red

Doesn't this look like Marley's ghost in a Christmas Carol movie? It's the back door lion knocker in today's constant blowing snow - making me crazy since I live with a man who gets restless and unhappy on snowy winter days and keeps inserting the words Arizona and palm trees into our conversations. I deal with days like this by knitting. As a kid, when I heard it was going to snow I persuaded my father to take me to a store where I could buy a craft item to work on. That habit lasted into my adulthood and I'd often find myself shopping in the middle of a snowstorm, eager to get home. It even happened a few years ago when my granddaughter was young. I was visiting and a storm was coming. We drove in snow to Michaels. It must have something to do with survival. Food and yarn - all one needs during a storm. As a result of the last two days of snow and snow showers, I now have two more new projects going! Besides the red socks I started another Lace Shawl in red cashmere. The primary word here seems to unintentionally be RED.

I have never been big on red. Don't really love knitting with it. Once in a while during the holidays I may don a red sweater, but it's not me and I end up feeling uncomfortable and removing it pretty quickly. But this year the color seems to be invading my psyche. I wear a red leather Pandora bracelet, yesterday I repainted my toenails Stiletto Red, the only sock yarn I was drawn to at the shop was red, and the Lobster Pot cashmere is red. Did I mention that I'm dreaming about a red handbag?

In Deborah Bergman's book The Knitting Goddess (Hyperion, 2000) she writes about red being a gift from the Egyptian goddess Isis. Beneath her veils "people could glimpse a brilliant red sash that curled around her hips...the sash was said to be a clue to a deeper source of [her] powers". From other sources it is said that the first knitted or woven socks (for royalty) were made from red thread. Bergman goes on to say that "red thread or yarn...helps to retrieve souls, and memories, and energy". Didn't someone in a fairy tale unwind a red thread through the woods so she could find her way home again? There's no doubt that the color is powerful and I'm sure it appears in many cultures in many other guises. In art therapy it is supposed to stir action and the person wearing it infuses others with energy. That does seem like a lot of responsibility for one color. By the time I finish my projects I may have changed.

I tell you, the liberation I am after is
     the liberation of red.  
                        Stephen Beal

time after time

In the early years before my first marriage, my fiance and I would stop by the home of his elderly unmarried aunts and uncle every new year's eve before we went on to party with our friends. Uncle Joe would have decorated the house with Christmas lights inside and out and Aunts Elsie and Rose would have been baking for days. We were feted with wine, food, opera music on the hi-fi. Later the aunts would each take brooms and sweep every room, moving toward the open front  door where the meager dust (they kept a clean house) was swept over the threshold. This Sicilian custom was their way of getting rid of the old and starting anew. I didn't add this tradition to my subsequent busy life of marriage and children. If I'd swept the floors of every room in my various houses toward the front door, I'd have had to order a dumpster to take the debris away - I never could live up to the meticulousness of the unmarried, childless aunts, but something of that tradition appeared in altered and ever-changing form through the years.

During these days between holidays, I find myself finishing up knitting projects. Two pairs of socks done! and two more with goal date of January 1st. Then I'll continue working on the luscious red/raspberry yarn I bought yesterday at the yarn shop in town and couldn't stay away from last night before getting to the heel and temporarily abandoning the two half pairs I'd planned to work on... My daughter, soaking in the tub last night recovering from the huge snowfall they had in the northeast, called. When I described this new yarn she broadly hinted that she could use a new pair of socks because I wear your beautiful socks every day. Clever, no?

The other glitch in my virtuous plans for completion? I started a Minimalist Cardigan (Interweave Knits, Fall 2007) using my Rowan Felted Tweed stash in a slatey gray/blue color.

I began with the right front because even though the gauge seemed correct I wasn't sure if I would really like this sweater in this yarn (it's a bit fuzzy). But it's turning out pleasingly light and soft and will make a really nice early spring sweater if the moss stitches don't kill me first and I can take it to completion without it becoming another GIP (guilt inducing project) that I'll be faced with next year at this time. I won't even talk about the cabled cardi that's almost done that I take out of the closet annually and vow to finish - and then put away again. It's very nice but I wish someone else (an elf perhaps) could finish it while I'm doing other things.

