twenty-second day

New sidewalk graffiti since yesterday morning's walk. I imagine someone sneaking into the cemetery after dark with a flashlight and painting the cemetery pathway with a spray can of red paint. It seems such an odd thing to do.  Yet the act of blogging is odd, too. Writing often to readers who are mostly strangers. Is it about the need to touch in some way? No matter how elusive or distant the touch?  And then yours truly comes along with her camera and takes a picture that turns out to be more of herself and less of the angel on the sidewalk.

Juggling the camera, the glaring sun and the dog's impatience, caused me to lose the feather that had drifted down to my feet. I felt it was a gift or omen and still I lost it. Several years ago, a psychic visiting from Canada told me that I am constantly being sent messages from the Source - and consistently ignore them. I was thinking about her recently and that I hadn't seen her in 3 or 4 years and a phone message last night informed me that she's in town right now. We're meeting up tomorrow for breakfast. Some things I don't question. It seems that if I'm not getting the messages, the universe asserts and aligns - although why the universe cares is still a mystery.

navigating back to safety
Time to sink into the safety of knitting. Crooked Little Scarf by Ann Hanson in Tosh Merino Light. The color "corsage" is so much of the season, the pattern easy and satisfying. As I work on it I think about the long letter I received today from one of my designated "sisters" and the long response I wrote back. My brother used to say jokingly (but maybe not so): "relatives you're stuck with, friends you choose." I've chosen a handful of sisters in my lifetime. And after reading an entertaining (dare I say "enlightening"?) book called Breakfast With Buddha, I'm in a certain frame of mind.

wind grows stronger, bends
trees from west to east still
singing as I try to decipher
elusive lyrics

petals in my tea

Finally found time to get back to the Turquoise Teapot tea shop and nursery.  Aside from the large selection of teas, collection of teapots, art by proprietor Kathleen, lending library, and lots of other fun, handcrafted stuff, the  place is a treasure of spring flowers and antiques. Sandy and Kathleen have planted flowers in old rusted tea kettles

vintage wooden product boxes and chipped enamel baking pans

a painted enamel, what? - cookie tin? tea tin?

The cafe reminds me so much of a shop a friend had in 1969 in a New York burb (whose name I can't recall, but it was somewhere in Westchester County). She called it The Antique Plant and planted pitchers and pots, crocks and old sewing machine drawers with indoor plants. I still have a couple of her vintage pitchers that I use for cut flowers. I remember wearing a green velvet outfit to the opening reception and sipping champagne amidst the natural greenery. I was still in my 20's and felt the whole world existed for me. She and I once spent a long afternoon in the shop among the plants and antiques talking about and reading Sylvia Plath's Ariel.

The Teapot is quite different. Instead of champagne we eat fresh-baked scones and cookies, sip exotic teas, meet up with creative friends. Like Joan who is a knitter and designer and regularly knits for various causes. She's made scarves and kids sweaters for the homeless, baby blankets, and her latest endeavor, the Mama Bear Project. Knitted bears for kids in Africa who have been orphaned by AIDS or have it themselves. She told me that 63,000 handknitted bears have been collected and distributed so far, and it isn't enough. She finished two bears (named Fred and Ginger) and is planning several more. The bears are cuddly, soft, and washable. You can read more about the project and get free patterns from their website.

We salute Joan and her commitment to love of knitting and sharing. Somehow in this very busy, somewhat stressful day, I found a small window of calm and beauty.

the fibers of myself

Fell asleep last night to steadily falling rain - a rare and welcome sound. The electricity went out, then blinked on and off for a few hours - really, it was only rain, not a hurricane. There was no drama. Not even wind. Sometimes I do feel as if we live in another dimension. Like this is the parallel life we're all supposed to have but aren't aware of? How does one identify which life one is living? And is it snowing and hailing in May in another life? Because that's what we awakened to this morning. New snow on the mountains looked like confectioners sugar had been sprinkled over them by some New Mexican Zeus. For a brief time it looked like the sun was coming out and the scene was tranquil.

So I went outside, picked a bouquet of wet and cold lilacs for the table. Hope in my heart.

By the time I'd found a pitcher, taken them out to the deck for a picture, the wind had whipped up and it started to hail. The horses were po'd and began nipping at each other.

