Bridging

Bridging into another year
and the same old questions:
What will it bring?
What lies ahead?
Where will this path lead?
Decisions, decisions
flow together
rushing by with each day
yet marking time
cycling back
once again
And here I am:
but have I changed or
is this where
I started?

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+ When you come to a fork in the road, take it.

+ If you don't know where you are going, you might wind up someplace else.

= Yogi Berra

Passage

Sometimes a ray of light, a small opening, an unforeseen passage, is all it takes to start on a new path.

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At middle age the soul should be opening up like a rose, not closing up like a cabbage.
~ John Andrew Holmes

We keep moving forward, opening new doors, and doing new things, because we're curious and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths.
~ Walt Disney

A different pattern

Another weekend, another Saturday. The sky this morning stony and glaring from the heat; twilight, dusty orange. Heat rolls in waves from streets and sidewalks, forcing us to walk after sundown.

We both felt restless today, after-vacation blues. So we visited stores and gazed at fine, expensive furnishings, toys, cheaper furnishings, books. So many things, so many colors, so many choices. Yet all I bought was sunscreen. The rest was for the eyes, the hands, the ears.

Stayed up late reading "The Last Chinese Chef" (Nicole Mones), a novel that includes information about Chinese cuisine (not Chinese-American, but Chinese), customs, history, culture. Makes me want to taste some of the dishes created by the chef. (Reminds me of the exquisite Thai food we had during vacation, where amazing tastes and fragrances blossomed in our mouths as we ate.) Led me to read more about the history of China, particularly the era of the Cultural Revolution since several of the characters in the book told harrowing stories about that time.

Reading, researching patterns in our lives, like patterns in nature, as in these leaves. And looking for the patterns that don’t necessarily fit, but may, instead, be the best ones to try.

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Creativity involves breaking out of established patterns in order to look at things in a different way.
~ Edward de Bono

My companion and I were alone with the stars: the misty river of the Milky Way flowing across the sky, the patterns of the constellations standing out bright and clear, a blazing planet low on the horizon.
~ Rachel Carson

Pitcher plants and metaphors

Pitcher plants singing Siren songs on a Sunday morning hoping for a few flies to stop by…

These plants secrete sweet nectar to lure unsuspecting insects, which then become trapped in the tubes. The smooth sides are so slippery the insects cannot escape. They eventually drown in the liquid in the tubes and are absorbed by the plant.

One could think of this as a metaphor for pitfalls of life: violence, addiction, destructive acts. One could read it as a tale of caution. One could also marvel at this ingenious method of survival that has evolved, and remember there is a purpose for every living thing.

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To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under the sun.
A time to be born and a time to die;
a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
a time to kill and a time to heal ...
a time to weep and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn and a time to dance ...
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to lose and a time to seek;
a time to rend and a time to sew;
a time to keep silent and a time to speak;
a time to love and a time to hate;
a time for war and a time for peace.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

A rich tapestry

Plenty of fireworks throughout the neighborhood as we walked tonight; firecrackers, colorful fountains, sparklers, rockets. Over 100 degrees here today; a glowing red cactus flower seemed appropriate for the 4th and the weather.

It was much cooler in the SF Bay area where this photo was taken, at the UC Berkeley Botanical Gardens. One of the places we visited during our recent trip. A trip of family celebrations, modern art, Asian art, superb food, classical Indian dance. Colorful shops, crowded streets, eclectic people. Different perspectives. Reminder of how the mix of diverse cultures and traditions, different ways of thinking have built and influenced this country.

Happy 4th to all.

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We all should know that diversity makes for a rich tapestry, and we must understand that all the threads of the tapestry are equal in value no matter what their color.
~ Maya Angelou

Following the stream...

We’re "streaming" out of town for a few days…

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Voyage, travel, and change of place impart vigor.
--Seneca

Never go on trips with anyone you do not love.
--Ernest Hemingway

A little bit of mud

This was too good to pass up. Especially in the City of Expansion, where houses are still going up, even with the slump in the market, and people are still moving here in droves.

Of course, mud has been used in construction for thousands of years in many different cultures. Many sites about mud homes are listed when you search the internet. And many creatures, like worms, frogs, crayfish, clams, snails, make their home in mud. In other uses, you can take a mud bath in a spa to look "ten years younger". Folk medicine practitioners used mud poultices to "draw out the poison" from a sting, bite, or infection.

Then there’s the "dirty" side: "slinging mud" during a political campaign, "your name is mud," the negative connotation of "taking a mud bath," and being served "a cup of mud" at a greasy-spoon diner.

But overall, it seems that mud is part of our origin, after all, doesn’t the "good book" say that God fashioned humankind out of "a little bit of mud?"

