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May your New Year bring peace, contentment, and rainbows.
Reading note: May God give you...For every storm a rainbow, for every tear a smile, for every care a promise and a blessing in each trial. For every problem life sends, a faithful friend to share, for every sigh a sweet song and an answer for each prayer.--Irish Blessing
Turkeys, enjoying their holiday feast under a pine tree on our mountainside. Have a wonderful holiday!
Reading note. There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness were the themes of universal admiration. Eded out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish) they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows.--Charles Dickens (1812-1870). 'A Christmas Carol'
Today is the winter solstice, one of the two days each year that the sun seems to stand still in its slow march along the horizon--framed in the photo by the standing stones at Stonehenge on a bright solstice morning. Back home in Texas, Bill and I always burn a big bonfire on this day of the year, our own personal ritual to celebrate the solar cycle. No bonfire on this solstice, even if we were together, there: the county has been under a burn ban for months, and there's no sign of the drought breaking. But the solstice happens, regardless of drought, flood, economic downturns, and all our human tinkerings with the planet. And that's a comfort, don't you think?
Quiet days and evenings here in New Mexico. Writing (Holly How and Extraordinary Days), reading (Joyce Carol Oates Journals, 1973-1982), watching DVDs. Last night: Tea with Mussolini, while the dogs napped, Toro on his chair, Molly on her couch. Since I'm writing all day, every day (that's how books get written, with a slogging sort of keep-after-it focus) I'm not looking for a challenging knitting project, so I'm knitting a very simple scarf and some mitts, good for working at the computer on a cold-ish day.
A special wish to my friends in the Northeast and the Northwest, who are getting a winter whacking this weekend. Brenda in Maine wrote to tell me that she is "hibernating" during this "wicked, horrible storm." Sounds like a very good idea. Stay warm and stay safe on this solstice weekend, wherever you are!
Reading note. A journal as an experiment in consciousness. An attempt to record not just the external world, and not just the vagrant, fugitive, ephemeral "thoughts" that brush against us like gnats, but the refractory and involable authenticity of daily life: daily-ness, day-ness, day-lightness, the day's eye of experience.--Joyce Carol Oates
I posted over at HerStories this morning: "Failures and Other Fine Fiascos." Check it out.
Nothing like a ski crash for me here in New Mexico, where there is snow (at Taos and Red River, the lifts are busy) and cold temps (brrrrr...) but I am not skiing. Definitely not. I still have a long scar on one leg from a cut I once got from a friend's borrowed racing ski. It's a reminder to me that I should stay away from things I'm really not good at.
Bill went back to Texas yesterday, arriving to heat and humidity: 80 degrees today for him. I'm comfortably settled in my writing loft, with a good day's writing work ahead of me, both on Holly Blues and on a project that Peggy Moody and I are working on. More about that later. Night before last, I watched 51 Birch Street. If you haven't seen this film, put it on your list. Very, very good. If you can, watch the DVD, which features an interesting interview with the family whose parents are documented in this true story. It's fascinating to hear their reactions to the airing of famiy secrets. Also interesting: on the film's website, there's a "share your story" feature. A wonderful reminder that the stories we think of as intensely personal and unique are often far more universal than we might imagine.
Hope you have a great weekend, my dears.
Reading note. Writing a book is like scrubbing an elephant: there's no good place to begin or end, and it's hard to keep track of what you've already covered. (I quoted this as "Anonymous" in Writing From Life. I've never been able to locate the source--do you know?)
The Sangres at sunset are a spectacular sight, dusted with snow and draped in pink clouds. This photo (taken a couple of nights ago) offers the same view as my December 7 post. This landscape is generous with its changing aspects--never looks the same, one minute to the next.
Last night, the monthly village potluck in the community center, decorated for the holidays with a glittering tree and table greenery. The weather was threatening: high wind and cold and snow, with a predicted three to five inches that might have kept a lesser breed away. But the people who live here are a hardy lot, and by the time the blessing was said, there were more than fifty of us. Some standout dishes: a traditional posole, rich with chicken; a warm and vinegary German potato salad; cauliflower salad with tomatoes, green onions, and black olives; a delicious native squash casserole; and turkey and ham, with cranberry and raisin-rum sauce. On the dessert table, cakes, cookies, and pies (including my own contribution, a pumpkin pie). Not one of these dishes (with the exception of the turkey and ham) cost more than a couple of dollars and a couple of hours of preparation. We feasted heartily and richly on this shared abundance. An even more nutritious feast: the warm sense of community we all felt as we wished each other a happy holiday and went our separate ways toward home.
Today, a harsh wind and blowing snow. Bill is planning to leave for Texas midweek (if he doesn't get snowed in).
Reading note. Food is so primal, so essential a part of our lives, often the mere sharing of recipes with strangers turns them into good friends. That's why I love this community.--Jasmine Heiler
The heavens give of their abundance. Rejoice in riches.
