Ornamental

fifty five things

towards the end of november, the husband of a very dear friend of mine left a couple of messages on both my land and cell phone, saying he wanted to give his wife something very special for her birthday, just before christmas, and in a sweet voice asked if i could help him by making a necklace for him to honor her day.  this is her fifty fifth year, and he called back - twice - to ensure that i incorporate, somehow, that magical number into the finished piece.  most of you know that i don't do commissioned pieces, usually.  i find it far too hard to sit and worry about whether or not the design will live up to any expectations that may be set ahead of time; it is a lot of pressure, and i just don't like putting myself, or anyone else around me, through that sort of angst.  this friend is mighty special, though, and her husband is a sweetheart; so what could i say?  i spent days mulling over what to do. many walks through river woods later, i decided to make a "booklace" from an antique eyeglass case that could hold a tablet that you see me holding, above.    the cover is from an ancient antique leather-bound french/english dictionary that i purchased over ten years ago for two or three dollars, a heavy thing that is now without a cover in one piece.  the brass stencil comes from a set that no longer contains the number five; and that is as it should be, then.  fifty five things that i love about you - that's what i hammered, letter by letter, into the old brass, and within the book are vintage pages, some lined and others not, where he could jot down things that he loves about my beloved friend.  i remembered her telling me, some fifteen years ago, just how they met:  sitting at adjacent tables next to the water at an outdoor cafe, he overheard her wonderful, hearty laugh, and that was all it took.  i filled in #3 for him, on a list within the book, with old text that said something like "he heard her laugh".  this makes me smile, the memory of her telling me this when we sat at that same cafe on a 1950's white porch swing and i asked how they had met.  she and i met when i was working the new york gift show, back in 1995 or 96; she had a shop, she loved my jewelry, we faxed back and forth (remember those days?), i went to visit where she lives, i returned as her house guest again all these years later, when i attended the billy collins workshop two years ago next month. i look at the photos of this piece now - i see the tiny porcelain doll arm that she actually found washed up on the beach there in key west, where she lives - i see the knotted pearls, the word "memory", the button (holly is a button nut), the tea stained paper that she sent to me in a box overflowing with art supplies and vintage treats - and i realize just how fortunate i am to be blessed with the friends that i have in my life, scattered to the four winds as they are.  a dear friend - so very, very dear - called me early this morning with the news that her husband had passed away yesterday.  i want to be with her, to wrap these arms around her tiny shoulders and sit quietly somewhere, anywhere, within her close proximity.  i would sit quietly, and read a book, and drink out of my thermos of tea, and be there if and when she needed me.  but she lives all the way across the country, and the miles between us have never felt more vast.  but, still, she took the time to call me, to talk thirty minutes, even when she was in such deep and consuming sorrow.  oh how i love my treasured friends!  oh, how much i love this life, the ups and the downs and the inside outs.  i love it all, mostly; i do.  i may choose to spend the large majority of my time alone, here in this cove on firefly road, but i treasure my time with my friends - writing, sending photos back and forth, wishing for a shared cup of tea, simply thinking of one another, loving without condition.  heart to heart.  hand to hand.   soul to soul.

i think i'll list fifty five things right here, right now; it is a long number, and i pity poor steve for sitting and trying to come up with that many things that he loves about his birthday gal.  but you all seem to love lists, and i love to write things down, and i'll type whatever comes to mind, until i get to number fifty five.  and then, i'll stop, for now:

1.        I’m thankful for comfort, in all its many guises.

2.       I love that my dog is one who loves to snuggle, to curl up close to me on winter nights here on my linen sofa.

3.       Thank goodness I’ve discovered the joys of walking once again.

4.       Thank goodness someone told me about the river trail, so that these ailing feet don’t have steep mountain roads to climb.

5.       I love living here in the north Carolina mountains.

6.       Thank god I had two boys.

7.       I raised them on my own, mostly; I know – I KNOW – I did a stellar job.

8.       I used to wear seashells in my hair.

9.       A dear friend i've known since kindergarten (truly!) sent me photographs that I received today from when we were young and in living upstairs/downstairs from one another in college; in two of those photos I am wearing the seashells in my dark brown hair.  the shells came from a trip to an old neighborhood bungalow we visited in sarasota, where grapefruit fell off trees over picket fences and into the gutter, where they were left for whoever happened by.

10.   In one of those photographs, I am sitting holding my camera, while she captures my smile.  I am thin, wearing black even then, and young.  I remember what that felt like.  It seems like yesterday.

11.   I want to reach out and touch the sky.  Sometimes I feel like the sky is holding me.

12.   The number 444 shows up with greatest frequency in my life, and in the life of a very dear friend of mine as well.  it has surfaced when we were together, more than once.

