restingmotion

Can Construction Be A Metaphor For Life?

I've been back from Texas for two weeks and it somehow feels like I am just beginning to get my bearings again.  I do feel like this has been a particularly hard "landing" although I can't really say why.  Perhaps it was just that I felt stressed and a bit frazzled when I left, and returned to some kind of sense of too muchness.  Perhaps I've over-filled my dance-card, with multiple parties and social events every week. Perhaps it is just that everything seems to be suddenly moving forward quickly on the house, and there are all kinds of changes and decisions.  After a long period of waiting, it feels like I've tripped over some kind of ledge, and although I don't actually feel particularly stressed, there is a bit of a lull in any creative energy.

Last week Frances wrote about being "swallowed up" by normal life upon reentry from a trip, and I very definitely felt swallowed, swallowed by a great big whale.  I keep hoping to integrate the various aspects of my life but I also realize that my efforts will continue to prove inadequate as long as I continue to let myself be swallowed, I need to be firmer in defining the boundaries of my own space and of saying, to myself, "this is enough".  Saying no to others is proving to be easier than saying no to my own greedy impulses, my natural tendency toward too-muchness.  But even then perhaps the issue is not so much about defining my boundaries but about accepting them, about thinking of my experience, and what I chose to do or not do, not as a a tug of war, me against the demands of the world, but of a piece.  Perhaps instead I should be thinking what do I want the fabric of my life to look like?  What will make that fabric whole?  And then accepting that my fabric is my own.

Well, all of this is a bit too vague, but then I am feeling a little on the vague side as well.  

At least the house is shaping up.   A mock-up of the kitchen cabinetry was put in place this week, with some temporary framing and some foam board.  This is helping as we refine choices for cabinetry and layout.  Already, walking around in the space, as opposed to looking at it on paper, a few seemingly minor, but I suspect important, modifications have already taken place.  

 

Although the cabinetry mock-up is temporary, the space increasingly feels like it is becoming something.  Friday I could stand in the corner looking out the window, imagining where my expresso machine would be, imagining making a cup of espresso, as I watched  workers digging the footings for the new deck.  By the time I actually make that espresso the deck will be in place, but the boundaries of the space have been defined. Increasingly, I can see what it will become.

I suppose that is actually what is happening here as well, in my life.  I have not been swallowed, I am just building the foundations, the substructure, and eventually the fabric will take its own shape.  We start on a path, with a goal of course, but the path itself can often be confusing and not well marked.  We start with intentions but don't really know where we are going until after we have arrived.  I can't be what I want to be until I have built my own framework, and there are bound to be modifications along the way, but just as each house has its own character, shaped by its physical space and the lives that share it, so do we humans have our own fabric, shaped by our experiences and the people who touch our lives.  We can't control the world we live in, but we can control what we hold close.

 

 

Not many words this week.

Just a few snippets:

 

Windows went into the addition:

You can also get a better sense of the scale of the addition, just a small bit of additional space but it will change the flow greatly.  The exciting thing is that I can now stand in my new kitchen space and begin to imagine the kitchen it will be.  

And the framing is in place for the new master bathroom and closet.

I've been to at least one holiday party and shared a few meals with friends.  Spent too much time in frustration over syncing problems with my phone, only to decide that I was better off doing other things.

Like wrapping sweet potatoes in bacon for a party this evening.  Perhaps time in the kitchen calmed my nerves, and so of course, once I was finished and cleaned up the phone decided to work perfectly.

 

I hope any glitches that show up in your life this week also fall into place so nicely.

 

 

 

 

 

Reading Update

It still feels like I am reading slowly.  That is not necessarily a bad thing.  I don't yet know if it is a good thing.

 

I finished five books in November; none of them were difficult.  One was a cookbook. I was looking for a recipe.  I found it in Marcella's Italian Kitchen, which I checked out of the library.  The recipe, for a fruit sorbet, helped clarify my thoughts on the use of acids to bring out the flavors of fruits.  Then I spent some time perusing the book, which was fun, but more like a trip down memory lane than a new discovery. 