Meanwhile, speaking of guilt, I will have to cut back on all knitting projects in early January to fulfill writing and editing commitments/deadlines that procrastinating me has moved to a dim cellblock in my mind. Perhaps a Sicilian broom could sweep it into the open.

tradition, tradition

We awakened on Christmas Eve morning to a winter wonderland. By noon the snow had completely disappeared, the sun was shining and temps were pushing 50 degrees. This mild December is a bit scary but we're loving it! Ron and I sat out on the second floor deck and ate lunch in the lovely hot sun. In late afternoon I drove to Taos Pueblo for the traditional Christmas Eve event. He couldn't go because of a weak back that is painful when he stands for too long - and there's lots of standing around. But we hadn't gone in recent years and I wanted to connect again with a kind of inexplicable energy that emanates from that place at this time of year.  The event itself, held at dusk, is a mixture of Catholicism, Indian traditions, paganism. After evening vespers at the San Geronimo church there is a night procession around the plaza marked by blazing luminarias (big bonfires). Four strong men hold aloft a pedestal holding a statue of Mary, dressed in her best laces and satins, and men at the front of the procession shoot rifles in the air to celebrate the birth of Jesus. In this way they slowly make their way around the village plaza. What I describe next is out of order but I hope you get the gist of it.

 
The Pueblo buildings (1,000 years old) glowed in the lowering sun. Cedar and pinon smoke drifted fragrantly up from 1,000 year old chimneys. Sacred Taos Mountain was wreathed in a smoke ring cloud with a domed snow peak sticking up out of it - against a clear cobalt blue sky. This Christmas Eve Taos Pueblo tradition allows visitors and they were arriving in droves. Spread out over the village plazas were stacks of pitch wood in varying dramatic heights. Each family builds one that will burn brightly and warm the cold night air. I was told once that there is a friendly competition to achieve the highest and brightest of all luminarias. Surely this one would be the winner.

The plaza is bisected by the Rio Pueblo (the only source of water for the village). Luminarias burn on both sides. Normally photography is not allowed at the Pueblo during dances, feast days and other traditional events, but in the past it was allowed on Christmas Eve. So I strolled along with my smallest Canon. However, in a short time I began to feel uncomfortable about continuing to photograph so I stopped to ask three different residents if it was allowed. Two said yes, one said "sure, if you want to take the chance" and added, "but don't let them see you".  As someone in love with my camera and also respectful of the Taos Pueblo people and their rules, I stowed the camera permanently. And remembered what Tony Reyna - an elder of the village (around 90 years old by now) told me 24 years ago when, as a tourist, I went into his shop to buy film for my camera:  you're a writer, you don't need film - the pictures are in your head. At the very moment I was remembering his words, he walked by leaning on the arm of a younger man. He is still a tall, handsome, imposing figure.

This ritual symbolism and Indian/Hispanic tradition always evokes strong emotion within me. I've never been able to explain why. It isn't just about being far away from my family at this time of year. It's that when the fires are blazing in the night, the rifles shooting, the lace clad statue of the Virgin passing with her simple white canvas canopy blowing in the wind, I get all teary eyed. I'm not religious, I'm not an Indian, I had no connections to the southwest until I first saw it in 1986. Go figure. But it happened again and I arrived home with a red nose and puffy eyes. A glass of Prosecco, a bowl of cioppino and a sympathetic ear fixed me up.

On Christmas afternoon (another mild day) I headed back to the Pueblo for the Matachines dance. Northern New Mexico is the only place in the country where this dance is performed. It's a sort of mysterious amalgam of cultures and religions. I've written articles about it but no one ever tells the same story and, frankly, I have no idea of what it's all about. I think they want it that way. I met up with a couple of friends and  inhaled deeply the sunny cedar smoke from the pueblo chimneys. I feel so lucky to be living here.

how many rising
clouds collapse and fall on
this moonlit mountain
                         Basho

portents of

I'm taking a deep breath now. Finished with Christmas making and shopping - I don't do frenzied mall shopping anymore. I knit, order online, shop locally. This year though, some things I'd ordered got lost in the mails for a week. I left the house early this morning to pick up the order that finally arrived and get it ready to send off again in the other direction. As I drove quickly down my dirt driveway ready to turn onto the road out, I noticed this horse standing perfectly still at the fence. An immediate case of personification kicked in and I imagined him wondering why I was in such a hurry.  I stopped the car, got out and, murmuring to him, took this picture. I'm sure his curious sideways stare and calm energy infused me because when I got back into the car I felt not only calmer but realized how lucky I was to be out in the strangely warm morning on a soft gray day having had an encounter with another warm blooded creature.

When I drove back out again later in the day to mail the packages this horse and his three companions (all identical with white face stripe) were racing around their field. A sign, I've learned, that the weather is changing. And sure enough, as I write this, dark clouds are forming over the moutaintops threatening snow up there. Horses know these things.

