All Saints

 

The day always feels like vacation. A chance to catch up with old friends. A time to apologize for missing feast-days and thank under-appreciated ones for secret support. And it is a day of preparation. A day to look forward at the new-born month with eagerness. There is so much potential here! I may have spent my October in a many colored haze of leaves and earth and dark skies, but November is here, and it demands a different rhythm - a bundled, reflective, and slow-moving rhythm. I’m drinking less coffee these days and remembering to feed the stove, even during the day. I’m wearing bright colors outside and lighting the lamps in early evening. The days are shorter and darker.

I’m planning sewing projects for the month: a wool skirt for me, a cushion cover for the rocking chair, pillow-cases, and curtains. Easy projects with straight lines while I learn to love working on my beautiful machine. I’ve similar plans for my kick-wheel: easy projects: sake cups and soup bowls, while I fall into the rhythm of kicking and working, working and kicking again. Hard work, but worth the effort - like everything in life.

 

 

Apologies

I’m sorry, I didn’t post in the discussion yesterday. I thought about it, but then I got absorbed in cleaning behind the woodstove. Then I went online determined to post and I ended up wasting the battery on facebook. I guess this isn’t the week for me, writing-wise, I haven’t written much at all this week; my mind’s been full up of other things. How often does that happen to you? Instead of writing, I’ve been setting up for winter. We’re going to cover two of the windows, to conserve heat this winter, and curtain the others, so they can allow light, but can also be insulated. I’ve patched a bad spot in the road, prepared a space in the yurt for a bathtub (one of those old claw-foot beauties!) so that we can have long, warm soaks after a cold day outside, I’ve become comfortable with my sewing machine (at last!), enough to make a cover for the feather bed, and I’ve been taking my turn at sifting the soil in the front garden - a hard job, especially with Yarrow eager to help.

 

So Jenna, enjoy another Monday off while I try to re-balance my daily life. Next week I’ll probably have burned myself out on autumn work and be writing like crazy.

 

 But here's a link to an interesting little post reviewing a book on fan-culture, because, sometime soon, I think it'd be fun to discuss fandom in the book-world.

 

 

Friday

      I’m thankful life doesn’t turn out as expected. I thought about it yesterday, on my knees in the dirt while a pig gnawed at my pant-leg and Petka clung to my arm, trying to hammer together the pallets that make up their pen. I could never have imagined myself so.. rugged. Even the activities I’d imagined for myself -writing and cleaning, throwing and baking are different. Full of the tang of reality. I think I’ve found my niche - found, not settled in - perfection is a long way off.

My house is a beautiful mess this morning, everything scattered because my mind is on other things: the child and dog competing for scrapes of breakfast, and half formed poem, the wind around the house and the cold air it brings. I’m writing - one eye on the greedy ones - at a table with cold coffee and candles stubs, empty glasses and misplaced spice jars form last night’s hot cocoa, the remains of which have just been discovered by Petka, abandoning breakfast for something better. I like having a home in the disorder, it fits me, perfection is something to strive for, to build up in dreams and slowly pursue. I’m going to spend the day bringing order to my candle stubs, leftovers, and loose papers, enjoying the process, and the inability to succeed.

Looking Forward

There is a lot I need to be doing. Autumn is a busy season for us. I have the stove on this morning, a long list of “Things to Do”, and a mug of hot tea sitting just out of Petka’s reach. I’ve already fed the animals, prepared for the code-enforcer’s visit by emphasizing the ‘shed’ aspects of the kitchen building, checked my e-mails, and said the angelus. There is so much more to do, but I like to guard my early mornings. They’re comfortable, slow.

 

I write best in autumn, in the snatches of time between harvest fairs, canning, winter preparations and long leafy strolls. I have a small stack of autumn poems already awaiting editing. Almost all my poems are autumn poems. But today, now that this lovely, slow early morning is ended, I won’t have much time to write, I have the code man, the road, the fence, and dinner to deal with. But night is the best for writing anyway, so I can’t complain.

