woke up on this rainy morning feeling upside down and inside out, and it is my truest nature to write it all out and let the words fall where they may.  "shake the page", billy collins once told us; "let the excess words fall off and keep what's left".  nothing seems excessive to me today. 

meanwhile, in a rare moment of distilled quiet and grace, i see that walter beckons me with his youth and his innocence to step into the light.  i'll let you know what i find, on the other side of this, or there (and walter licks my face).  xo

picture story

a few of you have written to ask me how it is that i come up with the things i write about - what is the process, what is the progression, how i think of a story line when writing an entry for Ornamental.  for the longest time i wasn't sure; i'd just sit down and begin to write - or so i thought.  but as time as passed and i stack up entries one atop another, i've begun to notice a pattern, a technique i wasn't even aware i was using until enough of you - until you, the very one who utterly matters most - in earnest asked.  this is a story, for you, today.
i snap pictures - lots of them - all of the time.  i'm never without my camera, almost to the point of wanting it with me as i walk from room to room throughout the house, as i step outside to walk walter countless times during the day.  i notice tiny things - they seem small at first, but as i catch myself thinking a trailing thought about the little things i see, they take on enough significance for me to want to capture them, as is, just so.  in that light.  or in that dark.  shadows work, but bright light works as well to tell a certain story.  and this is the story for today.
when i take a photograph of myself, it is to document a feeling, a look in my eye, a time and a space that exist within my heart.  what do you see here, in this photo that i took yesterday afternoon when i was weary, satiated, looking into the camera knowing full well i would be looking back to someone special as soon as that image was sent?  i see a middle aged woman turned young again; i see peace, and quiet longing, and a new way of looking into the lens.  nascent.  new eyes.  new life.  a different smile.  i see myself, times infinity.  you might not, but i know someone who absolutely does.  and so this begins the story for today.  newness.  freshness.  a gulp of air when i thought i had been drowning.  another gulp for good measure.    and so it goes.
when i take photographs of the beauty that surrounds me - or of things that make me think of something else, that trigger a memory or a feeling, an emotion or a time that has long since past, a time that is yet to come - it is a way of capturing a life that lives around me, a life that has me in the center if i choose to place myself there.  sometimes these images catch me by surprise, sometimes they are completely planned.  i snap a leaf that shimmers in the afternoon sun, a natural skin of stained glass hovering from a twig with light that saturates and shines through.  i see the sky at the bottom of the steps from sun that spills onto a concrete floor, i see reflections in water and want to remember this - the mirroring, the way the image hovers there atop the surface of the water, the way it floats on top like oil that will not mix.  i may not share all of those images with you; then again, i might.  i keep them stored here in my junebug green laptop, and when i want to begin my stream of words, i'll skate through the colors, the textures, the feelings of these photographs and pick and choose which ones might start my story for me.  the words begin.  the flow is tapped.  and this is how the story unfolds for you, my friend. this morning when the phone rang and walter, as usual, didn't want my attention diverted, i plopped him in the pen and escaped to the shady quiet of my morning bedroom.  i've never spent much time in there other than to read at night - i don't take naps, i feel too guilty if i read in the afternoon - and then it is when darkness has fallen and i don't take the time to appreciate the things i've placed in there to surround me as i sleep.  insanity.  take the stained glass tulip, for instance, that hangs at the window just above my head:  i can't see the colored light that shines through the dimpled glass when i lie with book to nose at night, in bed.  but when talking quietly on the phone early this morning, lying backwards with feet propped up in the windowsill, i loved seeing the heavy flower of red as it hung beneath vintage indian embroidery.  