restingmotion

Some Thoughts On The Newest Thomas Lynley Novel

One nice fringe benefit of my trip to Texas was the ability to indulge in a little light reading.   I was eager enough to read Elizabeth George's new novel, A Banquet of Consequences, that I preordered it on my kindle, and stayed up much of one night in our hotel room in San Antonio, hiding under the covers to avoid waking my mom, as the wind howled outside and the sound of rain pounded against the windows.  And it was a good book, one well worth staying up for.

 

I am not going to spoil the fun by revealing details of the plot, only say that Lynley and Havers seem to be more or less back on track, with stronger elements of their old selves in evidence.  We actually don't see a lot of Lynley, although he is present, and his presence is critical.  Lynley himself seems to be coming to terms with the changes in his own life, and the consequences of his actions, both the continuing repercussions of his ill-conceived involvement with Isabelle Ardery, and the more interesting and ultimately challenging consequences of his growing attachment to Daidre Trahair.  In short, Lynley has been working through his grief, and show signs of becoming a far more complex and interesting character in the process.  We still have to see how far he is willing to carry through.

 

But Lynley isn't really the focus in this novel.  That distinction goes to Barbara Havers, although actually we spend far more time with a complex cast of characters and an interesting set of circumstances, the same set of circumstances that ensnare Barbara Havers, and lead to her involvement in solving a crime.    In fact the entire novel is an interesting study in motivation and the consequences of both action and inaction.  Of course Havers has a lot to lose and a lot to gain in this investigation.  Her situation remains precarious following her almost complete unraveling in the last novel, but she acquits herself well, and we not only begin to see the old Barbara emerge, a woman who is creatively brilliant as an investigator, either despite of her prickliness, or because of it, I'm not sure which, but we even see hints that she too may be growing in new and interesting ways.

 

And this is what I probably found most interesting in this book.  Not only is it a good mystery and it is, complex and satisfying at that.  But George also does a masterful job of bringing her characters around to where they need to be in order to carry on.  I know that not everyone liked the last few novels, and that they have been uneven at best.  And I also realize how shocked we all were at the death of Lynley's wife, but, increasingly, I think that this evolution was necessary in the life of these characters, just as evolution and transition is necessary in our own lives.  Without this evolution, no matter how uncomfortable it was to us as readers, I am not convinced that this series could continue.  It seems to me that the author has positioned herself and her characters well, with a promising future, a future I am looking forward to exploring, as George leaves us with some tantalizing hints at the end of the novel.

 

And although I am certain that what we pick up out of our reading has as much to do with our own accumulated experiences as with the actual words written, I am also intrigued by the way this novel reflects ideas that have been floating in my head for some months now.  Lynley realizes that Barbara's brilliance as an investigator has been hampered by the straightjacket Ardery has placed her in, and he needs the old Barbara back.  In fact both Lynley and Havers were brilliant as investigators because they were both outsiders, although outsiders of very different sorts, and it was this meeting of their skills and perspectives, and their ability and willingness to see into the cracks, that made them a fine team.  But with his marriage, Lynley was getting too settled, and moving back, just a little bit more comfortably, into his natal milieu; and Havers, well Havers lost her lifeline when Lynley married.

 

The book reminded me of books I read this summer, books I didn't review, and which I can't really go back to now.  One was Kevin Ashton's How to Fly a Horse, which was about creativity and creative thinking.  Ashton's thesis was that we are all creative, that creativity is a hallmark of our species, a basic part of our nature, but one which some of us tap into better than others.  He also noted that security and fear are another part of our nature, and the both the need to be creative, and the fear of change and need for security are equally necessary for our survival.  It is this competing set of instincts that are of course happening in this struggle between Ardery, who is all too often all too close to self-destructing and losing the security of her life, and who therefore craves security and order, and Barbara Havers, whose life is chaos, and who needs the security brought about by putting the bad guys away, and whose need fuels her brilliantly creative and insightful investigative impulses. But all that brilliance and creativity comes at a cost, and as Ashton repeatedly points out, creativity is not neat and orderly.   Lynley and Havers both make people uncomfortable, although in very different ways, and in order to do this they must be open to their own discomfort and to finding a way to live with their own discomfort.  This book shows both of them making progress toward something better perhaps than they were before.

