•of use•

Spent the morning giving advice to a young songwriter. Reminiscing, really, over cappuccino. Like a washed-up rocker. "How'd you do it?" She clutched her espresso. Giving advice makes me cringe, but it's tradition. Ritual. It's how I got here. Someone told me I could.

It's good to feel useful. Even if I am rusty. And the tide is coming in. Fast. xox

Small Stone

The scent of a struck match: dark, sharp, sulfurous, clean. Warmth before the candle is ever lit.

Notebook

I bought a new journal yesterday. I have several notebooks sitting around, in various partially-written-in states, but sometimes, when you need to start over, to pick up a practice that's been dormant, you just need a new notebook.

I have a bit of an obsession with notebooks actually, but normally, I go for cheap ones--notebooks I'm not worried about writing in, notebooks that are large enough to really spread out in, write big (though I like the smallest ruled lines I can find), be messy, write fast. This has always been important to me, a way of getting around the need to be perfect in my journal, and I know this is a thing--I'm hardly alone in this little neurosis. So as picky as I am about the feel and weight of the book, the particular weight and silkiness and color of the paper, the narrowness of the spaces between the lines, the need for lines at all--as picky as I am about all those things, I generally manage to find notebooks that work for just a few dollars.

But yesterday, wandering randomly around Borders, I was drawn to the Moleskine notebooks. This is bizarre not only because they're super expensive compared to what I usually choose, but because I've had a bit of a knee-jerk reaction against them in the past. The damn things are all over the place--they're sort of the the "in" notebook, and frankly, I find the trend vaguely irritating. It's my curmudgeonly side, what can I say?

But there I was, picking up various Moleskine notebooks, and putting them down again, resisting the urge mightily even as I was curious about why the heavy little black book with the creamy pages was calling to me. It took me--no lie--half an hour of touching various books, and then putting them down, and then picking up the other options, and then putting those down--before I could decide.

The one I finally chose is not only more expensive than my usual choices, it's also the size I would normally consider out of the question. It's the iconic 240 page, 5-inch by 8 1/4-inch book, with a hard cover. I finally chose it for a few reasons. First--it's a notebook. Not technically a life-changing or bank-breaking decision. If I'm this drawn to it, it's probably for a reason. And second, it's ultimately a lot cheaper (though less fun) than a trip to London to visit my favorite stationery store, where my very favorite notebooks live. (Though I see now that Muji not only has stores in NYC these days, they also sell stuff online. Oh well.)

So my deal with myself is this: I'm just aiming to fill this book up. I'd like to write every day, and to fill it in a reasonable amount of time. If I scratch out four pages a day, that's two months worth of time to fill the book. I never actually *fill* my notebooks, so that'd be an accomplishment. In the process, of course, my hope is to rekindle a regular practice of keeping a journal.

And there are several things I'm noticing so far as I write in the book. First, I have to admit--this thing is a really great object. I love great objects, and I really love the idea of a journal as an object--as a handmade thing, an art project, rather than some repository for deathless prose. This book feels good, and I like the way the green ink I'm currently using sits on the page. I like the slight curl the pages develop as they're written on. I like the way the book will be fatter when I'm done with it, the way the ink will build up an almost imperceptible layer on each page, giving it depth and dimension.

And I realized, as I wrote in it this morning, that my journal writing these days is tinged with a slight air of frustration, of irritation at my inability to get the words down coherently--at the need to slow my hand down for long enough to capture a thought, when my brain is already racing down the page. My handwriting is worse than ever. And this delights me, frankly. It used to be, at some level, a kind of chore to fill the pages each day, even as I needed the journal to ground me and keep me healthy. Still, each morning, facing an empty page was vaguely intimidating.