13.   I have an alter ego named ethel.  I’m sure you’d like to see a photograph of her?  You won’t.  Not here.

14.   I’ve traveled the world over, and it is always best to be right here at home.

15.   I spend most of my time alone, by choice.

16.   I handle spending time alone by working and reading and making things with my hands.

17.   I love to read.

18.   I love stone walls.  Don’t ask me why this came to mind, I’ve not the answer for that.

19.   I love the smell of old books.

20.   I do not like to dance.

21.   My favorite city in this whole wide world is Venice, Italy.

22.   The light in Italy is pale and golden, washed with softness, wrought with desire.

23.   You can’t go home again.  Not always.  Things change.

24.   I am mostly happy with myself and where I am in life.

25.   I’m very proud of what I have accomplished:  a self-built career, two fine boys.

26.   I love to hear dry leaves scuttling along in the wind.

27.   My hands look like dry leaves, sometimes.

28.   I love to spend long hours on a plane, reading and dozing, staring out the window into the clouds.

29.   This is not easy. 

30.   I am grateful for readers who don’t write and inquire about something I’ve not written in my blog.  If it isn’t there, I didn’t want to make it public or to talk about it, see?

31.   I’m grateful for my readers, all of you.  

32.   I want to learn how to knit.

33.   I want to learn how to kayak in calm waters.

34.   I’ve given up wanting to learn how to ski.

35.   I love this desk, its color that changes from green to blue certain times of the day.

36.   I’m reading a novel again that I loved very much the first time around, About Grace by Anthony Doerr.  There is much talk of snow and rain and the elements.

37.   I’ve read Fair and Tender Ladies twice, and will one day read it again.

38.   I’ve read To Kill a Mockingbird more times than I can count.

39.   I would have loved to name a child atticus, if I’d had more than two boys.

40.   I hate to talk on the phone.

41.   I much prefer to write. 

42.   I do not like the sound of my own voice.

43.   I can smell the outdoors on walter’s fur when he comes in from the cold.

44.   Here’s that magical number again.

45.   I love to hear water lapping on rocks and loons crying into the dark.

46.   A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.

47.   I do not want to have to explain myself to anyone.

48.   I like doing things of my own fruition, whatever that means.

49.   I love my name.

50.   I love my life.

51.   I love my boys.

52.   Don’t ask.

53.   Don’t ask.

54.   Don’t ask.

55.   Yes.  I am.  xo

 

bittersweet symphony

i don't know about anyone else out there, but i for one was immensely relieved to wake up this morning and realize that Christmas Day was completely, utterly, finally behind me once and for all.  sounds awfully harsh, doesn't it?  but the holiday for me this year, something that seemed piped in on muzac and glazed with clear plastic, was not the time we all would like for days of celebration to be.  and i spent it back here at home, by myself with walter, simmering miserably in my own watery juices and wishing that i didn't feel things so fully.  i wish i could be a person who holds things in a little more, who is able to weather an unpleasant situation without my feathers getting ruffled, able to ride something out without feeling that my balance has been tipped too far over for me to stay in a stable position.  i left my parents' house - left my parents and the boys and the boxes and the presents i'd wrapped the day before, left them late in the afternoon and drove home through the pouring rain in the dark.  on christmas eve, i walked back into an empty house at 10:30pm, where the tree lights were thankfully lit, thanks to an electronic timer.  sounds dismal, doesn't it?  and it was.  oh yes, it was.  i woke up yesterday morning, walter pressed snugly to my side for the first time since he came to live here (he always sleeps in a crate, or kennel, beside my bed), and i was alone in a world where a car did not pass in front of the house until late in the afternoon.  everyone else, it seemed - the world! - was hunkered down with family, laughing and eating and telling family stories, but not me.  not me.  on my first christmas alone, ever, i sat on the sofa, clad in pajamas, frozen in position until the clock passed noon; i took a shower, then dressed myself in red.  thank goodness for my treasured, wise young friend sarah, home from school for the holidays, who came out to join me for a walk with walter along the river trail mid afternoon.  the trees there, the path winding amongst them, are the things that i will remember when recalling this christmas of 2009 - trees, and a sodden trail, and puddles that reflected the trees and the sky back up to me.  sarah stayed, thankfully, until darkness had fallen, sitting with me on that red linen sofa and talking over thin porcelain tumblers of deepest red wine about family, about relationships, and how we twist and turn through life as best we possibly can.  i am so thankful for this time with sarah; she was my christmas family this year, and i shooed her out of the door at six so that she could go back home and be with her own parents for the rest of christmas day.  i'm smiling now as i remember that she programmed my cell phone to ring, like hers, to the tune of "bittersweet symphony".  i had no idea at the time how very ironic that tune would turn out to be. walter has a stuffed monkey that he's had since the first few days he came to live with me; my friend kathy was a saint in bringing me puppy essentials that i wasn't capable in those trying days of going out and purchasing on my own, and "grollie" was the stuffed animal she chose for him to have here at home.  grollie sleeps every night with walter in his crate, and comes out with him, just as you see here, first thing every morning.  if walter hears a noise that makes him think someone is here, he begins looking in desperation for grollie, then paces the house with him in his mouth, a stuffed security blanket of plush fleece and polyester.  he loves this toy, and would never consider chewing it up, or tearing at its seams (that pleasure is reserved for things like shoes and socks or underwear; any article of clothing left unattended within puppy reach, beware).  i guess i have my own grollie, in a way, and it is a home contained within these four square walls.  i don't own this place, and it seems that i'll never be able to afford a place of my own; but by god, this is my home, and it is the place where i can feel completely safe, completely myself, completely free to unfold and collapse, to rebuild again at will.   the other night, on christmas eve, it was the only thing i knew to do - to load that car back up, after less than 24 hours of being there, and hit the cold, wet highway that, in a very late dark stormy hour, finally led back to wonderful here.  a beloved friend of mine i've known for years and years wrote this morning and said to me that sometimes "a girl has to do what a girl has to do", and i'm going to hold those words close to my heart for the rest of my blustery life.  it was all i could do to remove myself lock stock and barrel from an increasingly tense and trying situation and spare myself and everyone around me from what could and surely would have been so, so very much worse.  i am myself - for better, for worse, all vibrant emotion bound tightly with string that sometimes stretches and frays and falls apart, and then snap! out spew the feelings, bursting and spilling everywhere.  for those who love me, and there actually are quite a few, i feel deepest empathy.  it cannot be easy being close to me, i know this much is true.  but i also know that i am loved deeply and truly for many, many reasons, that it is like weathering a magnificent electrical storm when loving volatile me. ladybug, ladybug, fly away home.  this house was not on fire, my children were not here, were not alone.  i'm not writing this today to evoke sympathy, to ask for words of consolation; i write all of this to remind you that i'm far, so very far, from perfect, that my emotions run high, i pay a dear price for every single thing that i do.  but i am also writing to say that it is a very important thing to be true to one's self, that what one feels deep, deep down is the right thing to do in spite of how it may look and feel to everyone else.  christmas for me came hard, and slowly, painfully it went; and i'm here this morning sitting in pajamas at my own sweet borrowed window thankful to see this new day, and waiting for two furious but forgiving sons to come home to me this afternoon.  life does go on.  xo 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zx3m4e45bTo

