of gender & weather

what season, please?
The cottonwood trees are magnificent in their pre-spring color (shades of September), while the trees around them are as bare as January - unless you look closely and notice tiny swelling buds at tips of branches. Yesterday's 70 degree temperatures sent all of us into spring fever restlessness. I dawdled at my desk, went for a walk,  wandered in and out of shops showing new spring stuff and succumbed to the lure of a gauzy scarf in a lovely grape hyacinth blue. Which, today, I have wrapped around my neck as winds begin to howl around the house again and the temperature is already dropping. Yes, we're still expecting snow and cold for the next three days. And although the sun is shining brightly, there are signs in the sky.

"I want a world that matches my life inside and out" 
(Linda Gregg)

Each year Taos designates a theme that gets loosely incorporated into various ongoing events from January to December. 2012 is the year of Remarkable Women of Taos. It began with the Agnes Martin centennial celebration at the Harwood Museum. Events will cover every aspect and definition of a woman's creative life. Women of all ages, levels of accomplishment, service, are being honored.  I have been invited to do a reading at the Remarkable Women of Words project in April and I'm excited to be a small part of that day's events. This Taos theme has actually even been mentioned in the New York Times, much to the delight of the organizers.

All this talk about women, the positives (there are many), and the recent extremist media harangues, have got me revisiting feminist issues. I have called myself a feminist since the late 1960's and early 70's when we were demanding equal rights on all fronts. I still recall with horror some of the comments men made when the subject came up at cocktail parties. One so-called male friend swooped me up and threatened to throw me into his backyard pool because of my audacious views. I won't repeat what I said to him as he marched toward the water, but suffice to say that I used words I'd never used before in public and he quickly put me back on my feet.

(original reproduction 36"x42", Homage-Picasso by Ron Marchese Ciancio)

    
In recent years, younger generations of women seem to hear the word as a negative. I'm hoping that as our culture's barely hidden sexism reveals itself again, those young women (who take their free choices for granted) will raise their voices as their mothers and grandmothers before them did. I certainly can't address the whole issue with its many facets, but I sense a groundswell in my small world, as local high school students write and perform with confidence, gritty no-holds-barred poetry. Cheers to those young poets (female and male) who turned a few heads inside-out at a recent slam.

If one woman were to tell
the truth about her life
the world would split
open.
              Muriel Rukeyser

out of kilter?

not so fast!
It definitely feels like spring these days. Hot sun, moderate winds, lots of chirping in the still bare trees, windows blessedly open, jackets not required outdoors, horses calmly munching new grass and the hay tossed to them, lying in the morning sun instead of huddling together with unmelted snow on their backs. There's a dearth of green, but the cottonwood limbs are yellow and a couple of plowed fields are already green. A rancher neighbor five acres away is plowing his fields and the distant drone of the tractor is the sound of change.

However (there's always a however around here), the biggest (and last) snowstorm of the season is expected to hit us by Sunday and stay around for a few days bringing cold temps and lots of accumulation. In today's newspaper I read that March is a month when late winter storms come barreling in (I knew that) out of the Bering Sea! (I did not know that) - roaring down the west coast unabated and arriving here a few days later.  Isn't the Bering Strait south of the polar circle? Alaska? Russia? uh,oh.

socks for dancing
finished the latest pair of Alpaca Sox. Super soft and warm. Great jewel colors fit for a winter sock hop. I am looking forward to using the new colors Classic Elite has come out with this spring for Sox. They're vivid and unsubtle - which is the way socks should be. Butterscotch. Lipstick. Cran-Orange Gelato. Yes!

watching and waiting
Long poetry editing session today with two poets at one of their homes. We drank good black coffee and worked our way through a handful of poems being prepared for publication.  This was a second meeting and we'll need at least one or two more. I'll post additional information about this upcoming book as we get closer to the final manuscript and it's in the hands of the publisher. Meanwhile, we were guarded by poetry mascot, Max.

