settling in

  i’m sitting at my front window, as i always am when writing a post, looking out first to the immediate maple tree that stands beyond the deck, then behind the tree to the left at an expanse of trees  that ascend a ridge up to the sky, and then – ultimately – off to the right to the far expanses of trees and mountains and clouds and sky that make up my western horizon.  (the photo that you see here today is one i took earlier this week, as today is as grey and cold as the bottom of an old pewter cup, with all sense of color watered down).  this is the view that you usually see here on Ornamental – the undulating ripples and rises, the dips and eddies of land that look like so many things at so many different times:  torn pieces of construction paper, a rumpled velvet coverlet, a rolling combination of oil and water that will not ever mix. 
 i’ve taken hundreds of photos of this view, and of that tree, in the nearly 6.5 years that i’ve lived in this one house; the changes and the constants never grow stale to me, which is why i love living where the four seasons are so defined, so drastic and sure.  in my previous home, perched up on two acres of land atop a hill on a bend of a quiet road at the quiet edge of town, i used to love to sit on the huge front porch of that house, rocking back and forth in a white wicker swing, watching the seasons wash over the trees and the woods that were beyond me.  but it wasn’t the same as this, somehow – the views were immediate, i couldn’t watch the storms roll in, i couldn’t see the fog as it lifted and dropped again, as it hovered then evaporated slowly into the sky.  sunsets were seen through a bank of western trees, and sunrise – something i still don’t see here, either – was limited to a wash of sun that rose and spilled over the eastern side across the road, as late as 9am.  i miss that house, for a good many reasons – the proximity to town while still being private and quiet, the expansive front porch, the covered carport, the wood burning stove, the big kitchen with its central hardwood island where i cooked, where we gathered and shared big meals.   it was different there, though – the boys were still in school and living at home, i still had wholesale accounts with production line jewelry getting sent to various shops and boutiques across the country, i worked under the roof in a space that had once been an attic.  tall friends had to walk around upstairs with their heads tilted to one side; we generally stayed down below, where the ceilings were tall, where the floor boards creaked when we walked.

i was more social then.  the boys played soccer, and there were women i met while sitting on bleachers watching the games in the waning afternoon light.  we had a lot in common back then, those women and i:  our children were the same age, and our parallel schedules were dictated by school hours and then by afternoon soccer practice and games.  there was the occasional glass of wine shared either at home or in a little café that was walking distance down the road and around the bend.  my time was full.  i was younger.  my time was not my own.

now i live completely alone, my time is as i choose, again.  this year has been one long trip after the next, with three week chunks of time spent not here at home but off in the far reaches of this world.  routines were flung to the wind, and rituals became things that had happened only in my familiar but distant, out of reach past.  i missed the evenings spent sitting out on the deck, listening to the sounds of the night; i missed the early mornings with my cup of cappuccino out on the porch, or here at the windows in front of the light.  i ached for books that could be read without interruption, ached for the chance to listen to music that was my own.  i wanted the time to walk again at the river, to sit and create jewelry without having to stop what i was doing and run an errand for anyone else but myself.  now here I am again.  the house is quiet, the seasons are changing as fast as i can pull out my camera and try to capture the colors and the essences as best i can.  it is difficult to photograph a moving object, and that is what it feels like right now as i stare at a tree that is shedding its leaves after a gusty cold front and period of rain have passed; the tree that only two days ago was full of fiery amber leaves in the last afternoon light is now resembling not an opera star but more like a member of a traveling circus, its costume still bright but disheveled and threadbare in a lot of embarrassing places.  when i pull out my camera in a vain attempt to capture the last of the tree’s lingering radiance, on an overcast morning that refuses to cooperate, i am reminded of a fellow that actor Harvey Keitel beautifully portrayed years and years ago in a movie called Smoke.  his character owned a shop on a busy corner of Brooklyn, New York; every morning at 8am, to the best of my recollection, he walked outside the shop door and snapped a photo of the moment.  then, into a scrapbook each photograph went.  and although it was the same street corner, with the same buildings, the same street light and signs, every photo was different because of the changes in weather, because of the different (and often same) people walking by.  anyway – that’s what i think of this morning as i look out to that tree, when i see the stable vista that is anything but the same, throughout the year, the years.

