inbetweennesses

 snowmelt

 lichens

 just above the pond

 rock book, no pages

christmas thaw

it is a funny thing

i've been on a vacation of sorts

incapacitated by lethargy begotten by hard work

very hard work.

and so, now i take my time.

i walk around this christmastime and gather and search and seek

like some madwoman wishing a true sign

(and the snow has all gone away

and the damned ticks come out to see

if it's spring just yet.

global warming. 

cockroaches and ticks.)

what do i find?

strawberry leaves, green and red,

ferns,

shallow mud holes,

dogbane and milkweed

whose fibers i happily strip,

stuff my pockets,

and bring home to make twine while we talk

after supper is done

but the stories are not.

so, there is this lariat of twine

good for use.

used for good.

black and mahogany and white

all these. 

this string for you, my friends.

a string of pictures

 duff

 ruffed grouse just drowned

 old barn foundation

 fernstar

being here

today. 

SOLSTICE

SOLSTICE

darkness comes

more and more.

we shrink and stretch

as we fight this torpor

hiding the deep fear of the deep darkness.

 instead of loving the endings

loving them i say!

as the year subsides

and the dear light leaves.

it is deep winter 

cold this solstice.

but warmth is coming with the holyday.

 these spent blossoms

search for a pollinator until they fade.

i take home to print with.

 around these hills

the land settles,

 the big birds are now seen.

and many days i watch them hunt

if i'm lucky enough.

it's a stewart brand lesson:

there's no such thing as free lunch.

while we can't prepare food there yet,

we can hang out,

pour a cup of water,

wash the clothes or bathe,

watch the friendly doe skirt the pines,

hear a great horned

call.

or a coyote family.

if there's been sun enough for the panels,

or snow enough to ski,

or love enough to sustain,

we are blessed.

may you be blessed as well.

a hopefull solstice to you.

warmth and dirt

i like black and white 

skinny stripes

 my daughter hannah knit me a hat

for my birthday

and

i've been twining thread.

dogbane fiber

chose me when i was thinking of what could get me out 

into the meadow

before the snows.

not milkweed this time,
dogbane.

 do you see this lovely book?

made by elina lundahl
this book entices me, 
and elina's blog informs.

 isn't it fine?

and this little one i like

but has several editorial slips.

and

these are models of bindings

made by j. a. szirmai who wrote

the archaeology of medieval bookbinding.

 they inspire me

as did my medieval binding teacher jim croft.

i was listening to dr. kimmerer 

(the author of BRAIDING SWEETGRASS)

talk yesterday during my snow day

(for some of you, 
a snow day is a day off due to
 TOO MUCH SNOW)

 ~as i twined yesterday~
it grew and grew

 this fiber wasn't neatly harvested

or harvested early enough

 but it holds together

and i was keeping my fingers employed

 as the big snow came down and the wind played tricks.
and i listened and thought,
hands informing heart informing brain...
then,

an opportunity came along during the afternoon

which was inspiring.
(keeping it close for now)

  the snow came all day yesterday,

and today my neighbor fred from down the road

swung by 

and plowed out my driveway

 he won't take money

but i will repay that kindness

when and how i can.
reciprocity.

only about a foot, 

but heavy, wet, and slippery

this snow.

here's the dogbane 
and two small pieces of my hosta paper
with applied ochers gathered over the weekend from a road cut 
over by richville.
i think there are possibilities
for north country dirt!

light

light is necessary

and causes a stir deep in my heart 

this time of year
can you smell the beeswax?

 light comes from within

 thin ice

framing rocks and twigs

 and makes riverscape on frozen rivulet

 light on my old barn

 burns it brightly

until it may, perhaps

catch fire and fly away.

 as usual i'm looking for light,

and junko oki has made a new book

a real catalog of work

 bound with an industrial sewing

 encased in a slipcase

 her stitches
(so many stitches) 

 i love how her needle dances

and sings

and tells stories, jokes,

her book is here

and is worth the bother to find.

and another book

by jean is a new shimacho

a sample book

 and i am deeply honored that

the pages are my handmade paper

there was yet more light,

from my realtor

homemade wine.

the house is still waiting for a buyer.

my back is doing much better, thank you for the advice and good wishes.
though school stumbles along, limping and dancing, mostly limping

as we wind down toward solstice

and little tiny light.

sunsets quietly

 this week

all week

my back, my strong never achy back

 got injured somehow...

stress, age, old injury

 i have taken to doing core strengtheners

some exercises and heat

and a couple of pharmaceuticals.

the back is doing better now, but i am tired

my bones are tired, my brain feels fuzzy.

 it's been quite cold

but the snow is gone again.

 and school, my work

has been, shall we say, theatrical.
you would hardly believe what's happening in public education
it makes my back ache, my head spin.

there are some things that brighten my days

like this sunset yesterday.

 i am hoping december will soften things a bit

some snow, 
some caring, 
some love

otherwise,

i will miss the small miracles

for grumpinesses.