 It was revealed in the drape
of the fabric after the final hook was threaded through the last buttonhole hanger in the shower curtain. A hole. A small hole on the lower right, about the size of a dime. A threadbare flaw in the popcorn weave of the cotton fabric. So I let it hang. A hole small enough to get lost in the hanging folds of the fabric and run through the wash again, and once more after that. Until. The small hole became a big hole, and the proof was in the pudding: a stitch in time saves nine. -------- Chances are you are familiar with and could complete the phrase in the artwork above. This is Idiom Week. Though my shower curtain reveals the true nature of the idiom, a stitch in time saves nine, it's a reminder of the wisdom buried in these familiar expressions. I spent the week working on a project I'd put aside after I realized it was time to ... start from square one ... because I'd been ... barking up the wrong tree ... with my approach. And since there's no sense ... crying over spilt milk ... it's time to get off the fence ... and mend that shower curtain.
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 Familiar yet foreign It would be easy to stay inside, to let the cold put us off. And why not when the weather app on the phone reads, "14°F, feels like -1°F." But yesterday's snow transformed the landscape and it's hard to resist. So we bundle up and set off like toddlers stuffed into snow pants, puffy jackets, boots, hats, mittens, and scarves, barely able to bend an arm or leg. And it's beautiful. The cold has preserved the snow and it clings to every rooftop, rail, and ridge, twig, branch, and tree trunk.  There's a hush over the landscape, and the loop trail we walk most days appears more foreign than familiar. So we follow the tracks of others, break trail to make our own, and pause to consider the comfort of the snow-cushioned bench at the edge of the field.  And while our fingertips tingle, our eyes water from the cold, and we sniffle and shiver against the frigid landscape, we wrap ourselves in its beauty, like the snow-covered Buddha.   Join Waystation Whistle and get story prompts and more, every Sunday, It's free!  You might see him balanced
on the post at the top of the porch, like a feline finial. Splayed across the third step of the front stoop, basking in the sun. Or perched on the still-warm hood of the just-parked car, mitten paws tucked tight under his furry chest. So it was not surprising when an unknown passerby knocked on the door, breathless. It's awful cold out here she said, your cat is waiting to go inside. Thank you we said, but he's not our cat. We're just one of the houses he visits. He lives across the way. Can go inside any time, we explained. Doesn't want to. His name is Tigger, we tell her. A Maine Coon cat. The coolest cat in the neighborhood.  Acorn Interlude
When oak trees rest, it’s like an interlude in nature’s symphony. A quiet pause between mast years when each oak tree drops not hundreds, but thousands of acorns. Silent is the plunk, ding, ping of acorns dropping onto the neighbor’s metal roof; the bounce and roll on hard pavement; the riffling of leaves and the hard knock, knock of the acorn as it ricochets from branch to trunk to branch as it falls. But like the drop of an acorn on soft ground, we hadn't noticed. No, it was the rustle of dry oak leaves that cling tight in autumn's chill that whispered change was upon us. In the hush between gusts where we saw, and understood. Not every year is a mast year. There were no acorns under the trees; no acorns lining the side of the road; no acorns under foot, pressing into the soles of our shoes. Because for oak trees, and humans alike, there must be space, a quiet interlude to rest, rejuvenate ... and when we are ready, to flourish once again.  The measure of things
It's a wonder they held up as long as they did. That first low-budget, first-apartment set of four impossibly thin aluminum measuring spoons held together with a metal ring. They weren't made to last. But they did, for decades. Until yesterday, when the teaspoon spoon handle, bent and straightened one too many times, snapped. Yes, they were inexpensive, cheap even, I suppose, but when they broke, it was like the cake that didn't rise. Deflating. A curdled mix of disappointment and nostalgia. For I knew, from the rounded teaspoon to the scant tablespoon, the spoons were made to measure, not to last. But for a pinch of good fortune, they did, much longer than expected.  The Crow and The Pitcher (or creativity and persistence lead to success) When do we share our ideas and talk to people about what we're working on? Some feel sharing too soon weakens the idea, while others say, talk it out. If you talk about what you're doing, you're more likely to gather new information and generate ideas. But there's risk in that, too, especially if it's early on. Will you be able to commit to the idea? To finish it? What happens if it morphs into something else as you move forward? Will people be disappointed? Will you? Though I've hinted at my new project idea, this is this first time writing about it: A series of cardboard sculpture based on Aesop's fables, starting with The Crow and The Pitcher. There are different interpretations of the lesson in the story ... the one I find most compelling is ... creativity and persistence lead to success. The project idea grew from less-than-successful experiments with paper mache. Especially larger pieces. Researching paper mache exposed me to the idea of cardboard sculpture. After completing an online course and lots of trial and error, the first piece is nearly finished ... the crow still needs a stone in its mouth, I want to remove that one piece of blue cardboard, and paint just the crow black (a daring step in the process). What are your thoughts on sharing a work in progress? I wrote this post on Go to an Art Museum Day. Looking at the work of others can help to inspire and inform our own work. While I was researching paper mache, I explored the work of many artists, and though their work is on a much larger scale, it was Laurence Vallieres (and her online course) along with The Herds that inspired me to move forward with cardboard sculpture.  Sweeter after the frost
