 It's true, when I first saw the tree in Monument Square the day after it was erected, I thought, it is a bit sparse. There are so few branches, the entire trunk is visible.
But now that its festooned with lights, and it's magical. The trunk is wrapped with lights and the lights from one side shine through to the other. It's fabulous. This week I struggled with my floral collage series, afraid I couldn't make anything new or different, or perfect. So I did nothing. Until I got so frustrated I just sat at my desk and waited for my hands to pick up the scissors and start. What came wasn't perfect, but it was a start and now I've got not just one, but two completed collage pieces. Waiting for perfection or expecting perfection isn't productive. What is, is starting. Moving forward until what you're doing somehow finds its own way. Like the lights on the tree in Monument Square, what you start with may not be perfect or what you expected, but stay with it. What you end up with may light the world around you.
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 The flock of birders stood shoulder to shoulder along the edge of the pond.
With binoculars held high, they zoomed in and listened to the whispers and murmurations, examined their crossbill beaks and fanciful feathers. When a man on the edge of the group lowered his binoculars, I sidled up to him and asked, what are you looking at? Unruffled by my presence, he turned and said, "Absolutely nothing," and we laughed. Like me, he was not a birder. He was a fisherman surfing on the wing of the avid birder to his right. Caught in the crosswinds of the spring migration, we joined the flock, and under the wing of our eagle-eyed guide and his dancing green light, we found ourselves flitting from tree to tree, branch to branch, and bird to bird. Deep in camouflage we zoomed in on the yellow-throated warbler, scarlet tanager, a crow-size Cooper's Hawk, and speckled wood thrush. The great egret and its reflection in the morning's still, dark waters seemed more painterly than real, and the unblinking black-crowned night heron's regal pose was magnified in our guide's sighting scope. When the sounds of a nearby construction site crashed through the birdsong, one birder commented that what we'd just heard might be the sound of a pile-driving plover. What a lark! ------ Writing notes: Writing this story soon after the event made it easier to remember small details. If you're not able to write about an event shortly after it happens, try making notes for later. Writer Anne Lamont likes index cards. She carries a set of cards with her and makes brief notations about events, overheard conversations, and thoughts that come to her when she's out and about. Some she uses right away, some not until years later. Think about how you can capture what matters before it takes flight. Try different methods to find what works: notes on your phone, a small notebook, or like Anne Lamont, index cards. And ... a word about using idioms, clichés, and common phrases. There were just too many to ignore. Yes, this story is filled with common bird phrases, cliché, and idioms, but they are used in a tongue-and-cheek manner. Unless you're doing something similar, take the time to write your story using your own words. In most cases, your words will be more interesting and have more impact.  A month of distractions
In January, when shorter days lead to restless evenings When watching and reading turn to too much ... too much watching too much reading When my mind and hands are hungry for activity even though I'm feeling lazy I need something to do, but just a snack, thank you A little something that's not too much of a commitment, but interesting enough to engage I grab a pen and a notebook and sketch something And it's no good It never is and I wonder why I keep trying Something's off ... always And I never have the patience or interest to do any better So I cover it with what does feel good and better ... collage Leaf after leaf branch after branch it comes together I get lost in the colors, the process, and when I'm done, I rinse my sticky fingers and step away from the table  Butterflies in your stomach? Though The Great British Baking Off and its spinoff, Junior Bake Off, have been broadcast for sometime, only recently have I settled in to watch more than just an episode here and there. I'm hooked. Part of the appeal is how cheerful it is. Some of it comes from the setting ... an open-air tent on a green lawn, the bright colors on the mixers, and generous dash of humor offered by the comedians who banter with the bakers. But there's more to it. There's the grit and determination of the bakers themselves. Especially the junior bakers. When the dough doesn't rise, the caramel burns, or the cake topples, they hang in there. And start over. Again and again. What looks like a looming disaster is somehow salvaged and sometimes, turned into a show-stopping winner. Tomorrow the calendar recognizes Idiom Week and when I searched for idioms, "butterflies in your stomach" caught my eye. The bakers start each competition with butterflies in their stomachs. They're nervous and excited ... each and every time. And they keep going. It's a good reminder to viewers like you and me to hang in there. To keep going ... even when we're not sure how. To try new things. I'm still struggling with the making of my solitaire book and box, but I'm not going to stop ... though I've been tempted. One of the biggest challenges was to find a way to make a box that would hold both the book and a deck of cards ... and I finally figured it out.  A well for the cards to sit in, with the book sitting on top of the well. That had me stumped for a while, too ... until I realized I could measure and make a dummy version to test it.
