bel esprit

clonk-clonk
Got myself out to the park this afternoon by 2 p.m. and it was already too hot for a refreshing walk! The raven was high in a still bare tree making noises (they don't "sing") and somewhat annoyed by my presence, but not enough to fly off. These guys are the size of cats and hobbits and I find them endlessly interesting - they're sort of the fearless avian kings of the trees.

sea turtle
found a fine use for the Lorna's sea turtle sport weight yarn - a triangle shawlette that I'm designing as I go along (with bits stolen from here and there). Love, love, the color - so spring (and not quite as lurid as the picture suggests - more seaweed-y/forest-y). I'm drawn to green, color of creativity and renewal!

a favorite read
...the recently published "restored edition" of A Moveable Feast.

There is a forward by Patrick Hemingway (son) and an introduction by Sean Hemingway (grandson), photos, revamped expanded chapters, additional Paris sketches and "fragments" that Hemingway originally wrote for the introduction and ending and then decided not to use (is it fair to include them now?) The original paperback has been a favorite of mine for decades and I still dip into the 1964 edition that's been with me since then (when I was 20-something and my 48 year old son was a baby...oh my!). I love the book and like so many other readers through the years I have been influenced by Hemingway's visions of Paris in the 1920's.

In those days it was no disgrace to be crazy,
but, on the other hand, you got no credit for it.
                E.H.

the north country

i

It happened overnight. We weren't paying attention. Suddenly notice that up here in the north country, the apricot blossoms are out!

The tree is tucked behind a sheltering adobe wall. It's roots reach down into a deep place where we know there's water because it once flooded the entire driveway right up to the doorway! But the cruel month of April has the final say. Will the blossoms freeze once again? In the 8 or 10 years that we've had this tree, it blossoms magnificently each year and when the blossoms are at their peak, a deathly freeze descends -- and they are gone. Only once in all that time have we had an apricot harvest - and it was so abundant that I preserved 15 jars of jam! Feeling confident at the time that the tree finally took hold and this was the beginning of annual harvests, I gave most of the jam away. My neighbor advised, "keep them" and now I understand why. He's lived here his whole life, his mother was a master jam-maker and his family has utilized the land for more than a hundred years in the most organic way possible. "It's a challenge," he said.  But hope springs eternal in spring. The meadowlark seem to think so. He calls out melodically all day long. And so far spring seems to be arriving earlier than usual, it's warmer for this time of year...so...maybe...

Meanwhile, skiers are still careening down mountains, although I hear that the snow is draggy and mushy in places and certain avalanche-prone areas are closed off as the base gets softer. I think there's only another week of skiing left before the Ski Valley closes down. It's an environmental impact thing, allowing the season to take hold without disturbances from brightly clad humans on sticks.

the gods' word

on its own
Despite clear and firm intentions over coffee this morning, the lovely sunny 65 degree day developed its own momentum. I'd planned to get down to my desk early, work for several hours, maybe take a walk or go into town. Instead, my morning was broken up almost immediately with three long phone calls and a poetry editing request later on. Before I knew it, it was nearly noon as I drove into town for the mail and a breezy walk through the Overland Sheepskin compound. I was heading toward the tea shop, but got diverted by the waterfall flowing again, and other sights so familiar, yet so new each season.

Aspens aren't green yet, but they're so magnificent, who cares? And the old truck survived another winter and is looking as picturesque as ever against Taos Mountain.

one small step at a time
I finished the Lorna's Laces Limited Edition "Breaking Dawn" socks I'd put aside a couple of months ago because I was bored. But now they're done and fun. Can see self wearing them looking like a Dr. Suess character.

Poetry sessions editing a fine writer's book manuscript have been extremely valuable for me. Although I can edit my own non-fiction work pretty well, I find it almost impossible to edit my poetry - proximity, familiarity?  I don't call myself a poet and may never reach that exalted level, but now I can at least recognize junk!

But beneath the pleasantness of this lovely spring day, when I notice that trees have sprouted half-opened blossoms overnight, is the sad memory of my dearest friend's death two years ago on this day. Back then it was a bitter, cold, end of winter, the ground still covered in a sheath of white as far as the eye could see. We joked nervously that perhaps spring wouldn't come after all and we understood why ancient people made sacrifices to appease the gods of the seasons. A full silver moon rose in a deep indigo sky and, oddly, someone in the distance was drumming. The only color that night was the red blanket draped over her, as if for warmth, as she was wheeled out of the house for the last time. I will never forget that moment, nor will I ever forget you Gayle. Last night I dreamed that you were painting in that other dimension. The work was wonderful, color and pen and ink, and you were having an important exhibition. Cheers!

