a rutted track

The pond is drained and the alligators (aka: deadlines) are moving in. It's the final editing phase of the SOMOS anthology and the middle of two other book projects I've committed to. Time compresses and my macbook air sucks me in like a black hole. The trees need watering, dead branches removed, the guest room (aka: my workroom) has to be uncluttered enough to receive the friend who will visit this summer. And don't even mention the garden patch still waving tall gray winter weeds amidst new greenery, a deceased lavender bush, and wild roses gone completely and dangerously wild. The car needed a new battery, my friend fell and was hospitalized, I haven't walked in the park in three days. The road is long. I dream of beach cottages, bare feet and a big hat. A dream.

But we did get to the landfill. I seriously considered tossing into a big hole filled with dozens of bulging plastic trash bags, 35 writing workbooks spanning about 10 years - an offering to the garbage gods. Courage failed me. Yet the moment is approaching. Am I ever going to reread all those composition books? Wade through inks and scribbles and casual collages that indicate my state of mind 8 or 10 or 3 years ago? Look for gems? If there are indeed any gems they will be lost and no one will be the wiser. Maybe something better lurks in a less jumbled mind. A bicycle on a pile of old refrigerators.

Couldn't fend off thoughts of life as throwaway junk. Too much stuff, too many messy, bent and broken bits. Too many old weeds. I remembered junk in other beautiful places.

And all manner of things on my paths that defy the concept - like the bluebird couple that visit the deck each morning and how, no matter how closely I follow them with my eyes, I can't locate their nest. The way a day without wind is a blessing and there's new yarn coming and it's the color of Victorian geraniums and watermelon.

And how sometimes the least we can do for ourselves is fix a pretty breakfast (and then sepia-ize it digitally) just for joy.

breathing again

Adelina is back and so is the Farmer's Market. Loads of smiling people finally able to once again stroll among seedlings, lettuces, herbs, eggs, and breads. Several times I heard comments: I've been waiting so long for this or I missed your lettuces or the eggs are going fast...duck eggs, too, and, oh, the lavender hand creme - I've been waiting all winter, hoping...

sometimes a day shapes itself
I left the house early to walk, browse the market, stop by the post office. A perfect late spring morning, no wind, the air not exactly clear but not filled with wildfire smoke the way it was yesterday when I learned that the Gila Wilderness (many miles southwest of us) was blazing - over 70,000 acres burned and 0% contained. I haven't checked today's fire report so don't know if there's any good news re containment. Dry conditions, strong winds, low humidity, difficult terrain, make it worse. We long for rain - great torrents of it - but the gods aren't listening. Many homes in the wildfire area  have been destroyed and ancient Gila Cliff Dwellings are threatened. In Taos today, the wind is blowing the smoke away from us and the mountains are more visible than yesterday which was an eyes and throat-irritating day with the mountains behind veils of thick smoke. Of course, the wind could turn and then I'll be running around shutting windows and doors and looking for the eye drops again.

It's nearly noon now and I don't have the rest of my day planned. I know it doesn't include appointments or errands; rather it feels like a time to let things unfold as they will. I can't help thinking about the people whose homes have been destroyed. It's a day when, if there were temple bells nearby, they would remind me to come back to my present moment. In lieu of bells, I'll have to remind myself. Besides, the wind is howling so loudly around my tall house that all other sounds are blown away.

Listen, listen.
This wonderful sound brings me back to my true self.
             Thich Nhat Hanh

So does a gorgeous abstract head of wet lettuce picked at dawn this morning. Yum for dinner tonight: basil, mozzarella, insalata, olives, good bread...maybe some parmesan encrusted chicken...

such a deal

dear knitters and tote lovers,
I'm selling my Tom Bihn Swift (designed in collaboration with the readers of Knitty.com) and its matching small project pouch (with see-through bottom). Original price: $90. It's olive/brown with a gray check lining and lots of pockets and hooks. I plan to buy the smaller version that's more my size.