There have been a lot of heavy sighs and there's still a lot of figuring to be done, but I'm determined. Are you working on a project that's got you frustrated or stumped? A sentence, paragraph, or chapter that won't come together? A dropped stitch in a knitting project? A painting, skiing, or woodworking technique you just can't grasp? Keep trying ... and like the bakers, you'll get there.  How one thing leads to another ... I've been struggling with a project, so I've done some research and reading, and more research and more reading. And I'm starting to feel as though I'm going around in circles. Because I am. I'm not sure who said, "The answers are in the work," but I know it's true. I also know the hard part is starting the work. Though I'm still uncertain, I've decided it's time to start. Anywhere. To grab at that idea that hangs like a loose thread and see where it takes me. When I set out to write today's email, I toyed with the idea of World Jellyfish Day listed for Friday, but aside from seeing one or two floating in the water while swimming in the ocean (eek!), what do I know about jellyfish? So I decided on a nature theme to recognize Saturday's Nat'l Play Outside Day. I gathered leaves, pinecones, pine needles, and dried flowers to make a natural mandala, didn't like what I created, and scrapped that idea. But the leaves I collected did merit a second look, so I created the leaf pattern above. They are all from the same tree, but all so different. Much like all of us. While the pattern of leaves on the black background was striking, I wanted more. And that is when then the pieces (the black paper, the yellow leaves and pine needles) came together to form an idea ... and a jellyfish. A bit abstract, but still, a jellyfish.  Be the jellyfish ...
When jellyfish were still an idea, I read a bit about them and was reminded of their bioluminescence ... they light themselves up in the deepest, darkest water. As I discovered with my foraged materials, once we start, one thing leads to another, and then, like the jellyfish, we create our own light. Our own bioluminescence. It can be difficult to get started, but once you do, your light will shine. -------- p.s. After collecting and working with the pinecones and pine needles, my hands were covered in sap. Even if you're not a fan of Wednesday's Nat'l Peanut Butter Lovers Month, you may be interested in knowing it's a handy cleaning agent. Washing up with soap and water doesn't cut through pine sap. But ... peanut butter (or almond butter) does.  It's hard to know how long it took
It wasn't until the warm spring air arrived and it was time to exchange our bulky coats, gloves, and hats for lighter jackets and longer days that I had any inkling something had been happening. On my first trip into the attic, my eye caught the bright orange draft snake on the floor just inside the door. Something was different, but I wasn't sure what. Was that a dust bunny on the left end of the draft snake? I wasn't surprised at the sight of it, it had been a long winter and trips to the attic were few. On my second trip, I saw another, right in the center of the long tube. Once again, with arms laden with winter wool, I stepped over it. But something wasn't right. When I came down from the attic the second time, I bent over to take a closer look. It wasn't one dust bunny, or two ... there were holes in the fabric. The finely shredded threads feathering the edge of the holes had tricked me. The tube, still holding its shape, was empty ... of the hundreds (or more likely thousands) of split peas I'd poured into the tube to stop the draft. One, two, or more(?) mice had chewed through one end of the draft snake to get at the peas. Once they reached the middle, they chewed another hole. Less time in the tube, more time for removing the peas. But where to? How long did it take? Did they eat them? Share them? Hoard them? It remains a mystery. There were no split peas to be seen or found. Not one. Anywhere. And no mice. We never saw them, found mouse droppings, or heard them ... quiet as a mouse. Until we set a trap.  