Thursday Morning at 7:56 AM

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

Tikka and I took a nice long walk this morning, after which I poured my second cup of coffee and moved here, to my desk.  My favorite candle is burning, and the 11-day-old roses, salvaged from last week's party, are looking faded but still make me smile.  My fingers are just a tad numb because I forgot to wear gloves this morning, thinking it was warmer than it has been, which is true, but 35 is still chilly on unprotected fingers.

There have been very few Thanksgiving of my adult life, well, post-college life, that I have been home and am not cooking Thanksgiving Dinner.  Even in those first few years, in my early 20's I cooked for a motley group of friends and neighbors and the tradition continued throughout my married life.  Even though my step-children rarely joined us for Thanksgiving, the table was always full and the company good.  The only years I didn't cook were probably when we were away, mostly at either my mom's or my brothers'.  Although there was one year we spent Thanksgiving on a cruise of the Amazon and Coastal Brazil, and another year in Puerto Rico.  No wait.  I cooked in Puerto Rico, everyone in our little vacation villa complex contributed a dish, and we had Thanksgiving outdoors surrounded by mangroves. 

 

Three years ago, my step-daughter hosted, and I brought sides.  That was much the same as this year, when I am bringing Brussels sprouts and stuffing/dressing.  But three years ago, George was still alive, and I also had to cook breakfast and lunch, and I would watch him, joyfully, while he sat entranced by the Thanksgiving Day Parades.  This year feels different, but not in a bad way.  The house is quieter.  I had a leftover piece of cake with my first cup of morning coffee, before my period of silent meditation, before our morning walk.   And I give thanks that this year, I am more comfortable in my skin than I was at this time last year, more comfortable in my home too, as it has been a year of settling and rearranging, a year of growth and acceptance. 

 

Although I remember that there was a period where I was too stressed and too overwhelmed to enjoy cooking, that seems like ancient history to me now and I actually miss the hustle and bustle of cooking Thanksgiving Dinner.  I still love to cook, but it is not just the cooking itself, it is the act of making something delicious and special for others, for food as an expression of gratitude and welcome and comfort, of reaching out to others, and the sharing of food, food prepared with joy and love as an act of community and acceptance. 

 

But some time in front of the fire with a good book and some furry companionship also sounds lovely, and there will be plenty of food and conversation later on.  Besides I got my cooking fix by inviting the cook and her family over for dinner last night and a brief respite from shopping and cooking and general holiday madness.  It was a simple meal, but the joy is in the sharing as much as the making.  We had these peanut-crusted chicken kabobs, one of my grandson's favorites, and mine as well.  And I tried this cake, which was surprisingly good, rich, mellowly spicy, and buttery tasting despite being both gluten- and dairy-free, with an interesting bit of crunch, which took getting used to, but which I think I like, although the cake is better the day it is made.

 

And so, I hope you all have a day filled with joy, and peace, and the knowledge that whatever the world throws at us, we have much to be thankful for. 

 

Photo  of roses: mine

Photo of chicken kabobs courtesy of Foodandwine.com.  See link above.

Blog Title inspired by Lisa. 

 

 

Monday Morning

Monday Morning.  A fresh pot of coffee.  Quiet anticipation of a relatively restful week. 

 

At the moment I am actually looking forward with to not doing anything, not going anywhere.  I'm sure that will change, but after an over-scheduled week, a bit of quiet sounds nice.  I would have to say it was not deliberate, but in some part of my psyche it must have been, there must have been some evil-genie involved, the one that always pushes me to do more, to miss nothing.  She'd probably drive me to death if I let her.  But of course, I don't.  The conflicting need for quiet meditation is too strong.  I won't.

The flowers from last week are fading nicely.  I need to do some rearranging, to remove some spent blossoms, but the roses are drying nicely, and other nice blooms remain.  Memory and promise.