It starts at the farm stand when the first apples, kale, and carrots are shouldered in alongside summer's bounty. When there's an overlap, and a subtle shift occurs in the harvest. In the light. There will be no more tomatoes, lettuce, or green beans once the butternut, hubbard, and acorn muscle them aside. When the days grow shorter and colder. When the Brussels sprouts, kale, and collards are ready, too. Sweeter even, after the frost. Last night we turned the clocks back. And like the garden, we will be changed by the light, by the dark. By the season. What do we do with these shorter days? Days when the light seems fleeting. Maybe we search for a different kind of light. For the light found in discovery and learning. In the light that's reflected in the seeds of curiosity and inquiry. So as the seasons change, we, like the Brussels sprouts, kale, and carrots transform, becoming lighter, maybe even sweeter, after the frost.  Something in the light
The early-morning sun cut along the tree line, illuminating the canopy of maple, oak, and beech in a show of color. Paper thin and lit from behind, translucent leaves shimmered in blaze orange, ruby red, and sunburst yellow. Like a stained glass window. And in the glow, I wondered, is that what the glassmaker saw? Something in nature, something in glass, something so beautiful.  Making it look easy
The online course, an introduction to cardboard sculpture, was a good start. A place to gain insight. To observe technique, identify tools of the trade, and observe a work in progress. But I must remind myself ... Beginner beware. It's easy to overlook the fast-forward jump in the instructional video that glazes over the hours of work condensed into fifteen minute segments. The instructor's experience that makes it look so effortless. And the editing that eliminates mistakes, and do-overs. So I remind myself ... Trial and error is part of the deal. Slow down, this is going to take time. Simple supplies ... a pair of scissors, hot glue, and repurposed cardboard don't mean it will be easy. Your mistakes can't be eliminated by pressing the fast-forward button. Just take it one step, one snip, at a time.  It was a busy day. I step into the soft light of the after-dinner kitchen where the dishes are done and the countertops are wiped clean and find the exhale I've been chasing all day. MICRO-MEMOIR - It was a good day, not a bad day.
Just busy. This feeling sweeps over me after busy days, and holidays, too. When all the hustling, running, and doing slows down. Days when things finally stop ... because the day has come to an end. This one sentence micro-memoir could be expanded, but I like the idea that it captures that sweet, familiar moment when nothing more needs to be done ... or said.  Yes, that's me talking to myself.
It's been years since I've had a regular calligraphy practice. Old school, with a pen nib dipped in a bottle of ink. Left-handed. I've got a new project in the works and I thought it would be nice to hand letter some of the text. Is that practical? No. Doable? Maybe. When I sat down to test the idea, it became clear. I'm out of practice. Ink bleeding on paper, inconsistent pen pressure, wonky lines, and stained finger tips. This will take time. So I'll keep at it. Because that's how it began, how I learned so many years ago. With practice.  Tending to wild ideas It was an impulse purchase. A packet of wildflower seeds positioned on an end-cap display in the hardware store. Sprinkled in the soil on the far side of the yard, out of sight, they got lots of sun, but little water. At first, with the picture from the seed packet fueling my imagination, it was easy to remember to water them. And some seeds did sprout, but not for long because they were sprinkled on the far side of the yard, out of sight, where they got lots of light, but little water. And I forgot. Only the cosmos seeds were hardy enough to withstand the hot sun and drought ... from the watering can and Mother Nature. But even so, there were just a few cosmos stalks with pea-size buds. They were slow growing and unadorned with flowers. At summer's end it was clear, there would be no picture-perfect mass of wildflowers on the far side of the yard where they would get lots of light, but little water. And then it rained. For two days. And a flower bloomed. And then another. I marveled at how they flourished. How quick they were to respond. And it occurred to me that the blooming wildflowers are a lot like ideas. Yours and mine. The ones that stick with us, the ones that persist, returning again and again, despite being put on a shelf, tucked in a drawer, or planted on the far side of yard. What might become of them, given a little water?  Cosmos after the rain
 Shadows on the Footbridge
If I were to write a letter or a poem today, I'd start with the changing light in the morning, and the evening, and the shadows on the footbridge in the woods, as crisp and still as the near autumn air ... and say, there's no need to look at the calendar to know the seasons are changing.   The apples with fancy names like Opalescent and Royal, shimmer like baubles under the bright lights of the Exhibition Hall. The sheep in the pen in the stable startles us with its bleating, and we laugh at ourselves. BaaAAAaaa! In the Show Barn, the spotted calves wrestle and writhe against their adolescent handlers, and one, like a toddler having a temper tantrum, drops to its bony bovine knees. Pies, knitted hats and mittens, quilts, canned goods, and fudgy brownies stack up against one another in row after row of entries. From pigs to pumpkins and photography, the biggest and the best get the blue ribbon. But win, place, or not, the effort was made, and in one way or another, they're all winners at the county fair.  Get a weeks' worth of story ideas for letters, personal essays, and activities!