i was going to write a bit about a piece i worked on in the last two days of my stay in Colorado.  i was going to tell you about the antique teapot strainer, how it had sat on my studio table for something like ten years before i packed it up and carried it with me into an entirely different and new environment.  i was going to tell you how i am reminded of a favorite song from a favorite movie every time i look at this piece – how i had tried to capture a sense of bubbles, although tea usually does  not have bubbles, except right at the first when it is poured into a cup, how it makes me recall so many cups of tea i had throughout the years, with friends or by myself, in winter or fall, in the chill of a new spring... when sitting and watching leaves fall from a tree, when sitting and watching the leaves grow back again.  i wanted to tell you of how i think of hope when i think of friendship and of sharing a cup of tea.  i wanted to tell you that within the teapot resides a little bird, and some favorite words from poet emily dickinson, whose poetry was so often quoted to me by my beloved father.   i suppose i am telling you that now.   i wasn’t able to finish the necklace as i had planned to do while still in breckinridge, colorado – friends came by for a visit, robin and another friend of his came to the studio earlier than expected, i needed to pack the myriad of trinkets and materials that i had hauled and sent to work on while i was there.  but i think, in retrospect, that this was a very good thing:  i was able to visit with my friends, i was able to walk the rainy streets with robin and his friends, i was able to bring the necklace home and work on it yesterday while the rain pattered at my windows, as the cold front moved in and i changed into a long sleeved cashmere sweater, flowered socks, a scarf tied around my bare neck.  in the afternoon i twice brewed two different sorts of tea – cinnamon spice from pike place market in seattle, african rooibos from my beloved upton tea.  i was able to sit and work quietly at the mayhem of my studio table while the steam from my teacup rose and curled into the studio air.  i remembered colorado, i remembered times of tea with friends, and i walked in here from time to time to see the wind blowing yellow leaves of prayer off of that maple tree and sending those prayers and wishes on up into the air of a blustery, burnished grey sky day.  i was able, i was here, it was quiet, my time is all my own.  let’s see how it gets filled in the days and months ahead. Xo

  (photo taken with my iPhone in the magic evening hour of my birthday, as the cold front and rain moved in)

 

Comments

[lilylovekin]

You may have missed me-things are dark, it is hard to see. But a faint light brews and today I saw "brewing hope" and knew things would be ok.

[Delila]

"brewing hope", just wonderful words to add in to a jewelry. tomorrow i am going in a town and will pick few of my favorites tea for you. hopefully squirrel have arrived safely in there...

[susan]

You are such a wonderful storyteller, Nina I just so caught up in your words, how they weave in and out, here and there.
And, your beautiful necklace - brewing hope - the very words I need. It's been a very difficult year - and now I'm facing surgery in a couple weeks. Brewing hope - I'm going to keep those words close to my heart.
Thank you for adding something very special to my day. I think I will go have a cup of tea.

xo dusan

[Lynn in Tucson]

Quite simply, fabulous.

[Kathy VK]

ooooohhhhh, this is so special ... all so very special ... as are you my dear sweet friend. xoxo

[mary]

I will never curse raking the leaves of the huge oak tree in my front yard again. Instead I will offer each stroke in communion with the prayers at my feet. Thank you....

[sandra]

Touched by tea. I love it all.

[sue in melbourne]

just gorgeous!

[Laura]

Beautiful photo of the storm moving in... Looks like it was a lovely birthday, at least I hope it was!

[Hazel]

Nina, your obvious contentment is so heart-warming. At long last your trials and travels are over and you are home. Snuggle in and enjoy!

"Life takes us on adventures. Love brings us home."