 

Contemplating the flowers reminds me of the small bits of planting done this past week; hopefully it was not too late.  I managed to plant a couple of roses, a couple of small hydrangeas, some alstroemeria, even a few bulbs.  Planting holds such promise, such anticipation, enough to tide me over the bleakness of winter, and by the time the new growth begins I will once again be thrilled and excited, like a child gazing at the tree on Christmas morning, surrounded by gifts and promises.

 

I have to cook one side dish for Thanksgiving.  Although it feels odd not to be cooking, it is not a bad kind of odd.  It may in fact be rather nice.  I anticipate a long walk, a good book or two, some sewing, knitting, or embroidery time.  Oh yes, and some more work in the garden.  I'm not quite caught up on settling the flower beds in for the winter, and there are still some bulbs to plant.  Perhaps I overindulged, just a bit.  Promises, promises.  I hope it is not too late.

 

 

 

This Fragile Place

It has been a week and I have not written about Paris.  Such is not out of character.  I tend to avoid commenting on many things.  But I see this is not necessarily possible.  It is not that my sadness has not joined the world's sadness at this atrocity.  And yet words have failed me, not just here and now but all week.  I suppose I was trying to shape the words, trying to write something grand, not letting my heart say what it wanted to say, not letting the words be what they needed to be.

 

In a watershed moment, I reread Eve Ensler's play, Necessary Targets, which had been heavily on my mind as I contemplate both the sadness and loss and the complicated dance of anger, cries for retaliation, cries for peace, and various knee jerk reactions that have surged through the media.  Some of these reactions upset me even more than the tragedy itself, as it is feeding our fear that leads into further darkness.  Feeding our fear does not honor the dead; it objectifies them yet again, using them as a means to an end, and end that merely leads to more bloodshed and more death; feeding our fears means the terrorists have won, they have won the battle for our souls.

 

But what does a play about Bosnian Refugees have to do with bombings in Paris?  Absolutely nothing.  Absolutely everything.  I saw the play in the summer of 2000, before the terrorist attacks in New York, before so much it seems, but the play has remained with me.  The book came out much later, but in reading the words of the play, I still hear the voices of those actresses from that summer long ago, I still feel that shock of recognition and compassion and awareness, the same shock that Paris brings:  The compassion for the families, the shocked realization that these were people just like us, that we, too, are not safe, that this place in which we live our lives in relative peace and safety is such a fragile place, and we hold beauty and compassion far too lightly.

 

 It is easier for us to distance ourselves from the horror of war, of tragedy, when we cannot relate it to ourselves, to our lives, to our actual experiences and the people and/or places we know.  We could distance ourselves from the horror of Bosnia, mostly because most of us were not familiar with Bosnia before the war.  We can distance ourselves from the hundreds of innocents who die in the Middle East because we do not think of them as innocents, as individuals, but as shell people, the other, with whom we are at war.  We set up boundaries and distance ourselves, just as the two women who went to Bosnia in Ensler's play distance themselves from the women they are purportedly trying to help.

 

One of the powerful figures in this play, Zlata, was a pediatrician, formerly head of pediatrics at a major urban hospital, a woman who once led a civilized, urban life, a life we would recognize in New York or Chicago or San Francisco.  As she spoke I could easily imagine her, stopping for coffee on the way to work, chatting with friends and colleagues, easy and comfortable in her life:

 

"You don't understand that this happened to us--to real people.  We were just like you, we weren't ready for this--nothing in our experience prepared us--there were no signs--we weren't fighting for centuries--it didn't come out of our perverted lifestyle--you all want it to be logical--you want us to be different than you are so you can convince yourselves it wouldn't happen there, where you are.  That's why you turn us into stories, into beasts, Communists, people who live in a strange country and speak a strange language--then you can feel safe"

 

Paris is different.  Paris is not a war zone.  Paris hits far too close to home.  Paris shocks us out of our complacency.   The people who died were people just like you and me.  They had mothers, siblings, children of their own.  The terrorists too had mothers, they too are more than just the other, more than just terrorists, because surely once they were people not so different from any of us.  We do not know.  Necessary Targets brought home to me how much we build walls around ourselves, thinking our safety, our boundaries, and our bubbles protect us, but they do not.  