I was restless and it was late ... far too late to be making noise, so my options were limited when I grabbed the deck of cards that sits on the bookshelf for someday or sometime it was a surprising move because really, they don't get much use, but I thought ... Solitaire, I'll play, Solitaire the cards, still like new, were stiff and slippery, hard to shuffle, and I couldn't remember all the rules so I faked it and won and thought, that was easy too easy so I searched for instructions and found it wasn't so easy after all game after game I lost until I was no longer restless, but tired, and went to bed and played again the next day, and the next and lost again and again and again until yesterday after days and weeks of following the rules ... I aced it on a quiet evening with a full house ----------- While I didn't have a lot to say about playing Solitaire, I wanted to write a short piece about how calming it was to shuffle the cards and how sticking with it (finally) gave me the reward of winning. Solitaire is a good game when you're not sure what to do. Playing with playing cards vs. online adds a physical dimension and allows for less screen time. Here's how to play.  We were steps into our walk on the low-tide beach when I spotted a large clam. A clam as big as a softball, left high and dry when the tide went out. Clamming up When I picked up the clam for a closer look, I marveled at its response ... a slow-motion closing of the gap between its two halves. What was an already narrow gap closed and the clam pulled itself together. It was alive. I walked to the water's edge and tossed it into the ocean withthe gratification of having done a good deed ... little did I know it was not the only clam left behind. A wicked storm The day before we'd had a wicked storm. High winds and crashing waves. Farther down the beach we saw another, then a few more. They were tossed and tumbled by the surf, spit from the ocean, forming a line as far as we could see. There were hundreds of them. Atlantic surf clams sometimes known as bar clams, hen clams, skimmers, and sea clams.  I'd tossed one back into the ocean, but there so many ... too many to toss into the sea. Would it be the right thing to do, anyway? How long would they survive out of water? We didn't have answers to the questions we were asking ourselves. But the questions kept coming Without the storm surge, would the returning tide come in far enough to pull them back into the sea? We weren't sure. Nature's way So we did what we knew best ... let nature do what it does. Tumble, toss, and confound us with its power, destruction ... and beauty. Just as it did on that blue-sky day after the storm when it offered an all-day clam buffet ... to the seagulls.   The CRoW in tHe SNow sEEmed to let iT aLL GO. It froliCKed and fLUTTered and fANNed hIGH and LOw. PreeNing oR pLAYing, I'm sURe I dON't KNow. BUt let Me jUSt say ... Ohhhh, whAt a ShOw. Oftentimes, there are events you want to capture, but as a stand-alone story, there's just not enough material to write more than a few sentences.
When that happens, try a narrative poem. It's a storytelling form of poetry you can use as a tool to share snippets of your life. Moments in time that bring joy, clarity, or greater understanding. I've never seen a playful crow ... they keep their distance, often conjure (undeserved) negative vibes, and perch and fly with purpose. Off-guard displays of preening and play are not common ... at least not in my experience. I wanted to remember the crow and how such a seemingly upright, formidable bird let it all go. It's a reminder to seek, observe, and remain open to discovery, surprise, and wonder. And when there's not much to say, but saying it is important, write a poem.  I've never been a picky eater. Not really. This is Jell-O Week and it reminds me of one of my favorite holiday treats when I was a girl ... my grandmother's jello, served with the meal, not after. She mixed fruit in with the jello, layered it with whipped cream, and served it in a parfait dish that was undeniably festive ... layer upon layer of jello and whipped cream visible through the clear glass sides of the parfait bowl. Having a dessert-like dish served with the meal seemed so decadent ... even on a holiday. My first experience with anything other than fruit as jello mix-in was with a gelatin meat mold that was served at a dinner where I was a guest. Pieces of carrots and sliced beef floating in the congealed gelatin. I'd never seen such a thing, and wasn't sure I liked what I was seeing. But we were visiting and when it was passed around the table, to be polite, I placed a small spoonful on my plate. One bite and I was done. Nope, not going there. A more recent, and pleasantly surprising, gelatin dish I've discovered is coffee "jelly." Simple and refreshing. Friday is National Cabbage Day and a friend has tried again and again to convince me that lime jello with cabbage is good. I'll take her word for it. Would you or wouldn't you ... or have you tried lime and cabbage jello, whipped up a batch of coffee jelly, or served a savory gelatin dish? Share your story in a letter, an essay, or a conversation and see what gels. The rush to get it done ...