I love this bag, the design is sensible and stylish, but I'm 5'1" and it's just too big for me. I've tried and tried to use it but when it's stuffed with knitting projects, books, and other necessary paraphernalia, and I carry it in my hand, it touches the ground! oh my! So, rather than have it languish in a closet or stuff it with yarn and stash it on a shelf, never to see daylight again, I will part with it at a greatly reduced price ($55 +postage) so someone else can use and love it. It's like new and very well made. If you're interested, please add a comment to this post that includes a contact address and I will respond privately and promptly. You can check out the details at www.tombihn.com.

and there's more...
Nancy's Knit Knacks tapestry pouch...also like new (I have too many!). It has a practical and adjustable cross-body/shoulder strap, rings, hooks, cellphone pocket...high quality fabric. You can check it out on www.nancysknitknacks.com. Original cost: $55. Super deal on this one too: $30 +postage). Both bags are made in the USA (if that's something that's important to you).

So, dear kindreds, indulge your knitting fashionista and give these reticules a loving home.

a good leafy place

There's color everywhere these days, but I missed the circle-of-fire eclipse yesterday. I thought it was today. Just as I missed Lucia's baby shower on Sunday because it was on Saturday! And when I delivered the hand knitted infant hat and socks to her parents' house to give to her, their dog came at me. I didn't panic, but tried to instantaneously figure out a way to escape without the cur chasing me. Fortunately, future grandad Billy came out, wrestled the dog inside, and walked me away from the house. While we were talking, the dog got out again and nipped the back of my thigh. He didn't break through the denim and my skin, but it stung for a couple of hours and I was a bit shaken by the whole experience. Another reason to not walk Spike in our own neighborhood. Instead I schlep to the park in town where it's safe. People don't tend to stroll there with vicious dogs.

This morning in the park, I only wanted to sit down on a bench, inert. Spike had other ideas and we continued to march on. I almost didn't go. My dear granddaughter Kira and her dear Dante decided to Face-Time us at 6:45 a.m.! It was the first time we'd done this and I must say that seeing my own face looking back at me, puffy from sleep, hair in disarray, was somewhat of a shock. Face-Time is a cruel thing. Dante was perky and cute and laughed at me. When he said I love you, vain concerns over appearance dissolved.

not easily ignored...

finito! in soft neon glory!

tune in to the dance

Did you ever feel that on a certain unexpected day your life would start heading in another direction? We all have had that happen at some point, but I was really surprised by it today. An ordinary gorgeous spring day. The usual birds, a faraway barely discernible church bell, the brief laughter of the neighborhood kids, a barking dog. A Sunday morning feeling. A baby shower to attend later, (the woman who was an 8 year old girl when I first met her), some grass to mow, maybe a stop by the nursery for a few hardy flowers for the terracotta pots on the deck.  But that's not how it played out this Sunday. I don't know final outcomes--how could I? but I'm open. I sense great changes in the air immediately around us and am curious to see what will transpire. Not afraid. I dreamed last night that death committed suicide. Meanwhile, we take an afternoon drive with Spike on the road to the Ski Valley and stop at a magical place in the woods by a rushing river.

We are the only people (and dog) there. Snowmelt. Simple cold water; winter snow become water in May, tracing ancient paths through trees and villages, flowing for miles until it's subsumed into the Gulf of Mexico hundreds of miles away from these chilly peaks with winter breath even in summer. Spike, unafraid, loves it. I keep him on a leash lest the current sweep him away. We decide that we should rename him Alphi since he's so bold and confident. He'd answer to it too.

The trees around this part of the river are in some places festooned with Christmas ornaments.  I've seen versions of this before. It's eerie, pretty, and I can understand the impetus  toward connection that emerges when one is sitting around a campfire, scent of burning cedar branches, beautiful roar of river.  But were these festooners here in December's bitter cold? Cold that even a blazing bonfire can't assuage for long?

It's the same spot where I used to take my small granddaughter in summer's past, where we ate grapes and homemade gingerbread bear cookies, drank cool water, told stories. She wore a neon pink Big Bird backpack and collected flat river rocks that she brought home and painted with colorful snake designs (I still use and cherish them as paperweights).  She was into southwestern iconography and snakes were her metier that year.

Ron took photos of his stabile maquettes. We couldn't place them in the river for ahtsy-pics or they'd be swept away, so we had to settle for tame, shallow close-ups. We each tried with our respective cameras but nothing great was captured. Next time we'll bring a large steel pieces and challenge the river.