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Writing is like walking in a deserted street. Out of the dust in the street you make a mud pie.

--John LeCarre

The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.
--e e cummings

Traveling

Sun setting on another weekend. Tonight, the air is cool, refreshing as I walk. Neighborhood is quiet. People sitting on decks and patios, playing guitars on a porch. Walking their dogs. Enjoying the cool before it heats up again later this week.

With vacation time officially here, thinking about the word "travel." A few definitions I found online: To go from one place to another, as on a trip or journey. To be transmitted, as light or sound; move or pass. To advance or proceed. To go about in the company of a certain group; associate with, such as "she travels in wealthy circles."

These people in the photo are traveling to the top of the ridge with a purpose in mind; to see beauty of sun rays traveling through part of the color spectrum as the sun descends. Tomorrow many of us will proceed to work and hopefully advance with plans for the next project. Are we traveling or marking time? And the circles in which I travel? Not the wealthy ones, but definitely some interesting ones.

And through a book I traveled through Paris this weekend, and will travel next to China through another book. And soon we will take a trip to California—another land unto itself.

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The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.
--Marcel Proust

A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.
--Lao Tzu

Becoming tomato

Here’s a tomato, on its way to becoming something red, juicy, edible. Raising tomatoes here is hard, though. I tried for several years and only got feeble results. Part of the problem was that the little yellow flowers would break off, thus not producing any fruit (tomatoes are technically fruit, you know). I tried the spray that’s supposed to prevent this, but the flowers would sigh during the night, and end it all anyway.

And, because this climate is hot and dry, it takes some gardening skill and talent (and possibly a good greenhouse) to grow tomatoes that are juicy and flavorful, rather than tasting like Styrofoam.

Not like the Midwest, where I grew up. There, nearly every summer produced bumper crops of big, juicy fragrant tomatoes. Freshly sliced for dinner, supper, and always at any type of potluck. Reminds me of summer evenings when the sun’s going down, lightning bugs flitting about, and in late summer, the drone of cicadas. Songs of frogs echo from the pond, the 10 p.m. train rushes by, the thunder of its wheels and whistle resounding over the hills. And if the night is clear, you can see the stars and planets; the Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Venus, Mars. And if it’s really clear, like after a storm has passed, and no moon, the sky is freckled with stars of all levels of radiance. And you understand why it’s called The Heavens.

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If life deals you lemons, make lemonade; if it deals you tomatoes, make Bloody Marys.
--David Levinthal

God's promises are like the stars; the darker the night the brighter they shine.
--David Nicholas

Perhaps lavender...

This may be a type of lavender or a butterfly bush; I’m not sure. But I love the deep color and the way it sways in the breeze. A gentleness to it that soothes a ragged day.

A day of finishing one thing and beginning another. A day of losing something; a day of gaining something else.

At dusk, we run our fingers through the lavender at the edge of someone’s yard. We slide it through our hands to gather the scent and bring us gently into the night…

Change of view

One day something happens that tilts your view. You thought you saw it clearly, straight on, but now it’s askew.

There is still order and continuity. But in a different form. And you have to adjust the horizontal, the vertical, the hue and see it for what it is now.

Until it changes again.

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For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

The key to change... is to let go of fear.
~ Rosanne Cash

Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.
~ Maria Robinson

* Yesterday's photo: Cirrus clouds

Exploring a mystery

What is it?*

A painting? An apparition of nature? Digital art?

Does it make you curious? Stimulate dreams? Conjure other images? What is beyond the image borders? Is there a story?

Imagine a large painting of a picturesque summer meadow with a mountain stream running through it. If you could enter the painting, what would you do? Would you sit by the stream? Set up a tent in the meadow? Follow the stream? Hike beyond the meadow? Or??

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We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started... and know the place for the first time.
~ T. S. Eliot

How could drops of water know themselves to be a river? Yet the river flows on.
~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Follow the river and you will find the sea.
~ French proverb

*The mystery of the photo will be revealed in tomorrow’s post.

Shades of love

Paris Je T’aime—A movie C and I saw today made up of 18 vignettes of different people in different sections of Paris, all dealing with various colors of love. Young love to mother love to mature love--and everything in between.

One thing I notice whenever we see a foreign film is that the actors in the roles look like real people, rather than "perfect" people (Hollywood style). Real people, as in those you’d see on the street, going to work, eating at a restaurant, stuck in traffic next to you. For example, one of the most moving pieces in this movie features an ordinary-looking middle-aged woman who is vacationing in Paris alone.

A wonderful, thoughtful way to bring the weekend to a close.

A purple story

A purple star for a sunny Saturday morning. A flower fit for a Princess, which is delivered by a handsome mercenary, spewing purple prose as he presents it to her. She falls for the prose and for the mercenary and they depart into a haze of rapacious love.