It was a last minute addition to the menu: chocolate avocado pudding. No stovetop required, just blend and chill. But was late in the day. It would be a rush to get the pudding made, chilled, and ready to serve. But it was possible. With the familiarity that comes with having made the recipe a number of times, I cut and pitted the avocado, measured the cocoa powder, maple syrup, milk, and vanilla, and whipped it together. After spooning the pudding into individual serving bowls, I slid the bowls into the freezer for 15 minutes to speed the cooling. When I reached back into the freezer to transfer them down into the refrigerator, condensation had formed on the outside of the bowls, and they were slippery. One down, two down, three, and things were going well. When I lifted the fourth, the bowl slipped from my hand. Boom. It hit the floor. The bowl didn't break, but the jolt tossed the pudding from the bowl and it sprayed in every direction possible ... landing on my slacks, my sleeves, in my hair, on my face, and surrounding kitchen cabinets. The first gasp I let out was for the bowl as it slipped from my hand. The second, for the dollop of pudding that landed on my cheek. And the third, loudest of all, came as I slid to the floor, in a full split, when I stepped forward and lost my chocolate-covered footing. Oh, I wanted to cry, almost did cry, but the dollop on my cheek slid down and touched my lip. Huh? Pudding ... sweet ... cool ... so good. And then I laughed. Yes, I got the pudding made, but I'd also created a lot of work for myself when it came to cleaning up the mess I'd made. National Don't Cry Over Spilled Milk Day reminded me of my pudding predicament and another saying: haste makes waste ... yes it does, and it puts you down one serving, puddin'. -------- p.s. for the grammar buffs: Is it "spilled" or "spilt?"  We stopped to chAT with the lady in the hAT. She wAS, like us, dressed foR the weaTHer ... wHEther shE liked iT or nOT. The weaTHer thAt is. WinTER weaTHer. WhETHer it'S brISK and brIght or gray like tOdAY, we bUTTON and bOOT it. Then we snAP, zIP, and tUCK it, tOO. bUT we'D qUIVER and shiVer if thAT was aLL thAT. So wE pAUSe and we pONDer for thAT which iS thAT ... WhERe's my hAT? This poem came together over the course of a few days with the help of a thesaurus and a rhyming dictionary.
Both are helpful in similar and different ways. The rhyming dictionary does just what it sounds like, finds words that rhyme with one another ... in this case I was looking for words that rhyme with hat. Quiver and shiver came to me without the dictionary ... but maybe they were inspired by it? The thesaurus is, I think, a sometimes overlooked tool for writing. Word choice makes a difference.  It's Daylight Saving Time today ... and I'm reminded of my night in the house of clocks ... When the cuckoo chimes I once spent the night in a house that had a cuckoo clock and a grandfather clock ... and I didn't sleep a wink. The cuckoo clock chirped every hour on the hour, and again every half hour. The grandfather clock was set to strike four times an hour: - every hour on the hour - at a quarter past the hour - at the half hour - and once again at a quarter to the hour I tossed and turned all night. My mind reeling not so much from the different chimes, but from my inability to fix a pattern to the sounds of the cuckoo clock and the grandfather clock ... I didn’t know a grandfather clock sounds four(!) times an hour. On one of our more recent walks, we scuffed through a walkway littered with pine cones. The kind of pine cones that hang from a cuckoo clock and make it tick. My grandparents had a cuckoo clock with pine cone weights, and that cuckoo clock where I spent the night had them, too. I’d always seen the weights and the clocks as one. But when I saw so many pine cones scattered across the walkway, I saw them as the cuckoo-clock maker must have seen them, inspiration for the weights and keeping time.  The shape of things
After working on this collage bit for a while, I wondered how things were coming together, so I took a photograph. It helps me see things more objectively. And I wonder, what do you see? I hope you see the start of a great horned owl(?). There's a perfectly imperfect element to collage that I like. How even small bits, like that crescent moon snip of yellow paper on the circle of black, can transform it into an eye ... one that looks like it's looking back. When I set it in place, it changed everything. Owl are you today?  Flowers ... paper and otherwise
Last week I received a beautiful gift from a friend ... a handmade paper box with cut paper roses adorning the lid. In the note she sent along with the box, she talked of the Victorian meaning of flowers ... roses in particular. They hold meaning for love, honor, faith, beauty, balance, passion, wisdom, and intrigue. My friend's flowers reminded me of the collage work I've done with flowers, much of it inspired by collage artist Mary Delany. Born in 1700, she started her collage work at age 72(!) where it's now exhibited at The British Museum. Delany's work was especially striking with black backgrounds and vivid colors. The floral arrangement above mimics Delany's style with the black background, but with natural materials. You can try it yourself by deconstructing and arranging just a few flowers (this arrangement is a lily, a daisy, some greens, and a small yellow flower I can no longer identify). Make your arrangement on black paper or some other background ... just be mindful of working outside and the breeze, it will wreak havoc with your petals (yes, that's the voice of experience). And remember, it's not too late to start something new. Mary Delaney did at 72 and from what I've read about her, it changed her life. Let's get going.  Making something from nothing My mother used to make lampshades. Mostly hand-stitched silk shades with fringe. They're beautiful. She also did a turn with paper shades featuring cutouts as well as vintage florals, butterflies, and birds collaged on parchment papers. She no longer makes shades but still has the vintage papers. When she and my sister were clearing things, they asked if I might be interested in them. Yes, please. While I usually use painted sheet music in my collage work, I'm really enjoying the challenge and change of working with different materials.  I'm not sure if it's a fanciful flower or butterfly floral? Doesn't really matter, I can't stop.