This is the coldest, most changeable spring I can remember here. It's always unpredictable, sometimes lusty and lush, but this year is a test of faith. What will summer bring? Will summer come? It gets clearer in times like this, why primitive people who lived in so-called temperate zones made sacrifices to the gods to insure seasons of growth and abundance. Around here Persephone is trying to emerge, but keeps getting pulled back down by that nasty underworld guy.

forget your troubles, c'mon get happy
How? Knit happy. I even kept the label. Opal (of course), Wolle Schafpatenschaft (right), color: 2711. I've completed about 6 inches of the leg so far and the pattern hasn't repeated yet. The idea was to start this sock and then put it aside for traveling. Except that I really want to see what the full pattern looks like. I think the designers outdid themselves on this one.

hidden in May
scraps of the coming summer
still so hard to find

leaning toward round

Wise people have said that there are no coincidences, but I beg to differ. I've been busy buttoning up the anthology manuscript so that we can get it to the printer by month's end while simultaneously ticking up in my mind the stuff I'll need to pack in a week or so to go east. It's still chilly here. What will it be like there? Dry as a bone here. Humid and rainy there? What knitting projects should I take with me? Should I start one or two before I leave? Like that. Around midnight I was looking through my collection of necklaces. I am fortunate to know a couple of beautiful women who create jewelry from ancient materials, beads and ammonites, stones. I was stopped by this clay bead. It is about an inch in diameter and the focal point of a necklace I received several years ago from one of those women. It is Indonesian and 600 years old.

Imagine! six centuries! and it's not a priceless million-dollar bead. It's considered a common bead. One that continues to move through countless centuries and possibly thousands of hands. A modest bead containing secret worlds of stories and places locked within it forever. It was on my neck this morning (moving again) when I headed out to pick up the proofed manuscript, grab some solo time and a pedicure. The last two didn't happen. When I got home I found that the friend who had made the necklace had posted on her blog some reminiscences of when she worked with ancient beads and traveled far and wide to find them. And how her interest in them is renewed. My bead was part of her collection. Now that's coincidence. The blog is called An Examined Life. Check it out.

And speaking of round things....the full moon last night? A silver poet's disc with crisp sharp edges, hovering over the mountains like an untethered balloon. I took numerous pictures with both cameras, but can anyone tell me why my eyes see it crisp and clear and the digital camera sees the atmospheric junk around it? I can't quite remember if this occurred with film - surely I took hundreds of moon pictures with my old 35mm cameras - I just can't remember. And I think I've asked this question before but haven't gotten answers yet. I guess my fate is to look at the moon. Wish upon the moon. Write poems about the moon. Even knit socks with moon-colored yarn. But I cannot own the perfect moon in my little camera and carry it with me.

smudgy moon

For a person who has the spirit, everything he sees 
becomes a flower, and everything he imagines 
turns into a moon. 
               Basho

tricks & more tricks

ufo
Finished pair of Opal socks that had been languishing for quite a while. Chosen from other ufos by color mood. No label manifested, but Opal self-patterning sock yarns are all interesting in some way. Stress-free plain ole sock knitting that ends up anything but plain ole. Great travel companions on planes, cafes, park benches - and trains if I ever took one.

the tricks
I tumble outside during a brief lull in editing, juggling eyeglasses, camera, cellphone, remote phone (waiting for critical calls), to seek out the perfect photo backdrop. The dog doesn't budge from his favorite place under the bench. He watches hopefully - will this action involve him?  It doesn't. Wind and sun shadows play tricks with the light, no camera setting is satisfactory. I get pulled into apple blossom and lilac themes. We seem to miraculously have the only blooming lilacs in the whole county! Just one bush nestled against the protective, warm adobe wall. There is definitely a dearth of lilacs up here this spring.

sox blossoms
No sign at all of apricot blossoms on the leafing-out tree. Another trick. Flowers never even had a chance to bloom and freeze! Apparently nipped in the bud! The tree has become a friendly meeting place for sparrows who create a pleasant chirpy background chorus outside the window of my workroom. I'm grateful for the meadowlarks and finches and their melodic rackets, too. I think I'm even growing fond of the wind's moaning voices. And that wren in town who I saw pull out a gigantic (for it) piece of insulation from the broken end of a signpost. Its nest will be cushiony, warm, and hopefully roomy enough for the fledglings. And I remember,

a bird story
For years, a swallow couple returned annually to built an adobe mud nest around the light at our back door. The light is small, the nest was small. In a few weeks, four long-necked largish fledglings would appear, screeching with wide open beaks that looked like Joker smiles. At some point, the strong spring winds would swirl up into the portal and blow them out of the nest before they'd learned to fly. I dreaded the day when I'd walk out the door and find four tiny lifeless bodies on the concrete walk - the parents chirping frantically nearby. One year we watched for the couple's arrival and chased them away with lots of noise and banging of pie plates. It took several tries, but they finally left to build somewhere else and have never returned. We learned this foolproof method when one spring day, literally hundreds of swallows suddenly enveloped our house and started frantically building nests. It was creepy and very "Birds". I called a nature center for advice. "Pie plates, pot covers", they advised, "make as much noise as possible." Ron and I were a duet version of the parade that Christopher Robin and friends had with pots, pans, wooden spoons. The swallows flew away in a disappointed swoop. The remnants of the last nest still clings to the light, but we are warned by the elders that to remove a swallow's nest brings bad luck. So there it stays, unoccupied, until nature reclaims it completely.