wishing you the best

how can it already be christmas eve?  how?  last time i checked, it was the first or second week of january, and i was in the middle of cooking something when the word "nascent" popped into my head, audibly, over and over again - so much so that i finally had to stop chopping, walk over to the dictionary, and look up the word to see what it meant.  and the rest, as they say... well, the rest is here and now. i'm writing this from alabama.  it isn't christmas here, at all.  there are packing boxes scattered across every single room, there is no tree, there will be no christmas dinner.  it is my last time to stay in this house that i've loved for so many many many years.  the boys and i are sad, so sad; we don't discuss this with my mother, whose decision and tough attitude seem to be growing in momentum like a snowball rolling down a big white hill.  i wish i were at home.  my home.  the one where snow still rests on the ground, where my rooftop is covered with five inches of white.  where a tree, although sparsely decorated, does rest at the window, where a tree glitters with colorful little lights all day and into the night.  i really do wish i were there, this time.  i wish i were there.  i know i'm being selfish, i know i shouldn't post these things.  but, still.  i wish i were there.  i will be soon enough, and i know i'll be missing my parents and this home, once i'm back to the mountains and the winter and the snow.  that's how it goes, isn't it? this place seems farther away than ever - farther than when i was walking beloved paths of new zealand, of beautiful dwellingup in australia, of twisted cobblestone streets in assisi.  there are only six hours of driving time that separate the there and the here, but on this christmas eve morning, the difference feels unfathomable.
vast.  impossible.  ah, well.  enough!  i'm not here to drag you down, not here to summon more statements about the pros and cons of a move.  i've reviewed them all with you, i've listened to your hearts and mine, i know this is all for the best.  i know it is good to be here, surrounded by the love of my parents, still with us here on this earth; so, from the heart of alabama to your many, many hearts that are scattered all over this great big world, i wish you warmth and bliss and happiness, wherever you may be today.  i wish you the best of the best.  xo

gather closely in the light

winter solstice - it arrived this morning with full blown rays of sunshine, bursting up above the eastern mountains and shining through the snow that remained, there was so much that remained!  so much.  and the sun began to shine, to spill into these windows and into my eyes, the sun began to make all things touched with snow take on a sparkle, a glimmer.  this world began to glisten, so quickly - look! glistening, and then back again to winter browns and greys, all cloaked in vibrant blue. i want to weep when my world unfolds like this, beauty after beauty spilling out and over and into what i can see, what i can take in, into what i try in vain to remember, forever, amen.  i had gone to bed knowing that the snow would finally melt, when sunshine finally came; the sunshine came today, and i'd forgotten how incredible the remaining snow would be when sparkling in the midst of all that remarkable light.  so magical, this light in play on snow, so exquisite in the poignant way it played a tune on these heartstrings.  i'd forgotten, so quickly, how wonderful a joy it is to sit here at this desk, first thing, with a fresh cup of hot, steaming tea in hand, to sit and watch the day begin to brightly spread itself across my table, across my lap, across my little world.  i'd forgotten, for a few quiet days, until today.  how fresh it all seemed, this light and this snow, this sunshine, this rolling land.  this life of mine.  how fresh.  how very much, a gift.  i'm hoping you feel this way, today.

