Thinking . . .

It was a week of funk, I'd say.



I needed a different perspective.



Driving down and taking a class shook some of the webs away, but the oppressive film still clung.

Making pasta helped; so soothing, starting with the volcano ring of flour with the lava of eggs in the middle, beating and gathering with my mother's favorite little fork. Kneading it all up into a smooth ball, letting it rest. Then rolling it out; finally cutting it with my little pasta cranking machine. Then hung up to dry on a dowel.

Sometimes, it's just one day, one step.



Physical activity can sometimes take over; then I can get into the rhythm of the doing, rather than the worry and doubt.

Plus, I made dinner out of all of it . . . so there's that aspect.

blah Monday . . .

I am feeling stretched and stressed, not enjoying what I'm doing. It's a chore to sit down at my desk, working on yet another unintelligible text. I keep thinking that I'll find the right path, but it seems there are nothing but weeds and detritus in the way.

When I was much younger, I overheard two girls on the subway, talking in the way college girls do. "I don't care what I do," said one to the other, "as long as it's creative."

Well, I'm feeling like that, but I can't seem to break through this plastic wrap that seems to envelope me and cut off my air supply. What to do at this point, I don't know. I'm a bit beyond What Color Is Your Parachute, not that it was any help way back when to begin with. Ack.

rainy afternoon

I've been working all day, and got two chapters done. Cats are curled up, so I went out to breathe a little spring. And reflect . . .

L takes her driving test today, if she isn't rained out. We may have another driver in the family by 4:30 or so . . .

Update: and we do! She successfully passed

some things

to detract from another soon-to-be scary dental triage (not until June, though):

Lucy Wainwright Roche

evenings

mornings

Mother's Day

started out with a return to church for Pentecost; lovely flowers in red and white on the altar. Not red for Pentecost, but red and white for Mother's Day. I didn't realize this, but you wear a red corsage on the right if your mother is living , but white on the left (over your heart) if your mother has died. I had never heard of this tradition, but did see someone in the pew in front of me wearing a white one.

I did my altar guild duties and was rewarded with some fresh pineapple at coffee hour. (We had a lively altar guild luncheon on Saturday, during which I learned some interesting tidbits about local lore, local notable gossip, and where the best bars around town used to be.)

Then home, where I began to make an incredibly aromatic sauce (using giblets, cracked wings, red wine, carrots, onion, bay leaf, thyme, etc.) for my much-anticipated Mother's Day duck dinner, to be accompanied by sumptuous butternut squash, creamy mashed potatoes, and green beans with a squeeze of lemon.

Or so I thought.

Just as I began the oven heating, the ENTIRE house was sunk into darkness, all machines sighing off. We called the electric company (no idea, ma'am . . .), waited an hour, then went out for Mother's Day pizza. Sigh. And returned to the evening gloaming, still in darkness.

Mothers

I've been thinking about mine, and my own role as one. Sometimes, a different perspective is required, to look through and beyond what seems to be happening right now . . .

or back in the past . . .


I don't want to get specific or preachy or sentimental. I just want to reflect on what's happened and what's happening. So that's my mother's day; and, like my departed aunt who would go out to eat at the drop of a hat EXCEPT on Valentine's Day and Mother's Day, I will be reflecting at home.

walk . . . a bit

I'm finding lots to show from this one area; I'll expand this weekend, I think.






In another realm entirely, I've decided to attempt a lesson on the hammered dulcimer. Friday at L's school the upper school concert included a few pieces featuring two hammered dulcimer players, one of whom turns out to be delightful. I found her Web site, and discovered that she gives lessons. I left a message and she called me back, so Monday is my day to see if the hammered dulcimer and I are meant to keep company together . . .

Walk . . . part ii

May Day, May Day . . .

was yesterday at L's school; there is nothing like it anywhere else. A May Queen and her Court, all the seniors presented to the audience, dances, and three maypoles . . . I had my own thoughts on all of this, feminist in nature, but this is not my school, nor my day, so I'm keeping them mum . . .


Each grade has its own uniform color, which girls must wear on special days; otherwise, they can wear one of any solid color (black included; you can still be somewhat goth here). I believe this is ninth, but I could be wrong (L's is pink this year):



Instructions chalked along the route for the senior class before each girl was presented:



The May Queen gets her own:



A rendering of girlhood; I wonder if it's like this there . . .