pomegranatesandpaper

Art Saves Lives, Vol. 33

Special thanks to all my beautiful students from Art Is!!

All new workshops for fall going up next week!!

The winter days are tumbling head over heels in a Catherine's Wheel of doom and gloom and deficits and stock plunges, layoffs and foreclosures, and vanishing 401ks and swindles.

What do you do when life spins out of control? How do you get your balance back? Where do you go to get your feet on the ground? How can you prevent the vertigo that threatens to send you spinning off the planet????

 

GET. A. DOG.

They are the original Lilies of the Field. They know the food will fill the bowl twice a day and that the water bowl will magically refill. Walks will ensue. There will always be balls to be tossed and bones to be chewed.

And they will always be waiting for you when you decide to lift up your head from perusing your navel or the sky or twirling in place like a Sufi.

My favorite thing that dogs do is that full body shake. The dog trainer says that when they do that,  they are putting their skin back into place. I like that. There are an awful lot of time when I'd like to shake my skin back into place (especially after a large weight loss...)

So go ahead, shake. Roll. Bark. Maybe yowl.

And get a dog.

Shadow Self

I got ill at my sister's this Sunday. I thought it was overindulging in various junk food items that I normally don't eat, but now it looks like a virus. It is the Weird Disease I get every so often, for which I've had various tests and the only diagnosis is a shrug of the shoulders and a notation in the doc's chart of the like, "hysterical female".

I'm in a black mood. I hate actually using my precious Personal Time Off days for actually sick days. I'd rather soldier through the day at work and collapse at home and save my days for warm weather and gardening and running trudging through the woods with Cucciolo.

We did get to the park this morning, despite the 22 degree weather. We even walked through the woods alone and he was such a good dog and stayed right by me. He didn't even try out his "attack dog" act where the arm of your jacket becomes a tattered mess. I didn't stay long, not wanting to press my luck, and no longer able to feel my fingers for the cold.

I went to our favorite place for a latte and the warm sun on my back did loosen me up, but I spent most of the day in bed dozing on my back with the laptop open.  I am still reading the gardening book and I also began a Virago book of which I will write more later as I keep falling asleep over the preface (illness induced, no fault of the author).  I have some canvases waiting for me to finish and a deadline of this weekend for my class proposals for Art Is. The class is all designed in my head but I've yet to touch a scrap of paper.

Oh well. We rolled out a new operating system at work and it was a doozy of a Monday, so with that and my under the weather state, I'm in no position to be brilliantly creative. I think I'll just mope downstairs and eat some cheese and crackers and let the poor dog out of his crate.

Tell me something springlike and wonderful like a petit four. Have your Fat Tuesday meal and get ready for sackcloth and ashes for tomorrow!

Books of the Week

We are entering into the cruelest seasonal change of  the year. The slow crusty slide in fits and starts from winter to spring has none of summer's bittersweet languor  into scarlet fall, or fall's frenzied and festive whip up into snowy holiday cheer. The prologue to true spring, at least here in the northeast, is long and fickle, with bright sunshine high 40 days and fierce windy days and snow squalls and mud pits and frozen turf. Sometimes all of that, too, in the space of a single day, as this one was, dawning in the high sunshiney 40's and ending with damp, low clouds full of freezing rain.

So what's a girl to do? Read, of course, read about gardens and birds and artists and paint bird's nests on canvases of all sizes. More about the bird's nests later, but the books, oh, the books.

I've had an embarassment of riches in the new book department.  I usually wait for the softcover or buy the hardcover used on Amazon, but with some gift certificates, I ended up with a copy of several new books.  I don't remember where I read about Joyce Hinnefeld's,  In Hovering Flight, but I can't thank them enough.

I'm only a third into it, but the story drew me in as if it was a story I had always been waiting to read. The prose is lush and filled with birdsong and field notes and painterly language as Scarlet prepares for her mother's funeral. Her mother, Addie, was a famous bird artist and environmental activist and her father was a noted orinthologist. Scarlet it named after the Scarlet Tanager, a bird about which Addie writes in her field notes, " There is something that I can't quite get about this bird -  and it's so much more than the color. 'Some mysteries remain'. "  Foreshadowing alerts me that the lyrical  innocence of field notes and bird blinds and cottages will evolve into a darker story as the novel progresses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My routine in the morning occasionally allows me a few stolen minutes between Starbucks and the office to read a section of the New York Times or a few pages  of a book in the car.  I used to keep a car book, a purse book, a bedroom book, and a totebag book, but I realized I was getting none of them finished. So now I try to be disciplined and carry the same book everywhere until I am done. I slipped up a little today because I took my latest Amazon delivery with me to open in the car and I couldn't resist dipping into, Our Life in Gardens, by Joe Eck and Wayne Winterrowd.