when i stepped out in bedroom slippers onto the snow-covered deck, when i realized how the sunshine was making a play of shadows on light, of dark on white, i found the spot where i'd placed the night before a candle deep into the folds of snow that was still piled six inches high across the metal latticed table.  how different, to see it resting there, eight sleeping hours later, this time surrounded by light.  so much light, so much white.  again, i wanted to weep, and wonder if i am the only one who often feels this way.  i leave you with my own little beacon of light, flickering there not this night but last, welcoming in the darkness that envelopes us this time of year when days are short and nights are long, so long that it seems to be a winter's length of sleep, and a time of drifting, peaceful dreams.  i wish you quiet lovely things, this long winter solstice night. and because i just came across this quiet sight, something i captured one snowy evening not so long ago, i'll leave you also with this - my little pocket of bliss.  xo

snowed

i continue to be amazed - silenced, even - by the incredible beauty that has unfolded and draped itself all around us out here in the middle of nowhere/everywhere.  my camera keeps filling up with gorgeous shot after shot, and i've spent many an hour culling and editing, so this time will be documented for us to see. it is a different world, under all this white:  silent and regal, it patiently waits for changes to come, for sunshine to melt the frosting off of the trees, to remove the sugar icing from the ground. the photo of walter here was taken the first morning, saturday i think, or maybe it was friday; i can't remember anymore.  but the snow continued to fall, surprising us all, and even this sunday morning it continues to sift down, fine as flour, dusting the depth with another regal inch. sleepy eyed, i wandered out the door on saturday, convinced it would all disappear within hours; even roy scrambled to get warmer clothes on and join walter and me in our walk through the woods.  such beauty, suspended all around us like magic.  i love this.  i love this snow.

nothing looks familiar; nothing looks the same.  this house reminds me of something from my tiny little village, perched along the mantel under bottle brush trees. and walter - what a fine, frisky dog is he!!!  never mind that water is icy cold, come wintertime - all the more reason to jump in, without reservation, without fear.  and throughout it all, he wears a smile.  see?! i don't know how many photos to pull out here, how many to share with you.  looking at these images never grows old for me; i am a child again, the wide eyed little girl who sees wonder in each and everything.  i close my eyes and feel the snow against my brow, i feel it on my lashes, i feel it kissing my face; and i love this moment, this place.  i don't grow tired of the cold, the inconvenience (i have that work at home luxury, yes), the inevitable mess.  snow melts.  things change.  this, right now, i choose to embrace.

we spend our quiet, snowbound hours reading, talking, soaking in the view.  we laugh and talk and cook and tell the stories to one another that we've most likely told before.  stories are different, in the snow.  they are - a little quieter, a little more hushed.  a little more dear, when told by candlelight, when told by the glow of outside snow brightly shining in. this house seems to wait - for what, i don't know - it seems to wait, and to listen, and to rest.  while the house rests, i work with all things that remind me of snow.  i work on overdue earrings (now listed in my shop, but only through tuesday night), i pull out a book i will want to read again, that talks of snowflakes, and winter, and memory.
and meanwhile, this house - this house - continues to quietly wait. xo 

and so it comes

Good things come to those who wait.  And sometimes to those who quietly wish. 
The snow began this morning, in earnest, just after my older son robin called from boone to see if we were getting any snowfall here.  I glanced out the window above my head, while lying still there in my cozy warm bed, and was startled to see that the ground was already covered.  Within twenty minutes, we had two solid inches on the ground – two inches that stayed, and has now been covered with another two or three. 
Our world here on firefly road is quietly beautiful, soft and silent and still.  I never cease to be stunned by this beauty that comes to our winter world, a white blanket that buffers the wind, buffers the sounds of any birds or outside activity.  There are no cars.  Not here.  Not today.  No, not today. 
I’ve sat here at the window, afraid that if I stop gazing and pondering, staring into the woods across the way, that it will all disappear with a soft little poof. Roy and I agree that the Christmas tree looks just fine with its minimal lights and glass garlands.  I don’t think we’ll make much more of an effort to festoon things in our little world right here, not for now; the snow is enough.   