 

I mourn for the families of those who died in Paris.  But those families are no different from all the other families of those who have died, some of them in war zones, some of them innocents, some of them killed by our own bullets and missiles.  I mourn for those who have died because of poverty and neglect, those who have suffered because we are too good at distancing ourselves and setting boundaries, because we are too good at believing our boundaries protect us. 

 

I mourn for the soldiers. I mourn for those who succumb to the power of fear, who think that revenge and retaliation is the answer when it is really just a path into further darkness.  By striking back we give the terrorists what they want; we justify their holy war, we justify their actions, and the dead become sacrifices. I mourn for the mothers of those terrorists,  for surely no mother wants such a fate for her babies.  Who will hold the mothers and comfort them in their grief?  Already we pull back, guilt by association.    We build walls and more walls and believe that our strength is in our walls.  But it is not.  Our strength is not in denying evil.  Our strength is in learning to overcome it, learning to connect to each other and love each other despite its presence, because it is present in all of us. Our strength is in our compassion.

 

Zlata again:

"I used to think it was the leaders, that men really made this war because of their hunger for power.  But now I really believe it's in all of us--this thing, this monster, waiting to be let out.  It waits there looking for a reason, a master, an invitation.  If we are not aware of it, it can conquer us."

 

I mourn for the children who may become terrorists, and through them for all of us, because how can we know what our children will become?  We like to think it cannot happen to us, that we are protected, that our children our protected.  But in fact we cannot know this, cannot know what our children see and know and hear and feel, not completely.  We cannot know.  Even at our very best, most loving, most careful, we cannot know.  History tells us that we cannot even know what we may be become.  Again and again we fall.  There is no perfect mother.  There is no perfect place.  There is no perfect safety. 

 

We fool ourselves when we believe that beauty and kindness and safety will protect us.  We fool ourselves.  We take our safety and our beauty for granted, and we do not recognize what we have. 

 

".....beauty.  Bosnia.  Bosnia was beautiful.  The song of Bosnia, the world of Bosnia that flows cold clean in the stream and tastes of a full meal.  Bosnia, the snowy mountains, the green green hurt heart of Bosnia, the kindness we shared, how we lived in each other's warm kitchens, in sunny cafés, ...... It isn't the cruelty that broke my heart.  Cruelty is easy.  Cruelty, like stupidity, is quick, immediate ....  Cruelty is generic.  Cruelty is boring, boring into the center of the part of you that goes away.  We are dead--all of us--to the suffering.  There is too much of it -- but remind us of the beauty, the beet fields in full bloom, the redness of the fields.  Remind us how we once sang, how the voices echoed as one through the landscape of night and stars.  Remind us how often we laughed , how safe we felt, how easy it was to be friends.  All of us.  I miss everything -- Bosnia was paradise"

 

It is our compassion that saves us, that connects us to each other, that makes us whole. We will not  win this war by blowing each other up.  We may win the battle, but we will lose the war. We don't win by building higher and stronger walls.  We don't win by reducing people to the other, by building better boundaries.  We win through connection, by opening our hearts to each other.  We win by making those small connections, by listening, by actually seeing the people we meet every day, by seeing and honoring them as people just like us, separated only by a happenstance of fate, as people with all their complexities and contradictions and fears and hurts.  Only then, if we connect to others, and they in turn connect to those around them, can we hope to overcome pain and fear and the violence and yes, the evil that pain and fear build. Only by hurting can we overcome hurt.

 

In Ensler's play, the psychiatrist, J.D. learns to open her heart, and is slowly transformed from the cold, distant, analytical psychiatrist, into a different person, one who finds happiness despite pain. She finds that she is no different, and no better, than anyone else:

 

"Marching.  Marching through people's brains.  I don't murder people, well, I do, really.  I kill them with all my boundaries and rules and perfect training"

 

Love one another.  Listen to each other.  Celebrate.  Do not take beauty for granted.  Do not let fear drive you, but embrace it and learn to laugh in its face and rise above it.  Do not hold onto hurt, but let it go, use it to help someone else heal. Beauty and darkness, good and evil, only annihilate each other if we let them.