I've linked it to the review in the New York Times Book Review by Dominique Browning, the former editor-in-chief of House and Garden, a much missed magazine. (Someday I'll tell you about my first ever submission to a publication years ago and the lovely rejection letter and phone call I had with her. )  The book is just as she  described  -  a book that you will forever be putting down to jump up and find a piece of paper to write a note down to jump online to order a plant they are extolling. 

I have to admit that I did not know these renowned garden designers before her review, but I did have to throw the book in the backseat or I was either going to

• be late for work, or
• not go to work at all, and
• call Mr. Pom from New Hampshire (his current obsession) and tell him I'd quite my job, bought an antique farmhouse and had ordered the entire inventory of White Flower Farm to be delivered April 1st.

The two men began their garden adventures thirty years ago with a ten foot tall willow tree forced in the bedroom window of their high-ceilinged apartment in an former ballroom in a grand apartment on Beacon Street in Boston.  It soon expands to the addition of  chickens living in an elegant coop in the living room and a broody hen that leads her chicks across the dark, waxed oak parquet floor to greet the chair of the English Department from Tufts.  Soon thereafter they  rented a wonderful 1700s farmhouse in the country with a huge brick oven and a barn for chickens and pastures, woods, and streams, and a pig named Morose.

Can you see why I had to put it away before my fantasies took flight and I was on the Mass Turnpike and ordering hens? I am a woman of strong resolve but on a Thursday morning with a sick kid at home on February break and me with not even a day off and a new software being rolled out at work and the pull of the sun through the windshield taunting me into thinking that maybe I could put some shrubs in this weekend and then the weather report said snow tonight and plummeting temps, all this and a story about broody hens and espaliered flowering quince and herb gardens may be just too much, too much to bear in my little Honda with ten minutes to spare before I enter my cubicle and stare at the hyacinths and take deep gulps of their heady fragrance all morning long.

A Love Story

What is harder to face than the end of summer days? How many times have we sat on the beach and hoped for a reprieve, some magic shine of harvest moon that would grant our wishes to never have to leave, to allow us to linger forever in the setting sun and roast lobsters over coals in the soft air of summer evenings?

So this year, with the crash of summer falling down around our ears in illness and hospitals, we were all the more grateful to escape by grace of God for a few days, yes we reassured ourselves, all we need is a few days. To sit in the sun, taste salt air, smell the brine, and let the quiet work itself into our chests and loosen the knot that had bound us up the past months.  We would extend our vacation by two days, taking advantage of the Labor Day holiday to come home on Monday instead of Saturday.  It would be our little  escape after the family left, the truffle core of our few days away.

But you can't always transform a sow's ear into a silk purse.  The melancholy of endings infused the air. We squirmed in our sand chairs, walked the water's edge in search of heart rocks, and pretended that the sun wasn't setting too early in the sky.  The days just did not fit us and we were overly polite with each other, none of us speaking the truth of our sadness:

there was much more than the good bye to summer in our hearts.

 

On our last evening, we came down to the beach for the  last walk. The evening clouds had tumbled in and we all agreed that it was best to leave at first light the next day to avoid the holiday traffic and give us a longer day at home before the inevitable return to work and school. The uncertainty of all that waited at home was crushing and we were sunk in our own thoughts as we returned to the car and brushed the last of the sand off our feet. We pulled down the windows despite the wind, reluctant to leave the smell of fried onions and salt air, the essential summer fragrance of our days.

I craned my neck to catch my last view of the water.  The parking lot was empty save for a few surfers who were washing their feet in the  showers by the bathhouse.  The temperature had dropped considerably and no one was lingering that evening. As we passed the gazebo where the Monday evening concerts were held, I saw a few people standing around in it. 

I didn't pay that much notice to them until we drove closer and curiosity caused me to turn my head.  One of the people  was a woman, a woman who was wearing a long dress, a long, white dress.  I sat up in my seat. Oh my goodness, she was wearing a wedding dress.  Her hair was piled on her head and she wore a fingertip veil with a crown of flowers.  A man stood next to her in suit and tie, and with them was a third person - a woman - in what appeared to be robes with a priest stole's around her neck.

"Stop, stop!" I yelled, startling everyone and we turned the car around to  get a better look. We parked as far away as we could so we could watch without being intrusive. Were they taking wedding photos? If so, where was the rest of the wedding party? As we watched, the man ran out to his car, got a small box from the glove compartment,  and then ran back and made adjustments to a camera set up across from them. The minister stood in the center of the gazebo and the man and woman faced her, holding hands.

