A Suburban Tale or Two

At my desk today in my ROMO (room of my own) even though it’s sunny & pleasant outside & a little cool & windy. Yesterday’s laser treatment forbids me to be out in the sun for two to four days. I plan to take a walk around 6 pm when the UV index is low. In summer I always walk after dark due to heat & humidity (this is New Jersey, after all). The house we live in is nearly 100 years old & along with many other houses (too many), it backs onto a 23 acre park. It’s good to just step out the back door and walk the meandering paths lined with mature trees & backyards created by folks who actually like to garden. Their botanical patches of land show it. I’m envious but not one of them—although I love fresh flowers & herbs. If I decided to try it, as I did years ago, I’d have to deal with the wild rabbits who seem to like our grassy backyard above all others. Some lovely green things that bloomed with small purple flowers were planted a season or two ago & we were thrilled to see them grow healthy, tall & pretty, until one day we noticed they were down to an inch above ground before they disappeared completely. We also noticed a fat rabbit hopping away. Another version of  the Mr. & Mrs. McGregor & Peter Rabbit war?  (which suddenly makes me feel like baking current buns). We decided to let the rabbits reign. They are cute. And I can buy bouquets of flowers at the supermarket. Especially in winter.

But it’s Spring,  nearly end of April (so fast) & it’s been a month of every kind of weather imaginable, except maybe a heat wave, although there was a day or two when it hit the 80’s (also 30’s).  Now I’m waiting for May to rescue me. 

My books are being shown & are for sale at the cosy new CoZie Cafe in town. I’ll post a photo next time. I love the way it feels to go in there for my skinny vanilla latte & sit for awhile in view of the open bookcase with books from ‘locals’—I guess that’s me. No sales yet, nor do I expect many (any?). I read something recently that stated as a poet you could expect one thing: you will be immune to income. And so it goes. But it’s not about money, right? It’s about doing (we say this to ourselves because no one else wants to hear or believe it). However, I did have a lovely poetry experience last Sunday when we were invited to a friend’s home for Easter. There were other guests, one of whom was a lovely seventeen year old with long auburn hair who writes poems. After a lifetime of living in many interesting places in the world with her family, she has spent the last six months alone with her grandmother on a small farm in Virginia. And she’s writing. Our friend had read one of her poems to us when he visited us a few days before so I looked forward to meeting her & giving her a copy of my new book, There Was Always Enough Time (Nighthawk Press, NM). She was pleased & I saw her snatching quiet moments reading in a corner of the living room as everyone talked & argued whatever the hot topic was at the moment. As the afternoon filled with debates & mimosas & good food, she & I talked a little. When we left she said she asked would I be her mentor. I was touched. I don’t know about the mentor part, but we hope to correspond about poetry via email. Mostly, I suggested, just write, write, write, read, read, read… & it’s okay to write the worst junk in America in our private notebooks (as Natalie Goldberg so famously tells us in workshops and books). Just write…. 

I’d be pleased if you  buy my book (it’s also available on Amazon, book & kindle) & if you like it, please write a review. 

Catching Up With Myself

I really thought April would rescue us from the drear, the cold, the endless rain, the record freezes, but until yesterday it didn’t. Today was a B-day all through our walk on the park paths just outside our door: blue sky, buds, blossoms, breezes, blue jays, butterflies, bikes…wow! 

Another B: Barry Silverstein’s new book The Evolution of Freud, is now featured in the Freud House and Museum in London, as well as on Amazon’s Hot New Releases on psychoanalysis. As I mentioned on facebook today, my newest book, There Was Always Enough Time (poems), is residing quietly on Amazon and in a coffee shop in Fair Lawn, New Jersey! (Stay tuned, though, for some virtual readings coming in May or June). All in all, given the kind of world we are all living in these days, we are grateful for our life, books, sunshine, blue skies, a dry basement after 24 hours of heavy rain, a few hours with my family in CT, health, and that we fall, deeply or shallowly, into the category Joan Didion famously stated of herself: “…hour spent arranging words on pieces of paper…”. 