 

The book I enjoyed the most was Dervla McTiernan's The Ruin.  I suppose some of what I found most appealing about the book would be aspects others might find annoying.  It was well-written and tightly plotted. I found Cormac and Aisling to be well-drawn. I found them both believable, even in their inconsistencies., although liking the characters is not something I find necessary in a novel.   In fact their inconsistencies were part of what I liked best about the novel.  The intellectual part of me wants a hard-hitting super-detective but humans aren't really like that.  The people who do well and get ahead aren't always the smartest, aren't any different than you or I; they work hard and learn how to play the game.  We all do that. We want our heroes to be superheroes. We also tend to think we are somehow inferior because we have to learn to play the game to succeed. McTiernan plays on that in this novel.  Cormac is also in a difficult, liminal period of his career, and is not sure which steps are the right steps.  He stumbles.  He has a blind spot.   He cannot see the true nature of an old friend.  But again most of us are like that in the same way.  I was rooting for him even as I was cursing his missteps.  I will read the author's next novel when it is released.

 

The novel I liked the least was Kate Atkinson's Transcription. Juliet's combination of naiveté, cunning, and obtuseness made her a bit of a cipher, which was the point of course.  I suspect, as historical fiction, it hits close to the truth, and to the pettiness of most of life.  Is that what made me uncomfortable?  I'm not certain.  Perhaps I wanted Juliette to become more self-aware, not that I've managed any such thing. Anyway, that is no fault of the novel, merely of the reader. Although the novel was beautifully written, and carried me along while I was reading, it is already fading away in my memory.

 

I enjoyed the other two novels.  I wrote about The Gunners here, albeit only briefly.  The characters are marvelously complex.  And although the plot wends its way through very easy themes and simple storytelling, there are moments when I think it is brilliant and might appeal to more literary readers as well.  I found it satisfying.  

 

Gillian Flynn's Sharp Objects is a very different kind of novel.  Even thought it was written before Gone Girl, I found it both more satisfying and more troubling.  The writing in Gone Girl was much tighter and the narrative more compelling, but for this reader at least the humanity seemed missing.  But then I felt Amy's journal read like a contrived piece of artifice from the get-go, and I suppose I never got as angry at Nick as was intended either, as he reminded me of too many hapless young men of my son's generation.  Although I felt no sympathy for either Amy or Nick, Camille was very compelling even if also completely maddening.  But that is the thing, people who are caught in psychosis, who are the victims of abuse, act in ways that to the rest of us seem incomprehensible.  Our towns and cities are full of such people, people whom we usually do not even deign to notice.  Flynn is very good at uncovering the darkness that can lie hidden behind a veneer of civility and the comfortable stories we tell ourselves about our lives and our neighbors.  I suppose this novel also gave me some insight into the later one, in that similar themes are explored, but here we have the softer, more vulnerable underbelly, and in the later novel, a harder shell has been formed.  In Sharp Objects there was much that made this reader squirm in both frustration and discomfort, but there was also hope, a hope that had already been sealed off in Gone Girl.  You can see where my preferences lie.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

I am back from my travels and readjusting to the cold.  That is taking a bit longer than the generally happy readjustment to being home.  As much as I love going places, both familiar and exotic, coming home is always a treat, even when it means readjusting to cold weather.

I had hoped that I would be suitably rested this morning to write something about the Dali exhibit I saw in Dallas, but instead of sitting and sipping espresso and writing, I have had Moisés lying across my arms and pressing himself against me, happy that I am home.  I can manage enough motion in one hand to sip my coffee, but generally welcome-home cuddles are more important than writing this morning, which is, I suppose, exactly as it should be.

 

I've learned some things on this trip.  I was stressed when I left and more relaxed upon my return, and this has led to some insights on travel both by plane and by car, as well as the differing requirements of solo travel versus companionable travel.  But I suspect these insights are constantly shifting, just as our lives, and our reactions to the world in which we live, are constantly shifting.  

 

This morning I am feeling like a tiny pinprick in the world, and it is a contented place to be, floating along, allowing the world to be what it will be, a moment of repose before venturing into the world beyond my door.