What magic denial
shall my life utter
to bring itself forth?
                            (Denise Levertov, Living Alone (III), last stanza)

out of the dark

 spring snow (on Ron's sculpture)
A few flurries late last night. We ignored them and anticipated the abundance of light starting today. Three inches and the sun comes right out to meet it, melt it, filling deep watery invisible caves that run beneath our dry land and fill our wells. Big blue holes in the white sky begin to appear. Steady trickle of snowmelt off the roof accompanies morning coffee. Frankly, this is the only time of year I feel positive about snowfall.

a minor conclusion

The Hand Maiden Casbah Colonnade shawl is finished! Worked on it exclusively for the last few days and finished this morning. It's a winner. Blocking will happen later if I can get the long table downstairs cleared of stacks of pages and other stuff. Why is it that no matter how many lovely long surfaces I have at my disposal, there's never enough room.

under the last snow
green shoots are stirring
with faint wet whispers

(thanks to Richard Wright's haiku for inspiring me)

the outsider always within

a photograph is a secret about a secret
I heard that sentence somewhere recently. Coy, but possibly true. True enough to trigger musings on a gray day in our mountains, neither winter nor spring, as if color had been blown away by the winds. As an antidote, I look through photo files for secrets, color, and find other graynesses. Lovely memories from a few months ago.

Trying to appreciate gray. It's soft edges. Cashmere sweater skies, a rest between white and black, ashes and sand on a beach. Never one hundred percent, as the touch of red in the sandpiper's beak and a faded yellow edge around a jellyfish near a rope fragment, defy dullness.

antidote to changing seasons' gloom? yarn defiance!
I'm working on my first project with Hand Maiden Casbah and am madly, irrevocably, in love with it. The delicious colors and the morsel of cashmere (only 10%) is enough to make me tipsy. As I work on another Little Colonnade shawlette (Stephen West), the yarn blooms in my hands and I can't wait until this garment rests on my shoulders. Normally I'm a process knitter and tend to let go, without qualms, most of what I finish knitting, but not this time. The pattern is easy, the result immense. I still love the one I knitted in northern Pacific beach colors (mostly gray) and wear often.  I'll wear this one, too.

The problem with a gray day, of course, is that all I'm motivated to do is knit, jot stuff in my notebooks, read some poetry, drink tea. Nice work if you can get it. But must force self to desk now, having had too much fun blogging and playing with yarn.

call it loneliness
that deep, beautiful color
no one can describe
over these dark mountains
                    (excerpt, Zen poet Jakuren, 1139-1202)

modes of enlightenment

scatterings of help
I sometimes drop the balls I'm juggling, just like everyone else, and turn into an impatient, stressed-out being. Until (and if) I remember to stop, take some breaths, accept difficult times, let go of the things that keep me suffering, and try to be more of a help than a hindrance to those around me. It helps to have new yarn called Sea Turtle Dreams (Lorna's Laces Limited Edition Shepherd Sport) with all its possibilities. It really evokes thoughts of the sea and the creatures within it.

It also helps to leave the house, my desk and its associated responsibilities, and go to a cafe. Taos has a dearth of urban pleasures that some of us miss, but we do have an ever-changing, always abundant plethora of independent coffee shops. There's no Starbucks here, but there is Wired Cafe, Taos Cow, Elevation, Manila Cafe, Coffee Stop, Caffe Tazza. Others combine casual fare with coffee shop atmosphere. There were other cafes that disappeared through the years. I still miss Casa Fresen, Turquoise Teapot, Cafe Loka. All are, and have been, good places to write and many books have been written in them. As a cafe writer I have had to learn to turn off distracting sounds. Bury my nose in a notebook (I don't bring the laptop to these places) and just work. But I do get distracted and the distractions end up in my notes.

monday afternoon
The friendly koi in the indoor pond, my small round table just a few inches from it, my purse could fall right in, startle the orange and silver one who seems to surface just to get my attention, whose picture I take with my small blue camera that just flashed low battery. The crinkled faded paper sign above the pond warns us to not throw things at the koi (who would do that?) because they are "very shy and will hide for weeks after any traumas".

The three women at the next table talk about enlightenment and the New Jersey Turnpike. They are about to leave, wish each other "good dreams", as the curious koi, not traumatized at all by my picture-taking, swim back and forth in silver and yellow and orange fishy enlightenment.