I will try to post here once a week. Please let me know through comments or on facebook that you are out there. There may be a way of tracing that, but I haven’t discovered it since my return to this venue. I’ll keep on keeping on…

Enjoy spring….

 

It’s Sunday night. First day of official Spring. It’s been a busy day, yet I haven’t left my house. Overcast chilly day, but on yesterday’s walk there were daffodil buds. Spent a lovely hour or so today on a zoom session with David Whyte doing one of his Sunday series. If you’re not familiar with his work, check it out. He’s an Anglo-Irish poet whose philosophy is based upon “the controversial nature of reality.” Let your mind wrap around that one for awhile.

Meanwhile, my 94 year old brother is still in hospital with a foot infection and still mysterious other symptoms. My daughter has been with him every day trying to coordinate his care and although he has dementia (like our mother) he recognizes and responds to her. It’s been difficult from my perspective to not be there to help. He is thirteen years older and was my hero as I grew up in a difficult family situation. Yet I feel I cannot put myself into a hospital environment at my definitely “over 65” age due to COVID or I’d be there with him.

On another note: I am so pleased that my new book of poems has just been released. I like the way it turned out. It is available on Amazon and directly through the publisher, Nighthawk Press, Taos, NM. Or directly from me, of course—just request it here, leave your email & I’ll send you the details. I will share with you here, the first poem in the book that overall, is about time, love, loss—usual suspects seen through my eyes and pen. For those those of you who know me, you know I tend to always have some sort of camera in my hands—indeed since 4th grade—with my Brownie Hawkeye. Now it’s mostly my iPhone camera, so handy, and I still love and use my ‘real’ cameras. There are a scattering of photos in the book. Wish I still had that Hawkeye, though. 

Let me hear from you. I want to know you’re out there! Stay well…

My Hands

hold a camera
observe    pull back
lens between me and the world
drama or   drown in a river
of craving or elation 

required & unrequited loves

nearly visible stretch of future

so carelessly consumed

when storms come

I’ll pack my bag    return

when the sun comes out again

wind stops   safety overrated

I want the susurration & power

a force greater than me

a constant rhythm that follows

breath    heartbeat    nights awake

or soothed in a cradle

endlessly rocking

as the old poet said

a long time ago

Crazy March

It’s a snowy, windy, sleety Saturday. I received in today’s mail a skein of sock yarn that I was compelled to try out immediately. It’s Waki Saki by Wisdom Yarns—an interesting combination of fibers: 50% merino wool, 25% bamboo, 25% nylon. So soft. I located my favorite old well-used Kollage square double-point needles & got down do it. As I worked I heard the wind outside my window & listened to a chapter of Harry Potter (book 4 or 5) on my AirPods (love those pods!). The yarn is lovely in shades of purples, pinks, lavender. It stripes & self-patterns as I knit—somewhat like the magic in HP—my wand being my needles. Years ago when self-patterning sock yarns first came out I got hooked and hundreds of socks later I’m still loving those yarns. I haven’t knit anything other than socks for several years and only when I’m watching movies or listening to books or music. Also still liking the HP books and J.K. Rowling’s intelligent writing. Way back in 2002, I designed and published in Interweave Knits magazine, a Harry Potter sweater pattern along with a short essay that accompanied it. At the time I was heavily into knitting anything, everything, designing, writing, working part time in a yarn shop, editing an annual literary anthology, and marketing my husband’s art. I was thrilled to be in Interweave (they’d already published an essay of mine in their defunct supplement) but they wanted more designs. I was faced with the decision to design or write. I chose writing but never stopped knitting. Just pared it down to socks. Because, as head wizard Dumbledore said, “one can never have enough [knitted wool] socks. People will insist on giving me books.”

And speaking of books, my newest just hit Amazon. A collection of poems: There Was Always Enough Time. It can be ordered from Amazon or publisher, Nighthawk Press, Taos, NM. Since my copies have been delayed (due to snow & ice?), I cannot post a photo.  Meanwhile, here’s an excerpt from a chapter in my first book (2017): From Salt to Sage: A Memoir: (2nd Printing 2022 & not about knitting, but it does creep into an unrelated story or two). Stay tuned.