a simple pleasure, but one of relaxed beauty that should be more often enjoyed. i call this photo "abigail's corner".  abigail, if you'll remember, is the singer mannequin that came to live with me back in wintertime.  she stands there, usually decorated with new jewelry or a shirt i want to look at with a body that's not mine.  tiny thing, she is, and quiet.  i like that about her - that she stands there silently in the corner, watching me putter about as i make the bed, fluff the pillows, straighten the quilt, as i stand before the oval mirror to place a colored scarf in my morning hair.  there are poetry dresses, beautiful works of art by my friend ruth rae.  there are two framed paintings, favorites of mine from beloved misty mawn.  there is a beaded heart there in the window, barely discernable in the morning light, sent to me by my new zealand "sister" wendy.  hello, wendy.  i see this heart, and think of you. i stand before this old mirror, rescued by daddy from a house he long ago tore down, and sleepily wrap my tousled head with a scarf.  you've seen this mirror before; i'm fond of showing it to you.  it captures the light, it opens the windows, it is where i stand when i want to look at myself when wrapping colored fabric around and around my head.  there is something sacred about a mirror, i think - the way it reflects, the way it opens up to another world there in the wall.  the way it shows us ourselves, without lies.  without make up.  without special touches.  unadorned.  naked.  true.  on this mirror i've hung several of my treasured art pieces created by talented british friend cathy cullis.  her work speaks so very strongly to me, straight to the soul.  we are planning a collaboration, she and i, when fall comes and schedules settle into the predictable patterns again.  imagine!  two artists, who've never met, working on something side by across the ocean side.  that is a story in itself that will be shared, whenever we gather the time to make our respective magic. i share with you, above, the artwork i can see when i lie in bed.  the one on the left, i wanted for over three years; my very close friends kathy and bill at valley ridge studio had purchased a handpainted print identical to this, three ladies of the prairie in a time long past, and for this i pined and pined.  earlier this summer while in wisconsin, i was finally able to talk with a gallery owner, describe the piece, and commission the artist to make one for me.  i love this artwork so very very much - the three women in red, the prairie homes behind them, the cupid lips, the winsome expressions.  girls in wisconsin, who make me think of rolling green hills, beautiful old barns, two amish boys and a horse named stormy.  those boys did not know what to think of me.  they were beautiful, dressed in straw hats and suspenders, bare feet very dirty.  selling corn on the side of the road.  selling corn to suspendered, southern accented me.  they did not know what to think.  this artwork brings all of that back again - the feet, the horse, the curious looks on their beautiful faces.  it brings it back to me.  on the right, they've been joined by a little girl named clio - artwork from the talented portland hands of artist amanda blake.  below clio is my "jewelry keeper", something i made for next spring's artfest class (registration begins sept. 1 - send in those forms NOW, they do tend to fill up immediately); i decided the keeper would make a lovely sort of pincushion frame to hold revolving artwork of, again, cathy cullis.  she sends me little monotype drawings, all of them special, all of them dear.  i love this little family of mine hanging on the wall; i love lying in bed and looking at them.  they bring me comfort and calm.  the little red dress?  something i just unearthed from an armoire drawer, a dress my mother made one christmas for the gift of a teddy bear and his/her trunkful of handmade clothes.  that it is red is even better still. back to the living room - what furry frog is this?  walter has been quiet for larger pockets of time yesterday, today.  i thank ben for this.  walter spun and leapt and yodeled for him, he ran and splashed in the waterfall, he dove into the water from the hose ben held, he slept that night in fits and starts, he cried when ben pulled out of the driveway again.  smart dog, is he.  big dog, with a little (great big) toddler heart.  big paws, big soft ears.  sharp teeth.  i think i'll keep him, even if my ankles and hands are scarred for life.  love scars.  does it not?  yes it does.