 

 

Wandering

My Texas trip came to a close with a visit to San Antonio, always one of my favorite cities.  My first day in town was occupied mostly with family visits, but my second day, my last day in Texas that wasn't a travel day, I reserved as a personal day, not that I did much.  Actually not doing much was the point.  I took a couple of walks along the riverwalk, one of several miles duration, Tikka wandered around the Pearl Farmer's Market and had brunch,  I visited a sculpture garden.

I sat on my balcony, overlooking the Riverwalk, and read a book. The photo above was taken in the very early morning however, before there was enough light for reading, but perfectly pleasant enough to sit with coffee and watch the runners go by.

I did take a few pictures here and there.  Bits that I found interesting.  I have a new phone, with a new camera and it was fun to play with it a little bit, although mostly my focus was not on picture-taking opportunities.  More likely I was just enjoying a beautiful day, breezy and cool with temperatures in the 60's. A perfect day for walking and letting one's thoughts meander.

The fall colors were lovely.

But, as per usual, I was also intrigued by human artifacts and influences.

Of course we humans always have an impact on our environment.

I continue to be fascinated by the play of light, structure, vegetation in the view from the river walk of the Tobin Center for the Arts.  I believe I took the same, or a very similar, photo on my last visit.

And there is always the question of whether what is good for us is also good for our world.  Sometimes we do better than others, sometimes we fail miserably, but hopefully we learn to live together.  Family visits are like that as well.  We start out with altruistic intentions, to see a loved one and support them, spend time with them.  But our wishes and desires often overrule our kinder instincts.  We want to see and support and bond with our families and friends, but we also want them to do and be the kind of people we want, do the things we want.  Family visits.  All that yearning and wanting and the stress of conflicting needs and desires can lead to both moments of stress and moments of kindness and empathy.

 

I was reading Rebecca Kaufman's The Gunners, which I enjoyed, and which was, in many ways a good book to read over the course of a few days visiting family.  The book explores a friendship over many years, and a process of coming together, drifting apart, and reconnecting.  But it also discusses secrets, desires, things said and things not said and how they all influence our relationships, often the things not said having a greater influence than the things said as they allow imaginations, always tainted by an isolated solitary perspective, to run wild.  And yet...

 

It is precisely there, in the "and yet" that all the possibilities coalesce, especially the possibility of love.

 

 

 

A Museum Discovery And A Concert Review

I was looking at this painting, Soup, by Miquel Barceló the other day and was reminded that I had not yet written about last Friday's concert by the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra. 

 

Somehow the idea of soup seemed relevant to me at the time, referencing the idea of art as a soup, as an essential form of nourishment but one that is a melding of all the interests and influences that go into the pot, yielding something that is shaped by and yet not necessarily completely defined by its parts.  Friday's concert, titled "Schumann's Circle of Friends" was in its own way a different soup, each work created by an individual, but also existing within a relationship of creative ideas and influences bubbling through the lives of a group of friends, music of a time and a place and a milieu, and yet, at least for some of that music, something that also transcended the limitations of that very culture which shaped its creation, in short, soup.

 

The concert opened with Felix Mendelssohn's Overture to a Midsummer Night's Dream, written when the composer was 17. It was followed by Clara Schumann's Piano Concerto in A Minor, Op 7, completed when she was 14.   The piano concerto was beautifully played by Gabriela Martinez.  Clara Schumann was a virtuoso pianist and the piece was written to show off her talents; Martinez seemed to capture this spirit of youthful exuberance beautifully, and the piece was elegantly and harmoniously played, especially in the solo cello passages played by Andy Bryenton.  

 

But I felt the first half of the program was the weaker half.  The Clara Schumann work was lovely, extraordinary really for a 14 year old girl, but although it seemed to capture  and coalesce all the themes of the moment, it struck me as just that, a perfect pulling together but ultimately without anything new to say.  The Mendelssohn overture was also lovely, well-known and beloved by the audience, but the performance felt out of sync at times, and, at least as heard on Friday night, I felt the Mendelssohn did not hold up to the works that followed the intermission.