Awed by her splendor

Stars near the lovely
moon cover their own
bright faces
                   when she
is roundest and lights
earth with her silver
                     Sappho (trans. Mary Barnard)

barnyard tizzy

This curious couple greeted me as I walked from my neighbor Lesley's house this morning. She is an award-winner and designer of the SOMOS anthology that I edit - and she just happens to conveniently live at the beginning of my dirt road, making our design meetings eminently convenient for both of us. Since last year when we last worked together she's added these two friendly goats to her family. They live a privileged goat life in a cozy barn area and I often see them picturesquely sitting in a sunny spot in their open doorway as I drive past. Since I was on foot this time they came to the fence to see me off, bleating their wavery greetings. They share their protected-from-coyotes area with colorful roosters and hens. How perfect is nature!

I'd love to have a yarn palette with their colors. Will have to talk to friend Joan who has begun hand-dying her own wool. She has a bold vision and might like the challenge.  Meanwhile, she showed me some beginning! results using Kool Aid and food coloring.

Years ago I dyed sock yarns in a crockpot using Kool Aid. It was easy, not very exciting (too pastel-y), but the resulting knitted socks thrilled their recipients. Before they were gone, my granddaughter noticed that the socks smelled of their flavors so she put tags on each pair that read "sniff me".  And once, with a few other women, I spent a breezy summer day outdoors dyeing. We used indigo (expensive), cochineal (bugs!),  onion skins (no prob), yarrow (for ochre), other naturals. We drove out in a caravan to the mesa home/studio of a master-dyer mutual acquaintance and spent the day stirring colorful bubbling cauldrons pots. I remember that time as one of the small major pleasures of my life. I loved bringing my very own skeins home to hang up to dry while anticipating the way I would use them in projects.

As much as I liked the whole episode, I haven't been compelled to do it again. As I've noted before re spinning, I just don't want to add another obsession to my already over-obsessive scheduled life! Although... I am tempted to try the crockpot thing again using some of the new vivid food colorings Joan told me about...

mondo italiano

Another little Italian cafe has recently opened in Taos. It's called mondo italiano (doesn't anyone use capital letters anymore?). I tried to take a photo outside, but the sun was too bright in the huge noontime sky.

When I first heard the name mondo italiano, I suddenly also heard in my mind that old 1950's Rosemary Clooney song, Mambo Italiano, and couldn't get the silly lyrics out of my head... you mixed-up Siciliano....all you Calabrese do the mambo like-a crazy...mambo ITALIANO! (if any of you out there also remember this song, it's now in your head too and, believe me when I tell you, it's hard to remove). However, the song notwithstanding, the restaurant has good food, nice casual atmosphere, lots of red and white striped tablecloths and curtains, wine and beer, good prices. The owners (I'm told they're New York and Las Vegas Italian-Americans) have taken an extremely nondescript vacant store in an uninteresting strip "center" and transformed it into the current "coolest place to eat" in Taos. This appellation is from acquaintances I ran into when I was there for lunch with two friends. I went back in the evening with Ron for a light dinner and to introduce him to the place. He holds the long-standing position in our family of Supreme Judge of Italian Restaurant Food. His qualifications are derived solely from his Sicilian mother's cooking, which was great, but different from my Neapolitan mother's cooking (we argue a lot about meatballs). During both visits all the tables were filled and an attractive woman who I took to be one of the owners was smiling broadly. Taos is a quirky place, though, and those of us who have lived here for a long time still have images in our heads of wonderful cafes and restaurants long gone. We wish mondo italiano lots of garlic and long-term success.

After lunch, we went to Irene's house to try on hats from her collection to wear to the tea party  (!) planned to celebrate one of them in April. More about that later. Suffice it to say that I had a hell of a fun time with my two 80-something friends yesterday afternoon.

plenitude

what makes me happiest these days? 
I drove to Santa Fe yesterday with lots of sun, temps warming up, car windows open, music. Alone in the solitude of the open road. A superficial trip based more upon the need to fly alone than a substantial reason for a 170 mile round trip. I had run out of my precious Kiehls Ultra moisturizing cream and the closest place to buy it here is in a tiny salon in Santa Fe. I could have ordered it online, but what fun is that? I got back in time to meet with my writer friends at 4 p.m. We spent the next two hours writing, reading aloud, drinking decaf coffee. All of us a little tired from our various activities that day. Three skiers, a Reiki master, me. We confess to each other that this configuration of new friends is something we look forward to during the two week stretch in between meetings. As soon as the ski season is over we'll plan to meet earlier - which is fine with me because by 4 o'clock I'm ready to pack it in and pour a glass of wine. What else makes me happy?