i close with this - a picture of shadow and light.  no scars.  you can make up the ending, you can imagine what you will.  this picture is, when all is said and done, a story by itself. xo

yesterday. . .

. . . there weren't enough hours in the day.  the sun came out, it lingered in the hazy late summer air.  it was cool inside, under the ceiling fan and out on the porch.  sunlight danced; it cast shadows of the screen onto our hands, it made the silver 'round my wrist glisten like the morning dew.  and when nighttime fell, we lit some candles, sat together out on the deck, and talked quietly into the dark.  i saw an enormous shooting star fall down behind the trees.  funny thing is, i'd already seen my wish come true. . . one wish, times two.  xo

“All our dreams can come true - if we have the courage to pursue them.” — Walt Disney

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4cHsPCAZlP4

amen

i wish i could have known this beautiful man named monet - the one who spent hours and hours staring into the reflection of his goldfish ponds those later years of his life, staring and dreaming and seeing things that we would never have seen, had he not pointed them out with his paintbrushes and palette, with failing eyes that struggled to execute his dreams with oils onto canvas.  here i am, a woman of the twenty first century, studying the arts, working with my hands, with my words, with art of my own, and i'll only know this gentle man by flipping through glossy pages of larger coffee table books, by reading about his life, by going to a museum here and there and seeing his vision - in large, large scale - hanging on soft white walls.  the exhibit at the high museum  in atlanta was much smaller than we had anticipated - two huge rooms, three water lily murals, perhaps five or six paintings framed in ornate carved gilt.  it was not the first time i had seen some of monet's water lily paintings; i'd been to the musee de l'orangerie in paris in 1983, i'd been to the MOMA in new york in the 1990's.  but this time?  this time, i was standing between two men that i unabashedly love, and seeing the artwork through their eyes as well as my own.  and that, my friends, makes all the difference.

it was a magnificent and magical three hours that roy and ben and i spent wandering the creaky wooden floors, turning corners that led from one room to the next, surprising one another when we'd lose and find each other just around the bend.  i managed to get this one photograph of roy studying - studying! - one of the monet panels before a very very friendly, smiling security officer politely informed me that no camera photographs (only those from cell phones) were allowed.  funny thing is that he waited quietly, generously for me to snap this photo of roy before he walked up and informed me of my errant ways.  i should have known better, i know.

 

those of you who've been consistently reading this blog of mine will know what i mean when i say how fond i am of taking photographs of water, of reflections, of shadows thrown onto floors by trees, birds, chairs.  the sky seems that much more evocative, when reflected from a plate left out in the rain.  doesn't it?  puddles beside a road just after a storm has passed seem that much more full of portent, of late afternoon meanings decifered in the water's mirrored surface.  ben pointed out some words beside the painting you see there above, and i loved the words and the effect they had on me so much that i walked right back over to the friendly security fellow and begged permission to snap one more photo of the words.  just the words, without a flash. and he said yes, with another great big smile:

"Monet would sit for hours at a time in his garden without moving or speaking, just looking at the reflections in the pond.  He said, "I have painted these water lilies a great deal, modifying my viewpoint each time, transforming the motif according to the season and according to the different light effects that each season brings.  The essence of the motif is the mirror of the water whose appearance alters at every moment, thanks to the patches of sky which are reflected in it and which give it its light and movement".  oh my, yes.  this much i do know, but i'd not been able to see in earlier viewings the reflections, the sky, the trees, the light.  for this, i thank you, ben.  i thank you for the new way of seeing mirrored light within the layers and layers of paint.  for being able to imagine monet standing there, stroking colored oils onto the canvas with longer and longer brushes to accommodate his failing eyesight, for picturing this in my own imaginative mind and for coming home to see my own sky and rainwater in an entirely different light, i thank ben too.

we wandered and ambled, looked at southern folk art, period furniture, sterling tiffany teapots in a case.  we explored small niches where light was soft and low, others where the light was nearly startling, it was so bright; light, after all, when viewing artwork is nearly everything.  it is much, as well, when standing out in noonday sun, afternoon haze, the magic hour of the first and last light of the day.  i remember loving a visit to the montgomery museum to view an edward hopper exhibit, one dusty hot august day long ago, when i was old enough to drive, young enough to feel quite proud of myself for walking those quiet rooms alone to look at art.  i wrote a poem about it, in fact; where that poem ended up, i do not know.  but the memory of walking through air conditioned rooms, standing before dark moody paintings of buildings and people sitting in neon nighttime light stays strongly with me still.  i know this day of art with ben and roy will stay with me for the rest of my lovely life. 

 

i'm home again, now, after having spent the past four days living my life and my hours with ben.  it is difficult to sit here and write about anything other than the happiness i'm feeling, the renewed joy i'm experiencing in these middle, set in my way years.  there is such enlightenment, such amazement in every day when i rise to the surface of wakefulness from sleep; and when i turn the light out at night, i utter a whispered thank you, thank you, thank you for everything little and big that has been presented to me.  i write these words, i share these photographs and wonder if i'm saying too much, if i'm harping on the same, same thing over and over and over again.  bear with me, friends.  it's all i know to do.  it's all that i am, these days.  and again, i say amen. xo

and this, sent to me by a beloved friend/student/reader:  "If the only prayer you ever say in your whole life is 'thank you,' that would suffice." - Meister Eckhart

and the winners are....

