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 . . .

A walk part 1.a

This dominates the horizon from anywhere, really, around here. How could I NOT take a photo, when Sally manages to make them look so alluring? This one, however, is merely intrusive. But big. Growth is good. Isn't it?

A walk, part I

I took a walk the other day; these are some of the things I saw:

Monk

I was just thinking about my favorite TV character (besides Medium's Alison Dubois; although this series could use some help in the writing department . . . great characters, weak plots) and found this:

Have another

happy Sunday!

Spring

Spring in my backyard, as I try to capture it and learn more about my camera. These are everywhere; we used to call them the Money Plant, because their seedpods look like coins:



In my garden, but whose name I've forgotten:



Dogwoods are in bloom throughout the woods:



Sweet woodruff, which I'm trying to get to grow all around the base of a magnolia:



Herbs from the nursery: basil, cilantro, dill, parsley, nasturtiums, plus a sagey thing in yellow to highlight the red of the nasturtiums



Plus, a mysterious package arrived this morning; and it smells divine . . .

Earth Day

This Sunday's New York Times Magazine's cover story, by Michael Pollan, is basically exhorting us to plant a vegetable garden, something D and I (mostly D) had for many years when we lived in rural New England. But now that we live in a southern neighborhood, I find that prospect a little bit perplexing, with lawn care herbicides and pesticides flowing over, across, and under our property (not to mention septic tanks within close range . . .). We have an herb garden, but this doesn't involve the root of the matter, so to say; I worry about all those chemicals . . .

We've chosen instead to be part of a CSA (I know, we have to drive to pick up our box, so there's that carbon footprint), but still I feel that we are helping to build local, independent agriculture by supporting Sequatchie Cove. I'm also reading The Revolution Will Not Be Microwaved by Sandor Katz, and that gives me lots of information on how to remain local when it comes to food. Chelsea Green is a great publisher, by the way, of many books on the politics of living a thoughtful life in the 21st century.

In an unrelated matter, I was reading Blackbird's post today, and she kind of jolted me into wanting to change it up on my blog, but I'm afraid that if I delete my turtle image, I won't be able to put in another one. Maybe I'll get L to help me, but she's been hanging out in the coffeeshop all day, ostensibly working with two other girls on an AP Government project, but with free Internet access, I think they are researching other things entirely . . .

Have a

Happy Sunday

Noticing . . .

I have to link to the amazing Stephanie and her links. I am inspired to attempt to see more deeply.

Urban

L's take on downtown:

Sunday and Friday

I write this not, like Cassandra Mortmain, sitting in the kitchen sink, but while listening to the shrieking of brakes and the grinding of gears. Apparently, D is teaching L to drive the car with the standard transmission. I have been banished inside the house.

This morning, I went to church, the Lone Pilgrim. L was in a bad mood, in pajamas and a sweatshirt with the hood over her head, shouting about an essay. D was in front of the television, shouting about the Sunday morning political commentary programs. I was glad I went, as the choir sang Psalm 23 during the Offertory, so the opening to the Vicar of Dibley came to mind . . . In an hour I'm going back to hear some choral Tudor anthems sung by a fairly new group.

Friday, D and I went to the Native Plant Sale:



We got a few things, one of which was Dutchman's Pipe, a vine to cover the pergola and give us some shade. Another plant we spied and got was the Mountain Bush Honeysuckle (Diervilla rivularis), to replace the out-of-place rose bush in the otherwise native plant garden.

This pot was, oddly, NFS:

We have lots of this Blue-eyed Grass, but no Thimbleweed:


These are dried gourds that the swifts use as houses, if someone, as here, strings them up; I think every one of them was occupied.


There were many turtles lurking below the surface, but only one Canada goose was in evidence. I wonder where the mate was . . .


Tomorrow, urban views!

foot wear

Caught on the floor this afternoon in the kitchen



I went down to the studio to wind my warp; I have 40 more warp ends to wind, then I can dress the loom. The sky cleared and the temperature soared while I was there. Spring/summer is here, I think.

Roast chicken for dinner and a new week starts . . .