They're  getting married! I yelled and immediately ducked under the window, afraid my voice had carried on the wind. I  kept looking around for others to join them, but there was no one but the three.  As we watched,  the  minister pulled out a book and began to read from it and as we watched, the man and woman spoke to each other and exchanged rings, then kissed and held each other.

Without any family, with no one other than their priest and our voyeuristic witnessing, they had betrothed their love, getting married at dusk at the edge of the ocean and deserted beach, with the crashing of the surf and the laughing of the gulls as their organ and chorus.  They took a few more pictures, looked at the video to make sure they had been in frame, kissed again, and within minutes, jumped into their car and drove away. The whole affair had been accomplished and over in a matter of minutes.

We sat in the idling car, not speaking, each absorbed in our own reactions to the scene we had come upon. I felt as though we had fallen into a chink of time in the universe and become players in someone else's world. When we had been lost in our own sad thoughts of what was waiting for us at weekend's end and what would unfold  in the months to come, all the while this lovely world had existed and its inhabitants living in a parellel universe of love and beginnings.

The beach contained it all with equanimity: the sorrow at the falling dusk on the last day of official summer; the boarding up of the snack bar and the dragging of the lifeguard chair from the beach onto the parking lot; and even the betrothal of a man and a woman, both out of place in a beach parking lot,  but in place for the most momentous event of their lives.

A gift of love had fallen into our laps and  I was honored to be a de facto witness for their vows.   As they drove away, we rolled the windows down and yelled out good luck, no longer afraid to disturb the sanctity of the scene. It was time to go back to the motel and pack up our soggy swimsuits and sandy shoes and our summer's end. But now we had a little bit of hope to tuck in with our scavenged sea shells before we zipped the suitcase closed.

Warm & Fuzzy

Is the way I feel today after birthday greetings from so many friends.

I considered taking off the day, but realized that I would rather wait for warm weather and spend the day outside, maybe in the city, with the Cucciolo pretending to be a city dog at some sidewalk cafe.

One of our admins loves to cook and bake and since she has started with us, our office is never without treats, which as you can imagine, is good and bad. She puts out quite a spread and I have turned down more homemade apple pies, cakes, and cookies than I can count. So imagine how touched I was when she came in today and brought for my birthday a fresh fruit platter, crudities (with baby veggies!) and spinach dip. I gave her a great big hug and then ate my weight in  dip.

The "new" tradition in my office is to decorate the birthday person's cubicle. It used to just be a support staff thing, but since we have spent the last year in "temporary" offices where the lawyers and the staff work side by side in cubicles, the tradition has morphed over to the lawyers, too.

As you can see, it has become quite elaborate. It's silly and unnecessary and absolutely the right thing for an office where everyone feels overworked and harried.  This isn't my cube, but one of my paras. I was grateful, though, that they didn't quite go to this extreme as I'd feel a little foolish in a crepe paper teepee talking to a client on the phone.

Cubicle culture is interesting. It took us quite awhile to get used to not listening to our voicemails on speaker, to turning down CD players, lowering our voices when on the phone, and overhearing the details of your colleague's fight with his wife, which you'd rather not know about. On the whole, though,  the lack of offices has caused the attorneys to become more of a team, drawing out even the grumpiest lawyers at about 3:30 when the microwave popcorn gets going and there's a lot of hanging over the cube walls.  It's helped everyone realize that we are all overworked and harried and we're not alone in our huge pendings.

Our diplomas and licenses remain in boxes and we all desperately want a door to close, but little by little we've become acclimated to our new environment. I've managed to warm up the taupe and grays with my favorite calendar, some quilted art, and these gorgeous tulip parrots. Soon we will move into permanent space with proper offices. I'll be happy to have some peace and quiet when I need to actually think and write a motion, or just when I want to make a doctor's appointment without ten other people knowing I  need to go to the gyn.

On the other hand, I've developed a craving for popcorn and cubicle volleyball and know all about my staff's kids, breaks, snacks, and radio stations.  I hope we keep up the camaraderie (but I admit I look forward to not sharing my snacks. . . )

The Ides of Winter

Every night I come home with great plans for the evening.

I will cook! clean! walk the dog! organize! make art! write! read! call people!

I usually get through cook! clean! walk the dog! and sometimes read.....but this week, my mind is  ice bound.

 

Staying connected with your life is harder when the cold wraps around you like a coiled spring and your only intent is to get through the day and find the warmth of your bed and a cup of tea.

