plenitude

what makes me happiest these days? 
I drove to Santa Fe yesterday with lots of sun, temps warming up, car windows open, music. Alone in the solitude of the open road. A superficial trip based more upon the need to fly alone than a substantial reason for a 170 mile round trip. I had run out of my precious Kiehls Ultra moisturizing cream and the closest place to buy it here is in a tiny salon in Santa Fe. I could have ordered it online, but what fun is that? I got back in time to meet with my writer friends at 4 p.m. We spent the next two hours writing, reading aloud, drinking decaf coffee. All of us a little tired from our various activities that day. Three skiers, a Reiki master, me. We confess to each other that this configuration of new friends is something we look forward to during the two week stretch in between meetings. As soon as the ski season is over we'll plan to meet earlier - which is fine with me because by 4 o'clock I'm ready to pack it in and pour a glass of wine. What else makes me happy?

Oh yes, new yarn like bouquets of spring flowers.  So full of possibilities. For now, I keep them within sight, no stashing them in a tote or box. The colors send me, and I'm in Cancun, Cape Cod, San Francisco, Naragansett. What they eventually morph into is still a mystery. Like the skein of bohemian hand spun, hand dyed wool that I traded with my friend Linda several months ago. She'd bought too much of it at the Wool Festival and was happy to pass some of it on. I looked at it for months. So pretty. So bohemian (what does that even mean these days?). Swatched a couple of projects that didn't work out. And then, just as I began to think I might have to pass it on, it told me what it should be: a simple triangular scarf. No fancy lace patterns or cables, just something to show off the handspun hand-dyed yarn. I began and it seemed to knit itself through several old movies and some early morning knitting. It was a meditative exercise with realistic expectations - or perhaps none at all.

No drama. Nothing to write home about. Just a smallish bandanna-sized scarf. I finished it tonight and, unblocked, brought it outside as the sun was just about to drop behing the western horizon. 

and so on with the season's mysteries...
my neighbor is burning the dried fields in early mornings before the winds begin, preparing the land for new growth, getting ready to meet up with the mayordomo and the helpers who clear out the acequias, let the water flow, release snowmelt from the highest peaks as it rushes through ancient paths. I warn Ron to check the ditch that runs alongside his studio, be sure it's clear of debris so there isn't a recurrence of the flood that happened two years ago - water happily finding its angle of repose under the door and into his studio, flowing like a sweet deep stream, flooding the floor, paintings and books floating, ruined. Me shouting," oh my god, oh my god!" him shouting, "I'm going to sue someone," our friend and neighbor arriving, ordering, "get brooms and mops," shutting off the flow at the acequia madre and then helping us clean up. The floor is still slightly buckled, the insurance company didn't pay because we're not in a flood zone and they'd never heard of an acequia. Spring. Lovely spring. Not a flower blooming up here yet, but a pair of mountain bluebirds showed up on the deck this morning. He all vivid blue, his breast not rusty red yet, she's all pale and colorless, the mother, the female, both of them looking for a suitable place to build a nest. It's time to toss into the air the bits and pieces of yarn that I've accumulated that will end up lining birds' nests.

The bird has come
to give the light:
from each trill of his
water is born.
                  (Pablo Neruda, Spring, first stanza)