While Ron sprawled out with his camera I spotted a cloud that resembled a while buffalo -- a very good omen for the start of a new life.

A night full of talking that hurts,
my worst held-back secrets. Everything
has to do with loving and not loving.
this night will pass. . . 
                      Rumi

this and that

There's a new tea shop on the way to town (new to me because I hadn't gone in - but it's been there for several months). Chocolate, scones, plants, antiques, flowers, handmade jewelry, books. There's no one way to describe it except the way they do: "delightful, divine, delicious". It's called Lily's (in the Garden of San Jose) and it replaced the tea shop that so many of us mourned. This place is divine!

My friend and I drank creme Earl Grey tea with fresh-baked scones in a peaceful, pleasant atmosphere. We could hear the morning breezes sighing in the old trees outside, passing through the open screen door, into the shop, riffling the edge of a tablecloth....perfect! I walked around with my new iPhone and, with permission, snapped a few pics. They've added cafe tables outside in the nursery area and we'll try that out next time. Maybe later today.

This phone has an 8mp camera! A huge improvement over my last phone camera at about 2mps.  It may be ho-hum to you techies out there, but it's definitely magic to me. So is the download of 100 books from my Kindle, and all the other stuff that's possible now. I'm still learning how to use it and occasionally I still miss a call because I forgot how to answer. I wasn't born with a cellphone in my hands like 21st century babes. I can remember... (omg! that's what geezers say) - I can remember a black party line telephone in our apartment in the Bronx (I was very young). A few years later we were the first family in our neighborhood to have a television set (my father, an electronics maven, built it).  It was mostly test patterns, but they seemed pretty advanced.

and now THE BEST! 

I learned about this book through a fb connection, borrowed it and couldn't put it down. I read while cooking, walking, knitting. It's a well-written moving, interesting, informative, adventure. I experienced laughter, tears, sadness - and hope for the future of wild conservation - especially in Africa where wildlife and jungles are disappearing at a rapid rate. Lawrence Anthony died in early March of this year, and that's how I heard about the remarkable elephants he loved. He hadn't seen them for 15 months (he felt they should be left alone on the huge wild preserve) when they walked many miles to silently surrounded his home after his unexpected death (chills). 

There is a new book by Anthony coming out soon. He wrote about the six months he spent in Iraq at the Baghdad Zoo at the height of the war, saving the animals that were left amid the unfathomable destruction of the city and the zoo. Out of 600-700 animals (the largest zoo in the middle-east) only about 35 were left and they were in grave condition. Thanks to him, Americans and Iraqis worked together for the animals and the zoo. I look forward to reading it. Until then, I highly recommend the elephant whisperer.

she's flipped her switch

still trying...
at my desk working, I'm distracted by purple. All sorts of purple: mauves and lavender, grape and wine and violet. Especially by lilacs (S. vulgaris). A small bouquet (who put it there?) blocks the ms. draft I'm supposed to be editing. I'm intoxicated and abstracted by scent. I know the lilacs will be gone soon (they already are in other places). And then the long hopeful wait through seasons; no blossom is safe at 7500 feet, therefore, never guaranteed. Ever. Impermanence. Must get Zen-like attitude re lilacs. Appreciate what exists here now.

The color coincidentally inserting itself into my newest Kool Aid+  dyed yarn; emerging like the flowers outside still blooming due to the lovely rains we've had. In their last brief flowering phase the lilacs fade slightly, develop tiny creamy petals within the purple clusters. Exactly like the yarn that just dried

transformed into two balls destined to become two socks...

not so fast...
as soon as the spring greens are finished...from the pot to the drying rack, to the needles...

I'm loving these vivid and (dare I say?) original results. Love tossing into the crock pot packets of Kool Aid, squeezing tubes of food coloring gels into the mixtures, waiting impatiently for 16 hours (8 cooking, 8 cooling), not knowing what will come out; total disaster or charming Lollipop Guild (Oz and Emerald City) colors. So far I'm charmed and having fun. Planning more for the weeks ahead.

and speaking of...
the name Lollipop Guild Sox popped into my head when I finished this striped pair that made me remember those little people with the high voices, important demeanors, and striped stockings, who greeted Dorothy in the movie.