 

The Morning After

I hosted a part last night.  It was a lot of fun and I believe everyone had a wonderful time.  I had a wonderful time, and I was all invigorated and abuzz with excitement afterward.  Sometimes this sense of promise and excitement confuses me, makes me wonder if I might, at one time, have been more of an extrovert than I give myself credit for.  But no it is not true.  When asked what I inspired me from the conversations, I realized I still hadn't processed it all yet.  Still haven't processed it all, 

 

(Moisés approved of the flowers

And as excited as I was, I needed that bit of quiet time in the evening, after everyone had left.  I needed, and still need my quiet time this morning, time when I reflect back on conversations and let them lead my thoughts down their own meandering paths.  I always savor the morning after, the remnants of cleaning up and putting away, and the way these small physical activities guide my musings and lead to new insights and perspectives.

And I realized that it is the entire process that I enjoy.  Preparing the table and preparing food is a way of preparing myself, of opening my mind and heart to fellowship and the communion of good company, to the sharing of food and words can open our thoughts and hearts.    I get all organized before hand, and then, when the guests arrive, I tend to cast that organization part aside and just go with the flow, let myself enjoy and participate and watch and listen and be in the moment of the party, wherever that takes us all. 

And then, there is the morning after, a time for reflection, a  time to enjoy that special meeting of memory and hope and promise and wend my way down new paths. 

 

 

 

Fall days in the garden

I spent a good bit of yesterday cleaning out garden beds, in preparation for winter.  I'm not done yet.  September and October were busy and I am seriously behind on weeding.  I am also grateful that growth has slowed enough that the weeding is actually a bit easier, in that magical time between vigorous growth and dormancy (at least magical from the perspective of the one pulling weeds). It has been unseasonably warm and not everything is dormant yet; the roses still have an occasional blossom, and surprisingly, the brugmansia as well. 

The last couple of nights have been cool however,  with a couple of frosts, and I've had to bring it inside in the evenings and back out during the day.  I am hoping to see at least one more blossom before I have to force into dormancy and put it in the garage. I don't believe I have a sunny enough window to maintain it indoors, but it is possible I may change my mind.  Once again it bloomed heavily while I was away, and my attempt to hold on to these last blossoms my be simply an exercise in wishful thinking.  I admit that the poor plant was occasionally neglected, this past summer, and it took me some time to figure out the best spot, and the best watering schedule, but next year shall be better.

Generally, however, it has been lovely to work in the flower beds, even when that task is mostly just weeding and clearing away dead leaves and stems, cutting a few plants back, preparing for dormancy and rest, for the pulling inward into repose that we all need before bursting forth again next year.

 

But I'm not quite ready to put everything to bed.  I belatedly ordered a few plants, and a slew of bulbs, which are yet to arrive and be planted.  I didn't want to order anything while people were still working on the landscape as there have been too many incidents where things were planted and then destroyed or lost due to simple failures, and I needed to pull back for a while, as frustration and disappointment were threatening to overwhelm the joy I felt earlier in the season.  I still have work to do in the back next year, some of it somewhat significant, and I still struggle with finding the balance between hope and disappointment,  but I am looking forward to the labor, and even the chance to do as much as possible myself.  I am far more patient with my own failures than I am when I am paying others.  We have reached the point where it is better to follow my own vision, even though the path may be slow.

 

Garden work forces me to slow down, and to rest.  I am determined not to overdo, not to overtax lax muscles or my back, not to injury myself yet again, while at the same time pushing myself to get stronger.  When I was young I wanted to do everything despite my back.  Perhaps now I am finally learning to work with my limitations,  I am determined to push boundaries and limits, but I see there is a world of difference in attitude between "in spite of" and "working within". Perhaps it is about time. 

Question

When I was in San Antonio, I took this photo of a painting in the hotel.

It is nothing special, a simple bit of hotel décor.  It is the kind of thing I could question, in fact once would have questioned.  Overly self critical, I would have asked myself why I took the photo, and I probably would have deleted shortly after returning home, telling myself that the subject matter was not worth saving.