The King and Queen are none too pleased to discover this, and in a purple rage, shut the Princess in a tower and have the mercenary shipped far away to a distant land, where he eventually becomes a Hollywood agent.

The Princess escapes from the tower and stows away on a ship. She learns to sing and dance, updates her wardrobe, then takes her act to L.A. and auditions for American Idol.

But she didn’t make the cut. Dejected, she walks the city streets crying and singing Purple Rain. The mercenary-turned-agent hears her as he gets out of a taxi, recognizes her as his first true love, and signs her for a contract.

To celebrate, he takes her to his mansion in the Hollywood Hills where the deep purple falls over sleepy garden walls…

…And the stars begin
To flicker in the sky
Through the mist of a memory
You wander back to me
Breathing my name with a sigh.

In the still of the night
Once again I hold you tight
Though you're gone
Your love lives on when moonlight beams
And as long as my heart will beat
Lover we'll always meet
Here in my deep purple dreams.
--De Rose & Parish

A string of beads

Heading into another weekend after another busy workweek. And even tho it’s a Friday night, I didn’t put on a dress and beads and go dancing. Instead, C made a picnic dinner, finished with ice cream sundaes. Then, instead of doing more work, we actually took time to "pleasure" read. And later walked the neighborhood, checking out the Friday-night-ers, various cats, the golden sunset on the foothills, and the first couple of stars to appear.

The book I’m reading is of a woman who takes a spontaneous weekend trip to Paris by herself—and the adventures she has while doing so. She’s the one who puts on a sexy dress, beads, and goes out to a dance club.

Meanwhile I’m traveling vicariously. And thinking about my own character, Julia, whom I’ve left in an awkward situation. I’ll be traveling with her tomorrow to see where her adventures take her…

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Life is a train of moods like a string of beads; and as we pass through them they prove to be many colored lenses, which paint the world their own hue, and each shows us only what lies in its own focus.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Popping off

Leaving a trail to find the way home? Or to lead someone from outside in? Or a lure for squirrels or crows? No one knows.

Reminds me of Hansel and Gretel, another one of Grimm’s Fairytales in which there is an evil mother or stepmother AND an evil witch. Of course, a kind, but powerless father. Makes you wonder about the Grimms’ relationship to their mother and women, in general…

In the news: Astronomers now see evidence that Mars had two major oceans. In Berlin, a squirrel went on a rampage and attacked three senior citizens before being brained by a crutch (perhaps the evil stepmother had something to do with it). Kellogg’s announced they will make their food products healthier for children (Sugar Frosted Flakes, anyone?) And Thomas the Train and his friends are being recalled because some may have been decorated with lead paint.

In addition:
* The world's largest popcorn ball was unveiled in October 2006 in Lake Forest, Illinois. It weighed 3,415 pounds, measured 8 feet in diameter and had a circumference of 24.6 feet.
* The oldest ears of popcorn ever found were discovered in the Bat Cave in New Mexico in 1948 and 1950. The oldest Bat Cave ears are around 4,000 years old. (That prompts a question: Just how old is Batman, anyway?)
* Popcorn.org is the "popcorn authority" on the internet. Along with games, projects and popcorn facts, the site includes a recipe for Popcorn Witch’s Hat and Broomsticks. (Perhaps this is what the evil witch used to build her house: Nibble, nibble, little mouse; who is nibbling at my house?).

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The laziest man I ever met put popcorn in his pancakes so they would turn over by themselves.
* W.C. Fields

Of course life is bizarre, the more bizarre it gets, the more interesting it is. The only way to approach it is to make yourself some popcorn and enjoy the show.
* David Gerrold

Radiance of poppies

I love the way the sun glows through this poppy. The blooms are gone by now, but this image remains.

What treasures they are, these small moments of beauty! Some may call them opiates, but they’re enough to carry us through the mundane tasks and the stressful surges of daily life. And enough to bring us hope; to keep on moving on...

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But beauty itself is not given to us by anyone; it is a power we have within us from the gate, a radiance inside us.
~ Marianne Williamson

That we find a crystal or a poppy beautiful means that we are less alone, that we are more deeply inserted into existence than the course of a single life would lead us to believe.
~ John Berger

Illumination

Are these only leaves--or
stained glass?

Illumination or
illusion?

How does one
conclude, without
first reaching
resolution?

A closer look at rejection

Well, it’s been a Monday. A non-cooperative printer this morning. Small mountain of paperwork to dig through. Then, accidentally jammed an electric stapler and had to take a screwdriver to it to get it to work again.