 

The second half of the program opened with Fanny Mendelssohn-Hensel's Notturno in G minor.  Originally written for solo piano, this arrangement was for flute and strings.  I felt the music was truly gorgeous; lyrical, tender at times, but also lush with a great balance of emotion and restraint.  I don't know enough about the music of Fanny Mendelssohn, but this concert led me to wonder what might have been had she lived in a different time, with more opportunities for women, led me to wonder if perhaps she was the more talented composer.  

 

Certainly the Notturno held up against Robert Shumann's Third Symphony, "The Rhenish", a work that could be both grand and solemn, yet also lightly lush and lyrical.  I was impressed with the performance of a beloved piece that I have admittedly not listened to in a very long time.  The guest conductor, Eric Jacobsen, appeared to be adept at balancing this work, which can sometimes feel heavy with conflicting themes, in balance with the mood of the evening.  I felt like I was listening with fresh ears, carried away by the music, a feeling only magnified in the final piece, Brahms' Hungarian Dance #1.  In fact I think the entire audience, or at least a significant portion, was dancing in their hearts and heads by the time the music ended, and the audience rose up in one swell of joyous applause.  Most admirably was how these three pieces, so very different from each other, also were pulled together to create a sense of their own space, of something greater than any single one.  

And so I am back to the idea of soup.   I saw Barceló's painting at a small museum, the Meadows Museum, on the campus of SMU.  I went to see a particular exhibit, which I will write about later, but I was entranced by other pieces in the museum's collection, including this sculpture by Jaume Plensa outside the main entrance.  I was taken by its huge scale, and the way its size and construction play with weight and transparency.  Perhaps this work too, reminds me of how I felt leaving that concert a week ago, thoughts expanding with the music but also with a sense of transparency, of the light of seeing something familiar in a new way.

But let us enter the museum.  Immediately, we proceed up the stairs to the second level, where the main collection and special exhibits are housed. I am as intrigued by the view as I climb, and the glimpse of a twelfth century Spanish painting of The Three Marys, entering the tomb of Jesus.

On the landing are four works, offering a glimpse of the breadth of the museum's holdings.  Opposite that first piece is another twelfth century work, this one of the last supper.  I love the way the art is positioned so that I cannot get a photo of any one piece without partial glimpses of other works, I love the reflections in the mirrored doors.  Alas I was so entranced by the multi-dimensional reflections of he works that I forgot to note anything about the sculpture in the center.  

Representing the 20th Century, and bridging the passageway between the two galleries is this sculpture, titled In Between, by contemporary American artist, James Surls.  I went to the right, where I found 20th century Spanish art, including the painting at the top of this post, and the special exhibit on Dali, which I hope to be able to tell you about soon.

Giving Thanks

It is the time in this country when we take a day to give thanks.  And so we do.  We go overboard preparing too much food, occasionally eat to excess, watch football and parades, spend time with family and friends.  Some of us rise early the next morning and do battle seeking material excess at low prices.

 

Some of us, those whose hearts are perhaps too big, who take the worries of the world too greatly, secretly fret about whether or not we should really be celebrating excess when there is so much tragedy in the world:  people who have lost loved ones, families displaced by fires in California, hurricanes on the gulf coast, towns devastated, people who have lost everything. The tragedies of the world seem unimaginable, our own comfort and security shallow.  

 

But of course it is good to have a ritualized day of Thanks, a reminder that there is always something to be grateful for, although we may not always see it.  Perhaps it is human nature to wish for whatever it is we do not have, what we do not see, as if wishing would make it better.  But I'm not sure we wish for the right things.  Yes, wishing for rain to put out fires may seem good.  But what if it rains too much?  Mudslides, flooding.  The world rarely seems to work in the way we humans would imagine it to be.

 

I have been remembering a book I loved as a child, Half Magic by Edward Eager.  Children find a coin or talisman that grants half a wish.  Misadventures ensue.  There are parts of the book that are difficult for today's readers, yes, but I am not certain the we should abandon that which is good because of that which makes us uncomfortable.   Easy answers often ignore difficult questions, and life, human life, is nothing if not complex and often contradictory.  And so it is good to be grateful.  It is good to be reminded that the things we wish for often have unintended and unimagined consequences, and that true magic can happen in the most unexpected and unanticipated ways.