                                                                    Gull Wing

“…I came across an old spiral journal with notes on knitting designs and items I’d made, as well as interesting names of stitches and their histories. I had used the information in a couple of articles I’d written for craft/design magazines. There are many vintage names and histories for knitting stitches, and many were listed in my notebook. One of those, called The Gull Wing, evoked thoughts about my father Dominic, the fisherman, who earned a hard living as an auto mechanic but whose head was always in the salty wind and whose feet were in the sea….

Like my father, I am an escape artist. My path is through words, books, imagination, yarn and color. I get lost in the poetic names of knitting stitches: Sailor’s Rib, Seaweed, Four Winds, Dotted Wave. Gull Wing.”

She’s Back! (again)

 

It has been quite a long time since I wrote in this space. I needed a sabbatical. Needed to internalize personal loss and gain. Did I miss it? Not until recently when a few friends asked about it, said they missed it & encouraged me to return. One friend said it was more authentic in some ways than facebook postings. 

We have so far—family and friends—survived the pandemic and have begun to reach out again, maskless, vaccinated, boostered, ready to roll. My heart goes out to those who have gotten seriously ill and still feeling the effects or have lost someone. Of course, the horror of what is happening in Ukraine is a presence in my mind as I go about my daily life. Thankful that I have a daily life. This neighborhood where I live now has a large population of Russians and most probably Ukraines. I do not know them personally, but I pass them on walks in the park around which our homes and apartments are located. They look somber—even the ubiquitous grandmas pushing bundled-up-against-the-cold babies in their prams, the ones who previously have always looked contented, even smug—look worried now & deadly serious. 

I changed the blog profile photo to my new badass self (even with all the reflections in the mirrored sunglasses). Because, frankly, I feel that way: Badass.  (At least to myself. Who knows what others think?). Maybe it’s just that I’m eighty-one now, writing, knitting (socks mostly), still taking pictures, loving, looking toward my new book coming out this month, There Was Always Enough Time, a collection of poems. I will share these posts on facebook, also, so if you are reading this and would like to be a “fb friend” please do so. I’d like to connect again or meet you. Due to arrive this month, besides official Spring, is the 2nd Printing of my 2017 book, From Salt to Sage, A Memoir. I will try out new material on you, my readers, too. My partner’s book, The Evolution of Freud was released yesterday, already with great reviews. More on that later, too. 

I looked through my new material to find a poem or haibun to add to this note but what comes up consistently is a poem by Adam Zagajewski called “To Go To Lvov” and it fits what is going on in Ukraine & Russia. I do not have permission to post the whole poem here, but the first few lines will pull you in and you will be able to find it easily online in its entirety. 

“To go to Lvov. Which station/for Lvov, if not in a dream, at dawn, when dew/gleams on a suitcase, when express/trains and bullet trains are being born. To leave/in haste for Lvov, night or day, in September/or in March…”

Until we meet again…

Continuous Practice

It is a fine over-the-top Spring we are having this year in northern New Jersey. Along with daily bursts of color, shots of energy, bird song, lots of pink blossoms, and a car covered with tiny green things fallen from the old maple tree above it (a very bad place to have a driveway), I am inspired to begin again to post weekly (or more often) starting on this lovely sunfull-blue-sky-emerald day. For those readers who followed me for a few years, I hope you return, for new readers, welcome. This
post is brief because I plan to go for a long walk in the park (currently a fairyland of pastel blossoms) right outside my back door, before clouds roll in later.

A writer walks (the longer the better), collects ideas in an always-present notebook, a camera, records days and expands ideas in journals, turn them into stories, poems, books. What I do every day. A continuous practice. Things happen. Ideas develop. Stresses and anxieties exist, get written down, become something else. Not necessarily easily or quickly, but at a certain stage of life one does become aware of wasting time upon things that need their own time to resolve or may never be resolved. So be it. I've heard an often repeated NJ mantra since I've been here: it is what it is. A lot has transpired over the last two years or so, some wonderful things, some sad. Angers, loves, losses, gains. Life. All is well and all will be well. Meanwhile here are a few tips someone posted to me, purportedly from Goethe:

Every day:
Hear a little song
Read a poem
See a fine picture
Speak a few reasonable words

Summer by the Sea

On Saturday we had a special visit along with some friends and family in my son's new digs with its great views of Long Island Sound.