And waiting for me in the mail was The Letter from the local exhibition I entered:

Dear Ms. M:

Thank you so much for entering works for consideration for The Show. Unfortunately, your work was not selected for inclusion in this year’s exhibition. But please join us for the opening reception, where the juror for this year’s show will give a brief talk about the difficulty of choosing which pieces to exhibit because of the many quality works that were submitted. A catalogue of the exhibition will also be available for a reasonable fee. We hope to see you there.

Sincerely,
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

At least they replied. Many of the agents I’ve tried for my novel never reply at all: If you haven’t received a reply in four weeks you may assume we are not interested in your proposal.

Receiving a rejection letter quickly snuffs out the lingering hope you had for that particular submission, whereas to never receive a reply is a drawn-out process where the candle burns lower and lower until it finally sputters and goes out.

Ah, but rejection is a way of life for artists. We can gauge the level of rejection: Low level = a chocolate bar and a glass of wine; medium level = half a cheesecake and four martinis; high level = entire gallon of double fudge Haagen-Dazs, a bottle of tequila, and a $1,000 impulse shopping trip (online or at the mall).

In the big scheme of things, this particular rejection was at the "chocolate bar and wine" level. And I can be philosophical, and pledge to submit my work in other venues (this works best after a glass of wine).

And in the greater world, it’s been a sunny, clear June day. No severe storms were reported. Hawaiians can now order Spam and eggs for breakfast from Burger King.
And in the bloggosphere, we can put our creative work out there; we can always be an exhibitor in "the biggest show on earth."

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I think all great innovations are built on rejections.

--Louise Nevelson

Rain

Rain, all day today. So much, flowers and leaves droop from the weight.

The quiet of rain throughout the neighborhood. A sleepy world. Windows and doors open to gather the fragrance of moisture and earth.

A day for reading, writing, contemplation. Meditation on desire.

Desire: wish, want, aspiration, inclination, impulse; yearning longing, craving, hunger; eagerness, enthusiasm, determination; yen, itch; lust, passion, sensuality.

What we desperately want. Or think we want.

And find ourselves pursuing, running like mad through the rain.

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Desire is the very essence of man.
--Baruch Spinoza

From an elevated point of view

Trout, what we ate for dinner last night. Grilled trout with a tarragon mushroom cream sauce, garlic mashed potatoes, and crispy green beans. Along with a good merlot, and a chocolate mousse dessert in a raspberry sauce.

An over-night getaway to the mountains; scent of pine, fields of wild flowers in bloom.
An evening of jazz, literature, shops, bookstores. Lacquer chests, antique chairs from China, books and books and more until 11. Perused Divisadero, a new novel by Michael Ondaatje (which I plan to read soon).

Divisadero, from the Spanish word, divisar (to discern). Refers to "a place of high elevation from which one can view an extensive area," according to a Latin American website. "The purpose of a divisadero or viewpoint is to give the individual a broader perspective from which they are able to determine the best path."

Today we had to come down from the viewpoint. Still keeping a discerning eye out for the path...

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Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

Something about junipers

An eastern juniper with blue berries (seed cones), part of the cypress family.

"The Juniper-Tree" is the name of one of Grimm’s Fairytales, one I recall reading from an old Fairytale book when I was a kid. "Grimm" is the right word for many of those gruesome stories. This particular one could rival some of the Greek myths: it has an evil stepmother, cannibalism, and two murders -- a "family affair". The juniper tree is the magic element; it transforms the murdered son into a beautiful bird, who rewards his kind family members with gifts -- then takes out the evil stepmother with a millstone to the head.

Van Gogh created a number of paintings that included cypress trees when he was in France toward the end of his life. "Road with Cypress and Star" and "Starry Night" are two of my favorites. In his paintings, the cypresses are sometimes dark, brooding. Other times, like dancers; lithe, swaying in rhythm of the wind. Green-blue flames flickering in the morning sky, or lighting the stars.

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My opinion is that the best thing would be to work on until art lovers feel drawn toward it of their own accord, instead of having to praise or to explain it.
~ Vincent Van Gogh

The luck of a lion

A lion of a day today. Windy and rainy.
Had to deal with snarling bureaucratic morons who prize "The Rules" more than common sense, and what’s best for the common welfare. So, we growled back. Became lions. Hopefully we won’t win the battle only to lose the war.

This blue lion sits in front of a basement apartment; a guardian of the doorway to the subterranean. Basement culture, where every bit of light is cherished. In the darkness now, we have windows open, can hear the neighbor’s wind chimes, like a thousand bells.

Tomorrow I’ll submit my entries for the digital art exhibit. And hopefully a blue lion will bring me luck.

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Until lions have their own historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunter.
~ African proverb

Waxing and waning

Random thoughts waxing and waning on a Monday…

No, the moon’s not out tonight; that was last week, but it felt right to use it tonight even though we can’t see the moon this week.

