Ornamental

on everything

i captured this moon one early evening last month, when a few leaves were still on the maple tree just beyond these windows.  such exquisite, porcelain-thin beauty it has, hanging there in the sky like that.  i'm reminded of something my father told me in earnest over the phone the other night - that their neighbors hang a false moon in the sky with a cord every night.  okay, daddy.  i believe you when you say this.  that must be one tough cord, methinks, to hoist a moon all the way up into the twilight sky like that. this thumbnail moon reminds me of so very many things.  a thin crescent of light, it makes me think of hope and gratitude, of peace and quiet, of things that wax and things that wane.  of love, of life, of rivers and woods and things that rest in between.  it makes me think of everything. the moon in the late autumn sky reminds me of everything good and gentle and kind, the way that life should be.  i'm thankful for this, i'm thankful for most things.  most things.  i'm thankful for most things. xo

dark and light (and fog)

how many times have i shared with you this view?  only once.  this one incredible view, a study in shadow and light, only once.  i sit at this window every single morning, here at my little wooden desk, and see the many, many different ways that light and dark shift things around, and so many, many times i've been compelled to drop what i'm doing, find the camera, and pad out onto the deck in sleep attire to document the changes that drape themselves across these mountains over and over again.  i'm reminded, as i write this, of the 1995 movie Smoke, with harvey keitel; one view on a street corner in brooklyn, one photograph each morning at something like 8:15.  so many different ways to see a place.  so many different moods expressed.   the photograph above, i took this morning sometime around 8am; within five minutes, after i walked back inside, the fog had crawled in and blanketed everything that had so recently been revealed. eerie, isn't it?  so soft and white, so blue in a gently tinted way.  so other-worldly, and quiet, except for the sound of the train that is louder today, barreling up over the mountains and through that fog.  i think of my grandmother mimi.  i think of my brother ben.  hello, you two.  i hear that train.  it made me think of you. and i'll bet you the late november thumbnail moon that you are out there thinking of me, too. and just like that, the blanket lifts again:  i see the trees, i see the blue behind the shroud.  i see the sun, the sun that blankets me.  this sounds like a kindergarten rhyme, a bedtime song we sing to little ones fighting sleep.  the moon is out there, i know it sees me.  hello, moon.  hello day. i've been receiving questions from a lot of you out there, asking about this, inquiring about that.  for a while, i felt that i didn't have the answers, not just yet; but this morning, with all of this sunshine moving in, the path ahead of me is feeling a little clearer.  so many changes, i've had, these past few months, so many transform- ations.  i look back on my summer and marvel at the synchronicity, i count back the days and weeks and months and am amazed at what was waiting out there in the everywhere for me.  and i tell you the answers to this:

1.  how am i feeling, now that i am effexor-free?  i feel proud, mighty proud.  i feel clear headed, and i do not feel depressed.  i have conviction to forge ahead, i have anticipations for the days.  and finally, blessedly, i am beginning to feel - once again - the vital urge to create, to work.  that drive had not been there all these months, with distractions, with detoxing, with interruptions of routine.  i feel that need to express myself in tangible form, and because of this, i feel intensely relieved.

2.  when will i have some new jewelry pieces ready for sale?  i'm frantic here; the past few months were not prolific in the jewelry regard, and now that the fog has lifted for me, i've been able to unclog the channels of inspiration.  thank goodness, i sigh.  thank goodness for this.  the studio was a disastrous mess, as it so often is this time of year; and for the past three days i've sorted and culled, and straightened out my work table surface, so that i can think and work clearly again.  stay tuned, the hinges have been oiled and i'm open and running, let's hope that this drive will not end.  i continue to struggle with what to produce, with staying fresh and original; too often now i see the resin work, and the market seems absolutely cluttered with found object jewelry.  how to stand apart from all of this is something i battle each and every day. i look back to pieces i've made throughout the years, many of them dating back to the early 1990's, and see a style that speaks for itself, see a common thread that carries a story, always, in the way it weaves components old and new together with images and words.  do i stop making things that look like this, do i continue to make them in hopes that they will still be fresh?  now, i'm the one asking questions - something i do from morning 'til night, to assure myself it's alright to stay this way.  and for this, i say:  remain true to thyself.  follow my heart.  the path will not lead me astray.  xo