Yesterday I created more. And in the process relished the satisfaction of making. For well over an hour I sat snipping papers, switching one flower for another, digging deep into the pile of papers, tilting my head from left to right to analyze the layout before settling on the best possible arrangement, then gluing things in place. It took most of the afternoon before I talked myself into sitting down at my desk to get started, and am so glad I finally got there. Of course gluing papers in place may not be your idea of fun, but whatever it is, I encourage you to sit down, stand up, or do whatever it takes to get going. I think you'll be glad you did.  Not sure where this is going, but it was fun getting to where we are All of my collage work is relatively small. I snip and cut some pieces of paper that, if they drop from my scissors, can be hard to find on the table. Sometimes they're stuck to the scissors; other times my hand; ocassionally they stick to the glue itself, embedded in the top of the glue stick; and then there are those that seem to vanish ... lost forever. For a while I've thought of making larger collage pieces, but how? Cutting larger shapes from the sheet music I paint wasn't working. It's too thin and I couldn't make sense of it. But what about cutting the shapes from cardboard shipping and storage boxes?  Trying something different
The barred owl is about a foot tall. He's a bit long in the beak, and there are things I'd change, but overall, not bad for a first go. When I took it outside for photographs, I thought ... anyone who sees me will think I'm crazy. And then I thought ... who gives a hoot?! I don't know what will become of my larger collage work, or this owl friend of mine, but I do know it brought me immense pleasure just to make it. And sometimes, that's all that matters. The other day when I was feeling restless, not sure what to do with myself, I knew the best thing to do would be to do something. Presenting myself with a new challenge meant I had to work with new materials, and endure some frustration and challenges. But it I'm glad I did it. I know more than I did and looking at the owl makes me smile. What a hoot! July is Anti-boredom Month and it seems the best cure for boredom is action. Making, doing, and learning. It's also inevitable. We're all bored at one time or another. The question is, what will you do to get un-bored?  Some still hang
like ornaments, bright and red and shiny others make like polka dots, red on green, beneath the tree. The ones that fill the gutter line up like bowling balls in the automated return. Is it the imperfections, or it it because they're not already picked, in a bag, in a store? I wish it was my apple tree.  It's been a week of bird sightings and activity.
I found a nest in the yard the other day. It was after a few days of strong winds ... winds that must have released it from its perch. This morning we walked through the park and saw a group of people (a gaggle, or maybe it was a congregation) grouped together, all facing the same direction, looking up at a pine tree. They were mesmerized by the great horned owl perched high above, with her two owlets(!) all fuzzy and huddled close together. In other words, a parliament of owls. Amazing. And then there was the paddling of ducks down at the pond. What's gathering in your neck of the woods? - a convocation of eagles? - a stand of flamingos? - an ostentation of peacocks? - a wake of buzzards? - a peep of chickens? - a muster of storks? - a host of sparrows? - an exaltation of larks? - a colony of penguins? - a wedge of swans? - a party of jays? I made this collage from old maps and a cancelled stamp. It occurred to me that when we look at a map, it's like looking at the world with a bird's eye view. I think we'll always need paper maps ... after all, what if there's no wifi? |
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