 There was a two-hour rain delay for the start of the night game at Hadlock Field last night: Portland Seadogs vs. Erie SeaWolves. We decided not to go. Can't say I'm a huge baseball fan, but the occasional game on a warm summer night is a nice outing. There's the awe-inspiring sight of the baseball diamond as you enter the stadium, the antics of Slugger the Sea Dog, and a night of people watching. Thinking of what we'd be missing, I remembered a story I wrote about going to a game at Fenway. It'd been a while since I'd read the story and it reminded me why I like to to write. There are so many details that are so easy to forget. Here's the story: It was the first Major League Baseball game I’d ever been to, the Red Sox at Fenway Park. As a casual baseball fan, I can’t say I remember who they played or even whether or not they won. What I do remember is the two men seated a few rows in front of us ... and the radio they held between them. It wasn’t that it was annoying or distracting or too loud, it’s just that we could hear what they were listening to: the play-by-play of the ball game. A detailed account of what was happening. Things like: “That’s a ground ball up the middle.” “Another fast ball,” and “It’s a swing and a miss, and that’s strike three.” Why, we wondered would they be listening to the play-by-play of the game? They were seated in some of the best seats in the stadium ... grandstand, first baseline, with a clear view of the Green Monster. It took a few innings for us to figure it out. The men were blind. We never spoke to them, but still, after the game, we wondered ... why go to the stadium if you can’t see what’s happening? It was while we pitched left, jerked right, and rocked to the rhythm of the subway on our way home after the game that it made sense to us ... they go to hear: “Hot dogs here.” And maybe eat one. They go to smell the popcorn, to hear the crack of the bat, to listen and join in with the cheers and jeers of the crowd. To know what it feels like to be part of the action. --------------- That’s what stories do. Put you in the thick of things, where the action is. And they help you share what you know. I hope you'll write a few of your own.  Like most journals, this one has lots of space for writing. But this one is different. This one's just for the good stuff.  3 Good Reasons to write a letter (along with a piece of stationery to get you started) You may be a letter writer, or you may groan at the thought of it. But consider this: getting and sending mail feels good. It does. I've been writing letters for years, and yes, there are days when I sit down to write and can't think of anything to say. Or I fuss over my supplies and stare at the ceiling waiting for inspiration. But, I always find something to write about and always enjoy the rush of anticipation when I drop an envelope into the outgoing mail slot. If you're asking yourself, why bother when you can call or text, here are three good reasons to write ... and a note about getting letters in return. 1. Getting (and sending) mail feels good. Maybe it's seeing your name on the envelope, or the element of surprise. Maybe it's knowing someone is thinking about you. Maybe it's all of those things, but there's no doubt, getting mail feels good. And, writing and sending mail is a good way to feel closer to the person you're writing to. The simple act of writing a person's name can bring a flood of thoughts and ideas about who they are ... and bring them a bit closer. Push aside your fears and doubt and make it a good mail day for someone you know. 2. It's another way to say hello. That's why I started writing. Years ago, I was too shy and awkward to make a phone call, so writing was another way I could say hello. And the people I wrote to? They loved it. Write about the dinner you cooked last night, how your garden is growing. Write about the sunset, the sunrise, or how the afternoon light casts a shadow on the wall. The morning songbirds or that crow that woke you up. You don't have to be clever or funny (unless of course you are), just be you. Write as if you are sitting across the table from one another, talking. 3. It can help you say things that matter. Are you especially proud of someone ... like a recent high school graduate who's left for college? Write and tell them how proud you are, wish them luck, and write again another day. It could be the connection they long for as they as they set out on their own. Has someone made a difference in your life, made you a better person? Let them know. I've written to doctors and nurses who have been especially kind and understanding. And a car mechanic who fixed a minor problem, at no charge. It's hard sometimes to find the right words when we're face to face. And people are quick to cut you off, to say, "Oh, no worries, my pleasure." Writing gives you time to consider what you want to say without interruption. Not