In a month all the frozen fountains and small ponds outside will be melodic and fluid again.
In a month it won't seem so odd to hear a robin's chirping.
In a month it will be difficult to separate the robin's voice from chattering finches, sparrows, the insistent red-winged blackbird.
In a month, will the lilacs fail again?

this time

We all like a Sunday afternoon coffee break. As I sat at an inside table at Taos Cow, writing, I glanced up and saw this beautiful (large) creature sitting at a table outside! He didn't seem to have coffee or a notebook, but was definitely people-watching.

it was March third
Our days are warming up again and the sun is a welcome element changing moods from low to inexplicable brief joyful moments. As Jane Kenyon wrote, "it could have been otherwise". 

I receive news about my daughter's good friend Don. A man who had a difficult life, but also a heart of enormous proportions, an old soul. He was found dead outside the place where he lived, on his way home. A diabetic seizure was determined as the cause. I got to know him over several years whenever I visited back east. Last June with the baby's Christening arrangements and the big reception, while the rest of the family was running around stressed out and snappish, he (as an honorary member) was a quiet, calming, and helpful influence. He was a sad man too. We recognized that.

"be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle" (Philo of Alexandria)

Sometimes I can believe that there are fallen angels. The ones that choose to be human, can't adjust, can't return. Maybe he was one. More and more scientists believe that we have a soul energy that never dies. I'd like to believe that too.

It was March third I came outside and saw
for the first time the buttonwood tree with last year's
leaves hanging in the wind like little hearts
and one or two crazy birds going mad with choices
in the hideous leftover snow and the slippery mud.
March the third. the branches were more a silver
than either green or tan, there was no fuzz/yet.

            Gerald Stern (Sycamore, from "This Time")

how it unwinds

Trip to post office today yielded one skein of hand-dyed Hand Maiden Casbah in "safari". The blend of merino with a touch of cashmere is soooo soft. I've wanted to try it for some time and finally ordered it, hoping I'd like the color. I love it - it feels so right for the season. Can't wait to find out what this luxe yarn wants to be.

March mitts
Until then I'll work on the next pair of mitts in soft English wool (Marion Foale). I've given myself the whole month to complete them. This yarn shows off the cables and lace pattern very well.

extreme winds
I know there has been some cruel weather around the country recently so my problem with wind seems wimpy by comparison. However, it seems I'm susceptible again (not since childhood) to strong cold wind blowing in my ears and causing stinging little pains and lightheadedness bordering on dizziness. Drained of energy yesterday as a result, I surrendered to dozing and reading while the wind howled outside and Spike wouldn't leave my side, stubbornly refusing to go out. Feel fine today, but my head is now filled with nostalgic thoughts.
    
form and content of nostalgia
I reread Pete Hamill's wonderful 2004 book Downtown: My Manhattan. He defines nostalgia in a way quite different from the usual meaning. Rather, it's a nostalgia based "in the abiding sense of loss that comes from the simple fact of continuous change". Nostalgia can erupt any time by seeing or hearing something from the past, but that to dwell upon it without cease would be to live as a bore. "New York," he writes, "teaches you to get over almost everything".

Hamill is a few years older than me, but much of what he captures of his youth in the 1950s and early 1960s, coincides with my memories and experiences of Manhattan at that time. The book is much more than a memoir. It is a blend of city history, myths, places, people, flows like a novel and informs like a guidebook. Hamill is a brilliant writer.

He mentions at some point those Books I Thought I'd Read When Young. I could relate. Who remembers all of them? the books from the Bookmobile, the NY Public Library, the Parkchester Library? The paperbacks I read on the subway to and from school and work. The ones bought at grade school Scholastic book sales. My mother always gave me enough money (not much in the olden days) to buy one novel and one classic. Hamill says about classics that they feel like new books when reading them for the second [or third] time, after having lived a life. So now I'm reading Huckleberry Finn on my Kindle! (He said in an interview that he reads it once a year!). I read it when I was ten and Shirley across the street loaned me her copy. She wore glasses (I didn't) and I loved the way she pushed them back on her nose when they slipped. I convinced myself (and tried to convince my mother) that I needed glasses.  Alas, eye tests at school always came out 20/10. I finally needed reading glasses  in my 30's and they were more nuisance than magic.

Certain tiny restaurants in the Village, or wanderings through the Metropolitan Museum, or trips to the Five Spot to hear Thelonious Monk. We could remember a time when we were so young that we thought the things we loved would last forever.
                                                                               Pete Hamill