We enjoyed lobster rolls, hot dogs, quiche, cookies, fruit, wine, and just kicked back to talk and enjoy all of it on a gorgeous summer afternoon. In quiet moments we heard the lapping of water against the stone wall just below his balcony.

and then....
There were some recently received copies of my book From Salt to Sage and I had the very excellent pleasure of signing them.

This is a most thrilling time for me as the book begins to land in the hands of friends, acquaintances and unknown readers. I look forward to all the comments and reviews no matter what they are. I am especially looking forward to my upcoming SOMOS reading in Taos, NM on August 9. I will use this blog and facebook to announce other readings as they are scheduled. I will also insert selected poems and brief excerpts from the book in this space (or the blog I've just set up on WordPress but don't quite understand yet--oh, dear!), so please stay with me as I discover new paths on this aesthetic and practical journey I'm taking. The book is available on Amazon and from the publisher Nighthawk Press.com.

...from "Gray"

"There is a chill in the air and no shadows. In the pale March light, the sky is flat translucent white. A small piece of it can be seen through gaps between brick buildings and bare branches, but only if you bothered to look up. The frail elderly woman who wears a gray too-large wool coat is my mother. We help her into the back seat of the clean new silver Oldsmobile that belongs to my brother. Elvira sits on the plush burgundy seat--her feet do not quite reach the floor. The seatbelt is high and rests across her thin neck." 

Another Year & A Book!

Last year in early spring I announced that I was "back" and would post regularly again. Well, the time between then and now developed into a year of things lost and found. Sometimes I felt like a leaf dancing in the wind--or art itself. Other times I stood at the edge of a dark whirlpool of sadness, emotion (love, anger, death). Somehow, with help from my friends and family I got through it all and although many issues are still pending, there is light and I know the universe will unfold as it should.

Back in in the northeast under last winter's gloomy, cold gray snow-filled skies, at my desk, finally in a room of my own, I worked on the manuscript with my editor 2000 miles away.  The collection was a long time in the writing and I begin this new series of postings on a high note. My book, "From Salt to Sage," a collection of personal essays with a smattering of poems and photos, has been released by Nighthawk Press. Please check it out on Amazon. It can be ordered directly from the publisher's website: nighthawk press.com. Please join me on Facebook, too. I'd love to hear from you. (My full name in case you can't read it is Lorraine Lener Ciancio--I'm having terrible time posting photos with the "new improved blogger" by Google!!!).

She's Back!

It has been many months since I last posted here at The Knitorialist. I've been living in the east and have spent lots of lovely time within closer driving distance to the Atlantic Ocean and the tri-state area nearer to my family. I've met new people, am editing the final draft of my book manuscript and made strong connections in other areas. I still haven't gotten used to taking trains to Manhattan and driving around busy New Jersey and Connecticut. I guess I've been spoiled by 25 years of wide open, speedy, southwestern roads. I don't seem to remember my way around either which is sort of embarrassing. In Taos I took for granted an abundance of sun, dramatic neon sunrises and sunsets, blue sky winters and generally lighter clothes--all elusive here among trees, endless grey skies, frigid and gloomy winters that require long LL Bean Ultra down hooded coats with faux fur. All winter I felt compelled to knit wool socks and nothing else. I added to my sock yarn stash and have enough yarn to get me through future winters. Most of the finished socks ended up with friends and family members.

But it's spring now and I am awakened every morning by a cardinal singing high up in a tree outside the window. After-dinner strolls in the 23 acre park outside my door now puts forth the color I longed for all winter and sought in yarn.