But now I've apparently come to a point--almost 16 years into my journal keeping life--where I want to write in it. Not because I think it'll keep me sane (though it will) and I should do it, not because I have anything to say, not because I'm desperate to prove to myself that I'm a writer. But just because my hand craves the motion, because my brain has words to dump out whether they're useful or garbage, and because I like seeing the journal itself develop as an object. I no longer worry what I'll find to write about when I sit down at the page. I no longer question whether there's something to write about. There are always words, and, in my journal, the goal is simply to write them down.

And all these words here, and I think I'm still not fully explaining what I mean. It's something though, about a vital ritual action having become more pure over the years, and more automatic than ever before. About no longer needing the action to result in any payoff in order to act; about the action finally, honestly being its very own payoff. And at the same time, knowing that this new phase of action itself is very likely to open some door I can't even imagine.

•reuse, recoup, regroup•

I've been thinking about convenience, lately. Is there a time when convenience doesn't amount to waste-in-the-long-run? It's so easy to waste. To bundle things in plastic bags and bustle them out to the curb on trash day. So easy to destroy. The challenge of repurposing the fabric of our lives is absolutely staggering. Monumental. Probably the greatest hurdle humankind will ever face. At least it feels that way to me, today, staring at bits of tissue paper and ribbon from Christmases past. I am chewing on that word, repurpose. Yes, we can repurpose our emotions. Our visceral reactions. Our prejudices and judgements. Everything has a purpose, mise en place, and what is the work of forgiveness if not a clear repurposing of energy?

Reuse a ribbon. Reconfigure hatred. Reclaim harmony. xox

p.s. Today's post brought to you by this idea: http://tinyurl.com/stoneriver

Looking

It's been raining here for days. Actually, even for Davis, this has been an unusually wet, chilly winter--which I suppose fits in well with the extreme cold and snow the rest of the country seems to be having. I don't mind the grey at all, but on a walk with the dogs the other day, I was struck by the contrast between the seemingly dull, grey day, and the intense color that's actually hidden everywhere in plain sight.

I'm a fan of this--having to look a little harder to find things that are right there, under the surface. One summer years ago, I was a camp counselor for a day camp run by the 92nd Street Y, in New York City, and I used to play a game with my kids in which I made them close their eyes and listen--really listen--and count the sounds they heard. They were always surprised at just how many things they could hear when they stopped assuming they heard nothing and really began to listen.

Aside from shifting my perspective about what I'm really seeing or hearing, a game like this can really shift my perspective about my location. Yesterday, I spent an hour taking photographs in what, on the surface of things, is just a suburban park/neighborhood. Looked at the way I usually look at things, it's not the most thrilling place in the world--it's hyper manicured and managed; it's hardly a rich wilderness. But it has its own little secrets worth discovering, and taking some time to discover them was a pretty nice way to begin the year.

•candy•

She was always up before dawn, in the impossibly dark morning, with the clock ticking timelessly and me, surely waking before anyone else... She was up, and dressed, and busy in the kitchen. My grandmother Audrey, maker of mincemeat and meringue pies and peanut butter eggs and holiday dinners and grandchildren. Every December, she made "mints," pale green and pink discs that melted away when you bit into them. She'd keep them on the stone patio behind the house, in giant tins. This year, I learned why she made so many--one recipe makes a zillion--and also why she got up so early. I tried to re-create some this year, and was most successful whilst the toddler slept.

I had this to go on:



Sweetened/condensed is the only "condensed" milk I've ever heard of, so I reached for that.





To get a log-able dough, I had to play around with quantities. More milk, more peppermint... My discoveries were
a) I think she meant vanilla flavoring the first time she lists flavoring,
b) blending the liquids together first makes everything easier, and
c) even if it doesn't look like a recipe, follow it to the letter. Trust.

My grandma called me "Pee Wee," because I was the littlest for 8 years, and slender as a toddler. I remember thrilling over her craft drawers, examining spearhead after feather after button. She was a troupe leader, and mother of five--all daughters. Costumes and everyday clothes were hand-made. A pint of ice cream was shared between seven bodies.