 

Be grateful.  Be kind.  Do something for someone else, no matter how small.  Have a wonderful day, by which I also mean take time to breathe in the wonder.  Give thanks. Then, having stored up all that goodness, share it with the world.

 

(the painting is by Joseph Delaney.  I originally posted it, and wrote about it, last August, here.)

 

 

 

 

Catching Up with Favorite Haunts of Old

Friday Tikka and I walked through Daingerfield State Park in East Texas, a place my family frequently went camping in my my youth. It was kind of a spur-of-the moment decision, although I have thought of stopping by before.  

 

It was cool, perhaps even chill, in the upper 40s, cloudy and dark.  I had just been driving through a couple of hours of rain, but although dark and dreary, it was not raining in East Texas although there was evidence that rain has been ample of late with signs of flooding in many places.  In fact the contrast of wet and burnt were unsettling on my walk, spongy earth and areas of charred burnt forest and stumps amidst the lush new growth, reminded me that Texas is coming off a drought of many years duration.

Still, it was a lovely day for a walk.  There is a trail around the small lake, a trail of about 2 1/2 miles duration which I would have liked to take but I was worried about it being too far for Tikka.  I needn't have worried and I am sure there is a lesson in that.  Tikka hasn't been walking as much lately, and she does have some degenerative issues in her spine, but she was happy to wander off, blazing a trail.  Perhaps, now that the weather is cooler, we need to explore more. Perhaps she is simply bored with the apartment complex, I know I am as a walking trail, at any rate.

 

We didn't take the lake trail, but instead wandered partly around the lake, then took the Mountain trail, and a subsidiary offshoot, I think officially named something else on the maps, but the signs simply said Mountain trail. My thoughts were that these trails were shorter, and they were, .66 mile, and .5 mile each, but I had to get to them, having parked along the lake trail, not near to the mountain trails.  In the end we walked 2 miles, and it was a harder walk than had we simply taken the loop around the lake, but I think it worked well for us.

 

 At one point the subsidiary trail went steeply uphill, not quite vertically, but close.  Tikka scampered up boulders and tree roots like a mountain goat, looking curiously at me I picked my way more slowly, looking for steady footholds, and often handholds as well,  in the mud and wet leaves, and over the rocks.  Still it was a good walk, and we had both recovered enough energy to sprint across the lawn back to our car at the end of the trail.  Tikka of course then got to take a nap while I drove the last 2 hours or so to my mother's house in Garland.

 

I'm expecting a quiet week. Blogging will probably be irregular.

 

 

Just in time for the Holidays

It appears that yes, I can finish something I started.  

You may or may not remember this sweater.  I last showed it to you in Mid September, in pieces on the blocking board.  I had every intention of finishing it up right away.  There were some complications and then I had every intention of finishing it in mid-October, but alas I managed to distract myself once again.  And now, finally finished.  Presenting Abigail modeling Raspberry Glitter, just in time for cooler weather and holiday parties.

If you look back on that original post, you might note that there were sleeves.  Alas they were the source of great angst and upset, and after (yet another) ripping and re-knitting session I abandoned the sleeves all together.  It seems I had forgotten something critical, namely that bias fabrics need to be cut with ample room to allow for drape, and although the sleeves would have fit had they not been knit on the bias, they felt too snug when I wore them.  So I ripped and re-knitted them a bit larger only to find that I still disliked them.  Although the shell itself is perfectly comfortable, I found the sleeves to be shifty itchy things, best banished from my presence. Abandoning the sleeves has resulted in a sweater which I will actually wear. 

 

But there is more.

While I was battling those recalcitrant sleeves,  I needed something peaceful and relatively calming in my hands.  Enter a bag of Classic Elite Paisley in a lovely muted aqua.  It seems that I keep buying the same colors over and over again, and I decided that this yarn would make a lovely shawl, a shawl for someone else.   Shown on Matilda, who is waiting to be padded out, is the finished shawl, which has been donated to my church's prayer shawl ministry.  The resulting fabric is soft and snuggly, with a lovely drape, and I am sure someone will enjoy it.  Blocked dimensions are 19 inches by 90 inches (or 7 1/2 feet), Which proved to be a slight blocking challenge, as seen below in a photo I shared on instagram last week.