I will try to write this blog at least weekly from now on and will post excerpts from one of two manuscripts I'm working on: a collection of creative non fiction essays and another of poems. Meanwhile I wish joyful spring thoughts to all of you who return to these pages.

begin with Yes

Frankly friends, I don't know where the special effects for this photo came from.  It's a mystery. Yes, it's the view from my kitchen window, but the falling snow? Wow. Magic? At the same time that this appeared, the photos I was downloading disappeared. So. What does this all mean? It's been a difficult year and it is drawing to a close in many ways subtle and not so. I've learned that meditation helps, saying yes and breathing helps, knitting helps. In the midst of an anxious week I came upon a skein of cashmere yarn that I'd purchased a year ago and forgotten about.

It's from Lobster Pot Yarns and the name alone is compelling. Dyed in lobster pots, dried in the wind of east coast beaches. Lovely! So I began to knit a Colonnade triangle/lace scarf and more magic happened. The soft luxury of this Mongolian cashmere and the color called Shoreline Heather (lighter than the photo) seemed to bring an inexplicable inner peace. I'm loving it, appreciating it and very very grateful for the animals that give us their wool. To all the sheep, goats, alpacas, and silkworms, thank you! Thank you to the trees that produce apples in Christmas colors, too!

I'm writing a lot these days, filling notebooks, mostly with junk. Sometimes I have the greatest urge to consign them to flames, but haven't done so thus far. What I do know is that I'm not writing very often on this blog because too many other things are clamoring for attention. Therefore, I am going to take some time off. As Terry Tempest Williams said recently on her facebook page, I am going to take three months off from most social media and do what the bears do. They hibernate from now until the Spring Equinox. Tonight I meet with a group of women who will be celebrating the return of the light on this Winter Solstice night and then it's a 21st century version of hibernation. I'll be back in the spring. I hope you will meet me here then. For now, I'm poised and ready. See you when the robins are twittering and the meadowlarks are calling from fenceposts again

Life is a Hallelujah
Hallelujah when we're born
Hallelujah when we die
And Halleluljah when we rise each morning
           T. T. W.

afternoon beer

Many years ago, I was part of a survey team researching New Mexico quilts. The project was the brainchild of Dorothy Zopf, quilter and retired art teacher, who discovered that there was no data on an extremely important element in Hispanic New Mexican life: handmade quilts. The survey was conducted over several years, spread to Anglo quilts as well, and the result was Dorothy's book, Surviving the Winter. I was one of five women who helped with the research. My job was scribe and backup photographer and I loved toting notebook and compact 35mm camera on each trip.

Last evening Dorothy and I were invited to speak to an audience at the Taos Retirement Village Center about our adventures along the highways, byways and rural areas of NM. It had been snowing in Taos all day but I was able to navigate the roads into town from my perch in Des Montes at 7500 feet (Dorothy lives in the village and just walked over). The invitation prompted me to search through personal notes, photos, articles and poems I'd written at that time. A favorite experience was afternoon beer at The Rosebud Saloon in Mountainair. Although written long ago, it still resonates.

The Rosebud Saloon

Thursday afternoon
southwestern New Mexico
early summer beer
at the Rosebud Saloon
pool table fluorescent lights
guys in big hats at the bar.
I think about danger
something I read once
men and bars in afternoons
in remote towns. Here
it's only a TV rerun of
This Old House.

They take no notice
of five old girls who want to
carve their initials into the table
laughing in their beer
laughing with each other.

Maybe the sun's shining outside
maybe not, in the Rosebud Saloon
bright light illuminates fading hair
wrinkles, someone has arthritis
a guy at the bar tips his hat
red light blinks Budweiser's Best
and I wonder whose dream I'm in.

seeing more directly what is true

Beware of that determined slide to the worst possible, barely imaginable scenario. You don't have to go there. Let's just see what happens now.        (Sharon Salzberg) 

(facsimile of Emily Dickinson's handwriting with ED mittz)

Good advice, since I just spent the last half hour or more writing and whining about waking up at 3 am to impossibly strong winds blowing in a snowstorm that turned my mind to typical wee hours thoughts of disaster, loss, old age, disease, joy, worry and doubt. When I'd finished writing, all my too many words and photos disappeared. So that's what happened then. This is now. It's snowing. It's pretty. It's winter. The dark time is coming.