We are enough.  Life is enough.  It is. xo

the wind blue

inspiration comes in the loveliest (and most unexpected) of places.  i'm not sure why it didn't occur to me that walking along the river would bring a slew of bumpy, varigated necklaces that remind me of seaweed, or river rocks, or water reflected and running over smooth, smooth stones.  it doesn't matter.  i've been inspired.

the necklace above tickles me, the way that it was only this morning that i saw the play on words.  don't tell anyone.  it took me weeks to see the humor in that little charm.  i'd only meant to color the wind; who knew it would have a little captured joke there, under the surface of the resin?

all of the earrings i listed yesterday are gone.  whoosh!  just like that, all four pairs.  i'll be listing some more either this evening, or tomorrow, as soon as i can get the photos taken, edited, and listed.  i thank you, so very very much, for continuing to believe in what i do.  xo

quiet rush

somehow i am feeling like i'm in the eye of a hurricane:  all is quiet, here on firefly road, but all is also perpetually upside down and rushed, though hushed.  such is life.  the tree is up, although festooned at this point only with lights (over 1,000 of them).  there is a comfortable glow in this home, always, in the evenings; the little white lights that speckle my winter village on the mantel - something that stays out year 'round - cast a warm, low light that makes this place feel very much like it's always been my home.  my center.  my own private world.  and there is great comfort in that, the sense of being tucked away from the rest of the bigger, louder world. i've been making more trinkets for my etsy shop, should anyone wish to go take a look.  inspiration these days springs greatly from my walks along the river, where the play of light on water, and the variety of natural colors of the stones and the woods and the river bed, have had quite their alluring effects on me. 
it is a simple pleasure to sit before the fire in the evening and work quietly with my hands, a tray of pearls and gemstones in my lap and sir walter lying as closely to me as he can (a miracle in itself). he has grown into such a big boy; where is that little round nosed pup of six months ago? he is right here.  great big puppy boy, waiting for roy to come play with him again.... xo

it rains

it is a quiet sunday morning, as most are, and i sit before these windows staring out at a world that is sitting quietly while the rain pours down, down, down.  it's grey out there.  sometimes i can see the mountains, minutes later i can't.  it doesn't feel like christmas here, i've not dragged in the tree that rests forlornly still outside against the house.   the only decorating i've done, i'm ashamed to say, is to place the little bottle trees there below my desktop lamp, ironically next to the tiny buddha.  he doesn't mind, nor do i.  it's all good.  i've gone back to add a lovely pewter charlotte doll, looking like an angel perched there in the inkwell under the lamp.  she came to me a couple of days ago, compliments of my artist student and friend, lynn davis; and she waits patiently to be placed on one of my small books, i think, but when, oh when?
i'm spending this morning thinking of my parents, thinking of the new home where they plan to move, come the beginning of january, just after the new year.  right now my mother spends her days packing, sorting, culling photographs and books (a black hole that sucks time away, we all know that); the dining room has been dismantled, the kitchen comes next.  goodbye, extra plates; goodbye, easter decorations; goodbye, dear old house.  goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.  when i was home for thanksgiving, the one thing i was allowed to do to help (there was no time, my mother insists) was to drive into town to purchase a wreath (ironic that it came not ten miles from robin, up grandfather mountain, where it could have been purchased for 1/8 of the price), to drive into town with my folks to the new house and hang the wreath from the door, to photograph this door, this wreath, and develop the photo later that afternoon so my mother could sit and assemble some 60+ christmas cards, a priority for her.  the amusing thing about all of this is that once the photograph had been taken, she had me climb back up onto the tiny step stool we'd brought from home and take the wreath back down.  i hope she hung it back up on their foxwood door.
i love this photograph of daddy; he is smiling, for once (why does he feel the need to keep from smiling when i'm pointing the camera lens at him?  he smiles a LOT, in life, and cries these days a lot as well), and i was able to capture his typical playful spirit here.  "come in, little girl", he said to me; "welcome".  he was amused by this, i think, because the house is empty, not yet occupied.  such a card, is he. my mother isn't any easier a subject to capture with my camera; she has a notion that she isn't beautiful, at least that's what i think she thinks, so whenever i begin to photograph her, she freezes like a deer caught in bright light.  fortunately, with years and practice, i've managed to help her relax just a bit, and here she stands before their new living room doors, the ones that open out onto what tiny bit of outdoor living they will have (an intimate stone patio, behind a tall brick wall).  i look at these images today and am aware of the all too familiar twinge of sadness in my heart, the sense of upheaval, the sensation of having a nest knocked free of the tree.  childish, i know.  their own house is far too big, far too demanding in upkeep and maintenance; seven acres of lovely trees and grass, two floors and five bedrooms, three baths - it's gotten to be too much, she says, and the new place will have no yard (none) to worry about, there will be a "security" guard at the gate, they'll share their driveway with a future neighbor, they'll share a long living room wall.  one floor, no stairs, and no one hanging an artificial moon in the sky with an enormous cord every night.  not yet.see?  no smile.  or, just a shadow of a smile, but he was so willing, really, when i asked him to place that wonderful old gnarled hand upon the mantel, just so.  a new mantle, not the beautiful fully carved white marble one at our old home, not the carved one of mahogany.  but a mantel, and a glimmer of a smile.  my daddy.  confused now, but usually willing, and always happy to talk (or, really, to have me listen).  i step into this new place, empty until january 4, i walk around on bare hardwood floors and hear my footsteps echo into all that empty space.  it is a lovely place, it is.  it will be fine.  we'll all be fine, which rhymes with whine, doesn't it?  i'm sorry for that, it isn't something i like to find bubbling up from deep within myself.  who does?

