Ornamental

from the dark hallowed evening, a gift

 
owl pellet bones from beneath the great tree

Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard

His beak could open a bottle, 
and his eyes - when he lifts their soft lids -
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder -
Blake, maybe, 
or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only 
the black-smocked crickets, 
and the dragonflies if they happen
to be out late over the ponds, and of course
the occasional festal mouse.
Never mind that he is only a memo
from the offices of fear -

it’s not size but surge that tells us
when we’re in touch with something real, 
and when I hear him in the orchard
fluttering
down the little aliminum
ladder of his scream -
when I see his wings open, like two black ferns, 

a flurry of palpitations
as cold as sleet
rackets across the marshlands
of my heart
like a wild spring day.

Somewhere in the universe, 
in the gallery of important things, 
the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish, 
sits on its pedestal.
Dear, dark dapple of plush! 
A message, reads the label, 
from that mysterious conglomerate: 
Oblivion and Co.
The hooked head stares
from its house of dark, feathery lace.
It could be a valentine. 

                           - Mary Oliver

yum

this mug is my comfort cup - i serve myself, and ONLY myself, hot tea or cappuccino in this lovely functioning work of incredible art, which came from the studio of my friend and artist extraordinaire julie whitmore.  good luck getting one!  her shop, found here, is more often than not quickly sold out in a flash, just like that.  poof.  but you can try, anyway;  it never does hurt to try.  seeing this photograph of a firefly road thing - something very familiar and very much mine - from a computer screen in alabama brings almost as much comfort as the ritual of serving myself something hot to savor when evenings and mornings (and afternoons, yes) turn crisp and cool with the slowing months of the year.

several of you have inquired about my cookie recipe - something i was able to round up from much research and tweaking here on the net.  there is a local bakery, a 25 minute drive from my house, that sometimes sells these in a horseshoe version, pricey things at $2.75 apiece; they have them, as i said, only infrequently, and only in small numbers.  the almond paste is expensive to purchase, and the cookies a bit more labor intensive to make, but oh! how good they taste with that cup of cappuccino or tea this time of year... let me know if you try them, and enjoy! xo

Nina’s Italian Almond Cookies

*This cookie is very chewy on the inside and crisp on the outside – delicious with hot tea!!!

 Ingredients:

1 lb. almond paste (comes in a  can)         

1 c. white granulated sugar                                

1 c. confectioners’ sugar

1/2 c. all-purpose flour

4 egg whites                                                 

1 c. or a bit more of sliced almonds, in small bowl

 Directions:

1.  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Place parchment paper on cookie sheets.
2.  Combine the granulated sugar and almond paste in a food processor, whirring ‘til it looks like course sand.
3. Place the above in a large mixing bowl and combine with other dry ingredients; add egg whites last.
4. Chill for 20-30 minutes in fridge.
5. Scoop out rounded teaspoonfuls (or small ice cream scoop) of the dough and roll in almonds, which have been placed in a small bowl.  It helps when rolling to flatten the cookies by pressing into the almonds – this helps them to adhere to the cookie.
6. Place cookies 2 inches apart on parchment paper-covered cookie sheets; bake for 18 minutes. 
7. Remove from oven, allow to cool for ten minutes before removing from paper.  If you have a shortage of cookie sheets, slide the entire parchment sheet off of the pan to let the cookies cool.

These freeze beautifully, and are an absolute treasure to have on hand for guests, or as a treat for yourself in the evening with a cup of hot tea.  I just zap them in the microwave for 15 or 20 seconds to thaw.  The almond paste is expensive – around $5.00 for an 8 oz. can – but these are incredible and you’ll pat yourself on the back for making them! xo

 

words for a friend

i've a sweet friend all the way across the country in portland who has just had a little baby boy, named true.  kelly rae is feeling and finding her way through the uncharted territory of new motherhood, discovering the huge myriad of wide open emotions that a little bundle of newborn life so unexpectedly, amazingly, delivers into ones' home.  today kelly rae is featuring a post i've written in honor of true, here.  xo

looking in from out

it's been a sleepy sort of week here on firefly road - no real direction, lots of time spent walking at the river, lots of wandering around feeling a little unmoored.  i've had so many deadlines, for so very long - all year, really, without a break - that i don't know how to rearrange my time right now, without having a date on the horizon upon which to direct my focus.  not a bad way to be, i realize, but an adjustment all the same.  for the first time in months - two months, i swear - i vaccuumed and dusted this week, an act that brings me closer to the many many things that adorn this house.
  it is always here, the clutter that surrounds me, but i don't tend to see it when i am scurrying from this point to that, trying to accomplish minor miracles, trying to keep things moving without the squeaks and catches that oversights can bring. i look at these overstuffed shelves and see so many characteristic traits about myself.  there is no order, none to be had; there is only dishevelment and things on top of things, dust and whimsy married to one another because that is just the way it shall always be, in my home.  i tend to not notice the disarray until i am seeing it through imaginary eyes of a new visitor, someone i picture walking through my door for the very first time.  when this happens in real life, the visitor's immediate response is to stop and stand with one's mouth wide open in disbelief.  there is a lot of original art, there is a lot of the outside that i've dragged in:  sticks, branches, nests, hearts of stone, dried pods, acorns, autumn leaves, feathers of winged friends have all found a permanent niche within the four walls that i call home.  a college friend of roy's once said that my home reminds him of a nature museum; i suppose he has that right. 
sometimes these sticks and stones find their way into my jewelry, into my books;
sometimes they are forgotten, on a shelf, until i've decided to rearrange, to putter, to dust.  sometimes they frame other things, sometimes they do not;
sometimes, when it is rainy or dark, they simply hold the light.