On Friday night, I surprised a raccoon that happened to be in our front yard. He skittered up a nearby tree then took refuge on our roof. Fortunately he didn’t decide to move there permanently. There’s a few of them that lurk about at twilight in the neighborhood.

This past weekend it was as if some large weather god opened his mouth and blew nasty hot air around. It’s cooler tonight, though; something or someone else has attracted his attention…

Saw a photo of a man in a diving suit and wearing a tank on the Paris Daily Photo blog; apparently there is a diving pool set up on a temporary basis under the Eiffel Tower where Eiffel visitors can dive for free. Now, if I was going to the Eiffel Tower, would I want to tour the tower, take in the view? Or would I want to go scuba diving in a temporary pool under the tower?

Is there water on the moon? People used to think there was; that the craters were lakes. But now we know the moon is dry. But was it always that way? And was there water on Mars?

Trying to decide which photos to enter in a City art contest. I now have it narrowed down to eight. But I need five. And the deadline is coming up fast…

While walking tonight, came across a Hotpoint range sitting on the sidewalk with a sign taped to it that said: "Free." Occasionally appliances, air conditioners, sofas, boats suddenly sprout on neighborhood sidewalks. But I’ve never felt impelled to take any of them home.

A NASA probe will take photos of Venus as it passes by on its way to Mercury. We’ve gazed at it in the night sky for thousands of years, that sparkling planet, the Evening Star. What will it look like up close?

And here it is nearly midnight; the moon has traveled to the far side of the horizon and has become a bright silver disk, lighting up someone’s bedroom window…

Under the bamboo

A curious plant that proliferates by sending out runners. Persistent. One that lives for many years, but when it flowers, often dies.

A resilient plant that encompasses opposites: straight, yet flexible; tough, yet light; solid, yet porous.

In China, a symbol of longevity, and one of the four Noble Ones, along with chrysanthemum, orchid, and plum blossom. Learning how to paint bamboo leaves is one of the first lessons in Oriental brush painting.

Bamboo is used to create many things; from weaponry to musical instruments. It’s the only food source for the Great Panda.

Ancient legends say that vast bamboo forests used to stand in the southeastern U.S.

Until European settlers cut it all down.

As the wind blows through our neighborhood tonight, I imagine how it would sound through a mighty forest of swaying bamboo…

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Notice that the stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo or willow survives by bending with the wind.
--Bruce Lee

Home fires

A walk after dark tonight. It’s 86 degrees with a hot restless wind rising off the street. Sounds of air conditioners and fans. Front doors and windows wide open. Few voices though.

The local news reported a rangeland fire burning south of Boise. So early in the summer for fires. Usually don’t hear the water transport planes droning overhead until late July and August.

While writing today, was contemplating different meanings of "home." Going home, coming home? Home is where the heart is? Feeling at home? If you had a ticket to travel "home," where would you want to be at the end of your journey?

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Home is not where you live, but where they understand you.
--Christian Morganstern

Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to.
--John Ed Pearce

I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.
--Maya Angelou

Ripple effect

What she remembers is the scent of roses and the ripples of petals swaying gently in the wind as they lay in the grass, watching to see what new shapes the clouds would create.

And soon, they forgot about the clouds, and all else around them.

And later she told him his hair smelled like grass, and he laughed and gave her a single pink rose and a kiss, promised he’d be back soon…

Vision

Another way to look at things,
the form beneath the shape
the skeleton beneath the skin
the shadow cast across the path

Another way to learn,
to hear, to speak, to choose
a blade, a strand of wire,
words, a pen, a vision,
an opportunity

another way

Ducks

We happened to see this mother and her babies at the MK Nature Center, which provides habitat for wild ducks, geese, birds, fish, and other creatures. MK engineers created a set of waterfalls, a beaver dam, and pond/wetlands park on a piece of property in the city. Idaho Fish and Game put in nesting platforms, bat houses, brush piles, and other items to give animals needed habitat. We watched the mallard hen lead the ducklings around the pond, showing them how to forage for food, then take them back to a nesting platform so they could sit, dry out and rest.

MK, or Morrison-Knudson, later became Washington Group International, which now has been bought out by URS Corp. The nature center was built back when MK and its founders were more of a local presence.

Whether it’s for animals, people, or both, it shows integrity when a corporation gives a gift like this to its hometown.

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Be like a duck. Calm on the surface, but always paddling like the dickens underneath
--Michael Caine

In honor and memory...

In honor of my grandfather, who fought in World War I,

but later advocated for peace.

In remembrance of all who have died because of war.