letting go

in 1972, i think it was, my parents built this house, from old brick and stained glass, wide pine floor boards, crown molding and heavy beams - all the beautiful things that daddy salvaged in his hey day of the wrecking business in alabama.  we moved out to the country, on seven wooded acres of land, just after i had turned sixteen - in november, now that i think of it, right after i had learned how to drive.  i spent many hours wandering the surrounding woods, a brooding teenaged girl ambling through meadows and dense thickets with her dog by her side.  i feel the same now, in a way, just ever so much older, so much creakier and creased. 
sitting here in my rental home this morning, i realize how many times throughout the years i've moved from one place to another.  looking back, i think it is a safe assessment to say that ever since i left home for college, i've moved on the average of every five years, or four or two - and that is a lot of moves, or "shifts" as my new zealand friend wendy would say.  counting just now on my fingers, i come up with nine different times that, as an adult, i've begun pulling out boxes and packing my heavy books and belongings.  this makes me wince;  i detest the notion, completely, of yanking up roots and starting all over again.  sure, there are those of you who grew up doing this - army families, those with companies like IBM (and we all know for what that stands) - but i grew up living in all of two homes:  there was the place on winthrop court where i lived from birth until i was freshly sixteen, and then our home we call foxwood, far out of city limits, no other homes in sight, creaky wooden floors, ten foot ceilings, two fireplaces, a kitchen with brick floors.  home.
for years, when i stayed there with my parents in alabama, i wandered the expansive rooms snapping photographs of quiet corners and antique architectural trimmings that called out to me; somewhere along the way i finally slowed down, then finally stopped, feeling that i'd taken photos of the same old things a dozen times or more.  i knew one day i'd cherish them, when no longer we slept under that sheltering roof.  it's hard to sort through photo albums looking for these images today, both here in my laptop and those that rest on dusty bookshelves, neglected through the years:  too many moments i spend getting lost in the memories, too many times i've stared at an old photograph of myself, amazed that i've aged as much as i have.  (where is that girl with the innocent look in her eyes?  whatever happened to that laura ashley dress, that antique compact of enamel on a ribbon?).  the boys, so small in those images on paper - so young.  so innocent.  so them.  it's tough to pull it all out and sort without the hours slipping quietly away.  but here i am, pulling out and sharing the old me with you, anyway.  it's just that kind of day. yesterday turned out to be a rather unpleasant day, in a couple of ways, after the glow of my visit with faraway friends.  and at the end of that day, i received a phone call from my mother with the inevitable news that she had signed the papers on a new home, that their move is imminent, could most likely fall sometime smack dab in the middle of the holidays, between thanksgiving and christmas.  i wasn't happy with this news, or with her unintentional timing.  she says she has no choice.  i'd gone down to the heart of alabama last month to look, at her request, at several places she'd singled out, as she wanted to know what i thought.  i wandered around what will be their new home, taking photos in all that empty space, propping a little porcelain doll with no head onto their new bedroom windowsill in hopes that i'd feel a little more connected than i did.  i don't need to say anymore, just that her mind was made up long ago, that daddy is quite tearful about the entire process, that she is defensive, that i am as well but trying very very hard not to be.  raw is a good word here, i think.  raw, vulnerable, and bitter, bittersweet.  i feel her pain, oh i do.  and i ache for her, so much.  for all of us, my dwindling family and me.  another unwanted milestone has abruptly arrived, whether we like and welcome it or not.
i'm spending this morning, when i should be in that god forsaken disaster of a studio straightening up, pouring over photographs i've taken at foxwood throughout the years - photos of my mother's and father's hands, photos of my mother as a little girl, photos of aspen bathed in that bedroom lamp glow, photos of doorways and doorknobs and crystal that is radiant when washed with morning light.  doing this seems a little like probing with my tongue a sore spot in the back of my mouth, over and over again - a subconscious act that hurts but one i can't stop myself from doing.  looking at photographs, writing about them, thinking of all that waits for the stressful days ahead:  i've known about this since the morning i came back to a house that had been shattered by a robbery; that was one tough day, for so many different reasons, and yesterday was difficult as well.
my instincts tell me to shove on my boots or walking shoes, slip the leash and walking collar over walter's head, and hit the trails for a solid hour or two, an act that would surely clear my childish, muddled mind.  yet, here i sit, frozen at the computer, loading old photographs that you may or may not have already seen, writing words that will bring you not comfort but sadness and perhaps some uncomfortable memories of your own.  that's what we do:  when times are tough, we circle the wagons and sit 'round that campfire telling stories of which we all feel a very strong and integral part.

i don't know how to end this post, so i'll end it with this:  i have mightily loved this treasured house, the one we've called home for so many, many years.  i told my mother over and over again last night, as if by saying the words so many times, i'd believe them myself, that a home is not a house; a home is what we hold deeply in our aching, abiding hearts.  and she said to me, in the middle of our crisp discussion, that we can't help having these difficult feelings, having had "a love affair" with our house for as many years as we truly, unabashedly have.  