yesterday, sunday, was the sort of beautiful that tugs at the heart;  i decided that there was enough beauty immediately surrounding the house, and my little world, that i had no desire to go anywhere other than the river.

we walked in the morning along the water, my walter and i, then in the afternoon i tied on my white apron and baked while mozart's clarinet hovered and floated through the air; i baked sweet almond cookies that i knew would be delicious in alabama evenings, shared with my beloved parents and a strong cup of earl grey.  and that, my friends, is like the little branches i've scattered here and there and everywhere, the branches that have come in from outside my windows to within the walls that so snugly contain my world; baking cookies, packing them in waxed paper and bringing them with me from north carolina to my parents in alabama, is a little like holding onto the light.

  xo 

54 Things

1.  It is good to be where I am in this life.
2.  I am prouder of my accomplishments than I am remorseful of regrets.
3.  It has been over a year since I’ve been free of anti-depression medication, and that makes me  very very proud.
4.   I am happy alone, most of the time.
5.   I love to live surrounded  by these mountains.
6.   I wish someone would cook me a wonderful meal.
7.   Every day at 6:30am, I rise in the dark to walk into the light.
8.   I hope I never go blind.
9.   Fifty four years ago today I turned 50. (lol....oops...)
10.   I am ever so glad that I’m not turning 50 now.
11.   My favorite cake is carrot.
12.   I wish someone would bake me a carrot cake.
13.   I am in love with Walter.
14.   I am in deeply in love with my two beloved boys.
15.   Where did the last 25 years go?
16.   My special number is 44 or 444.  Or 4444.  You get the idea.
17.   Numbers with multiple 4s show up in my life in the oddest of places, a lot.
18.   I am going to Australia and New Zealand again next July.  This makes me very happy.
19.   I wish I could take my boys with me across the world.
20.   I love the smell of an old book.
21.   I love the smell of autumn leaves.
22.    I love the smell of early morning.
23.    I am fond of hearing wet gravel crunch beneath my feet.
24.   When I see a hawk circling overhead, I think it is the spirit of my brother Ben.
25.   I miss my brother.
26.    I wish that my father’s mind was not deteriorating at such an alarming rate.
27.   I am grateful that my parents have lived long, relatively healthy lives up to this point.
28.    I am o! so grateful to have my sister Ellen.
29.    I do not like to play card games.
30.    I am a poor sport.
31.   I’ve been making jewelry for almost 30 years.
32.    That blows my mind.
33.    I love the color of October skies.
34.    I want to walk the stone steps of temples in Japan.
35.   I have a bundle of childhood letters from a beloved friend named Paul, tied with silk ribbon.
36.    Paul and I are still very close.
37.   I am fond of seeing the moonlight as it filters down through bare winter branches.
38.    I do not like overhead lights.
39.    I wish I knew me as a person outside of myself.
40.    I wonder if I would like me, then?
41.   My favorite city in this whole wide world, thus far, is Venice.
42.    The light in Venice is incredible, like a soft dream.
43.    I have been to Italy four beautiful times.
44.    Here is that number.  See?
45.   My favorite color is seafoam.
46.    Actually, I don’t really have a favorite color.
47.   I remember Linda McCartney saying that her favorite color was sunset.
48.    I like that.
49.    I used to detest winter, 'til i moved out here to the middle of nowhere.
50.    Now I love all four seasons, without a doubt.
51.   My heart is good, and true.
52.   I am open to a fault.
53.   I love to write.
54.   I hope I live a long, happy life.  xo

and for those of you who've so sweetly asked:  i thought long and hard about what my favorite dinner would be.  i don't have a favorite - as long as it is by candlelight, surrounded by the ones i dearly love, with someone to help clean up.  that is my favorite meal.  thank you all for your lovely birthday wishes, thank you so very very much for being here, for continuing to come back and visit over and over again, for judging me not, for being so patient, so kind.  you folks are the best.  xoxo