Now that I've gotten that out of my system (without any wi-fi connectivity issues), I sit at my kitchen table writing in mid-morning as the snow comes and goes and have faith that in a day or so the sun will return in a Taos blue sky. There is food in the house, my cup of tea nearby, a notebook, camera (just in case), and wool. Wool. Wool.

Completed this cheerful pair of socks that reminds me of alpine ski lodges, mountains and snow that is actually fun to romp in if one is so inclined (I'm not, although I live in the environment described). I immediately began another sock with colors that simply feel good. Joyous socks, flower garden yarn, faith-in-the-future socks....

We face the darkest time of the year and I admit to often having low feelings around the holidays that include losses and gains, memories and longings. I know others do, too. My antidote is wool, color, the act of hands busily moving to create something pretty while the mind goes off on its alpha journey and diminishes some of the darkness. It is my version of hibernating into the tactile pleasure of mostly silent knitting (and writing -- they go together).

Since I no longer do an annual craft fair, I am not compelled to create "inventory" and now only knit what I love and am in the mood for. Yet I am almost always working on something and once finished I can easily let go. It seems to be about the act rather than acquisition. Since I don't need as many pairs of socks (or sweaters or scarves or hand warmers) as I turn out, they generally disappear onto other feet, hands, necks, heads...because other people love these things, too. Strangers, friends, family. It gives me great pleasure when I see or hear of someone wearing socks or hand warmers I knitted, a granddaughter wearing the felted bag, a poet using the teapot cosy as she writes and sips hot tea.

readjusting

Away from this blog for a long long time, I will try to catch up. Back in Taos now after six weeks or so in the east with friends, family, and a writing retreat. Ron was informed that he is "cancer-free" and although he has to build up his strength and gain some weight, he managed to take care of himself in my absence. Actually, I think he was pleased to be free of my nagging him to eat! I walked a lot, knitted some, wrote a lot and did some shopping in the tri-state area. I found a couple of cool yarn shops and indulged in some Malabrigo Finito yarn for handwarmers and a shawlette (kettle dyed in Uruguay).

I (and my eager assistants) had fun "researching" the ubiquitous New York black and white cookie (the one shown is not the traditional version, but it will do). We had to give up the profject when our jeans got a bit too tight. But we will eventually resume for the cause!

I will post about this fun "project" soon. Back east I got to hang out with some new friends.  One friend, today, sent a photo of a Christmas tree trimmed with balls of cashmere yarn! So you see, besides cookies, they got to know me pretty well! Since my granddaughter and great grandson are planning to visit again in early December I may have to trim a Christmas tree this year -- and while it may not be all about cashmere, it could easily be about yarn balls. If they come though, I suspect I might be forced to open those boxes of old old Xmas ornaments stashed in the garage. We are a sentimental lot -- and I haven't seen those contents in many years. Which reminds me that a high point of my visit was being with my older brother Frank (and his beautiful wife Rita) for a whole day. He cooked for me and we reminisced and laughed a lot (also drank Scotch at 4 pm -- his daily prescription for good health (he's going to be 87 in January so manybe he's on to something).

Walking wooded paths, I encountered more dramatic huge mushrooms I still couldn't identify, colorful spiders, deer and cheerful graffiti.

The weather was generally warm and pleasant, but now "...winter circles and moves in..." (Charles Wright) and I need to wrap myself in wool.

At this time, on a dark night in November, I write, sip chilled Pinot Grigio and eat too many Pirouette Chocolate Hazelnut wafers. Not necessarily a good idea, but life is short and you only live once.

she returns

a different kind of beauty

Still in the northeast, I have spent part of each day (when it isn't raining) walking paths near woods. It feels safe and I'm grateful that there is no strenuous hiking. I have encountered interesting natural phenomena. If you are a regular reader you already know that I am not a naturalist, nor a forest ranger, nor particularly entranced by forging new paths through forests and mountains. And god forbid I have to camp out! That said, I thoroughly enjoy not only city sidewalks, but paths and parks that offer abundant foliage, birds and bees, waterfalls, and places to sit to enjoy them with or without my notebook. At this time of year there is also an abundance of strong color which makes me think I need to find a yarn shop around here and buy some new autumn inspired sock yarn.