I've already started another project.  Details, perhaps, soon. And for those of you who want more than pretty pictures, who wish to delve into the gory details of yarns, patterns, mods and what have you, I will manage to update the knitting blog within a few days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rainy Day Walk

It is raining.  It has been raining all week although at the moment I am not really perturbed by the rain; by the mud perhaps, but not the rain.  In fact I had forgotten how nice it can be to walk in the rain.  When I was a girl, in my teens and twenties, I loved walking in the rain.  I was perhaps silly and naive, perhaps a bit of a romantic, although I'm not sure I allowed many to see that side of myself, even then.  Then life became busy, filled with family and career, and I became stressed and perhaps occasionally bitter, or if not bitter, at least cynical. But cynicism always hides an edge of bitterness.  I began to perhaps resent the rain,  and long for sunshine, to associate sunshine with happy days and happy activities. But that grumbling wasn't really about the weather it was about my own inner unhappiness, even though I wouldn't have said I was unhappy.  Stressed perhaps; I would have admitted to stress.  So much easier to blame the rain, to find a scapegoat, rather than to look inward, seeking inner fissures, seeking to heal oneself.  And then of course loss and grief got in the way and forced me to peer into those cracks before they consumed me.  I'm sure you are tired of hearing about that by now, but it continues to surprise me how fine the line is between death and life, between grief and joy.  I continue to marvel about the way growth and healing isn't so much about finding a new path but about rediscovering an old path than had become neglected and overgrown.

I hadn't planned on taking such a thoughtful turn this morning. But my thoughts after a morning walk wend their way along their own path, purling through the undergrowth of my life. 

 

I've taken my morning walk in my home neighborhood every morning the past week.  So much nicer than the apartment complex, even in the rain.  Even for 2 1/2 miles in the rain.  Monday it rained steadily for my entire walk, and yet I couldn't stop smiling, looking at the soft colors of the leaves, smelling the wet earth and the slightly musty smell of damp and decay mixed with another scent I can really only call clean.  I couldn't stop smiling despite a few inner grumbles brought on by my own misunderstanding of the layers needed for the cold and damp.  First I grew too hot, then, as I divested myself of a poorly chosen layer, I got a little wet and grew cold.  Still the smiles returned, unbidden. Tuesday I was also dressed for rain, the forecast 100% chance of rain, so I once again had my raincoat, my water repellent pants over my leggings, and my trusty blunnies,  but smarter layering choices underneath. However the rain kindly held off during the time of my walk, starting up again just as I was returning to my car.  Tuesday I was able to take a few pictures.

I love the peacefulness of early morning walks, especially mornings after a rain.  The wet earth holds a different kind of silence than drier days, the bird calls, always present, are less exuberant perhaps, but there is still that early morning sense of everything being new all over again, now with the magic of droplets clinging to the tips of flowers.  I love the way the leaves gently shimmer and shake when a bird alights on a delicate branch, or the shower of droplets scattering through the air when they take flight. 

 I love the cool air, the way the chill hits my face, or my fingers when I pull them out of my pockets. I love the leaves, bright and colorful on the trees,  a blaze of glory proclaiming a life well-lived.  But I also love the fallen leaves, the carpet they make on the ground, and those solitary hangers-on, still clinging tenaciously to their branches, torn, ravaged with blight and age, under siege, determined.

I suppose it is easy to love Spring with all the new blossoms, or Summer with its warmth and exuberance, but still I love Autumn, and walking in the rain.  I love the knowledge that this rain, cold and dreary as it may be refreshes and replenishes the earth beneath my feet. I walk occasionally melancholy, yet also filled with hope, secure in the knowledge that because it rains in November, there are sure to be flowers again in March. I wander on, occasionally grumbling yes, but also secure in the knowledge, or is it faith tinged with knowledge, that joy and happiness and love are always there, in the very soil of our lives.  Sometimes cold and wet, oozy and uncomfortable, at other times hard and unyielding, but always full of promise. Waiting.