 

But I would have been wrong.  I took the photo because the colors resonated with me, in fact still resonate with me.  I took the photo not because it is great art, but because somewhere in my view of the world it struck a nerve.  I took the photo because something in the colors drew me in, because I am always drawn in by color and pattern and texture more than the objects themselves.   I took this photo because I intentionally walked down a particular hallway every day, just because I needed to see these colors again and again.  Looking at this photo now, the colors still draw me in, still lead my perceptions in directions they might otherwise not have taken.

 

Here then is my question.  Why do we undervalue our own perceptions and our own visions?  Why do we let the world tell us what is important and valuable rather than trusting our own judgment?  Why do we let others tell us what is beautiful and what will make life worth living, when, deep in our hearts, we already know the answer?

Home Again, Home Again

I've been home a few days now and am mostly unpacked with the exception of needlework supplies.  A bit of organization and planning is required here, and I have been mostly tired, and attentive to my very clingy furry family.

 

The trip home was less relaxed than the trip out.  This was partially because it was the end of a long trip and I much as I enjoy seeing new things and traveling, I am always happy to be home.  It was also partly because I missed my Tikka and wanted to get home to see her, and Moisés, as well.  It is possible that I must amend my original statement about road trips.  Yes a solo road trip can be a joy, but my basic preference would still be for companionable travel, and there were times when I definitely missed that sense of discovery and good times in good company. Perhaps solo trips are best when they are shorter.  Perhaps this is something I still need to figure out, and my feelings will evolve over time.  I am not convinced however, that I will take another solo Texas road trip without my Tikka-Dikka-Do. 

 

I did make one short detour on my way home, and enjoyable as it was, it perhaps contributed to my sense of melancholy, although I haven't actually sorted those feelings out yet.  I went to Lake Catherine State Park, outside of Malvern, Arkansas, a place where my family went camping frequently when I was young.  I enjoyed the brief diversion, and the park looks very much the way I remember it. It is a fairly small park, although I seem to remember thinking its was endless then.  I can see that, see how running around from the area where my family usually camped, across the campgrounds and over to the picnic area with its big stone fireplace and back, allowed for much exploration and hours of imaginative play.  I can see how it was and remains a perfect family-sized park. 

 

Lake Catherine is a long, narrow lake, and as I walked and looked out at the lake I fondly remembered explorations and games, fishing solo and with my brothers, and the joys of being out on the lake.  I also remembered being fascinated by the power plant across the lake from our camping spot, and I stopped to take a picture of it from my favorite small glade, a little nook very close to where we usually camped, a quiet spot where I would often curl up with a book or fleeting whips of imagination.

 

I had intended to hike at least one of the trails, but realized I didn't really have time.  The shorter trail claimed it required 2 hours on the trail map, and given my propensity to stop and reflect, an inclination that is far more pronounced upon solo excursions, it was probably true.  I really wanted to take the longer hike up to the ridge and back, but I obviously didn't have the time for either.  Nor was I inclined toward a few hours of solo hiking, truth be told, although I probably would have gone on at least the shorter trail had I had Tikka with me.  Admittedly, my back is not up for 4 hours of steep uneven terrain, so the longer trail would have been out of the question.  Being at the trailhead reminded me that I do want to do more hiking however, and I had temporarily abandoned my plan to get myself hiking and biking.  I set myself back by pushing too hard last fall, and again in the spring, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't move forward, perhaps just learn to temper my hard-headed German stubbornness.

 

Ready

Rested.  This morning, finally, after a week of detail and inspiration, and too much to think about, I am rested.  And with rest comes revelation.... and acceptance.

 

Ready.  I am ready.   This morning I woke up knowing that the seeds that have been lying dormant under the fallow surface of my heart and mind are ready to break the surface.  I am ready to work in the studio.  I am ready to take up embroidery again, to do needlework of all sorts: needlepoint and embroidery, and to knit and sew and play with dye and paint and fibers.

 

Much practice is needed.  My stitch quality is poor.  But then I have stitched precious little in the last 30 years, and finished next to nothing.  I am not surprised.  Excellence requires tenacity and practice. What did surprise me at my recent foray into the world of embroidery and embroiderers is that my skills and my aptitude were greater than my expectations of them had been.  I was by no means the slowest, by no means the worst stitcher,  and I could see visible improvement in even a few short days.   

