Wide Open Windows

Too cool to be hot, to warm to be cold, it was a day for which Spring is justly famous. A day for Aaron Copland’s celebratory composition of the season, and we listened to his melodic photograph at full volume, with windchimes and honeybees keeping rhythm by the wide open windows. The curtains blew in, welcoming the sweet fragrance of Carolina Jessamine as it shyly crept inside our winter weary rooms, drifting past the big white dog dozing on a dark wood floor and wafting out to the back garden where a New Dawn rose was just beginning to remember how to bloom. It was a day when the bluebirds were out in perfectly matched pairs, shopping for new houses as seriously as any newlywed couple with a down payment from Daddy. A day when a gamboling March wind sprinkled showers of bridal white blossoms onto our pathway as we strolled to a park of rolling hills newly covered in daffodils. A day to look to the trees above, now engaged in their yearly celebration of verdant individuality as they busily don wardrobes worthy of Oz... chartreuse and lime, kelly and citrine...so many colours of green. A day for taking deep, deep breaths of gratitude, for the cloudless sky high above our heads, the warmth of the Spring sun on our shoulders, the soft, fresh carpet beneath our feet.
Too early to plant, to late to harvest, this was a day made only to enjoy.
And, oh how we did.








Special note:... Edward would like to announce that he has been assisting in the creation of lots and lots of Easter Keepsake boxes over the past week. Most are already spoken for, but a few have been placed in our etsy shoppe!

Vintage Bunny Box sold!

Unawares

With a black fedora cocked to one side of his head and a plaid scarf knotted round his neck, he sat by the side of the road, playing a trumpet. Years of laughter were crosshatched round his closed eyes and his espresso hands held the glowing gold trumpet with the easy familiarity of one who had long ago mastered his art. No pedestrians on this stretch of road, no coins to be thrown his way, he played full out for no one but himself. Red changed to green and I drove away, but the sight of him wove ribbons of wonder through my thoughts all afternoon, tying up a memory of this favourite poem.

Angels

Who are without mercy,
Who confide in trumpet flowers,
Who carry loose change in their pockets,
Who dress in black velvet,
Who wince and fidget like bats,
Who balance their haloes on hatracks,
Who watch reruns of famine,
Who powder their noses with pollen,
Who laugh and unleash earthquakes,
Who sidle in and out of our dreams
Like magicians, like childhood friends,
Who practice their smiles like pirates,
Who exercise by walking to Zion,
Who live on the edge of doubt,
Who cause vertigo but ease migraines,
Who weep milky tears when troubled,
Whose night sweats engender the plague,
Who pinion their arms to chandeliers,
Who speak in riddles and slant rhymes,
Who love the weak and foolhardy,
Who lust for unripe persimmons,
Who scavenge the fields for lost souls,
Who hover near lighthouses,
Who pray at railroad crossings,
Who supervise the study of rainbows,
Who cannot blush but try,
Who curl their hair with corkscrews,
Who honeymoon with Orion,
Who are not wise but pure,
Who behave with impious propriety,
Who hourly scour our faces with hope,
Whose own faces glow like radium,
Whom we've created in our own form,
Who are without mercy, seek and yearn
To return us like fossilized roses
To the wholeness of our original bloom.
by Maurya Simon

A Pink Hydrangea

There are fifty-two hydrangeas that surround our cottage. They are a delightful source of beauty during the spring and summer months when they are in full blue, pink, or white bloom, and in the autumn when their flowers turn an amazing shade of green, they are perfect for creating ravishing wreaths and arrangements that last the long winter through. With fifty-two of these gracious ladies around me, I rarely feel the need to purchase fresh flowers once they decide to commence their seasonal show. However, there used to be fifty-three of them.

Our very first hydrangea was planted by my father. It was a vivid pink mophead and he placed it directly beside the front stairs. Being a methodical perfectionist with his own unique set of ideas and techniques, the planting process took a bit of a while. Peat moss was brought in, along with cottonseed meal, the hole was dug and re-dug to a specific depth, fertilizer was added, lime was sprinkled into the mix, mulch carefully placed round the plant like a stole. Wiping his hands on his trousers when finally done, he declared it to be planted “just perfect”. His efforts were amply rewarded as that pink hydrangea continued to thrive year after year, growing ever larger each season, its dinner plate size blooms drooping low over the front porch stairs and shining a fuschia light in the summer sun. Indeed, its beauty was so seductive, it enticed us to continue planting hydrangeas in the garden each and every spring until every spot was taken and we were known as the Hydrangea House.

Daddy passed away a year and a half ago and, in a tale worthy of the fairies, his pink hydrangea, our very first one, the one standing strong and tall for so many years, left with him. I thought last season it might have just been damaged a bit by a early spring frost, but this year it is clear that the lovely old lady is no more. As I plant a new pink one in the same place this year, I shall think of Daddy in his heavenly home, his resplendent garden adorned with a familiar, ever-blooming, pink hydrangea by the front door.
I know it will have been planted just perfect.