Photo by C. Gabel

Cacti and contrasts

The flowers on this cactus have delicate tissue-like petals; intriguing contrast against their prickly stems. Similar to other opposites: bittersweet, sweet sour, icy-hot, baked Alaska, tears and laughter, the good with the bad. Kind of a metaphor for life…

Cacti grow well here, even with freezing temps in the winter. Because, even with the trees, green lawns, and parks, this is still a desert. One look at the foothills, and you see sage and scrub and brown.

Several years ago C and I saw a haunting exhibit of photos taken in a small deserted town in the Namibian desert. In the 1920s, German men involved in diamond mining built fine houses and moved their families there. Now, the houses still stand, but are filled with sand drifts. Blowing sand blasted the paint, wore away the stenciled flowers and designs on the walls, "sandwashed" the furniture, bore holes into the verigated steel that was hammered over the doors and windows—to keep the sand and weather out. Bedrooms, kitchens, dining rooms, hallways filled with waves of sand.

Fortunately, the desert here is not nearly so harsh, and we don’t have blowing sand, although in summer, we often have dry thunderstorms, and the wind blows gray with dust. Yet, a river also runs through town, a river that hosts cottonwoods and willows, places for ducks and geese to nest, and a cool, wet reprieve for people who tube it during summer months.

A desert with a river running through it. But still, a desert.

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You should not see the desert simply as some faraway place of little rain. There are many forms of thirst.
-- William Langewiesche

What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.
-- Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Daisy Indigo

At least I think this is some type of daisy. The indigo center intrigues me.

Daisies are hardy flowers, enjoy full sunlight, grow naturally in open fields. Simple and direct.

Used as a predictor of true love: "He loves me; he loves me not…"

as you pluck the petals for each phrase.

According to Wikipedia, the name "daisy" may have come from "day’s eye," because the flowers opened in the morning sun; it was called "eye of the day" in Chaucer’s writings.

A goal: To start each morning with an "eye of the day" for opportunity, learning, love--and have many nights of stars.

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Those fields of daisies we landed on, and dusty fields and desert stretches. Memories of many skies and earths beneath us - many days, many nights of stars.
~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Patterns

A march of stripes, a quilt, slants, glowing slats, optical illusion, a two-step with sun and shadow, porch of a neighborhood zebra.

What you can discover by breaking a daily pattern…

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Creativity involves breaking out of established patterns in order to look at things in a different way.
--Edward de Bono

Life forms illogical patterns. It is haphazard and full of beauties which I try to catch as they fly by, for who knows whether any of them will ever return?
--Margot Fonteyn

Shadow with Cat

A day off. Perfect morning for capturing photos; forms, shapes, colors that catch my eye.
Later, sit on the deck of the local coffee shop with C, sipping good coffee, pretending we are at a side street café in Paris.

Absolutely wonderful not to be at work today! I buy a Powerball ticket, hoping for positive synchronicity with the Lottery Gods.

And a cat inserted himself in my shadows today, joining me as I photo’d roses. A gray cat, a friendly whisper of good luck, who rolled on the sidewalk, purring. Who followed me for a short distance, intrigued with my antics, until a butterfly caught his attention and it was time to head back home…

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To understand a cat, you must realize that he has his own gifts, his own viewpoint, even his own morality.
~ Lillian Jackson Braun

Dendrites and fishing nets

These are my dendrites after too much work and too little wine.

But I now have several days off, so hopefully my brain will recover...

Enjoyed seeing photos of a co-worker’s trip to Spain. She is Basque, her parents were born in Lekeitio, and she and her family visited the village and their extended family. Lekeitio is a coastal town on the Bay of Biscay. She told me that when she visited over 30 years ago, she saw women of the town sitting near the docks, repairing fishing nets. Today, they no longer do that, but there is a large mural in the town that recalls that time.

Perhaps instead of dendrites, I can see my photo as a kind of fishing net, bringing in the day’s catch. Some to keep, some to throw back. Some to be repaired. But hopefully, much of value.

After the rain

Rainy and cool today, reminds me of days on the Oregon coast. And a cedar deck, filled with flowers, just after the rain. Flowers that need extra moisture, the morning dew, mist and fog to grow, to thrive.

Last night I dreamed of receiving a card from a woman. Upon opening the card, multi-colored, magical confetti sprang out, floated in the air like tiny kites. "It’s a special gift," she told me.

And today, the colors of newly blooming roses glowed in the rain.

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Life is like a rainbow. You need both the sun and the rain to make its colors appear.
~ Unknown

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
~ Langston Hughes

From a cat's eye...

In a dream of trees
and the view from above
she watches us
jog past
on our way
to another
Monday

She stretches, purrs,
soon curled, asleep
a cat’s grin

for some, it’s always
the weekend

Stars and Roses

Spent last night reading the story of Le Petit Prince and his love for his rose. And on my shelf is the Smithsonian book of stars. It tells of star colors, distances, clusters, types, names, numbers, planets, meteors, and has maps of the sky as we know it.

