Things haven't changed all that much since June . . . but thank you to everyone who has so kindly asked after me. I had to choose between mothering and blogging these past few months, and as you can tell I focused on parenting. I do hope to be back in this space more in the coming months, even if it's just to share a few photos. We'll see!
But in the meantime, look at that last photo! I finished a (very small) quilt for a (very small and much beloved) person. One thing crossed off the list!
When I was ill this summer my mother and I spent many evenings together; while watching over me she occupied herself making tiny crocheted flowers from bits of leftover yarn--some Noro, some Rowan summer tweed, a nice unbleached linen--using patterns from this sweet book.
My children love these flowers; they have become props in all sort of imaginary play with fairies and castles and the like.
The Girl With A Thousand Hats pleaded for just one more, using one of the new flowers. The yarn is something soft and lovely from the stash, a mix of silk and merino, I believe (I need to pay attention to these things someday), which I knit in the round with no particular pattern. It fits beautifully! I'm sorry my model wouldn't show you . . .
Spring in our part of the world is full of small gestures. An unseasonably warm morning lets us take our art outdoors. My children find pleasure in simple forms. Autumn's leaves are blown aside to reveal starry white blossoms. The neighbor's eggs are transformed with plant dyes. The forest, still brown, offers a surprise bouquet of daffodils.
Should the small things be such a surprise? Do I doubt the return of the light? Do I wonder at the reawakening of the bulbs, the song of the birds, the fulfillment of faith that always happens? I do doubt it. And yet it happens anyway, this renewal: full of grace, and gently insisting that I believe.
My daughter is thrilled with our new season. Every day she says, "Mama, can you believe it? A minute ago it was winter, and now it's spring." And it does feel rather abrupt, as though we shouldn't yet trust the motions of the planet. And there certainly is a lot of mud. We have been taking afternoon walks through our forest, led by the two-year-old, which means we have ended up stuck in a marsh on more than one occasion. He thinks it's great, until the shoes get lost in the goo, at which point it's a lot of curious poking and squelching of liberated socked feet, which become soaked feet, which means I carry him home again while the 5-year-old sister tsk tsks over his imprudent behavior. That last photo above is not taken in the marsh, by the way, but at the swing set. My camera seems to be going into slow decline; the little screen on the back has gone dark, so it's hard to know what image I am capturing. Feet, sort of. But I like it. And that fabulous hive we did find in the marsh.
I am in the midst of a large editing project, and it's got me thinking about narrative quite a bit. (My Jane Austen read-a-thon has, too, of course. Austen is such a master at pacing and revelation.) My five-year-old likes a nightly bedtime story, and for a long time we had been doing a serial story about a group of fairies living in a meadow. I was so very tired of inventing capers for fairies, so I proposed, instead, that we make a story from four elements. I offered a set of categories, which will change when we get bored with them; for now, they are: a flower, a color, a vehicle and an animal. My daughter thinks of one thing in each of those categories, and then I invent a story that involves each thing. So one night I made a story with zinnias, purple, a helicopter and a whale. Tonight it was irises, yellow, a submarine and a cow. Awesome! The stories usually end up being ridiculous, but I think that is really good for this mama, who can be rather serious and heavy of mood at times. And what child doesn't enjoy a good story about a cow riding in a submarine?
You just have to look at my last post to know that the first day of March does not look much different here than the final days of February did. It's still winter, of course. Spring won't be officially on the books for another three weeks. But I need to create an imaginary spring garden, now. So far, this is what I've got . . .
. . . a card from my mother, with a watercolor by Antoine Berjon.
. . . a tiny piece of jade, carved with flowers, from my grandmother's collection. I suppose it was meant to be a brooch.
. . . a few experiments in paper.
. . . reproductions of vintage bird images, from Cavallini & Co. (And we did see a real chickadee in our barn this weekend! So exciting!)
. . . this wonderful volume sent from friends in Alabama, filled with detailed botanical illustrations and delightful, encyclopedic and campy tales of three children's adventures in nature.
Here are some lovely links for more glimpses of spring:
Perhaps my husband read this post when he chose these flowers for me. Those colors!
We had our first hard frost this week. I went out in the gardens to find pumpkins not quite ripe on vines turned limp and pale. Hydrangea petals like bits of old wallpaper. The last poppy: still brilliant, head bowed. The stone rabbits unperturbed. A world of sodden stems, tattered ribbons, flattened globes. Peach, buff, brown, orange, pink: the last blush of cheeks, before the world goes cold.
Making a wreath for the autumn equinox has been a tradition in my little family since we moved to this area several years ago. This morning my son and I went on a walk in our yard to find supplies. This should not be a difficult task, given that we have ten acres. Much of that acreage is wild and forested, though, so it takes a bit of creativity and a willingness to embrace, as it were, various noxious weeds and wilted flowers in one's wreath. Our baskets above have sumac, burdock, rose hips, and dried astilbe blossoms.
In addition to the sumac, burdock, rose hips and astilbe, I added grasses, asters, and a few leaves of dusty miller from the garden. Some of these things will remain preserved; some of them will wilt. The interaction of each element and the way in which it weathers on our front door are part of the appeal.
I noticed other people have wreaths on their minds as well: see one in bloom here, and the intention to make one here.
The earth is, of course. Turning. And pages, colors, seasons, weather, moods, leaves and soil. Here are a few of the things we've been enjoying in this moment of transition.
Our one and only sunflower: the squirrels apparently dined on the rest of the seeds.
A labor day swim in blustery weather.
The never-ending surprise of poppies that I didn't know I planted.
Playground peeking.
Our own pears, just ripening.
A child-centered meal. Table set, food prepared, dishes carried: all by the children.
I hope you are enjoying the intertidal zones, the liminal light, the ripening harvest of the season.
I took my young son walking in our yard and followed his lead. Slow and meandering he went. Here is what he found to show you.