still trying

 First day of the Taos Farmers Market. It felt like summer and the place was buzzing. Music, honey, goat cheese, breads, scones and coffee, plants, lettuces, fresh eggs. It felt so good to be there again after a long winter and even longer painful spring. Not only did the wild plum blossoms freeze a couple of weeks ago, but it seems that most of the budding lilacs were zapped too. Some Mays the abundance of lilacs all over town and beyond is intoxicating - this year I'm noticing that most of the lilacs were destroyed just as the flowers were beginning to bud. It's most depressing. It seems that in my neighborhood we have the only lilac bush that will bloom fully. That's one out of two bushes and only because it is up against an adobe wall and sheltered from the high cold winds by the house!

I met a poet friend for tea this afternoon and, in philosophical moods, we asked each other, "creatively, what are the closest things to your heart?" She's been through a good deal of personal stress and trauma and had found it difficult to find the time and incentive to write. In recent months she renewed her commitment and is happier, freer, able to face the tricks that fate might have in store for her. I considered the question too. My necessary and well-loved pursuits are writing, photography and knitting. I was shocked to hear myself say that I'd give up knitting before the other two. And then, if some diabolic god made me ditch another love, it would be photography (but I'd fight that mean god to the death!). So there you have it. An interesting, perhaps revealing conversation. Fortunately, no more than discussion. She's a fine and well-published poet and before we left the cafe, we planned an evening together with a group of kindred spirits.

However, I'm not planning on abandoning knitting anytime soon. Late last evening, watching a very old movie I had to snap this picture on the tv screen of Katherine Hepburn knitting away in Holiday.

Later on, we watched another old movie and it was Bette Davis knitting. But I wasn't quick enough with the shutter that time.

May your life be filled with lilacs wherever you are. We're still waiting for the lusty part of the month to take hold, but maybe there won't be any more snow.

fine voices

Today was the official last Latin class and our professor invited our small group to a Roman lunch at his home. I struggled with the thought of how to dress (togas required) and decided to go as Athena/Minerva - warrior goddess of wisdom and craft. She wielded lightening bolts as competently as her father Zeus/Juno. Last night, falling asleep, I still didn't know what to wear and hadn't had time to browse the second hand shops which always yield good costume stuff. And where would I get a lightening bolt and an owl?
          At 6 this morning I started rummaging around in my yarns and notions looking for an owl button I remembered. One thing led to another and because I was one of the victims of novelty yarns for a few years, there is an abundance stash of sparkly yarns and ribbons. Snatching a few dusty silk flowers from a vase on the floor, I added gold ribbon and fashioned a suitable goddess crown. (When I looked in the mirror I resembled an aging flower child more than a goddess).

It sparkles, reflects light, shoots out miniature lightning bolts (tamed by photos). Undaunted by the thought of making a fool of myself, I added a creamy pashmina shawl, sandals, the owl on a black silk cord, silver bracelets and off I went. Once there we were greeted by an orgy of food prepared by the prof himself (he swore the delicious but mysterious chicken-like dish was peacock), wine, dolmas, fava beans, stawberries, cheeses, salad. A ruby ring found its way into the strawberries

We toured his house set in a tranquil, yet powerful area of Arroyo Seco. Art, photos, history, words and pictures painted on ceilings and walls like flowing prayers and blessings. He did most of the creative work himself, painting the ceilings on his back like Michelangelo. Larry Torres is well known in Taos as a teacher, radio personality, author, linguist. He has so many personas and talents that I can't begin to list them all here (I don't know all of them). We talked wine for a bit and he showed me Antonio Banderas' favorite Spanish wine kept on hand for when he visits! Antonio Banderas! And the kitchen cabinet door that has a painting of a saint that Georgia O'Keeffe sat for! Oh yes, and the rooms where the documentary film crew came to interview him about Dennis Hopper! He graciously gave me the go-ahead to publish a few photos of his home to share here.

a prayerful ceiling

a day of the dead altar in a corner of an entire wall that contains his family tree.
        Michael is a young man who was dressed in a red (sheet) toga. As he bent down to pick up the stick for the Chinese gong, he looked just like a Buddhist monk. I captured his silhouette against the keyhole windows and as I left I bowed and called out namaste to him! He laughed, the others followed suit, and it seemed like a normal gesture in that amazing house.

blown on the wind, chaos
calls to enter the house
sacred gong stills the voice