 

One evening I said to my mother "I need to practice blanket stitch".  My initial blanket stitches were crude and sloppy.  I never liked blanket stitch anyway, but that is no excuse.  I thought, much the same way I learned to like ribbing by knitting a sweater in a 2x2 rib, I would learn blanket stitch by making something heavy with blanket stitch.  There would be no help but to get better.

The next morning we spent the morning making tiny butterflies.  Tiny.  The largest wing was the size of my pinkie fingernail, and my nails are cut short.  Every butterfly wing had to be framed with blanket stitch, tiny blanket stitches, so they could be cut out and mounted on the final embroidery, two-sided three dimensional pieces. I needed a tight and consistent edge.  The inside of the butterfly didn't matter as it would be covered with the orange stitching, which you can also see above.

 

In fact, in stitching that tiny butterfly, long and short stitch finally made sense as well,  my hands got the feel of it, and although the butterfly wing is not finished, I am happy with the way these wings are turning out. This helped with projects begun earlier in this class, and it helped in my next class as well. I don't believe I realized, when I chose classes, how my choices would work on a continuum, leading me exactly where I want to be.

Inspired by my success with the butterfly wings, I returned to my Western Tanager, which we had worked on the day before.  By adding another layer of stitching I was able to save him from the bin of despair, from certain death and replacement.  He is far from perfect. I mashed him with my crude stitching, he is not as plump and rounded as he should be, and my stitches could use great improvement, but he is acceptable. He is a good first bird. I can save him with pride, and I will be happy to finish him. At the moment he is only a promise of a bird; I still need to add a tail and finish the wing, as well as add more head feathers, a beak and an eye, but the potential is there.

 

But I've done needlework before.  I've intended to start embroidery for a while now. I've got needlepoint and knitting projects waiting in the wings.  What is different now?

 

I'm not sure I can answer that aside from saying that I wasn't ready.  It wasn't avoidance.  I'll take exception to the Nike "just do it campaign" in this case.  Sometimes we can't.  I couldn't.  For a long time, much as I knew I would someday start exploring my dream of working with thread and yarn and fabric, I couldn't do it.  The long hours of alone time did not lead to creativity, but lead into dark places.  I needed to be outside of myself for a while, and I have been.  But now I see that over the past few months I have been finding my way to this place, the place I need to be to become a whole person, the whole person I was always meant to be. 

 

Now I am ready. The EGA seminar proved to be a good kicking off point, but it is not the seminar that made me ready.  I suspect much has conspired to get me at this point at this time in this place. Over the past few months I have been experiencing a shift in perception and perspective that has been leading me here.  Just before embarking on this trip, in the week between Cursillo and this trip, I went through another long period in the void.  It was not the same as other such periods.  I was not depressed.  I see now that it was simply a fallow period, while the soil of my creative impulses were resting, absorbing nutrients, and preparing themselves for the new seeds that would soon be sprouting. 

 

I don't know where exactly this road is leading.  I know I am not leaving my existing paths in the world, and the activities in the community that are necessary for that sense of connection and wholeness that complete us as humans.  The inner world cannot flower without the outer world and perhaps I simply needed to break down those walls that kept them separate, break the dam and let the waters mingle, the way the waters of the Solimões and the Rio Negro mingle in the Amazon basin, a wall that eventually breaks into separate strands before the threads are absorbed and joined into one river.

(I do not know where my amazon photos are, or even that I haven't lost them.  This photo is by MG Edwards, from this blog post.)

 

A Brief Texas Update

Today we are driving from San Antonio to Dallas.  I am working on a blog post or posts about the trip and what I have learned but it seems to take me a while to process my own meandering thoughts, and I need to pack and get the car loaded for departure.

 

To tide you over, or perhaps offer a bit of a relief from the onslaught of words to come, I thought I'd share a a couple of pictures from the trip so far:

 

A wall mural in Arkadelphia Arkansas, taken on a rainy day.

 

Stopping at a rest stop off IH-35 in Texas.  I was taken by the creative use of regional culture and history  to avoid the universal sameness of American highway rest-area architecture.

 

Ceviche and guacamole for lunch.