This giant monster ear thing mushroom fungus along my path measures about 18 inches from end to end. I have no idea of what it is called or whether it's benign or poisonous. It is thriving at the bottom of a long decaying tree stump on damp soil.

As were the orange mushrooms at the bottom of a log. Now I'm looking for sock yarn that  color. It is so vivid and beautiful. Maybe I'll have to dye some yarn when I get home. I'll use packs of orange Kool Aid and Betty Crocker neon orange food coloring....it's worked before and it's fun.

Oh yes, and there is this colorful creature weaving its tangled web on the glass door of the place I'm staying. It's beautiful and scary and I'll use another door to go in and out. I've been advised to kill it, but I can't seem to do it (instead, I'm looking for sock yarn in that color and pattern).

Meanwhile, on these rainy and overcast October days, I'm trying to work on the manuscripts, listen to music on my iPad and do some journaling and knitting as the days and nights get cooler and cosiness sets in. I finally finished a pair of socks that were dragging along for months and I'll post pictures in a couple of days. I walk, embrace solitude and the occasional good company of other writers. Things seem to be going well at home in Taos where I get reports that the sky is stunningly and cloudlessly cobalt blue day after day and snow has already powdered the highest peaks. I wonder if the aspens have already spread swaths of yellow and salmon on those same peaks. Perhaps it's already past. One more example of impermanence.

a rose is a rose

After more than a year of uncertainty, medical concerns and treatments, things are much better and Ron's doctors are encouraged. So while he regroups before the next round of appointments in Albuquerque in early November, I am taking the opportunity to give myself a long sabbatical from caregiving and creative inertia and am heading east for an extended stay. This has been an exhausting year for everyone and since now there's an open window, I'm jumping out of it! (figuratively, not literally). My granddaughter's old Bert (he emerged from a dusty box when she and Dante visited recently) is sitting on the bookshelf and represents how I feel at this time.

But Bert usually keeps a positive attitude and, taking my cue, I'm packing and getting ready to leave on the midnight flight to New York tomorrow. Will see friends and family before heading to a hideaway. The challenge is packing (is there room for one more sweater?). And figuring out how to stuff one more ball of yarn into the smallish suitcase. I dislike huge heavy luggage and try to avoid it even if it means I have to leave lots of clothes behind and wear pretty much the same things for several weeks. Of course that means blacks and browns and items that can be dressed up or down. But the yarn. How much do I bring, where will I buy more if needed? For me color reigns supreme in sock yarns -- the wilder and brighter the better. I'm currently working on the second sock in this pair which I intend to keep for myself (unless someone looks longingly and asks nicely).

It's another wonderful Opal sock yarn from the Le Petit Prince collection (The Rose of the Little Prince) and it reminds me of summer and watermelon, sunsets and...roses.

Part of my escape involves continued work on my other GIOs (guilt inducing objects) also known as manuscripts. My publisher has given me three months to get a completed/edited manuscript to her (or else) and I intend to meet that challenge. Meanwhile, I look forward to autumn in the northeast. It's been years since I experienced that seasonal transition in the tri-state area. And it seems there's already a plan afoot to pick apples on Sunday with a 3 1/2 year old.

september again

A fine Sunday, playing with my new camera. It is a Panasonic Lumix G and even though I've had it for a few weeks and have experimented with settings (mostly auto and manual), I only began exploring the image effects today. So now I'm hooked on taking highly saturated (by choice) photos. In this season when the air seems naturally color-saturated, it's double the fun.