We represent the Lollipop Guild

the Lollipop Guild, the Lollipop Guild

And in the name of the Lollipop Guild

We wish to welcome you to Munchkin Land

The floors need to be vacuumed, the grass mowed, the bathrooms cleaned, the next load of laundry done. Ron's back is acting up he's no help and I'm bemused by purple. What to do? A cup of coffee comes to mind since it's too early for wine...

singing cloud mountain

The mountain rises almost into heaven.
Sleeping in the clouds is cold.  
                                        (Tu Fu (712-770)

I am living within a Japanese ink brush painting. A minimalist world of grays, white, blacks. I'm drawn to read Zen poetry in A Drifting Boat. Get into a mountain-dweller, non-doing mode.

The clouds begin to reveal the mountains and new snow...

Two days of intermittent rain, and sagebrush smells like vanilla honey, new grass and rushing rivers. What nicer sound in the high desert than raindrops falling on my parked car as I read and wait for my friend who is visiting her husband at The Living Center. We've had a nice long lunch at mondo italiano restaurant and we drive home with the windows open to the earthy scents of wet fields and trees.

Cloud Mountain's top
and the white clouds, level.
Climb to the top and then you'll know
just how low the world is.
Strange herbs, rare
blossoms people wouldn't recognize,
and a spring that runs down
in nine separate streams.
                      Chih Liang (c. 850)

homage to Dominic

In an old journal I found lists of original names for knitting stitches. The stitch named Gull Wing made me think about my father Dominic, the fisherman, who earned a hard living as a car mechanic, but whose head was always in the salty wind and whose feet were in the sea. Today is his birthday. If we lived in Shangri-La, it would be his 109th! He would walk into the room and announce, today is Father's Day! (his birthday always fell very close to or on Mother's Day). As I write, thunder is rumbling, the sky is the color of this old photo, and chilly rain is falling hard. If this were a day at sea, we'd be pulling in right about now.

My father was a master at escape. I knew him as a man with hobbies. Darkroom, electronics books he hid behind at night in his chair in the TV Room. He wasn't interested in variety shows. He preferred Saturday afternoon westerns and we watched them together. Horses dashed across what I now know is Monument Valley. It appeared in those movies as the quintessential Wild West. We were New Yorkers so those cowboys and Indians were galloping across another planet and we loved it.  He would have liked it here. The mountains, mesas and wide open spaces, horses, real cowboys. Indians. But he would have missed the ocean. He was kin to the gray green water of Long Island Sound, the bobbing up and down in a boat. He didn't get seasick when the water was choppy and whitecaps skimmed it like low flying snow geese. He was tough, he boasted. And told stories of whirlpools, turning tides, and the crab on his boat that skittered away into the bilge, and how when he sold The Sea Joy, the crab went with it.

When he caught fish, he brought them home and and we ate them. I grew up on flounder, bluefish, striped bass and the crabs that didn't get away.

The small striped bass appears on the ocean shore in the last days of April. Not until the time of lilacs in late May or early June, say the old people, will the bluefish arrive, in company with large striped bass... Rounding Montauk Point, the migrant species scatter along the ocean shore; many more continue north and east along the New England coast. 
           Peter Matthiessen, Men's Lives (1986)

After selling his boat he regularly fished with his friends on their chartered boat in the Bronx. A boat ironically named after a Southwestern Indian tribe. That boat, with another generation at the helm, still works out of City Island.

Some days I long to share a mug of sweet coffee with Dominic who has been gone for more than two decades. And today I wish him a Happy Birthday, wherever he is and whatever ocean he's sailing on.

gone fishing, be back later

beach-leaf lace

I feel like one of Picasso's deconstructed women. Not completely, but partially  - meaning some parts aren't where they're supposed to be and other parts have lost their symmetry. This seems to be an ongoing condition that started a few days ago when I learned about the terminal illness of someone dear to me since his birth. We haven't seen each other in many years, but that doesn't negate love. I noticed other symmetries this morning as I sat on the windless deck with my coffee and thought about him.

a meditation at 840 yards
Residual energy from the giant full moon still keeps me awake at night and discombobulates the days. I haul myself to the coffee shop to work undisturbed in a neutral place, but discover that my powers of concentration aren't accessible and I might as well deep-six the To Do list and knit. I come home to mindfully and quietly wind the skein of Madelinetosh Prairie.