Daily Life and Other Distractions

My parents are up on another visit. I ends today. I’m hoping to fall back into a routine when they go. I can feel the summer slipping away. The nights are chilly, we still have the windows open, but we bury ourselves in blankets and drink our coffee in bed. Oatmeal is once again an attractive thought. I have so many fantastic recipes for jams and jellies to make and store away for winter-time teas. I haven’t made them, but when I’m back in my routine I will. If I ever get back in my routine.

 

Luba has been feeling even more neglected than usual. She’s been destroying everything when we’re gone, and now spends all our time away locked up. I think she feels safer in her cage, certain to do the right thing, with no other options. Yarrow’s been giving her reassuring pats and little hugs of love whenever she can.

I have a bunch of new fabrics to use in making pillowcases, sheets, and a cover for our old, ugly feather-bed. The feather-bed was gift from a lovely aunt of mine, but after a few years of use camping and yurting, the thing looks awful. I found some green and white fabric to cover it with, so we can put it on our bed this winter without shame.

It’s a misty morning, I spent the early hours drinking coffee with milk and stealing an hour of peace before the rest of the house awoke. It’s amazing that my Saturdays are now spent waking early and cherishing my lonely hours. I used to love sleeping late and doing nothing Saturdays, before marriage, and before moving into a home that welcomes in the early morning light.

 

Dream Tea

I am mixing up some tea today. Bee Balm from our bright pink stand beside the garden, chamomile, and lemon balm from the front yard. I want a batch to give me dreams, not dreams of the ever-shifting future; happy, restful dreams. Dreams of beautiful mystery. Anticipatory dreams. I think this tea will do it - with a bit of lavender honey in the evening.

Everyone has their own tea ritual, I’m sure. I like to boil my water well before steeping the tea, and I like a wide-mouthed mug or a porcelain teacup, to see the color of the tea when it’s brewed. In the evening, I love tucking my legs up in my rocking chair and curling around my teacup - sipping and rocking until my whole mind in wrapped in scented steam. If I have an absorbing book, I like to hold it - sometimes reading, sometimes just having it near. These days I’ve been switching between Beowulf and Jenna’s essay - both are an escape in some way from the drama I’ve brought on myself - Facebook is not a place of peace for me.

Christian hospitality has been weighing on my mind. A friend came last month, to stay for dinner and a morning of canning. She had recently come from a winter as a guest at a Christian intellectual community in England and we spent a good deal of the visit discussing hospitality - what it is in our lives and what we want it to be. Soon after her visit, I picked up the book “Untamed Hospitality”. I’m just beginning it.  But already I love the tone of the book and the spirit of the arguments for a reclaimed sense of hospitality informed by and rising naturally from the hospitality of God, and against the consumer-driven, entertaining hospitality of our culture. It is a book that makes me long to have a table full of long lost friends, pots of coffee, cakes, conversations late into the night.

Simplify, Simplify

Recently, I found a fantastic list of suggestions for simplifying life. We aren’t in any way pursuing a minimalist lifestyle, but rather a sort of extravagant simplicity, and many of the recommendations were things we knew in an intellectual sense, but hadn’t really incorporated into our life. I’m feeling particularly driven toward simplifying our lifestyle - toward deepening my commitment to living passionately and intentionally in the world. One of the first steps in this pursuit is a purge. We are purging our home of unwanted excesses (the wanted ones will stay forever) this weekend, when the humidity breaks. A huge part of that purge for me, will be primarily a great clearing out of clothing and papers.

As much as I love tossing things, really cleaning out is difficult. I'm full of good intentions, and full of excuses. But slowly, slowly we'll be clearing out, not only the house, but the shed and the piles and piles of papers - no longer relevant. Reducing distractions until, hopefully, life is filled only with the beautiful, the useful, and the loved.

National Blog Posting Month..

 Really, there is one.. I'm sort of amazed. And, since this July is way too hot for me, and I'm escaping a lot during the day, I'm going to try posting more often. Why not? Not everyday, obviously that won't happen. But often.

I'm grateful we don't live in the mid-west. 80 degrees and humid is much better than the 103 NPR predicted today for Michigan.

I'm hiding out in a cafe looking up ways to put my life in order. No, it isn't falling apart, but it is disorganized, and that is exactly what I want to avoid. I want attractive files and folders, I want an organized cork-board and good habits. Instead I have an over-used french-press and an abundance of misplaced pens.