sure where to start? Try saying out loud what you want to say, and write it down. It will help you write in a more conversational tone, and make your writing less formal and stiff. Write and give someone you know something to hold on to. Note: Don't expect a letter in return. That should be the first rule of letter writing. It's a tough one because getting mail is terrific. Of course no one should expect a reply to a thank you note, but after writing a casual letter, it's easy to imagine getting one in return. Someone may surprise you, but don't count on it. And don't let it stop you from writing. Writing letters is simply another way to say hello ... and there are rewards. Writing can give you a sense of accomplishment, bring you closer to the people you write to, improve your writing skills, and start a conversation. And, don't worry about your handwriting ... it's what makes your letters so special. Here's some writing paper to get you started. Slip it into an envelope and put a stamp on it.   Head to head, gone to seed
He set the yellow vase with the sunflower stalks in the middle of the small table where we eat lunch the flower heads, now eye level and inches from our own heads, dazzle me with up-close detail days later when one petal drops, then another, and still more, he drops the the lot of them outside for the squirrels and birds and bugs where they go full circle, from farm to table to backyard buffet  Always a project For the true hobbyist, dedicated artist, craftsperson, or innovator, there is always a project (or two or three) in progress. Projects that often fit into one of three categories. I've got a few, and thought I'd share them with you. Maybe you're feeling the same about something you're working on. 1) A new project ... because that's what keeps things interesting. Today I've decided to do something I've done before, so it will be relatively easy, with quick results. (Producing something with quick results can give you a sense of accomplishment when other things aren't working out.) I'm making refrigerator pickles. They won't last as long as a true jar of canned pickles, but they are easier to make and (may) last a month in the fridge. 2) One put on hold ... while you try to figure things out. I'm working on a cut and fold stationery book that's on hold. I've figured out the envelope and stationery templates, but still haven't settled on the design. And, I wonder ... will people want to cut and fold their own stationery? Time to take a break.  3) Another stalled ... from frustration, diminished interest or overwhelm. I've been plugging away at a paper mache project. This one, if I complete it, is a bit ambitious and unlike anything I've ever done. Yesterday I did make some progress, but it's been challenging and at times overwhelming. Here's a peek. Maybe you can figure out what it is?  Having multiple projects going can sometimes seem as though you're a bit scattered or given up, but often, it's good to set something aside. When you come back to whatever you're working on, you may surprise yourself with a solution to that vexing problem. The important thing is getting back to it. Where are you with a project you're working on?  The back-to-school display at the office supply store lures me in like fish to bait. I'm not headed back to school, but still, I walk the aisle stocked with zippered pencil cases, glue sticks, pencils, pens, and markers. My pace slows and my finger, extended now like a dowsing rod, glides across pile upon pile of 3-ring binders and marbled composition books that come in red, blue, pink, purple, and green. I reach for one, standard black, but pull back. Not because I don't want it, I do. But I don't need it. I have notebooks, glue sticks, pens, and pencils at home. The real attraction, I know, is the memory of a fresh start, the spit and polish of the first day of school, and the promise of a new routine, where learning and discovery are the order of the day. Whether or not you're headed back to school, back-to-school season is a good reminder that we can begin anew. I've decided to outline and plan a new project I'm working on, like course work. To write a syllabus for myself, to map out what I want to do ... all with the luxury of no tests or grades.  A new idea every day of the week, delivered every Sunday
 We took a ride to see the ocean, to sit high above the shore in the gazebo, to feel the cool breeze and watch the sailboats, ferries, yachts, and kayaks in the bay. To see the lighthouse, the fort, and the islands. But there was nothing. No boats, no islands, no ocean. No anything. Just fog. Like some magician's sleight of hand, it erased all that we knew was before us. A disappearing act as convincing as any other, but this one, engineered by nature.  This one is different. It's a journal, but this one's just for the good stuff. |
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