 

(i STILL can't manage to capture the true color of those pink tourmalines!!!)

Random Integer Generator

Here are your random numbers:

95
18
194

Timestamp: 2009-08-13 12:59:59 UTC

FIRST PLACE:  SherylF:  her comment - "First....Thanks you so much for everything you do!  Second...Just like you I find my joy in the smallest things, like rain and clouds keeping the temp down from 100 here in Texas. Feeding and watering all the birds that come into my yard to get some relief. All of our lives are such roller coasters and we are all on for the ride!  Keep your spirits up and your heart open. I hope you continue to write ( you do it so well) and congratulation on your 500th post!"

(congratulations, sheryl, on winning the "new directions" necklace, something that is appropriate for a gal who recognizes the roller coaster aspects of life being a grand opportunity for a thrilling ride)

2nd Place:  Holly, UK:  her comment - "WOW, nina, 500th post!!? THIS SHOULD BE A BOOK!! that would be one hell of a juicy read!! :) I LOVE your blog sooo much!!! Cant wait to meet you in person next year!!!!
Blogs are just bringing me so much joy at the moment - i have a collection of blogs i read daily, and their all amazing in their own right, i just find the internet/blogs mind blowingly amazing and phenomenal. there are so many beautiful pieces of wisdom being left on peoples blogs - and you are my favourite blog!!!! i LOVE ornmental sooo much, and its just CRAZY you havent written a booook!!!!! (YET!) You need to get a book out there!!!! Your blog could be easily turned into a book - do you ever print any of it out??? xxxxx"   (holly is one of my youngest readers, and certainly one of my most enthusiastic; i think that the "no regrets" pin shall be perfect for her!).

3rd Place:  Leau Phillips:  her comment - "Fresh joy...what is that saying about you can't store up the important things, they have to be gathered fresh every day? That's what that made me think of. My fresh joys the last few days have the glorious moon, a touch of cooler air in the heat, really honest people, stencils and spray paint! Here's to 500 more! smooches"   (the "never too old" pin is just right for someone who loves stencils and spray paint!)

boy, this was not easy to do for this non-linear right brained artist; i had to list the comments and count backwards until i'd reached the three numbers the site selected (go here to see how it is done).  i've done it three times, so hopefully i've got it right; please don't be going and trying to prove me wrong, i do not want to have to do this all over again! 

i want to thank each and every one of you who took the time to write about your fresh new joys; it does my heart good, always, to hear from you, and to read such refreshing, inspiring words that you've shared from your open hearts.  i just wish that i could send a prize to each of you.  thank you for being here!!!

winners:  please email me with your address, so i can get these off to you asap.  congratulations, girls!  xo  nina

just jump

we all know the feeling, sometimes a little one, sometimes big:  fear.  it can come with goodness,with excitement, as often as it comes with unpleasantries.  we stand before the abyss, round eyed, teetering, standing high above the rest of our lives like we stood, shaking, on the high dive at the Y pool in fifth grade.  those at the bottom of the rungs are shouting, shouting, shouting, 'til it turns into a chant:  just do it!  why are you standing there, if you aren't going to go?! then, when we last expect it to do so, the universe opens up, unfolds, and allows us to see where we will be headed.  better to go than to stay, we say.  and then, at last, we .  just . jump. so that's it, then, isn't it?  the teetering, the stammering, the pondering, the looking, the anticipation, the jump.  and then, the exuberant landing.  and what a wonderful, beautiful thing this feeling of freedom from fear can be.  jump, friends.  i did.  you can, too.  i dare you.  go!