Pretty blogs with pretty photos are an inspiration, so here I am, saving advice onto the desktop and watching Petka wave at strangers. The sky is hazy blue and air is almost drinkable.

Bits of Days

I think my daughter is in love with the Infant of Prague. She whispers his name as we pass by, giggles and waves and looks shy when we meet him in the outhouse, and laughs with him on his holy days. Today she looks like every bit the baby bohemian - barefoot and layered in skirts, her hair tucked up and her eyes full of delight. A sweaty bohemian, it's hot again today.

I'm waiting for my books to come in the mail. I've been ordering books more often and love the whole "getting packages" experience. I'd been walking to the mailbox with Petka, but deer-fly season is in full swing, and the walk is dangerous now. So we wait for Seth to bring the mail in the evening, hoping every time for something new and interesting.

Luba and I are united against the chickens, who are determined to eat all the green tomatoes before they ripen. We chase them, yell, and harass them, and I hope it will be enough to save the tomatoes.

Birthday week

Yarrow's first birthday was Monday. My family is up for the celebration. I'm just in shock. When did a whole year pass? The weather was lovely, and my husband hung pretty headscarves across the drive (our version of Tibetan prayer flags, I guess). I baked in my new oven a bright yellow, lemon cake and covered it with berries.

In my family it's a tradition that the child, on her first birthday, is presented with three items: a coin, a rosary, and a shot glass to chose from. The choice reflects her future. Yarrow was offered her choice, and she confidently grabbed for the rosary. My little, holy one. I wonder where it will take her.

Not looking very holy.

We've been socially busy these past few weeks, and it's beginging  to take it's toll on me. Visits one after the other, lots of driving and errands to run. I would like to string up a hammock out in the woods and disappear with my books and iced tea and scones with heaps of butter and jam on them..a picnic would be just the thing right now. A private picnic all my own.

Father's Day

I married a man who is, on the surface, very little like my father. Bonfires, guitars, and picnics in the woods will be memories of my daughter's childhood, they are not mine. But I have my own memories, and I wouldn't trade them: archery in the backyard, walkie-talkies on road-trips, late-night boardgames, and the everyday lesson of love.  A lesson Yarrow is also learning. The man who raised me and the man I married love abundantly. I have an unending supply of memories of my father stopping to help not only his family, but everyone around him: photos for tourists, encouragement for the uncertain, directions, gifts, and understanding.

I love to watch my husband with Yarrow and see one of my favorite childhood memories lived again - a daughter delighting in her father's love.

Happy father's day!

Tea & Company

One of my favorite times in the day is the hour I devote to tea in the early afternoon. I’m never certain to take it, but most of the time there is a lovely hour while Yarrow is sleeping to sit at my table with a cup of something hot and a good book. My favorite book for this time is my own notebook, full of thoughts and dreams and memories. If I can find a good pen, I add to it in this time, and if not, I page backward, remembering. Another recent favorite was Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked this way Comes; but now, in the midst of a June monsoon, I’m burying myself in cozy, far off places. I’ve run through Sherlock Holmes, Hemingway, and Lewis’ Narnia. I’ve delved into the minor prophets, and walked Abraham’s long road to Moriah again with Kierkegaard. I’ve read my spring journals over and over again, not only in my tea time, but in the loud nights instead of fretting over my drowning garden.

On clear days, I like to take my tea outside. I have dreams of a garden table, a writer’s nook in the yard, with lavender, wild roses, mugwort, around for inspiration. For now though, I’m content on my rock, watching the chickens scratch around. The point is to find balance. To rest my soul in the quiet world around me, to mingle with good company and revive a bit with a nice Cinnamon-orange oolong.

Practical Beauty

This is mine.

It works, and it’s too lovely for words..

Jenna has taken the week off, and I will as well. We’ve had a few days of heavy storms this week. Storms that beat down my little lettuce plants and drowned a few of the weaker seedlings. But the sun is out today and I’m refreshed from a night of cleaning, writing, gazing at my things in the lamplight. I’d expected to be tired, but when midnight rolled around I realized that I was having one of those nights. I fell asleep at three, and woke at five to nurse a happy, well-rested little girl. Looking around this morning I thrilled again to see the results of night-time energy: a clean counter, a welcoming table, a fresh sewing table, and early drafts of articles for two little journals - one that even pays!