back to my little world here on firefly road: i'm still sitting before the windows in my winter pajamas, amazed these days that walter is willing, mostly, to snooze away the time that i spend sitting here doing what i do; gone, for the most part, is the frantic puppy who would not let me do anything other than throw the ball, walk outside, keep things in continual motion.  he rests when i need him to be quiet, he patiently waits until late afternoon before he begins whining for a walk outdoors.  he is my little boy and friend, a good one who, in truest teenage form, flings himself roughly against me on the sofa at night, reckless and awkward in his undying love.  there is such beauty in that, the unquestioning, the ardor without conditions.  there is good medicine, too, in walter's bringing me such incredible joy and light after suffering such loss with aspen's passing.  i miss my old pup so much, i still do, and having feisty little rough and tumble walter in my very full life makes my days and nights that much more beautiful, after the stunning wake of loss, of wrenching pain.  we are enjoying our time outdoors, our walks along the river, through the trees that stand tall and patient, silent through the winter.  some things don't ever change; others do, oh they do in spite of protests, in spite of worry and pain.  i need to let those wise trees teach me a few fine things.  meanwhile, i'm heading into my tiny kitchen to bake fresh cookies, to prepare a fine meal for roy, who comes home for the holidays today tomorrow, we hope, tomorrow. xo

ps.  three or four of you have inquired today about ben.  he is fine!  we saw one another at thanksgiving, he promptly came down with a cold, i've been very busy working on jewelry and trying to get caught up after a lax four or five months, and the holidays have hit full force.  thanks for asking.

shades of grey

while sorting through and editing the various photographs i've taken this past week - of my walks along the river trail, of the stream across the way that is so loud right now that it sounds like a roaring wind, of walter, of jewelry, of potential jewelry - i noticed how grey and brown and somber all the tones seemed, so steeped in their winter state are they.  so here, i share with you a splash of sunlight as it fell across my cozy slumber linens this morning while i made up the bed.  warm sun!  today, it is cold, much colder than before, and it was wonderful to feel the warmth of it as i tucked pillows and flannel back into place.  see my little doll?  she is a family of three, made by my artist friend cathy cullis across the water in england (where they, too, have had their share of cold and rain).  her little belly says "friend", and it was a simple little five minute pleasure to pose her there, basking in the morning sun.  cathy whittled the arms and legs for these recent dollies, and i'm reminded now of the little sticks that my boys used to whittle for me, used to rub against concrete wall edges to shape them into gifts they'd hand to me.  i have those sticks, still.  i continue to collect, to gather. this house is full of branches i've pulled in from the woods, these rooms are stuffed with nests and stones and tumbled beach glass, or glass that i find while walking now with walter along the river's edge. i'm always surprised by what i see, peeking up from the pre-dusk grey at me, there amongst the stones and sticks and sand.  this one, i tucked into my pocket.  these, below, were too big, too heavy, so i carried them home as photographs, to share with you here today.  how many hearts do you see? i hope you see three.  the one on the right, i keep finding every time walter and i stop at this little stone beach, and i'm always reluctant that it is too heavy for me to carry back home.  at least for now.  but the one on the bottom there, do you see?  layered in black and brown and grey?  it wasn't a heart, when first i found the stone; it was the stripe of colors that beckoned to me, but when i picked it up, and turned it over in my hand, it was a heart that quietly surprised me.  surprised me, there in the day turning into dusk, a day turning a few minutes later into rain.  this striped rock, with its secret heart, also came home with me. these days, when i walk back in the door from a walk along the river with walter, my pockets are heavy, and gritty with sand.  this makes me happy, this walking, this gathering; the painful knee and feet do not, but they are a fair price to pay for being able to wander and gather before day turns to rain, in the dusk.

i leave you this afternoon with a couple of images of jewelry in the making:  the first, a river charm with pearls, was inadvertently left in alabama over thanksgiving and found on my bedroom floor there by the housekeepers, who handed them over to my mother, who sent them in the mail back to me.  i love that they've traveled so extensively, from here to alabama, from alabama back to here, from this table to my pocket to the river, and back home again.  while i sit at the studio table and work with pearls and one simple word, i'll be able to recall the wind and the grey and the beauty of my quiet afternoons there, in the isolated woods where no one else walks this time of year.