"Jump, and you will find out how to spread your wings as you fall."  - Ray Bradbury

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." - Anais Nin

and these, from a reader:

When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap. ~ Cynthia Heimel

All growth is a leap in the dark, a spontaneous unpremeditated act without benefit of experience.
~ Henry Miller

Sometimes you just have to take the leap and build your wings on the way down. ~ Kobi Yamada

Sometimes your only available transportation is a leap of faith. ~ Margaret Shepard

Living is a form of not being sure, not knowing what next or how. The moment you know how, you begin to die a little. The artist never entirely knows. We guess. We may be wrong but we take leap after leap in the dark. ~ Agnes De Mille

Leap, and the net will appear

500th post and a drawing (now closed - stay tuned)

  when i was writing and editing my last post, i noticed by chance that it was the 499th post; too bad that it wasn't the 500th, for that number seems quite profound and very much a milestone to me - what to say, what to write for such a monumental occasion beyond what has already been happening to me this summer?  this morning when i walked out into the early sunlit yard, i glanced down and saw, in passing, this slender remnant of a weed - or it is a tree?  the sunlight was hitting it, just so, and of course i had to come back in and carry my camera back outside with me.  a tree, or a weed:  life can be that way, full of growth, full of feeling out of control.  both can be very painful, and very good.  i'm feeling a little that way these days, and am trying to move slowly through the somersault of emotions that greet me with each and every day.  who wants a case of vertigo, anyway?

i've learned a great deal about life, just by opening up and sharing my confusions, my sorrows and joys right here at Ornamental; this december, i will have been keeping this blog for four solid years, leaving entries on a regular basis, trying not to skip more than a couple of days before writing something again.  there have been stretches - remember them, i know you do - when i was not emotionally or physically able to be here in the fish bowl, and those of you who trouble yourselves to write comments and notes all assured me that you understood, that you'd be here waiting when i returned.  and you were.  you've offered me, 99.9% of you, encouragement, love, empathy, sympathy, understanding - all wrapped up into a package of support.  and so, today, i'm writing to tell you from the depths of my heart that you all mean a great deal to me, that blogging has been a very positive experience from which i feel i have blossomed and grown.  i don't take time anymore to keep an art journal, or a journal of any sort - something i deeply regret - but i think that this is a good way to keep track of my accomplishments, my emotions, my steps forward and back, mostly forward again.  five hundred posts - did i really have all that much to say?!  yet, i'll continue, regardless of whether what i write means much, or anything, at all.

i have been trying to create jewelry this summer, in spite of the huge distractions that have landed so squarely in my lap.  focus has always been a difficult thing for me, at best, and these past two months have proven to be a grand exercise in patience that leaves me frustrated, ecstatic, frightened, and deliriously full of joy.  there have been tears, headaches, questions, searching of the soul; i know there will continue to be.  and isn't that grand?!  this morning i thought and thought about what to write on this day.  surely you're feeling up to your ears by now with tales of walter, of ben, of a woman gone schoolgirl on you with stories that may have bored the best of you.  yet still, you show up at my online door to greet me, to give me a hug, to tell me that you've felt changed by reading the words i have to say.  and that matters to me.  a lot.  i'd like to give something back to you this week, even though in the long run what i have to tangibly offer will only go to three of you.  just three.  please know that if i had it in my power, with schedule and finances, i'd twist and attach and fashion a thousand necklaces or pins to send each and every one of you.  a factory, i'm not. 

there was a time when i felt just like a factory with a stretched out, loopy assembly line.  i traveled to new york twice a year to attend the new york wholesale gift shows, and would stand in my sales rep's booth, looking at first like the bug-eyed child crossing over the threshold to first grade.  i don't handle meeting large groups of strangers very well at all, particularly when i have to stand in one concrete spot (and i do mean concrete) all day, for five long miserable days.  many buyers were rude, made stupid  remarks about my work as if i were not standing right there. still, i received countless orders, many of which would be due right around the first of october or april, jammed up on top of one another; the orders were for production pieces that i made over and over and over again.  catalog buyers came in droves; my work was carried in sundance's jewelry catalog, as well as in countless others i won't bother mentioning here.  it wasn't unusual to receive an order for 500 of a simple little silver "token" pin, in which i hand hammered each individual letter; the most popular one said "settle for more"; and i did.  twice i was royally ripped off by ruthless catalog comapnies who asked for a copy of my little hand produced color catalog (unbeknownst to my sales rep), then had an identical knock off copy fabricated in china.  that's right.  identical, but with a factory look to them.  what could i do?  i hadn't the finances to take a gigantic company to court and win.  even now, the design theft continues, on a much smaller scale, thank goodness; i take deep breaths and wish those individuals the karma that will come back to them, one hundred fold.  it isn't always easy, this thing that i do.  the rewards of the creativity, the self expression, the joy my pieces bring those who purchase them make it all, all, all worthwhile.  just don't ask me to make 1,000 resin pieces of a little pin that says "i won't grow up", due in three weeks, ever, ever again.  i wept and gnashed my teeth over that one; i did.