I don't know if you can see it clearly, but these bare trees are alive with birds. Hundreds of starlings (I think) had landed in two nearby trees. By the time I got the door opened, camera in hand, they'd flown up into the air, circled around a couple of times and landed in trees further away. They seem to be gathering for something. And no, it's not like a scene from The Birds - well, maybe just a little - because at this moment, there are many more of them in the trees.....

moon madness

They're finished! The men's socks and the black neckwarmer! In time for Christmas - except that the recipients are 2,000 miles away and won't receive them till next week.

I'm also still waiting for some items I ordered more than a week ago that have to go into the packages I'll be sending. It seems that this year mail delivery is slower than ever. At least around here. My small local post office has been understaffed this month and every time I go there lines of waiting people are snaking out the lobby doors. For the last four days I've received one piece of mail each day. What are they doing with all the surplus? Since there are no small children back east waiting for a New Mexico Santa to arrive (the youngest is only a month old) it's okay. We'll all be grown up about it. However, their gifts to us arrived last night and I couldn't resist opening the smallest package in the big box which turned out to be a sweet sparkly charm for my Pandora bracelet! And then I received a note from my Santa Fe knitting friend who said she has to speak to me soon about her obsession with Pandora! Love it!

Yesterday morning snow on my sheepy doormat and everywhere else. Today it's all melted and temps are in the high 40's. They're celebrating up in the Ski Valley and things are just as they should be. I'll be shopping tomorrow for my husband's birthday dinner on Thursday and maybe spend a day baking cookies. I haven't done that in a couple of years, but somehow it seems right this year. We've been through a lot of stress and angst lately and in lieu of too much wine, we'll eat cookies.

I was out on the deck last night in my Garfield PJ pants and a thick sweater trying to take pictures of the full moon and the deep rose cloud that floated beneath it in the sky. My eyes saw a crisp and clear moon, but my cameras saw a thick milky haze around it. I simply could not capture on camera what my eyes were seeing no matter what camera settings I used. No doubt an astronomer could explain it to me, but I don't happen to have one handy. So tonight (soon) I look forward to an early darkness as the winter solstice kicks in. And then I look forward to that wonderful gradual return of light.

mornings after

Winter arrived on cold wet feet yesterday and now the world outside is entirely white. Before the snow came I bought some pre-planted paperwhite bulbs (we used to call them narcissus). A couple of evenings ago - before the weather changed - the first flowers softly glowed against the sunset. I wasn't sure if my camera could capture what my eyes saw, but it came pretty close. This morning the scene was quite different though - washed of visual warmth and color.

At first light the flowers appeared silhouetted against the deep snow. When full light arrived I took pictures from my kitchen window for a good part of the morning since my neighbor's horses are back decorating the land and providing photo ops. This guy was following the hay truck driving off the land.

When it was out of sight, he turned abruptly and began to run in circles. The other horse followed, dropped down and rolled around on his back. When he jumped up, completely covered in snow, they raced together around the field before stopping near the hay barn. They don't have an enclosed barn to enter and aren't coddled or pampered. Rather, they live outside all year long and don't seem to be bothered by it. (How would I know if they were?) I trust that their hardiness has been proven over many decades, centuries, of northern New Mexico farming and ranching. I'm a former city girl whose only connection with horses came at the Bronx Zoo so I keep some questions to myself.

all night long
listening to snow falling
morning horses race

Yesterday I felt snowed in. There must have been some negative planetary thing happening because I felt, not cozy, but trapped in a basically sad/bad mood. Today, although still snowy and gray, feels better and I'm wrapping gifts to send to Connecticut. I gambled on shipping dates this year and lost. The packages will arrive after Christmas for the first time ever. But, hey, they're all grown ups now and the baby is too young to notice.

The flower pots planted in summer are still on the deck with a slightly altered look.
 
Down on the ground,
bowing to the very roots -
farewell to flowers
                            Basho

ode to sox

This is probably going to be more of a sock report than anything else and ironic because in spite of all the hundreds of socks I've knitted through the years, in spite of the drawer upstairs filled with socks, as I sit here at my desk and write, my feet are freezing! Okay, so they are bare and in sandals. My home is passive solar and when the sun shines, even in winter, it's pretty warm - except in my workroom on the north side of the house. The single sock above is for the pair I'm working on for my great grandson's father who specifically requested them and approved the yarn. I had to recalculate size, number of stitches and make notes so they match. And I'm nervous about having enough yarn. I have no idea of how much extra I'll need to complete this pair so there is that small element of stress.
     After completing one sock I remember why I don't usually knit socks for men. They are bigger and (dare I say it) boring! This pre-patterned yarn is actually somewhat interesting, but overall, considering the wild array of colors and patterns I'm usually drawn to, not. However, I will push on, needles in hand, and continue because I like him and he asked for knitted socks and anyone who does that gets special consideration. Even my son who asked for a neck warmer in black!
     Also satisfying is when recipients of socks wear them! As in: the girls lounging around in their PJs and jeans. I was wearing mine too but with a baby in one arm and a camera in the other, my photo op was severley limited. By the way, those huge plaid PJs were on a slim and gorgeous 15 year old. Go figure.