and, here, a little color to catch your eye after all this grey - another something that has already traveled from far to here, all the way across the ocean from eastern europe into my studio.  perfect for the gatherer, it will hold tiny scraps of paper with words that we all hold near to our heart.  words about the elements, words about the places we love to roam.  words about home.  xo

after the snow

it's funny, what a little white flurry of inclement weather activity will do for one's outlook on life - at least in my neck of the woods.  my friend tina had been sending me weather alerts and updates for the better part of the week, and both of us were hoping for at least a whisper of snow.  and it did come.  i woke up on saturday morning, staring at the word "wish" that had been draped across me as i slept; i had wished for snow, and the wish came true.  easy as that. i spent most of the morning, as snow fell, sitting right here at the windows, smiling quietly, drinking my tea, coaxing walter to stare out with me.  he wasn't too sure about that, and when finally i dug out my dear old winter boots from the bottom of my closet, the snow had already begun to melt.  but melting snow has a sound all its own, and the smell of the pines with the cold wet touch was a lovely thing to herald the mark of winter. goofy goober dog, is he.  i love those freckled lips, i do.  i wrote the word "winter" into the white, then watched as walter ate the word away.  when finished with winter, he worked his way through snow. a treasured dog, in the woods, after snow, warm boots, toasty gloves?  bliss.

stars on my legs.  a broken shoe string.  warm toes.  quiet heart.

i wanted to touch those branches, to hold them in my arms.  but the snow was falling off too fast, the snow was shy and it did not like to be held.
what quiet beauty this brought to my world, even if only for the morning, even though it disappeared by late afternoon.  it was there in my world, it blanketed the quiet waiting woods with whispers of white, it hushed the trees and the mountains and the trails, it was a gift for walter, it was a gift for me. how fleeting beauty can be!  how quixotic, how dream-like in its retiring qualities.  i remember this snow, today.  i remember the quiet, the sounds of the earth as the water melted and dripped down onto fallen leaves, i remember the way that the cold wind blew, that the snow held tight at first, then softer and softer until finally it was only a trace in the north facing shadows, a spot of white remaining upon brown and grey.  i remember what the white woods whispered to me; they promised the snow would come back another day.

and so, i wait.  i rest, and work, and pull out the things that remind me of this day, the pearls and the quartz and the silk and the little white birds cut carefully from things that come from the sea.  for more times like this, i wait; for the times like this that came and then went, i am thankful, i am grateful, i am content. xo

valley ridge

here's just a little heads up to remind you that registration for Valley Ridge Art Studio 2010 opens tomorrow.  i'm teaching two three day workshops there in july - and i'm not exaggerating when i say that classes have filled within five minutes, in the past.  for those of you who've yet to attend an art workshop, this is the premiere place to do it... lots of nurturing, a relaxed pace in a gorgeous, peaceful setting, a lovely studio - go see for yourself. x

Valley Ridge Art Studio - click the name and you'll be directed to their site. 

snow birds

it snowed this morning, it really did, and i can't believe how grateful i was to have 1.5 inches for walter and me to explore.  i've gone two years without snow, having been away the few times it fell last winter, and i had to dig extra dip into the bottom of my abismal closet to find my beloved snow boots.  there will be many photos to share with you later, but for now i wanted to show off the snow talismans i fashioned last evening while sitting before the fire.  laced with thin leather cord, they can be worn at the neck, or lower, on your heart.  "Memory" is already gone - of course it is - so if you are wanting one, go take a look in my little etsy shop while the other three are still there....xx

elements

welcome to my cozy little winter world, under the glowing light of a thrift store vintage lamp, flanked by windows that open to an expanse of mountain and bare branches and grey grey sky.  i love it, so much.  only in the last four years have i begun to relish these days of cold and wind, when i moved farther out into the countryside, into the middle of nowhere and everywhere.  this little wooden desk table now holds, rather than the turquoise blue morning glory flower vase (empty for winter - perhaps i should fill it with an arrangement of bare branches and frilly moss), the diminutive lamp and assorted things that find their way here to the corner of the table.  the heart, from artist friend cathy cullis, is embroidered with "i could tell you stories about the rain".  yes, of course.  the stories are always there, waiting to be told.  always, there is beloved pottery of my friend julie whitmore, holding with grace the pens and cable and scissors, random working things of bothersome necessity.  there is a lovely herkimer diamond quartz crystal that was a birthday gift from my robin in october, and scattered beneath - look familiar?  bits of broken glass from the shattered sliding glass door.  they surface, continually, in spite of my best vacuuming efforts (jules and kim, i laugh with you here).  they do reflect the light, so there is beauty - even in that.  and, always, the little bowl of smooth beach glass, gathered in a walk of a lifetime, so very long ago.  i am drawn, so drawn to these wide front windows (who wouldn't be?), and keep bringing tray after tray of work  out into the living room, rather than the studio, even after i've taken the time to clear my working area there.  it seems such a gift to have this view, especially - yes, especially - now that winter has changed all the colors of this part of the earth to brown and grey and silver hues.  and i see this being reflected in my work, oh i do.  winter brings with it so many wonderful things - incredible bright blazing sunsets (such color, there), and quiet gentle ones too, and silhouettes of trees standing bare and tall on naked mountainsides from morning 'til night and standing there still when morning comes round again.  the water is there, still, rushing from here to there and then back again with the rain, and i can see it more clearly, shimmering through the barren trees, dancing in the light.