This morning, I am the one up before dawn. I can putter, and make, and watch the day stretch before me. It's Christmas, and I am grateful for everything: quiet, family, materials, memory.



xox

Around the House

It's been rainy and cold for several days, and our central heat hasn't been working for a while. I finally broke down yesterday and called someone to come fix it, which they did with impressive speed, actually--like, within half an hour of my call.

(Are my husband and I the only homeowners who love our heating and air conditioning company? They've done a number of jobs for us since we moved into this house [and one in our last rental house, too, which is how we found them], and, no joke, I could write a whole entry on how lovely they are, from the owner of the company on down. They're super good people, and super good at what they do. [And for anyone local, that's Blake's Heating and Air Conditioning.] There's something wonderful about getting to support the business of people for whom you have that much respect.)

Anyway, it's not as if we were totally without heat--we have a room heating system (a mini split) for the largest room in the house, and most of the time, that's all we need to use--it provides ambient heat to the bedroom, the other room we use with any frequency. And then, of course, we have a wood stove, in which Brian started a fire yesterday, just before I broke down and called to have the central heat repaired. I was kind of miserable and unproductive thanks to the chill. The rain and the 40 degree highs don't sound so bad if you're living in a place with real winter, but even those temps can make it feel uncomfortably chilly inside--especially when it's wet outside--and the mini split system was having trouble keeping up. I love the cold weather, but I don't really want it creeping into my house.

Now we have real heat on and a fire going. And I still need multiple sweaters.

The fire is so lovely, I was inspired to play with the camera. I find the ash covered, red hot coals especially beautiful.

Not the best photograph, but below are the Italian cypress trees that stand in our next-door-neighbor's side yard, and I love to look at them through our skylights. They're incredibly majestic trees, and I thought they were tall when we first moved into the house, but every once in a while, I see them with fresh eyes, and I realize how alarmingly much they've grown in the almost four years we've lived here.

When we put solar panels on our house a few years ago, the solar company encouraged us to talk to our neighbor about taking the trees down, and she and my husband actually discussed it--she was totally willing to let us do it (she's a fantastic next-door-neighbor, and the tree thing is just the tip of the iceberg). But I wasn't having any of it. They barely block the panels, and it just wasn't worth it to take down such spectacular trees--especially since they amount to the only real view we have in this house. There are other windows, of course, but they don't really lead anywhere inspiring. (Want to see an inspiring view from someone's house? Check this out.)

These trees blow around in the wind, and they seem to be waving, or talking to me. They tell me whether it's windy or still outside, and they're accompanied by the music of these wind chimes my brother gave me. The chimes are large, and they sound deeply, nothing tinkly about them. More like actual bells. Dark, mysterious bells providing a soundtrack to windy days.

•fumbling toward christmas•

Satellite wreath-ery (from a visit to Atlanta)...


Gingerbread house-ery...


Gingerbread mastery (from a visit to Columbus; note the Currier & Ives model in the background)...


Small boy wonder, and tall leafery.

Happy Friday!

xox

We're Still Here, and Gratuitous Jewelry Pictures

Yeah, so we're actually still here. Just in case anyone is reading out there--or trying to. There was travel (for some of us), and Thanksgiving, and more travel (for some of us). And then I basically got eaten by my own preparations for the yearly pre-holiday sale I do with a friend.

I make jewelry from silver clay, bronze clay, and a variety of other materials that inspire me. And yesterday, at this year's sale, I was actually able to get some pretty decent pictures of my things, which was lovely. Next step? Actually placing things into the empty, lonely etsy shop I created several years ago. (For the sad tale of why my shop is still empty and lonely, read here--but watch this etsy space, because with a camera this cooperative, there's no reason to leave the tumbleweeds in place any longer.)

And without further ado, and because I'm too tired and behind on other work to write anything more engaging, here are the gratuitous jewelry pictures. Enjoy. (I'm also too tired to add commentary to the pictures, but if you have questions, do ask! I'm happy to answer them after more sleep.)

Happy Chanukah!