i look back on this post and see how very many times i've used the words difficult, uncomfortable, sadness, tough.  and in reading these words, i summon the word "poignant", for it speaks volumes in those eight little letters, what i've spent countless paragraphs trying desperately to express.  i'll leave it, at just that.  poignant.  plaintive.  enough. xo

on laughter and love

When you live somewhere as beautiful as I do – a place that makes my knees hurt sometimes, the beauty is that great, it makes them ache – it’s easy to take all this scenery for granted, to sit quietly inside my house, while looking out, to see what is there but not really, really seeing it, you know?  When I have people that i dearly love come to visit  – particularly when they’ve not been here before, when they’ve not had the opportunity to see the things I do – it is a simple joy for everyone, walter included, to pile into the car on a sunny Saturday morning and hit the road for nowhere, into everywhere from here... no agenda, no map, no idea of where we might end up, of what we might see.  but there is always the guarantee of rolling vistas that never cease to take my breath away.  i live here.  i live here!  and it is only a matter of driving down firefly road to see the beauty that unfolds at every twist of this road (and there are many twists, indeed).  our ultimate destination on saturday, then, was our time together, giggling and wandering and chatting and doing all the things that dear (and mischievous) friends do.

 

"If you gotta go somewhere, it's always better to see scenery." - kim, when waxing philosophical and profound

"I shrug my shoulders and I don't know the answer." - "Noreen", who pops up from nowhere when you least expect it, and who also told me "you gotta live your life with no regrets".  you gotta love that noreen; you just do.

in the farthest western tip of this state, we found a ramshackle flea market, where walter was admired and lovely vintage bargains were found; we sat parked in the car and with our afternoon hamburgers, we pulled over for roadside attractions, we stopped to watch the waters rush past at our feet.  the sun was sharp, and at that low, bright angle it gets when november is settled around us; we squinted into the sun to document our smiles, we stayed out long into the dark to feed the fire.  we ate chocolate and kettle corn, we made prank calls to my mother and ben.  we talked of books and movies and art, we drank wine in thin porcelain.  it was grand.
i love it when my guests are troopers - and to be a guest of mine, you must be one, this house is so upside down - when they care not what we do or where we go, but wish only to be with a beloved friend they've come to see, to laugh and to remember and to love unconditionally.  i love that about my friends;  they do love me that way.  they are happy to sit quietly and read or tinker with jewelry, they are happy to drive down winding roads with me, they are happy to sleep in a little late if need be and let me wake when i am able, they are good about loving on walter while i cook or walk or read, they eat and love what i serve (southern chicken curry, this time), they laugh, they love, they linger glassy eyed when we finally say goodbye.  kim and julie have been saintly friends to me for years, loving me when i am grieving, when i am angry, when i am stressed over teaching, when i've been hurt and sick and tired and all of those miserable things; they love me anyway.  they love me, hard.  and this is why i will love them so hard, right back in return, forever. xo 

“From quiet homes and first beginning,
Out to the undiscovered ends,
There's nothing worth the wear of winning,
But laughter and the love of friends”

arrival

there i was, yesterday, feeling mighty powerful in my kick ass red shoes, my wicked striped tights.  the day was grey, but i was headed into town for a doctor's appointment and sundry other things.  it was a gold star, hallmark day, because i was able to sit there (after waiting for an hour) and tell doctor roy that as of thirteen days ago, i am finally free of effexor - free, free, free.  i was told that i seem more clear headed and calm, and this is always a good thing.  i don't like this morning how this writing is going, and i woke up on this uber busy day to a house with no power, and so very much to do - but i am calm.  and effexor free.   and five pounds lighter, as well.  the heavy rain is coming, i can see it from the window, but my friends, i am anti-depressant medication free. on saturday's late afternoon, after working on workshop proposals and deadlines for three straight days, i bolted from the confines of the house with walter and the two of us headed over to smoky mountain national park, ten minutes from home, for a leisurely walk through the woods along the rushing river.  i can't tell you how absolutely medicinal this walk felt to me - warm sunshine on our backs, the sound of water running over rocks, shadows of the few remaining leaves dancing on the trunks of trees.  when i walk, i think.  i'm not a list maker, but i'll make one for the things i was feeling on this day:
1.  i remain true
2.  i stand tall, at 5'2"
3.  my stride is sure, when i have somewhere i wish to go
4.  there are those who love me unconditionally
5.  there are those i love in return, that way

6.  how long was this there, waiting for me?
7.  even something jagged and sharp can be tumbled and worn smooth again, can be turned into something beautiful.  running water has a way with things.  so do tears.  so does life. 8.  it's been too long since i stood at this river's edge and watched the sun reflect on things.  i think i'll begin walking here now, and on through the quiet of winter, this trail that leads me through sheltering trees beside the talking waters of the oconaluftee.  i think that is my plan for walter and me.  i know it is.  decision made.  i'm free. 9.  i know that i am powerful.

10.  this was one of the most difficult things of my life, thus far, that i've done.  i now know (today, right this minute, i say this) i can do anything.  yes.  i can.  whether or not i will is the question.  but i can.  yes i can.  and i will.

how, then, do i feel today?  the rain is here.  the branches are bare.  the sky is grey.  and i am feeling resolutely, unquestionably, blessedly free.  xo

listen here for what i am hearing today:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ygOaNo3M_Hw