  Spring cleaning is underway and the criteria is clear. Sort what you've got into one of three categories: keep, recycle, or trash. There's plenty that's suitable for recycling, things long overdue for the rubbish bin, and more than enough to keep. But there's one item that's tugged at my heart all week. The old, tattered Raggedy Ann that sits on a shelf in the back of the closet. She's faded, her clothes have yellowed, and there are stains on her cotton face, mitten hands, and apron. Her right boot, slight in stuffing, is hand-stitched in place with mismatched fabric. So as I do with each item I come across, I look her over and consider what to do, and know, I'm far from that little girl she came to live with. When I push aside the yellowed collar of her floral dress to find what I know is there, the simple red outline of a heart nearly beats when I read the words "I Love You" printed inside it's border, and the answer is clear. She's a keeper.  Get the story starters calendar and more, every Sunday. It's free!
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 A simple exchange. That's what letter writing is all about, a conversation on paper. Another way to say hello. And the blackout poetry above? Another way to create a poem. Because April is Nat'l Letter Writing Month and Nat'l Poetry Month, let's combine them. Print out the blackout poetry exercise below, grab a pencil and a marker, and see what emerges ... then drop it in an envelope and mail it to someone. You can use the text provided in the download, or find your own by grabbing a newspaper or repurposing pages from an old book. But before you do, here are a few more examples:      Windswept
They stood on the hillside high above the bay where the wind pressed against their backs and their kites, still in hand, fluttered against the twists and turns of forward sailing tails. As their arms lifted higher and higher, then lowered, then lifted again in false starts, the windswept anticipation of flight was heightened, and for a moment ... the wind took hold and I hitched a ride.  Whether we're tracking time,
watching the time, or finding time, if we look and listen, we're never far from knowing ... What time is it? Pass the church on the avenue at the top of the hour and the peal of bells will tell you whether it's one o'clock, two, three ... or twelve o'clock. And not just the church, bells ring out from the clock tower high above city hall, too. The sundial in the cemetery casts a timely shadow on every minute and every hour of every day ... when the sun shines. And monumental neon letters digitize the hour high above the square downtown. Each clock and every peal of the bell is a reminder that no matter how often we fall back or spring forward, we keep time. But maybe making time is what matter most. So yes, I stop when I hear the bells and do the count, and listen ... as if I have all the time in the world.  IT DOESN'T MATTER what you call them or whether you're a fan of hotcakes, flapjacks, pancakes, ployes, or waffles, they just wouldn't be the same without a drizzle of maple syrup.
A couple of years ago I wrote a short bit about tapping the maples trees and since then, I've struggled to find a way to share it in illustrated form. Ideas ranged from a pop-up, to a book cut in the shape of a sap bucket ... even a 3-D cardboard paper sugar shack. My mind was crammed with ideas. Too many ideas and no solutions. Held back by perfectionism? Doubting which idea would be the best? I wasn't even sure. Last week's sapsicle pushed me to complete something, anything, while sap season is underway. It may not be what I envisioned, and I may or may not be done with the project, but having what looks like a poster completed, I'm satisfied. Tomorrow is Int'l Ideas Month, and the question is ... what are you waiting for? In struggling with my maple sugar project and looking at the progress I made this week, I've been reminded: don't just start, but finish. Even if it's not perfect. Even if it's not exactly what you had in mind. It was the not finishing that became frustrating. The poster allows me to let go of the idea for a while. To move on to something else. It may not be perfect, but for now, it's done, and that's as sweet as maple sugar.  The 3 x 5 recipe card
is yellowed, dog-eared, and smudged. The original recipe, handwritten in ballpoint blue, has been tweaked and modified more than once. Cross outs and notations scribbled in black; changes that made a good recipe better. I consider rewriting it, putting it on a crisp, clean card, but don't. Because it would erase the story. The story visible in the handwriting of the young woman I was with a new job in the city. The story of a co-worker named Carol, who I knew only in the office, and only for a short time. Of an early morning discussion around the water cooler. The story of her generosity in sharing her recipe for quiche when I said ... I've never had quiche. Of learning how to cook, to trust myself to make adjustments, to add a little more of this, and a little less of that. In that recipe, and so much more.  Thursday is Nat'l Puzzle Day. About once a year, usually during the winter, I sit down across the span of a few days and peck away at a 500-piece jigsaw puzzle.
A mid-winter meditation. The last two puzzles, brand new out of the box, were each missing one piece. Come on. Of course I couldn't have known there was a missing piece unless it had been a corner or border piece because that's where I always begin. So it wasn't a distraction or a disappointment, until there were no more pieces to place. But there was a hole, a missing piece. I looked on the floor, under my chair, and checked the empty box. Nope, nowhere to be found. It was disappointing not to place that final piece. To have the satisfaction of pressing it into place. And it left me wondering ... What now? Do I label the box, "one piece missing?" Seems a rather defeated way for the next puzzler to begin. Or do I leave it as it and let them discover there's a missing piece as I did (setting them up for a similar disappointment), or toss the whole thing into the recycling bin? I'm puzzled. ------------- p.s. The stylized haiku above was an interesting writing exercise. It's challenging to figure out how and what to say in the haiku format, to make it work: 3 lines: 1st line = 5 syllables 2nd line = 7 syllables 3rd line - 5 syllables ---------- It was better not (5 syllables) to know there was a missing (7 syllables) piece. Puzzled it out. (5 syllables) ---------- Traditional haiku often invokes nature, but it can be applied to other subjects as well ... an interesting way to tell a short story. If you write one, I'd love to read it.  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.  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. Basking in the sun on the third step of the front stoop. 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. |
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