[Linda]

Again, thanks for sharing everything!... I lovethe idea of taking a photo of the same thing, same time, everyday. I wonder if i could be disciplined enough to do just that!?...........hope you had a wonderful birthday!

[Farmlady]

This piece of jewelry is inspired.
Thank you for the story, your wonderful writing, the photos and a lovely work of art.

[Tina in McLeansville]

what a gift you are unwrapping for yourself. so very looking forward to how the year ripens for you. hugs, as always...xo

[vickie long]

As always.....I can breathe easier, rest easier when I "come visit" you. Brewing hope-that's what you do-for all of us. Thank you. Peace.
Vickie in kc

[Minnie]

Happy birthday my dear soul You are just a baby in the grand scheme, with a world of friends that love you. I hope your long list of dreams come to life. Xxoo

[wordybird]

"me and my arrow, straighter than narrow, everywhere we go everyone knows it's me and my arrow." wow - that's a trip back in time. i thought i was probably the only one in the universe who remembers "the point."

[Karen]

Lovely, lovely post, dear Nina. And an amazing necklace that has sweetly touched my tea lovin soul. Happy birthday, my friend. Enjoy the embrace of your home once again. xo, Karen

[Teri Mahl]

Nina...I feel the same as you I think at this very moment. Since moving to this new house, it is hard to get a feel for what the season's hold here. What will "that" tree look like? Will it turn wonderful colors or...? Living in a place as long as we did (38 years) you get used to seeing things each year, each season, as they change and rearrange. Some of them remain the same but some actually change right in front of your eyes. It becomes comforting somehow to be in that safe place. But here, in the new house, things are different and there are things I miss. I see something in a magazine that reminds me of my "old" house and it hits my heart in a way that is hard to describe. "I used to have a bathtub just like that" or "That looks just like what my kitchen looked like". Now...getting to become familiar with the "new" house is a process. I sit by the window typing this and look out at the landscape and wonder about it. I see new things and some things that are becoming familiar. In some ways I am envious of your time now...the fact that it is all yours to do with the way that you want to use it. I still have obligations (husband, children, grandchildren) that take up every moment of almost every day. In some ways that is good but in other ways, I miss some "me" time. I guess a good class or retreat is in order. But still, there will be people around. You, on the other hand, sit on Firefly Road, alone, contemplating, reading, making jewelry. I guess we are never completely happy with every aspect of our lives. The key is be happy with them "at that moment". It sounds as if you are!!

[Judy H.]

Lovely!

[Sabrina]

the movie and song are also favorites of mine.jim also loved the movie and one year he gave me the dvd for christmas.

[Lee]

Wow- wonderful. Every little piece. The song, the movie, the necklace. The leaves, the trees, the changing of the guard. Perfect.

[Richelle]

How are you liking your iphone?

[Zorana]

I love how you see, how you think, how you write. Thank you.

[fay]

Alone is ok. I like alone. Company is good too. I envy you living there, that view is to die for. My husband and I were just talking today about where we are gonna go when we retire, Carolina came up.

[Lorraine]

So glad to have you back! Happy belated birthday Nina!!! Your new creations are just beautiful!!!!

[Monica]

Thank you for sharing the images and story of how this necklace came into being - both are wonderful!

[bicocacolors]

just excellent!!

[Anita Van Hal]

Hi Nina! As I read this post, I immediately thought of the movie Smoke too...I love that movie! You are a great story teller! Thanks for sharing your heartfelt thoughts! Hugs!

[Katrina]

Nina, I'd love a large box. Please invoice me. Thank you and Lesley for this wonderful idea. I may use this to clear my yarn stash. Katrina

[Erin McDonald]

I covet that teapot necklace and the magic it promises. I absolutely love your posts, your pictures, and most of all your jewelry. I found my way to you through a list of favorite blogs on Knitters Review. I wish you peace and warmth and quiet solitude. When that is enough, crank up Edith Piaf and dance til the floors creak!