And I recall nights in summer of gazing up at the star-freckled sky, watching the color shifts of Mars and other planets, listening to the night chorus of frogs, crickets. Imagining star sounds—the resonance of light refractions, light waves traveling at such high speeds that it creates music of its own.

Music like bells of laughter or the trembling of tears. Symphony to a rose.

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Old songs about roses:

* Bring Me A Rose, 1918
* For You A Rose, 1917
* The Rose That Made Me Happy Is The Rose That Made Me Sad, 1913
* When You Look In The Heart Of A Rose, 1918
* In The Heart Of A Rose, 1912
* Blue Rose, 1917
* Roses Bring Memories Of You, 1919
* Roses Bring Dreams Of You, 1907
* My Little Rose of Romany, 1919
* Woodland Rose, 1918
* Sunshine and Roses, 1913
* When The Twilight Comes To Kiss The Rose "Good-Night", 1918

A rose is a rose is a rose.
~ Gertrude Stein

Iris II

Another view of iris…

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I said to myself -- I'll paint what I see -- what the flower is to me but I'll paint it big and they will be surprised into taking time to look at it -- I will make even busy New Yorkers take time to see what I see of flowers.

To create one's own world in any of the arts takes courage.

--Georgia O’Keeffe

Iris

Irises are blooming; many colors and varieties.

According to Wikipedia, the name, iris, is from the Greek word for rainbow. When certain types of irises are dried, steamed, and distilled, the process creates a fragrant substance used to create perfume called iris butter.

Iris butter; such a delicious sound.

Vincent Van Gogh painted irises, as did Georgia O’Keeffe. Van Gogh studied them from afar; O’Keeffe, up close, probing them through her paintings.

And here is another view…

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I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.
~Claude Monet

Perfumes are the feelings of flowers.
~Heinrich Heine

How can one help shivering with delight when one's hot fingers close around the stem of a live flower, cool from the shade and stiff with newborn vigor!
~Colette

Variations

The subtle color variations of this tree fascinate me. And shadows flitting across it enhance the colors.
Don’t know what kind of tree this is; it’s alongside the yard of a nice house that belongs to a 30-something Republican bicyclist. During the last presidential election, he kept putting up a Bush-Cheney yard sign, and it was either stolen or desecrated each time. So he finally gave up and put a small sign in the window, safely inside his house. Lest you think Idaho is teeming with rabid Democrats, the part of town where we live is the only place where the Democrats (a rare breed here) seem to have a den.

The tree is large, sturdy, substantial. Reassuring in its solidity; something I needed today. Last night, dreamed I’d moved to a different house and was arranging the furniture, decorating the walls. Went outside, and when I looked back at it, was shocked to discover that it was not sitting on a foundation. It had been "uprooted." The whole structure was balanced on one large iron beam—and corners of the house were beginning to sag.

C gave a well-attended talk tonight about Ernest Hemingway and the beginnings of Jazz. The audience really got into the music he played (12th Street Rag, Castle House Rag, Singin’ the Blues, Doctor Jazz Stomp). Many there had danced to this kind of music when they were young. And the evening swelled into variations of history, rhythm, music, joy. Subtle colors of memories. Perhaps I’ll sleep better tonight.

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It is difficult to realize how great a part of all that is cheerful and delightful in the recollections of our own life is associated with trees.
~Wilson Flagg

A seed hidden in the heart of an apple is an orchard invisible.
~Welsh Proverb

We can learn a lot from trees: they're always grounded but never stop reaching heavenward.
~Everett Mámor

Many paths

Turned in my entries for the art exhibition. Here’s to luck and good fortune…

Spent the day purging, tossing, clearing, ripping up old documents. Time for cleaning things out. Also purged old clothes from the closet. On the stereo: French café music, swirl of accordion, musette pipes, guitar, violin.
There they are, crowded in the small space amid cigarette smoke, sweat, perfume, wine, beer. They dance, they fight, they kiss, they love—oh, how they love…

Reading a novel about a young woman who makes a spontaneous first-time trip to Paris after she’s resigned her hateful job and left her moron boss. She meets a handsome guy at a dance club who takes her on a nighttime tour of Paris on his motorbike. While they look out over the grand city from the grounds of the Sacre Coeur, the eastern horizon glows with sunrise. I sit and read this and glance every so often at the Ernst Haas print of the view of Paris from Notre Dame.

C returns from teaching a day-long seminar; we discuss what has changed and how we’ve changed over the last few years. More talk of spirit and spirituality. And I’ve begun reading "Le Petit Prince" after many years, this time in French.