So many things to be sad, joyful and grateful for these days. The weather, health, the color yellow, love, family visits to NM, the camera, my upcoming visit back east with family and friends, followed by a long writing retreat to complete the final edits on the manuscript I planned to work on starting in January. The plan that was derailed due to life interfering. Funny how that happens. And not necessarily funny.

homage to Barbara...and then there were three...
I learned two days ago that an old friend unexpectedly passed. I'd been planning to see her in a couple of weeks in Connecticut. I knew she was ailing since I'd last seen her in July 2013, but she was holding her own at home and planning to buy a new wardrobe for her grandson's barmitzvah at the end of this month. When our first sons, now in their 50's were toddlers, they played together.  We were all newly married, living in the same garden apartment building in NY and became best friends. Our second sons (now in their late 40s) were best friends when we all lived in the same town in CT. Barbara inspired many of the paths I chose over the decades that altered my life's direction. But most of all I remember the endless summer days when she and I and three other women friends sat in a circle in our sand chairs on Bailey Beach in Rowayton and had our own consciousness raising sessions (otherwise known as bitching and dreaming) while our kids (a dozen in all) played in various configurations around us. Gayle, who moved to Taos around the time we did, and whom I've written about, was one of those women. She left us four years ago. Her daughter recalled those beach days and said: it was the original Sex in the City! How true. We were all young and attractive and it was the early 1970's after all! I intend to visit Bailey Beach when I'm back there. I'm sure the sand is still imprinted with the circle of our chairs.

Barbara Kiley Posner 1935-2014

celebrating the present

I have just emerged from a three week period with various family members visiting. So wonderful.

Granddaughter Kira arrived with our great grandson Dante (3 1/2 years old) -- he's the guy in the BIG Mexican hat above...

Kira was 3 1/2 when she first visited New Mexico and stayed with us every summer for a few weeks until she was a teen. It was such a trip to have him here -- she unearthed her old toys (still stored in the box we put them in 10 years ago -- a bit dusty but serviceable) and he played with them (even Barbie)! Whew! talk about deja vu!

Brigadoon
One day we drove up to Victory Alpaca Ranch in Mora (the place I once called Brigadoon -- so remote-feeling and unchanged), through gorgeous mountain roads and areas where, since I moved here I've wished I was a geologist -- I want to know what those dramatic striations represent (next life maybe) and we arrived in time to feed the alpacas. I'd also promised myself to visit the ranch several times (usually around Wool Festival time in October), but never made it, so I was as psyched as Dante. He is a precocious child who knows a lot about every animal and was terribly excited to see actual alpacas. We arrived, waited in the registration/yarn shop area until the guide came for us. His mother and I talked about his affinity for animals and speculated that he might be a veterinarian someday. As soon as we stepped through the gate with cups of feed in our hands, about fifty or more alpacas started moving toward us like a high tide. Dante freaked out (so did I), dropped his cup and yelled, "I want to look at yarn!" Now how's that for a knitter's great grandson? I scooped him up and we headed for the exit and I said to his mother, who stayed on for awhile, forget the veterinarian idea!

Once in the yarn shop he happily touched the soft yarns and items made from it, commented on each and every color and feel and seemed to have no regrets that the "mean" alpacas had so surprised him. His mother admitted that among the gentle alpacas there was one white one who bared its teeth and looked mean. I think it was the one she later took a selfie with...he seems to be smiling...doesn't look mean at all...

While she was here, she totally reorganized my kitchen and helped me declutter. Now that she's gone, although I can't seem to find anything, all I have to do is channel her and it guides me to what I'm looking for. I'm grateful for her youthful energy and caring. Both visits perked Ron up considerably and we were all pleased that his oncologists reported, after tests earlier this month, that they are encouraged.

This was my birthday month and even at my advanced age, I consider birthday months special and celebratory. This one was. Kira and Dante went horseback riding and prior to that, the neighbors' horses showed up -- all much to the delight of my city-dwelling family.

"If I knew that this would be the last time I hear your voice, I'd take hold of each word to be able to hear it over and over again. If I knew this is the last time I see you, I'd tell you I love you, and would not just assume foolishly you know it already."
     Gabrial Garcia Marquez