Since Yarrow’s birth, I rarely have the opportunity to fall into my old sleep habits. I’m hungrier for sleep now, and the late nights that used to be mine have been neglected. Each time I get a sleepless night (of my own free will) I’m grateful and refreshed.

Storms

My night was broken by our first summer storm. Almost no one on our little homestead slept through it, be they pigs, chickens, people. In the breaks between the rain, we could here the pigs grunting and cursing in their shed ; in each flash of lightening, the broken birch across the yard hung dangerously white, framed by the dark door and the vicious sky. Only my little water-baby slept serenely through it all. Nestled in blankets and lolled by the sound of wildness all around.

Today it feels as though the sun has drowned, our whole world is gray and green and dark. I’ve bundled Petka in red wool for her nap, to keep the dark at bay, but Luba and feel it weighing us down. I’ve no fire to drive away the chill, instead I spent the morning with black coffee and heavy eyes in a dark little home, aligning myself to the spirit of the day. Now, thankful for matka's ever willingness to visit the cafe's, I'm tucked beneath the library, posting blogs and feasting on online chatter.

Long Evening - Early Dawn

The sun rises early now. These past few nights, while Yarrow fusses through the witching time, I wait for the first hints of gray to tell me she’ll doze off soon. Dawn is slipping in by four, and I feel as though there’s no hope for my rest if she continues her wakefulness. Today the early clouds made the dawn a bit later, and when Yarrow finally fell into a light sleep, I was grateful that her neediness gave me a ready excuse to stay in bed. When we finally woke and went outside, I found the pigs still snoring. It was a late morning for all of us, save my poor neglected husband, who had to make his own breakfast and run out into the mist. It’s on these days especially that I’m grateful for the chance to stay home. Sure there’s work to do, animals to feed, and sure I can hardly write this morning ‘cause Yarrow wants my pen, but I had a late morning pot of coffee, and I managed to eat at least some of the eggs before Yarrow got to them, and now I get an hour in town with Matka, while he’s at work, with a helpless coworker, and a long commute. Thankfully the long evening is waiting for him, his rototiller and our unfinished scrabble game stand ready.

Update.

The sun is out. The road is somewhat dry and drive-able. The garden is growing. The pigs are happily rooting and snorting beside the kitchen. Yarrow is happy, Luba is distructive. The nights are shorter and the mornings are warm and soft-lit. I’m looking for new books to read, and eager to start using my “new” 1920s Singer sewing machine. I have my very own copy of “Harry Potter for Nerds” in the mail (with an essay by Jenna!) I’m looking forward to looking at the Potter books differently when I’m through with it. Maybe I’ll even blog a bit about what I read.

Life is good.

Pigs

Yup, we're a real homestead now.

Ink, Pots, and Poets

My new tattoo is lovely. I keep looking down on it with joy. I’d heard horror stories about the pain of hand tattoos, but my actual experience was wonderful, apparently it depends a lot on the artist’s skill and the quality of the needle. Yarrow had a fantastic time with the full-length mirror and the pictures on the wall. It’s definitely my most public tattoo, and I enjoy seeing the curling black lines move with my hand. I like seeing just a hint of it falling out of a long sleeve, or the small dots dancing up my arm.

 

 

I’ve pulled my half fired pots out of the shed, they’re lined up along my wheel in the kitchen, waiting to be dusted, inspected, and glazed before taking up rented kiln-space at the studio downtown. On Saturday I threw for the first time in almost two years. It will be a while, I think, before I really feel like I’m completely comfortable at the wheel again, but I was thrilled to realize how ingrained it all is. I am still a potter, my hands still belong in the earth. Throwing, my head is full of poems, and afterward, writing is easy, almost effortless for a while. I remember the poems I wrote in Pennsylvania, when I lived with my wheel, my good friend, and little else. Now we are on opposite coasts, she has a newborn son, I have a daughter who laughs with Jesus in the outhouse. Throwing again, I wonder where my life will go from here.