But today, the earth fooled us and turned its face to be kissed by the sun. The wind was sweet and carries the scent of thawing earth. We walked in shirtsleeves down the sidewalk at lunch and bought spring things like Valentines.

 

The tight hold of this white world is starting to melt, to ease, loosening the grip it has held us in for these past few months.

 And what is revealed when the snow begins to melt and the ice fogged brain begins to thaw?

  

The need for a manicure.

And the belief in eternal life.

60 degrees AND a new Mac!

First off, internets, it is SIXTY DEGREES!  For those of you in more temperate climates and consider posts about weather THE most boring evah, understand that we have endured single digits for more mornings than I can count and in the teens and twenties since Christmas.

So, YAY!

Unfortunately, the rapidly melting snow has revealed a six inch layer of ice over the landscape and huge piles of dog poop to be picked up in the backyard.

The total effect is of a rapidly melting skating rink covered with two inches of slippery water, the result being that Cucciolo's morning visit to the dog park was cut short as Mr. Pom and I slipped and slithered our way cautiously across the bumpy sheet of ice, searching out muddy patches on which to catch our breath. We ultimately required  the assistance of a lovely lady who had on cleats to retrieve our dog who refused to return from the glories of an ice-covered hill and an empty Gatorade bottle (his favorite) toy that he had stolen from her dog-drinking contraption.

After we gingerly made our way back to the car, allowing the Cucch to run ahead - save yourself! we yelled at him - and then found our way off the field through brambles and prickers that I am still picking out of my socks, we played frisbee for a minutes behind a school. Then we dumped off a muddy, smelly dog and made our way to our favorite cafe for coffee.We were exhausted.

Mr. Pom cannot quite understand that if left to my own devices, I  would actually spend the entire DAY  at the cafe, refilling my latte and steadily eating my way through an entire baguette with French butter and lingonberry jam and reading my book. 

Thank God for Mr. Pom. Baguettes, butter, and lingonberry jam have not appeared on the food list for post-gastric bypass eating last time I looked. Last night I ate SIX Hershey kisses that were leftover from entertaining on Friday night. A half hour later I was in a sugar coma and had to go to bed. If only I would remember these effects BEFORE I eat. So that's why you will find no snacks other than 100 calorie packs in my house.

Oh, the new Mac, you ask? Yes! Mr. Pom took pity on me and my crazy monitor that only works at a 45 degree angle. He took me to the Apple store and got me my birthday present. Right now, The Teen is setting it up for me and taking photos with which to blackmail me later.

No photos today - I have to do law work, pick up MM from the airport, and go to a wake. I'll be back tomorrow!

Warm the HeART with ART!

Here's a recipe for a warm up weekend deep in the heArt of Winter!

The amazing Jen of Earth Angels produced the second magnificent HeArt of Winter folk art show in the historic village of Warwick, NY.  

A candy-coated painting glittering with the talent of it's creator, Laurie Meseroll.

Shown here with more of her brilliant artwork with yours truly and the marvelous Ellen, co-founder with Sallianne McClelland of THE east coast art retreat, Art Is.

The beautiful Jennifer Lane with her lush paintings. I didn't buy one last year and thought about it all year and can't wait to hang up the one that came home with me this year!

And here is the fascinating Debbee Thibault along with her whimsical figures. Check out her cool sweater coat. I practically drooled on it but she didn't reveal where she got it.....Debbee??

Please check out Jen's blog to see in much better detail more of the whimsical and colorful art that filled the three floors of the funky, historic building that housed the show.

Of course, women cannot live by art alone, at least not for a weekend away! We require a tea fit for a Parisian queen at Charlotte's Tea Room.

I just had dinner but I'm wondering if we have any . . .   scones??

Charlotte is Jen's sister in law and her tea room (which is about to move up the street into a Victorian house with 7 rooms for tea!) provides another venue for showcasing the colorful folk art that defines Earth Angels.

Refueled by tea, we were able to spend the rest of the afternoon shopping,

and then we antiqued,

ordered dinner in, and spent the rest of the evening at our haunted B&B doing crafts, or at least some of us did crafts, while some of us lounged on the sofa and took photos.

The only regret that I have about the weekend, is that I somehow managed not to get a group shot of our little party, and have no photos of the fabulous Pamela Huntington artist extraordinaire and one of the sweetest, most interesting women I have met. Visit her website and blog as linked above and check out the beautiful journal class she  offered last year at Art Is.  I know for a fact that she is planning more amazing classes for Art Is 2009, so be sure to check out the site in March to get first crack at her classes (oh, and mine, too!!).