the art of true finding

A photography book I browsed recently stated that "sometimes pictures are just about color and they're boring. Other times they're about color and they're art."  Well, however my pictures are judged, there is lots of color. Buildings in this city, unlike the gray canyons of Manhattan, are rife with color. And, of course, my whole reason for being is about yarn and color (even though I dress mostly in blacks, browns, grays - yeah, boring - with an occasional hit of plum or olive). But I love to knit with vivid yarns, and socks, mitts, scarves are the way I most comfortably wear color. So what colorful thing did I do today?

sweet tea in name only
I walked 5 or 6 miles (roundtrip) to Greenwich Yarns where I was hoping to find yarn for the Sweet Tea lace mitts pattern I recently received from Knitspot. I found what I think will work: Simply Shetland silk lambswool from Scotland in a silky (59%) tweedy green (nicer than in photo).

we walk so we can see
Walking in the chilly overcast city today, I couldn't help remembering that famous Mark Twain comment about San Francisco: how he spent a winter here one summer. Yes. Today. Wind. Cold. Sea-mist dampening my hair, face, clothes. So happy to arrive at the cosy yarn shop that I forgot to take a picture to post here. Six or so women sitting at a big table with three doggies, snacks, knitting, and gossip. They didn't invite me to sit down, so after my paltry purchase I just headed out the door and walked home.

I would not have been able to walk that distance two weeks ago when I arrived. I feel stronger now and more fit. This city does that to you. What with the moisture in the air plumping up the skin and hair, and the plethora of young people biking, running, walking - it's either join 'em or go sit on a bench and be an observer. At least that's the way I see it, and although observation is a good occupation for a writer's mind, walking is better for her body. On on another day (with sun) I was mesmerized by color.

Even on this gloomy overcast day I can conjure up colors that sustain during sad times. That yellow flower with the red striations breaks my heart, but I don't know why.

I say: let the trifles that strangle us be seen merely as
trifles, remediable inequities. Then when the wind 
has had its way with us/ we can see ourselves as we are,
face to face with the invisible.
                       Neruda