“Possession in Great Measure” Hexagram 14, The I Ching
I posted a new entry over at HerStories this morning, "Glories, Gifts, and Graces," beginning with this hexagram. Click on over and read. For an explanation of the hexagram itself, read the Wilhelm and Baynes 1950 translation of the original tenth-century text. And for more than you want to know about the I Ching itself, go here. There are a great many versions of it available these days. The one by Ming-Dao Deng is one of my favorites.
Warming up here in New Mexico, but still snowy. Our new dog, Molly Maguire, is settling comfortably into our pack, although she still has a lot of puppy energy (she's just two years old) that's sometimes hard for Toro (our older heeler)to manage. He wants to say, "Go away, bitch, and leave me alone." In a nice way, of course. Walking with them through the snow early in the morning, with the sun just lighting the peaks on the other side of the valley--sheer heaven.
Reading note. Do not follow where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.--Muriel Strode
The landscape from my studio window this morning, with four inches of new snow. Look close, and you can see a bird feeder--there are several in these pines. After I took the photo, a congregation of a dozen ravens gathered there, eager for whatever seeds the smaller birds toss out of the feeder. In a little while, I'll put on my boots and take out some stale bread and other goodies for them.
With a four-foot wingspan and a wedge-shaped tail, Raven is Lord of the Overworld, wheeling and tumbling and plunging, ecstatic acrobat of air. In the summer, I watch him riding thermals along the sloping mountain, spiraling high, riding down like reckless black bobsledder on an invisible, twisting sluice. Monogamous lifelong, pairs nest in the tall trees along Rio Manuelitas, the little river that flows out of the mountain to the west of us. They build scraggy bowls of twigs and sticks, weaving higgledy-piggledy with bark strips, wire, feathers, and fur, even bits of plastic. Raven is sociable, usually hanging out with a gang of buddies, strutting, swaggering, constantly dickering and debating. Oh, yes, he’s a talker, too: I love his rough cough, his sarcastic croak, the ringing tok that spreads the news of danger or fresh food--small animals, insects, roadkill, promising kitchen trash. Quite a bird, Raven.
Working on Holly Blues, reading (Reinventing Collapse, by Dmitry Orlov), watching West Wing DVDs, and playing with the Karakul roving. Bill's working on a spindle for me at the moment, but I've already crocheted a couple of five-inch squares (using split strands of roving) and felted them, just to see how it works up. Beautiful stuff. I could make a vest of crocheted squares, but I'll need to dye some of the fiber and my dye is back in Texas. So it'll have to wait. That's okay. I'm patient.
A reminder: I'm also posting over at HerStories, where you'll find some very fine posts on lifewriting. Lee Ambrose posted there this morning: "Your World is the Sum of All the Small Parts." Thank you, Lee!
Reading note. Here, this, is It. The world as it is, is Heaven.--Jack Kerouac
This is the view from Coyote Lodge, the name we've given to our place in New Mexico. That's the old Pendaries ranch in the valley below, with the Sangre de Cristo mountains (the Southern Rockies) to the north and west. Bill drove out the day after Thanksgiving, with the cat; I followed the next day with the two dogs, Toro and Molly Maguire. Snow and ice and gopher burrows are new experiences for Molly Maguire, and she’s living them to the hilt. For his part, Toro is glad to be back here again. I’m glad to be back, too. Hoping to be here through mid-January, if all goes as planned.
My brother John and Jean were here for a few days last week. Lots of good conversation, catching up on family, friends, projects, lives. One day, we drove over to Mora and found the Tapetes Weaving Center open. I was even fortunate enough to catch Carla Gomez--the founder of this impressive community weaving enterprise--for a few minutes’ conversation. The Center rents looms, so maybe I can do some serious weaving next summer, when I have some uncommitted time. (Will that ever happen?) I bought a bag of Karakul roving, a lustrous, silver-gray, long-stapled wool. I didn’t bring my spindle, but Bill has promised to make one for me before he goes back to Texas--sometime before Christmas, it’s now planned. We also made a stop at the Victory Alpaca Ranch before adjourning to lunch (huge, tasty burritos) at Crystal’s Café in Mora.
Our neighbor, Bob, joined us for dinner one evening, comfort-food: lasagna, broccoli, salad, and Bob’s favorite key lime pie (purchased, since there’s been no time to bake). After Bob went home up the mountain, the four of us (John, Jean, Bill, I) sat down to a quietly companionable evening of reading. I thought later how unusual this is. I wonder: in how many American households might you find four people sitting together for two after-dinner hours, each with a book. I’m reading Dust Bowl Diary, by Ann Marie Low, a moving, sometimes brutal memoir about a family trying to make a go of it on a North Dakota farm during the droughts and Depression of the 1930s. Hard times, extraordinarily hard work, an almost unimaginably hard life.
I've posted this morning over at Herstories, Part 2 of my "Glories, Gifts, and Graces" series. Check it out, when you have a moment. This week: working on Holly Blues and An Extraordinary Year. Oh, and playing with that absolutely stunning Karakul roving. I've read that it felts well, so I'm experimenting. I'll be reading, too: I have the journals (1972-1983) of Joyce Carol Oates to review for Story Circle.
Reading note. Journeys start from where we are. Everything starts from where we are. Where we are is where we are supposed to be.--Evelyn Eaton