Once wound, I start the Crashing Waves Lace Shawlette from Grace Akhrem. It's almost ready for the lace patterning and I hope I'm up to it. It doesn't seem difficult, but the pattern isn't charted, it's written out in densely packed words. The color, Thyme, is similar to other yarns I've chosen and especially (almost exactly) the same color as the feather-light cashmere shawl I bought in Bellagio on Lake Como years ago (still my all time favorite accessory (and place). I tend to get color-jammed and know I'm not alone in this. One knitting friend finds herself always buying blues and purples (yarn, jewelry, clothes), another is into all sorts of reds, lime green is one writer/knitter's downfall (sweaters, yarn, bags, notebook covers, pens).

Meanwhile, I have temporarily shrugged off guilt and erased the word procrastination from my vocabulary as I get into this project, and remember a story I heard about a woman of a certain age who had experienced a great loss in her life, packed up some things, drove to a rented cottage on a windy beach, stayed for a year and knitted. I'm not going anywhere at this time (especially not for a year), but the west wind brings restless energy, blows the clouds around in a blue universe and makes it hard to sit still without tools in my hands to create other realities.

Note: the title Beach-Leaf Lace comes from Mary Thomas's Book of Knitting Patterns (1943). She writes: this fabric has no background

About lace designs in general, Thomas said:
Each unit is independent, but complementary to the other...equality of each must be a consideration in order to keep [the lace] under control

woman facing east

Researchers say that the most popular subjects on social networks, are kids and pets. I try to avoid too much of that on my blog - who really cares about my favorite kids and pets? But, hey, sometimes ya just gotta brag a little!

dear great grandson Dante, 17+ months old, looking oh, so cool and sweet. He walks, he speaks - I received a video wherein he uttered the brilliant words: "hot dog"! Imagine that! I'll be seeing him soon.

And then there's Spike.  He's getting old (but who isn't?) and spends more time napping than he used to, but he's still intense (the Corgi in him) and cute, still nips at our ankles (the herding Corgi in him) and thinks we are his pets (alpha Corgi).  Hope I can bring Dante and Spike together one day soon (this summer?). Spike needs an alpha toddler to play with.

Back to my desk today to deal with paper and words after taking the weekend to attend friend Linda Michel-Cassidy's jewelry trunk show at the Harwood Museum (gorgeous, elegant, sophisticated), and then home to wash and stow sweaters, dispatch clutter, organize my one wild closet (found a favorite sock lost for 2 years), water the trees outside. It's been dry and windy, trees are showing stress; the NM olive is dead, and half the dwarf apple tree; the apricot trees are okay. By next weekend we will eliminate the dead trees and branches because FengShui-wise, one must never ever have dead trees or branches anywhere near the entrance to one's home.

And every day there bolted from the field/
Desires to which we could not yield;/
Fewer and clearer grew the plans,/
Schemes for a life and sketches for a hatred,/
And early among my interesting scrawls/
     Appeared your portrait./
                   (W.H. Auden, 23, 9th stanza)

back in the future

my vintage life
Oh, I'm having fun with new iPhone. What did Steve Jobs say? They don't know they want it until they have it? yes! How did I live without it? I love taking pictures. I love good quality images. I'm always upgrading my point & shoot cameras, looking for the best of the best in the smallest package. So. Recently read a Wall Street Journal article about iPhone photo apps and was led to Camera Awesome (free app at www.awesomize.com). Had already downloaded Hipstamatic ($1.99) and although it's fun, it isn't quite what I wanted even though I didn't quite know what I wanted when I downloaded it. Now I know. Quite.

it's a nostalgia thing
I will continue to look for a Brownie Hawkeye and film (my first camera at 9 years old) but until I find it I'll explore all the amazing 21st century apps. And today, I will actually go out without my Canon (heart be still), taking only the iP. Oh my. The world is changing with or without me and I hope I can keep up.

...freedom is not the absence of commitments, but the ability to choose & commit oneself to what is best for me...
      Paul Coehlo (from eBook, The Zahir, dowloaded to iPhone for 99 cents! check it out)