my own Shangri-La

On the Mora trip a couple of weeks ago, I came upon this pretty weathered fence across the road from the spinning mill. Today it made me think again about the miracle of yarn and the sheep, alpacas, other warm blooded creatures who supply us and aren't harmed in the process, and the hand spinners and mills. I understand a little bit more now why my mother was so proud of her one and only outside job as a wool winder in a knitting factory.

We watched the old old movie Lost Horizon recently - and had the usual discussion about whether we'd stay in Shangri-La or not. I'm never sure. How would it feel to not be able to leave for years - maybe never - I'd stay young but what would I do? And then I remember that in the town there were flocks of sheep! Wool! Where there is wool there is yarn. I'd have needles with me (I always take interchangeable needles when I travel) and in that mythical place they make their own electricity and I could take pictures and print them and have my own gallery and the work would be appreciated for itself and not about money because they don't use money and no one is poor and life is perfect in Shangri-La.
             So much for the run on sentence. Actually what I love most about the story (apart from all the sheep and wool) are the flutes attached to the tails of pigeons that make a haunting humming sound when the birds fly and the wind sings through the tiny wooden tubes.

And speaking of wind, it's quite forceful and noisy again today, but it is spring in the park at last.

to blossoming cherries,
we recite Buddha's blessing
most gratefully
                               Basho