The Best of Friends

It was an wayward baseball, launched, no doubt, from the bat of a too-eager Little Leaguer, up high over the fence and out into the wild world where it rolled and it rolled till it came to a stop on a bed of lenten roses in the garden of an elderly neighbor. And there it lay, unnoticed and undisturbed, till the sunny afternoon last week when Edward came by, nonchalantly prancing along in the midst of his lunchtime walk. Pulling up short, he sniffed the air, looked down to his left, and spied the ball. An unexpected treasure ... the very best kind! Gingerly, he picked it up and carried it with him, all the way back to his own drive, up the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door, with Apple on his heels. What a treat! What a find! The two friends could not wait to see what this round leather thing could do!

Edward rolled it to Apple, she rolled it back. He batted it with his polar bear paws across the lawn in true Beckham fashion. She impishly stole it and ran teasingly over the stone wall and through the hydrangea border. He bent low by the climbing rose, patiently waiting to pounce when she emerged from the other side of the birdbath. And pounce he did, igniting a rolling, tumbling festival that continued all over the garden till they both became so tickled with themselves there was nothing left but to run full out, cutting figure eights all through the trees. When they couldn’t run a minute more, they flopped, out of breath and grinning as only the best of friends can grin on a sunny day after playing with a baseball for the very first time. I watched them from the window, laughing, and wondered what dogless people do in the middle of the afternoon for entertainment.

Painting above: Best of Friends by Abel Hold


Best of Friends in the Flesh

Wild Life

Today marks the end of National Wildlife Week. Therefore, I thought it timely to relate a rather heart-stopping wildlife adventure Edward escorted me on last Spring.

It was a year ago this month, a perfectly ordinary evening at the end of a perfectly ordinary week. The Songwriter had just returned from out of town and was in the process of bringing in his bags. I was preparing dinner and had opened the back door for Edward and Apple to go outside for a run in the garden whilst the Songwriter unloaded the car. The dogs ran out but, per usual, immediately ran back in so as not to miss out on any homecoming activities of potential grand interest. Both sat down just behind me as I stood chopping carrots at the kitchen counter, the three of us forming a classic contented picture of quiet domesticity.

All of a sudden our quiet was shattered as I heard the Songwriter scream out in piercing notes of a most unnatural pitch. I wheeled around to see Edward, sitting calmly at my feet, holding on to an extremely large opossum, its horrid, hairless tail reaching almost to the floor. I asked no question, I made no sound. I simply threw carrots into the air and ran like a girl for the door. Edward, of course, sensed a game was afoot and had no intention of being left out of the fun. He followed me full stop, but not before setting down his magnificent prize in the middle of the kitchen floor. Apple retreated fast on Edward’s heels, leaving the Songwriter all alone, holding his bags and staring down in horror at the full grown opossum lying supine at his feet.

Now the wonderful thing about a possum is that he is genetically programmed to play dead whenever he is in a precarious situation, and that was just what our dreadful little friend was doing now - on his side like a corpse in my kitchen. As I paced the back garden chanting ohnoohnoohno like a mantra with Edward following my every step as if to ask, what? what? what?.... man and beast were left together in paralyzed silence for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, the door flew open and I saw the Songwriter sprinting for the back of the garden. In the darkness, I couldn’t see what he was doing and wondered briefly if he had jumped the fence and was making for the airport on foot. But no, soon he came running back, muttering unintelligibly, with a shovel in one hand and a bucket in the other. His unknown, and hastily crafted, plan did not bear thinking about.

Upon his return to the kitchen he could see that our creepy wee visitor, realizing that his clever genetic coping mechanism had once again rescued him from certain disaster, was now sitting bolt upright, comfortably surveying his new circumstance. Fortunately, one nudge with the aforementioned shovel, and he flopped over “dead” once more which rendered him, most mercifully for all concerned, quite easy to maneuver into the bucket and out to the car where, luckily for him, he was taken on a short drive and eventually set free in a densely wooded park where, no doubt, he lives happily to this very day.

Given the unrealistic calm they both exhibited during this harrowing encounter, I do believe neither Edward nor Apple realized exactly what they had. Edward has several large stuffed toys that he frequently carries around, the same size and roughly the same colour as our hairy little houseguest. I truly think he simply walked out onto the porch in the dark, and picked up the opossum who was lying limp in the overwhelming presence of a large dog, and carried him inside as one of his stuffed toys.

Needless to say, it was a wildlife encounter none of us shall ever forget and one I fervently hope will never occur again.

Painting above: Noah's Ark by Francis Hamel


Note: It seems as if the opossum has neglected to travel to other parts of the globe and therefore some of you are unaware of exactly what he looks like. I thought this photo might be of help.

Some Of My Favourite Things This Week Before Spring

The scent of white lilies in vases all over the house
Planting Candytuft and Rosemary bushes

The Songwriter’s new CD......so proud!


The taste of Organic Strawberries, perfectly, sweetly, in season
Shepherd’s Pie on a rainy Saturday night
The pink and white striped cotton shirt I stole from the Songwriter
Mario Badescu products, just the best stuff ever
Fleet Foxes singing White Winter Hymnal
Reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog, by Muriel Barbery
Watching Driving Lessons - wonderful, quirky film with Julie Walters and Rupert Grint

This cake stand by William Yeoward...