so.  this brings us to the drawing.  see the necklace to the left, hanging on abigail?  i made it last week, wanting to incorporate a photograph i took of local railroad tracks two years ago with some new deeply pink tourmaline gemstones that i purchased a week or so ago at the gem and mineral show.  taking photographs of this piece has been next to impossible; the stones, when i bump up the light in photoshop, become a purplish pink that does not please me at all.  i do not work in purple or pink.  these stones have a deep merlot color, with the slightest blush of pink, when turned in the light.  believe me, the colors are lovely and mysterious and deep, and will call much attention to the lovely photograph of railroad tracks and the working compass charm that hangs below.  it will hang at your throat, will grow warm from your pulse, from your skin, and will carry you to places you never knew existed, if only you'll allow yourself to open up, to believe.  i call it "new directions"; i think you believe me when i tell you that my life has taken a huge sharp turn, and this turn is revealing itself in the work that i'm currently creating.

  it's funny how life throws you notes in odd little ways, sometimes going unnoticed unless you remind yourself to stay tuned to the messages, the delivery.  this morning when walter and i walked out onto the porch, he grabbed (as he is wont to do) the first thing he found within reach of his mouth - a small white cardboard jewelry box beneath the dusty chair on the porch by the door.  that box has been out there, i'm ashamed to say, ever since i moved into this house, four years ago; i never bothered to move it because i knew what it held, and didn't want to be reminded of a difficult business situation.  see the pins above?  the one on top is mine - the "tender token" pin i mentioned, this one saying "high flyer"; the hole at the bottom edge was there to hold a bronze heart or star.  the two pins below were featured by the catalog i also mentioned; they were the hideous knock offs of my design that they featured on their pages.  i'm not sure what i learned from that experience, but here the sterling pins are today, and i'm offering the two i didn't make as second and third place in my drawing.  all i ask of you in return is that you leave a comment, only one for each of you please, telling me what new thing is making you happy, is bringing you fresh joy.  i don't care if it's a car, a garden, a stone, a cd, a lover, a pet, a baby, a plan.  a direction.  just tell me so we can all see and share what is happening in the worlds that come to us through ornamental.  i'll hold the computer-generated random drawing next thursday, so you'll have a week to enter.  sound like fun?  it will be a good way for me to hear from those of you out there who are shy to comment, and will give you a chance to express your happiness over something new in your life. 

meanwhile, i'm working on necklaces - simple strands of beautiful gemstones and pearls, wired into links - and a few sets of earrings, similar to the fluttery wind chime ones i made earlier this year.   i'll try to list them in my etsy shop by friday; on sunday i'm headed back to atlanta to be with beloved ben, where roy will join us to go see the magnificent monet water lilies at the high museum.  so much delicious newness, all around me.  i want to hear about yours as well, my friends; i want to hear about yours.   (i hope you'll all understand when, this time, i'm not able to respond to each of your comments personally....thank you everyone! )xo

