cloth.paper.string

be here now

once again she reminds me.
be here now.

and too, today others remind me.  
to be here.  
without regrets. 

edge

she suggested we go somewhere new.  
and then led me to the edge.
when i pay attention i see that she does this every day, in every way.

december favorites: open wide the hymns you hide

bits woven into a whole

i've lived here over five years.  and at last, i am starting to feel at home.  i realized it as i looked at the nest i found while gathering greens last week. finally, the bits are coming together and within i am finding the whole.

there are other bits too...

...i'm holding gratitude for my parents.  for their recent trek.  for all of their help.  

...i can not get enough of this song.  and this one too. (okay, the whole album actually).

...i'm delighted to be spending another month over at habit.

...i'm thinking about winter wilderness adventure.  for four years they beckoned on the horizon, but i never visited.  soon this will change.

...i picked up the knitting needles again.  for another pair of these.  but bigger.  perhaps another pair of these as well.

tomorrow i'll make this year's solstice wreath.  the greens and such have filled the porch with their lovely piney smell.  for almost a week, these bits have been waiting.  waiting to be woven into a whole.

habitual

for habit, 6 november:
i moved the piano.  by myself.  i am my mother's daughter.

. . . . . . . .

my love affair with habit continues to grow.  a community coming together around the sharing of a single image, a few words.  a collection of the collective.  i've been smitten since molly and emily launched the endeavor almost three years ago.  i've been inspired by this authentic celebration of lives truly lived.  so much so.  and i've been ever so grateful to participate a few times as a guest.  

for november, they're inviting all to take part.  do join in.

murmuration

i've been thinking of flight.  often.  

and so, i can't not share this magical bit about the power of the collective, about inherent order in what may be perceived as chaos, about the mystery that surrounds us, and yes, about flying:

murmuration by sophie windsor clive.

sunday morning sounds:  the quiet after all the rustle.

call and answer

a convergence happened in june.  of art and movement.  of the familiar and new.  of two of my disparate (and burgeoning) loves.  of handbound books and dancing.

amanda lovelee's call and answer project brought strangers together to eat pie, to pull prints to be assembled into books, to square dance, and above all else, to celebrate community and connection. when i happened upon the event at the minnesota center for book arts, during the twin cities nuit blanche festivities, i immediately knew.  i was home. 

i was home cranking prints for a poignant little book on community and square dancing to be folded together later for sharing.  

i was home fumbling through the caller's instructions.  allemande-ing left, honoring my partner, bowing to my corner, promenading home. 

home you are and home you be.  i knew i had returned home after all of that spinning and laughing and living and connecting.

for more on amanda's inspiring project see here (and if you look closely you'll even see my absolute joy in one of the sequences).

(and... it goes without saying, but i'm tickled to have found a small, though vibrant, group of dancing folk in my backyard.  it had been weeks since i smiled and laughed as much as i did last night.)

(life seems to curate the most interesting of collections for my kitchen windowsill.)

i have an idea.  or two.  about making a quilt for my bed.  and (momentarily) holding a powerful winged animal.  and being direct.  and letting go of crutches that ultimately hold me back.  and stepping forward for my own sake.  and i even have ideas about knitting.  (okay, i have many ideas.)

but right now, i'm going square dancing.  never mind the fact that i struggle with which is left and which is right.  i will put the right foot forward.  it is the only thing i can do.

the bells

the bells are ringing with your compassion and forgiveness.  
 - noted, late july 2010, white sulphur springs, california

as she journeys through the week i follow along, looking back over the notes i took during my time with the redwoods.  i know her experience will be her own.  and too, i know that the format is the same regardless of when the process is experienced. 

i distinctly remember my cracking open.  i remember seeing and accepting myself as myself without all of the armor that i had locked myself into for 'protection'.  i remember the release of that which i thought defined me.  i remember the profound calm that followed the letting go.  

and now i know the catalyst that the process provided.  the living that began to really happen when i got out of my own way.  the staying power of the experience.  the way that it has impacted me, and too, those with whom i share my life. 

looking back through the pages i penned that week next to the creek has also provided a timely reminder about compassion.  mainly compassion for myself, for my experience, for my grief.  i've been resisting stepping fully into it lately, wearing a cloak of stoicism.  it served me.  and now, gracefully or not, it's time to move through.  

i'm grateful that the bells in the tower i can see from my kitchen window toll every day at exactly the same time.  in the morning.  in the evening.  they ring with my compassion, with my forgiveness.  they remind me that all things change when we do.