Oh yes, new yarn like bouquets of spring flowers.  So full of possibilities. For now, I keep them within sight, no stashing them in a tote or box. The colors send me, and I'm in Cancun, Cape Cod, San Francisco, Naragansett. What they eventually morph into is still a mystery. Like the skein of bohemian hand spun, hand dyed wool that I traded with my friend Linda several months ago. She'd bought too much of it at the Wool Festival and was happy to pass some of it on. I looked at it for months. So pretty. So bohemian (what does that even mean these days?). Swatched a couple of projects that didn't work out. And then, just as I began to think I might have to pass it on, it told me what it should be: a simple triangular scarf. No fancy lace patterns or cables, just something to show off the handspun hand-dyed yarn. I began and it seemed to knit itself through several old movies and some early morning knitting. It was a meditative exercise with realistic expectations - or perhaps none at all.

No drama. Nothing to write home about. Just a smallish bandanna-sized scarf. I finished it tonight and, unblocked, brought it outside as the sun was just about to drop behing the western horizon. 

and so on with the season's mysteries...
my neighbor is burning the dried fields in early mornings before the winds begin, preparing the land for new growth, getting ready to meet up with the mayordomo and the helpers who clear out the acequias, let the water flow, release snowmelt from the highest peaks as it rushes through ancient paths. I warn Ron to check the ditch that runs alongside his studio, be sure it's clear of debris so there isn't a recurrence of the flood that happened two years ago - water happily finding its angle of repose under the door and into his studio, flowing like a sweet deep stream, flooding the floor, paintings and books floating, ruined. Me shouting," oh my god, oh my god!" him shouting, "I'm going to sue someone," our friend and neighbor arriving, ordering, "get brooms and mops," shutting off the flow at the acequia madre and then helping us clean up. The floor is still slightly buckled, the insurance company didn't pay because we're not in a flood zone and they'd never heard of an acequia. Spring. Lovely spring. Not a flower blooming up here yet, but a pair of mountain bluebirds showed up on the deck this morning. He all vivid blue, his breast not rusty red yet, she's all pale and colorless, the mother, the female, both of them looking for a suitable place to build a nest. It's time to toss into the air the bits and pieces of yarn that I've accumulated that will end up lining birds' nests.

The bird has come
to give the light:
from each trill of his
water is born.
                  (Pablo Neruda, Spring, first stanza)

kinds of celebration

This lovely man, Manuel Archuleta, celebrated his 97th birthday a couple of days ago. He's been a master rancher, farmer, and irrigator for more than 8 decades. His land adjoins ours and through the years he has become a familiar figure in the distance with hat, shovel, wellies. Although he has slowed down a bit and isn't out there anymore every day, in all seasons, he's still going strong. We wish him many more happy birthdays. (The photos of him were taken one summer morning a year or so ago at the young age of 95!).

The Taos Acequia Association honored him recently by adapting his son's painting for their logo. Prints are available at the Des Montes Gallery and I was thrilled to go home with one today.

a writer's cakes
I drove through raining mud when I left the house yesterday afternoon for a meeting/tea at a friend's house in town. The wind blew in gusts and gales (we used to call them hurricanes back east), and filled the air with dust and dirt. When rain suddenly pelted down they combined and produced muddy rain! What a mess! However, once we arrived at Bonnie's place, all was well. In the spirit of Proust, she baked madeleines for her writer guests.

I had ceased...to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected with the taste of the tea and cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours...  (Proust, Remembrance of Things Past)

Tea, coffee, lots of words accompanied the luscious treats! (one of us was knitting, too - no, it wasn't me). Bonnie (who won the Gourmand International Award in Paris last week) made two kinds of madeleines: chocolate (help!) and lemon/almond (oh my!).

While we sat at her cozy dining table, we didn't notice the weather getting nasty outside. When we left around 7 p.m. (each with a few take-home cakes), thick wet snow was falling heavily. Visibility turned to zero as we each carefully drove home. I don't know about the others, but first I divided half of my shell-cakes with Ron (after all...) and polished off the rest with a glass of chilled Chardonney. sigh!

This morning we awakened to six inches of wet snow and lots of odd stuff, chairs, sculpture, garbage cans, cardboard, a blanket, strewn all over the place. Snow is already melting. Only thing is...now we'll have to wash the second floor windows - they're splattered with mud.