hello, august

  these are, of course, my wet and weathered old feet, bare of shoes, as i dashed in and out of the house on friday morning in the midst of torrential downpours, packing the car for my weekend trip to atlanta.  it never let up that morning; sheets of rain pounded down as i went back and forth with bags, walter's crate, ripening avocados from my treasured friend in california, earrings that already fluttered in the lobes of my ears.  i love how my green umbrella's reflection resembles a huge lily pad with edges chewed by one very large bug; that i was observant and coherent enough to stop and notice the reflection, and then to snap the photo, is an amazing thing.  i was panicked about getting out of the house on time, about avoiding atlanta's insane rush hour/friday traffic, about how i looked, how i felt, how walter would behave.  craziness.  the ride down was much more peaceful than the frantic packing and worrying had been:  walter slept, i settled in and crooned with the beatles for a solid three hours down a winding, rainy road.  i'm at a loss as to how to convey just what an absolutely perfect weekend this was, with ben.  i really don't know what to say.  walter was an angel, if you can believe that; he loved being around the two "big dogs" rose and lou, both of whom were gentle and patient, and they quite obviously worship the very ground upon which ben walks.  i smiled when i noticed that over one third of his kitchen counter space is cluttered with assorted jars of doggie treats.  lucky girls.  lucky walter.  lucky me.  ben insisted upon spoiling me every second that i was there, taking walter out every five minutes, taking the three dogs on long sunset walks while i sat back and checked on email, returned phone calls, walked around in my bare feet snapping photos of ben's house.  he, like i, grew up with a father who ran a demolition business, and his home is filled with old relics and family heirlooms; it felt like my parents' home, like mine.

   what touches me so deeply, more than anything else in that treasure-filled house, more than the antiques, more than the family photographs, more than his great grandmother's floral paintings, the dog treats on the counter, the wine served in his grandmother's cut crystal tumblers, are the notes on bird sightings that ben keeps posted by his kitchen window, which looks out to the spot where he scatters seed for the back yard birds.  i believe i've met my match with ben, then; this man loves his birds, and his dogs.  and me.  he loves me - difficult, emotional, unpredictable me.  we spent a lot of time feeling slow and restful and inquisitive with one another, asking and answering questions, telling old stories that were new to each of us, talking about family, about pets, about things that we love to do.  we sat quietly, too, and i loved that - that we could do it easily,without awkwardness, without feeling a need to fill in the spaces with words; sitting and being together was enough.  really enough.  the weather remained overcast throughout the weekend, and other than a "family" ride with all three dogs to trader joe's, and a lovely sunday breakfast where we joined ben's incredibly charming and beautiful mother and sister (my first time to meet both), we stayed there at the house, cooking and listening to music, playing with the shadows, watching a movie, talking to the dogs.  ben pampered me, non stop.  the first morning after i woke up and came downstairs, i discovered on the counter a lovely arrangement of fresh flowers with a keepsake note beside them;  he had taken the dogs for a ride so he could bring me fresh bagels and berry cream cheese.  for me! he had placed them in a lovely art nouveau bronze and turquoise morning glory glass,  something from his grandmother that he insisted i carry home with me.  and this morning?  i stumbled down the stairs, still half asleep, and ben had just prepared a beautiful breakfast for me of a goat cheese and mushroom omelette, deep red fresh tomatoes, avocados (thank you sharron!), crispy tortilla triangles, hot tea, orange juice.  i sat and stared, perplexed and overwhelmed, at him in disbelief; how can he be real?  how did i get to this place?  what magic worked its way on me so i could be with this  beautiful spirited man?!

you can see why i would be a bit overwhelmed as to what to write, what to share with you today.  this is, right now, my absolute life; it astounds me that walter and ben both came into this life of mine within two short days of one another, a miracle in the simple arrangement of time that decided to fall and wrap itself around this scattered, worn and frayed middle aged woman who thought that her life had finally grown quiet and predictable, safe and free from roller coaster emotions.  i rode back today, a day later than planned, with my hand literally held over my heart for a good thirty minutes of the drive:  i am astounded, utterly and truly, by the turn of events that my life has taken this beautiful, amazing summer.  my older son graduated from college, such a joyeous thing; aspen died the next day; one week later i was headed into a six week trip that carried me into the loving arms of california and wisconsin and alabama, and from there to walter and ben.  all i have to say to that, right now, is what ben and i have done together before each meal, or what i do when i walk out back under the sheltering trees and sky:  we simply say thanks - to god, to the universe - thank you for this.  thank you and thank you, and thank you for the rest of my life, for these moments that have brought me such beauty, such pleasure, such exquisite joy.  thank you. xo