Because I Want to Remember (Portland Workshop)

i've spent all of this morning going through photographs i snapped with my lumix camera during the portland leg of my latest trip, sorting and culling and cropping and bumping up the light.  it was a grey time there in that northwest city, at least it was while i was out and about for a few hours on saturday, it was raining at 4:15am as i left the airport hotel and headed to the plane.  i love the rain.  it makes things shimmer and reflect, and helps light to gather in the most unlikely and surprising of places.  i'm a big believer in the warm colors that light can cast; i cannot abide overhead lighting, and as soon as darkness filters down through the top of the sky and finally settles at my feet, i'm walking around this house turning on my little white lights that are laced in bare branches on the mantel above the hearth, i'm turning on a single lamp with a golden mica shade that keeps the light amber and soft.  my studio glows with round paper lanterns that look like a string of little full moons laced among bare tree branches i've dragged out of the woods, to stand sentinel over my work; there is also, in the studio, a long beveled mirror that i accidentally cracked years ago when tightening the bolts that hold it in place; the cracks (as leonard c says) and the mirror let in the light. i like the dark, and i like the light; i strive to walk in its illuminating path, i strive to help others who are also finding their way.  as i glanced through the photographs of students' work today, i grew a little dismayed and annoyed with the garish hotel light, with the way everything is a little out of focus, a little washed out red or green.  their work is so very beautiful, and the light just would not allow my camera to show their creations in their finest state.  but you can see here, yes you can, how those students did wonderfully shine.  i didn't get photos of everyone's work; some were shy to have me capture their necklaces in this manner, others had already left by the time the camera was pulled out from my bag.  i love what they worked on for the three days we shared; i loved, from my teacher's front table, watching the light come on from inside out, i loved watching them glow as they tinkered and played, as they watched a piece of jewelry grow from nothing into everything.  i loved watching the magic happen, over and over and over again.  i'm working on creating a Portland Art and Soul photo album, which you can find if you scroll down in the column on the  right.  it was my absolute pleasure and delight to share those three days with such incredibly enthusiastic and gifted women and one lovely, gifted  man who was brave enough to dive right in.  i regret that i didn't get a photo of the piece greg made;  hopefully he'll send some images down this way. lastly, i wanted to share with you several photos that i took when my treasured pal julie was here over the weekend, having driven down from ohio yet again to stay with walter when the kennel was booked those last two days of my trip.  walter truly adores his very best friend, as you can clearly see; the feelings are quite mutual all the way around.  we sure do love you, jules.  xo

postcards from portland, postcards from home

i absolutely love this photograph of my friend lorri in her amazing autumnal raincoat from paris, taken from the river in portland on a very rainy day.  it says so much about the tiniest little sliver of life i saw outside of an airport hotel:
  there was rain, there were reflections at my feet, diamonds dripping from branches hanging overhead. 

there were lovely words engraved in stone that spoke of a day like this, there were rainspouts dripping lines of diamonds into the reflecting pool below. 
it was a time to be reminded, a time to sift through the memories and choose what to savor,  what to erase, to release, to let go.
  a time to move on.  a time to grow.  
all of this, within the confines of a sparse three hours outside of the hotel, breathing in fresh air, walking in the rain, sipping fragrant hot tea with a sweet friend in a quiet and sacred space.

  these are my visual memories of a city that i would love to know;
this was my time to unwind, to breathe deeply, to close my eyes and leave the discomfort behind.  portland, it was lovely to be with you again, if only for the briefest glimmer of time. 

(i will be posting photographs of my beloved students' incredible work as soon as i can get the camera photos loaded and cropped to size.  they did such amazing things!  they were all amazing, themselves.  to commit to one teacher for three full days is a commitment of determination and faith in my abilities to teach, and i cannot thank my students enough for being there, for teaching me as well.)

 
i've been home for all of two short days; it has been indescribably beautiful as i rise again before the dawn and walk into the rising morning light with walter along the river trails.

  color has exploded here at home, red and yellow prayer leaves falling en masse across the blustery afternoon sky.
  i cannot get enough of being home; each and every passing hour counts, each hour is a gift.  each walk is a mantra, a thank you, to my own sweet, sacred world;
each walk is a step towards light, towards growing and healing and living a life full of grace.  

(please think strong thoughts for my mother as she undergoes a third surgery this morning, for more cancer on her nose.  she will have been put to sleep three times in the last six weeks, and i want to say, enough!  thank you, to my beloved sister ellen, for being there when i could not; i'll be down there again as soon as i can)...xo

postcards from colorado

this is my beautiful, beloved son robin, with whom i've spent the last four glorious days.  i am writing this from the salt lake city airport, en route from colorado to portland, oregon.  i am in limbo, and i miss my boys.  i miss robin more than ever, now.  and i cannot begin to describe to you how much farther and deeper in love with him i have fallen, now that i've spent some one on one time with him in this new life of his.  i cannot begin to tell you how incredibly proud of him i am.  these postcards, taken from our adventures on the back trails of the high mountains of colorado, will somehow have to do.

to love robin is to love his pup, nualla.  i love this little girl.  but mostly, i love my boys.  oh, very much i do.  

needless to say, it was a magical and very, very special few days away from home, with my oldest child.  my oldest child, turned beautiful and wonderful young man.   now, tears in my eyes, it is time to move on to portland, tools in hand.  xo