What is it about socks? So basic. So fundamental. So fun. Even Pablo Neruda wrote Ode to My Socks. Do you know it? Socks knitted so fine he considered putting them in a cage and feeding them melon seeds. I love that image!

shades of pale

Lately I'm enveloped in gray (no, I'm not depressed). Home again in sunny (today) Taos, I'm remembering the soft grays in Connecticut.

new perspectives
In Natalie Goldberg's book "Living Color: A Writer Paints Her World " she talks about really noticing gray for the first time when she looked at a stuccoed church against a Minnesota sky: Suddenly I appreciated that color. I saw how one gray could frame another gray. What she wrote is similar to what I felt walking along a beach path and boat yard last week. Then my friend in Cornwall wrote to me about the gray cliffs and sea there and sent a picture of her stone house in snow against gray sky. And I realized that what I've always considered a non-color is suffusing my life at the moment and it's not at all unpleasant. (NG): a sense of hugeness would be held in the color gray, a sense of afternoon and timelessness... Yesterday I saw alpaca yarn the same color as the Atlantic sky and sea and I want to wrap myself in it. (I'm knitting a cabled neck warmer in cocoa brown but may have to start another in gray).

special request
My great grandson's father wants a pair of knitted socks. He said all the women in the family have them and it's not fair. I generally don't knit men's socks for reasons that should be obvious to any sock knitters out there who love wild and crazy yarns as I do. As hard as I tried, I couldn't convince him that he'd love stripes and zig zags and rainbow colors - he's a guy after all - but I did dissuade him from solid navy, dark brown, and charcoal. At Westport Yarns I found a good compromise, cleared it with him before I left, and started right in on it. It is Online's Supersocke 100 Canadian-Color and although it is predominantly dark grays and black, there are occasional shots of cream and tan along with built in subtle patterning that keeps me interested. So far I love working on this yarn although I may find it difficult if I'm watching old movies in a dimly lighted room (last night there were three versions of A Christmas Carol on TV). Maybe it's a sunny-mornings-in-the- kitchen project. With black coffee.

cool silver star
against old marble buildings
     shining city lights

various patches

Could New York City have been any colder than it was on the day we visited? I do remember those blustery gray December days in the canyons of Manhattan - I just haven't experienced it recently. Four women (daughter, daughter in law, granddaughter, me) braved cold and wind chill and spent a lovely day seeing the tree and skaters, eating a late lunch in an Irish Pub near Rockefeller Center, photographing each other and the silver and gold flags and....

visiting Times Square where we played tourist and brought back funky I (heart) New York gifts

for ourselves and  the new mother at home all cozy with her eighteen day old baby boy. At home we made tea, baked cookies and cooed over the baby. Rocking him to sleep the next morning one of the cats followed us around from room to room staring intently.

how perfectly right
in a patch of winter sun
a black and white cat

winter beach & more

report from Connecticut
It's cold. Grey. The baby is warm and cuddly. The house is cosy. Took a 3 mile walk along beach path with ex-husband's widow. It always amazes me how families extend and get mixed up and somehow it works. I love walking along empty winter beaches. Scarves, hats, gloves. Gulls doing their thing, geese in Vs flying overhead, soft lap of the tide coming in, gossipy talk of two women getting to know each other.

baby report
Dante (17 days old) is perfect and perfectly wonderful. Soft, cuddly, hungry, sleepy, sooo sweet.
And I think he likes me. At least I've been able to get him to sleep. My son (great uncle) came by the other day and took over the fussy baby, calming him down completely. Now he boasts that he can do anything! Run a company, calm babies, and do minor surgery. Well, I'm not sure about the last item, but I can bake chocolate chip cookies (by special request) and buy red Lobster Pot cashmere yarn to knit a lace shawl. So there.

the original sex in the city girls
One of our daughters (now middle aged) described her mother and her five best friends as fitting that description way back in the 1970s (last century). Now, a few years later, we have early dinners with good wine and food - and go home early. I spent a lovely evening with those old friends reconnected with in June. We vowed to keep up with each other and convene once or twice a year from now on. The prosecco flowed and many heartfelt toasts were made to our missing friend, to each other and especially to the new baby.

salute per tutti!