the rain continues to fall here on firefly road, of course it does.  the rain comes and the rain goes, and it all flows into those streams and into those rivers and tumbles its way over sticks and over stones, through woods and meadows and under bridges, under ground, 'til it finds its way down to the ever roaring sea.  drops of rain look like teardrops.  they look like tiny sparkling lights, shimmering and twinkling through the nighttime trees.  i think now of a favorite old nilsson song of mine and wonder if you think of this too. i know all of the words.  i'll bet that some of you do, and can sing them right along with me.  i'll even bet that one or two of you may have named your trusty dog arrow.  anything's possible.

i'm just showing off here.  i love these boots, and they have absolutely come in mighty handy these past few days.  the rain leaves puddles and slick spots in the grass, and it is a joy to go tromping through the woods in boots the color of a crazy sunset in winter, like some mad woman sticking out like a sore thumb with her wild and reckless hues.  bring it on, i say; bring in the rain and the snow and let us revel in the changing elements that pass this way.  bring on the night, let the sun come back again, and when we slumber, when we wake, let nature keep us on our toes and let us take the time to sit and watch in quiet wonder.  xo

finally

it's been so long since i worked on a new line of ornamental jewels that i've forgotten how much time is involved in the execution.  one who is not a jewelry designer might not understand the crafting, then the photographing, the editing, the writing of descriptions and materials, and finally how long it takes to list each item in my etsy shop.  but, if all goes well and i don't have to drive into town to list them somewhere with a higher speed connection (we are expecting our first snowfall, up to 2.5 inches, tomorrow, i'm thrilled to say!), i'm hoping to have some delicate lovelies listed in my etsy shop sometime tomorrow.  it feels like it's been years since i've listed new pieces of my work, and i must admit it also feels mighty nice to see the new work unfolding before my eyes....xo

"The artist is the opposite of the politically minded individual, the opposite of the reformer, the opposite of the idealist.  The artist does not tinker with the universe, he recreates it out of his own experience and understanding of life."  -Henry Miller

 

holding home

i love taking photographs of my parents' hands - things seem so much more regal, more profound when seen in the cupped palms of my mother or father... a flower, an old photograph, and here, beginnings of jewelry that i worked on while visiting in alabama for the past five days.  it was a comforting thing to sit sprawled across my bed in that old house, lampshade beside me tilted for full effect, walter snoozing at my side, knotting and crocheting silk cord and gemstones under a very familiar roof.  it's so very hard for all of us to let go of this place - so many memories!  so many stories.  i know we'll take them all with us, but still, it was a poignant time for everyone this thanksgiving.  thank goodness for health, yes, and for hours and days spent in close proximity with the ones that we love; i'm ever thankful for that, for so many, many things.  when i look again at this photograph, at the tangle of word charms and pearls and colored gems, i'm a little surprised to see the two words peering out at me from where they rest there on my mother's beautiful fingertips.  hold home, indeed.  and of course, we all try to do that as best we can, somewhere deep in our hearts.   no matter where we might be. i really shouldn't be sharing with you these images of unfinished pieces; the silk cord is still untrimmed, and not much here is truly in a final state of completion.  but it is a good and wonderful thing to be having this much excitement about creating once again, a surprise to find myself antsy to get back home just so i could pull out all my trimmings and connect the dots, the components.  i've become absolutely obsessed with knotting and crocheting these latest designs - small, delicate pieces that seem quiet and worthy of the coming hush of winter. this morning when i woke from sleeping long and hard, i glanced out the window and was startled to see how heavy was the frost that blanketed the yard.  so white!  like snow.  come winter, i say.   i'm ready for your quiet and your comfort (i say this here the first day of december, not in february or march when i've had months of cold and grey).  i know there are many of you who have no choice but to brave the elements and the hazards to drive or walk or ride to work, and i know i'm fortunate this way; i stay at home and bundle up to work in cozy sweaters, i peer out the windows with a cup of steaming tea in hand and marvel that the woods look so beautiful in their naked state.  i know this sounds obnoxious to more than a few of you, but hey.  this is my world, and i love it.  even without health insurance, without retirement, without a paid vacation to nowhere.  so, there.
see the frost?  (but you can't see the words, see how i taunt?)  even the heart rock and a few dried leaves had grown icy fur for the night.

i'll post when i've completed the trinkets, to let you know when i'm done; i'm way overdue to fill my etsy shop once again.  for now, it's lovely to be back home on this first day of december, to have spent time over thanksgiving in alabama with my parents, mary and the boys.  time marches on, things change, people grow older, some things do thankfully stay the same.  once i accept this, i'm happy with that.  i truly am. xo