outflow=inflow=outflow

I was so in love with that sock-against-the-sky photo I posted last week that I put it on my facebook page. It triggered notes from writer friends and sock fans who own my handknitted socks. I haven't seen some of these women for years and their comments have opened up memories of mornings writing in a friend's zendo, a week at Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu, the Yuletide fair in Taos, a week in the Yucatan, the dream Trudy had about a drawer full of handknitted socks all the colors of the rainbow! And then Nita reminded me of the Clan of Sock Women.

Clan of the Sock Women
A few years ago, as one of a small group of zendo writers, we met once a week at a friend's earthship in Taos and meditated, walked, and wrote. I usually wore my hand knitted socks on those early mornings since my feet are always cold, even in summer, and Nat, whose place it was (and who is still a collector of my socks) wore hers. Gradually curiosity (and sock-envy) was aroused and I was asked if I had any more. Silly question! I always have far too many socks - either on needles or in lavender-scented boxes. And before I knew it, colorful wool socks were appearing on the feet around me -- which prompted Nita to proclaim us The Clan of the Sock Women. I wrote about it in my sock pattern chapbook, but sort of forgot until Nita declared it once again upon seeing the latest photo!  So now I love facebook (which I've been lukewarm about) and the unexpected reconnection it provides. These sock women are poets, writers, artists, a recent poet laureate, spiritual teachers, workshop leaders, celebrities...they live all over the country and in Mexico and England...in other words they are Remarkable Women. They have touched upon and changed my life in many unaccountable ways and I'm proud to have touched their lives in some small way and that they remember. And, yes, there's a new crop of too many pairs of socks once again. Outflow makes way for Inflow! S stands for Sanity and Socks. It's what I do - and I'm not a bit embarrassed by the sheer volume! 

Volume. The ornamental cherries, inedible, in profusion in the park. I walk under the tree, on top of a carpet of small slippery red balls, glance at the blue sky in between leaves and branches, a stage set; feel grateful to be alive on a cool morning in late summer, able to walk, to feel the sun on my shoulders, breeze in my hair. Remember how the cherry trees looked in spring. Yesterday?

And then I receive news about a friend who has been diagnosed with stage three colon cancer. And I understand that personal worlds and casual future projections can change in a moment. I thought getting old was the qualifier, but that's nothing compared to what could be waiting in the wings. So am I now more mindful? more grateful? I don't know. I want to be.  But it's hard to change a lifetime of belief and so easy to fall into despair.

Stop for the flowers in the early morning sun, breathe deeply (as my daughter is always telling me to do). Think about knitting something the color of a tropical sea with the Aslan pot-dyed yarn I found the other day in that odd store that recently opened in Taos. Nice yarn. Lovely color. Color heals. Doesn't it? Or the three poem drafts I wrote today? I can knit a pair of socks to keep her feet warm as hot summer fades into cool, cold, autumn. She might be cold.

I slept in a bed 
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
                 Jane Kenyon