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There are many paths to enlightenment. Be sure to take one with a heart.
--Lao Tzu

So we follow our wandering paths, and the very darkness acts as our guide and our doubts serve to reassure us.
--Jean-Pierre de Caussade

Lifted out into light

Some nights stay up till dawn,
as the moon sometimes does for the sun.
Be a full bucket pulled up the dark way
of a well, then lifted out into light.

~ Rumi

Poetics of photography

A photo in honor of the poetic photography of Ernst Haas.

We received a new addition today, a print of a view of Paris from Notre Dame, taken during a cloudy sunset by Ernst Haas. He shot the original on January 1, 1954 and called it "Cloudy Paris."

Haas took photos of major cities around the world, did a book of images depicting the creation of the world, experimented in fascinating ways with color film. Some of his images include reflections in pools, streets, and store front windows; shadows; florals; street signs; "motion" shots; portraits of the famous; abstracts; and people from many cultures.

He thought of photographs as poems – and his photos "read" like poems. Follow this link to his website and you will find further links to galleries of his images:
http://www.ernst-haas.com/introduction3.html

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In every artist there is poetry. In every human being there is the poetic element. We know, we feel, we believe…

The artist must express the summation of his feeling, knowing, and believing through the unity of his life and work. One cannot photograph art. One can only live it in the unity of his vision, as well as in the breadth of his humanity, vitality and understanding…

There is no formula – only man with his conscience speaking, writing, and singing in the new hieroglyphic language of light and time.

~ Ernst Haas

Seeking the lovely

Something lovely for today…

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Faith sees a beautiful blossom in a bulb, a lovely garden in a seed, and a giant oak in an acorn.
~ William Arthur Ward

Sense of direction

Though our paths
are convoluted and we
hop from one latitude
to another
there comes a time
when out of shadows
an arrow points
back

which doesn’t mean backwards but
instead to that deep heartbeat
within ourselves
that familiar rhythm
that drumbeats us
into a new
direction

Bee-ing philosophical

On a Saturday in spring...

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Books are the bees which carry the quickening pollen from one to another mind.
--James Russell Lowell

Three things must epigrams, like bees, have all - A sting and honey and a body small.
--Latin proverb

Birds do it, bees do it,
even educated fleas do it.
Let's do it,
let's fall in love.
--Cole Porter

A day in the zoo

Today was a day the animals roamed.

Odd phone calls, irascible people, strange situations, computer gremlins, mechanical difficulties; someone left the gate open of the zoo.

But maybe it isn’t fair to the animals to compare them with bizarre incidents. Maybe it’s a full moon instead. Or a new moon. Or an asteroid interfering with the earth’s magnetic field. Maybe it’s mood swings, lack of proper medication, human quirks, foibles.

Or just the animal in us coming out.

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If we could talk to the animals, just imagine it
Chatting to a chimp in chimpanzee
Imagine talking to a tiger, chatting to a cheetah
What a neat achievement that would be

If we could talk to the animals, learn their languages
Maybe take an animal degree
We'd study elephant and eagle, buffalo and beagle
Alligator, guinea pig, and flea

We would converse in polar bear and python
And we could curse in fluent kangaroo
If people asked us, "Can you speak in rhinoceros?"
We'd say, "Of courserous, can't you?"
-- Leslie Bricusse

Shadow play

A lyre, a ladder, a set of ribs, a boardwalk, a shelf, a slide, a ripple, a song

An arch, a visual trick, a painting, an ink drawing, a set of balustrades, a harp, a deck, a dock

The curve of a dancing woman’s hips, a footbridge swaying in the wind, the beginning of a story, a poem, a shrine

A shadow, a moment, a glimpse

time

your turn…

The life of squirrels

Squirrels ripple as they run through a yard, up a tree. They can sit on a tiny branch at treetop, bouncing in the wind without falling. Did the idea for Donald Duck’s voice come from someone hearing an angry squirrel? They gallop across rooftops like small horses. Chase each other and tumble. Love to tease dogs in fenced back yards, throw nutshells onto people walking below. Quickly figure out how to get to the birdseed in a protected birdfeeder.

One of my co-workers once trained a squirrel to come into the back door, down the hallway, into our office, climb up a chair, onto a desk, over an arrangement of books, and then onto a stuffed pig, where it would be rewarded with peanuts. She named the squirrel Gladys. Unfortunately, one day Gladys didn’t look both ways before she crossed the street.

But even though they aren’t aware of the danger of cars, they have astounding memories. A research team at UC Berkley studied how squirrels keep track of their food stashes. They bury nuts singly, but in hundreds of different sites, to protect their food supply from others. Somehow they remember where it all is hidden.

Maybe I need to hire one as a personal assistant to sort through the stacks on my desk, help me remember what's there…