The colour of Edward’s fur and the hat I knitted to match it
The scent of my hands after planting rosemary bushes
Lemon Ginger Herbal Tea by Stash

This gorgeous new silk from Designers Guild....


This outfit....


This verse:

"For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come
and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.
The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom;
they give forth fragrance.
Arise my love, my fair one,
and come away."

The Song of Solomon, 2:11-13


...And I have a late addition to my list of early Spring favourites....
just today I received some lovely notecards from Karen, the charming artist at
Moonlight and Hares! Do pop over and see her beautiful work!! Thank you, Karen!

Two Emerald Celebrations

The Isle Of Innisfree

I’ve met some folks who say that I’m a dreamer
And I’ve no doubt there’s truth in what they say
But sure a body’s bound to be a dreamer
When all the things he loves are far away.
And precious things are dreams onto an exile
They take him o’er the land across the sea
Especially when it happens he’s an exile
From that dear lovely Isle of Innisfree.

And when the moonlight peeps across the rooftops
Of this great city wondrous tho’ it be
I scarcely feel its wonder or its laughter
I’m once again back home in Innisfree.

I wander o’er green hills thro’ dreamy valleys
And find a peace no other land could know
I hear the birds make music fit for angels
And watch the rivers laughing as they flow.
And then into a humble shack I wander
My dear old home, and tenderly behold
The folks I love around the turf fire gathered
On bended knees their rosary is told.

But dreams don’t last
Tho’ dreams are not forgotten
And soon I’m back to stern reality
But tho’ they paved the footways here with gold dust
I still would choose the Isle of Innisfree.

by Richard Farrelly



and.... Happy Birthday, PVE!

Not only is this emerald green day a celebration for the Irish, but it is also the birthday of the delightful Patricia van Essche of PVE Design. A wonderful painter and illustrator, Patricia is also a kind and generous soul who has surprised many a fortunate blogger with art done specifically with them in mind. I was never so tickled as the morning I awoke to find this lovely portrait of Edward up on her blog. And then, she actually sent it to me! It now presides proudly over my library and is a true treasure to us all. On this St. Patrick’s Day, do join Edward and me as we travel over to PVE Design and wish lovely Patricia a most Happy Birthday!!

Pure Fiction

It may sound contradictory, but I find such truth in fiction. In noting last week’s passing of one of America’s most truthful dramatists, Horton Foote, NY Times columnist Frank Rich compared his work to that of Faulkner “in its ability to make his own corner of America stand for the whole.” So true. Mr. Foote called out characters from the cloud of witnesses that populated his life, shone a golden light on them and rendered them wholly recognizable to human beings everywhere.

That is the enormous challenge as well as the invaluable gift of fiction, to illuminate the human condition in such a way as to give the reader a glimpse into his or her own soul. When successful, such fiction can plant the seed of wisdom, it can provide a visceral recognition of oneself in the feelings and experiences of others, a holy realization that we are all the same, we are all valuable, we are all human.

One can read reams about the Gilded Age in history books, but the words of Edith Wharton can take one’s hand and lead the way right inside it. Read The Age Of Innocence or The House of Mirth and see what I mean. Or dig beneath the surface of Flannery O’Connor’s outrageous stories to find the grace cleverly hidden within. Feast at the banquet of glorious words concocted by Virginia Woolf in Mrs. Dalloway; words that resonate in the deepest parts of the soul, providing vital nourishment to those who did not even realize they were hungry. Or perhaps, try an amazingly lucid book I’ve just recently finished, Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout. Creative in its very form, it is a series of stories that consider the quiet existence of a few people in a coastal Maine village as the prickly character of Olive moves through their individual lives, sometimes directly, often on the periphery. I found it both compassionate and wise, a remarkable two way mirror allowing insight into the lives of others and into myself as well.

By the way, the late Horton Foote also penned the screenplay for Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. And really, I have always felt that pretty much everything worth knowing can be found between the covers of that wondrous book.

“Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Five Needles at Once

On a warm evening a few summers ago, the Songwriter and I stood talking outside our favourite Mexican restaurant whilst we waited for our table. My eyes kept wandering over to young girl seated nearby who happened to be knitting. With five needles at once. Now, I am no stranger to needlework - my needlepoint pillows adorn our upholstery and we sleep every night under quilts handmade by yours truly - but this seemed the most outrageously medieval activity I had ever witnessed at close range. Standing there, I progressed from furtive glances to outright stares, but could make no sense out of what she was doing. And once again, I kicked myself for never really learning to knit, and once again, I resolved afresh to learn.
Well, as I reported a few postings ago, after some expert teaching I have discovered that knitting with five needles is neither outrageous nor medieval. In fact... it’s downright fun. I have now conquered hats and cabled scarves and these days my head is often swimming with rainbows of cashmere, mohair, merino, cotton and silk, all for creations yet to be.
I can highly recommend learning something new.

As the photo shows, Edward agreed to model one of my first creations. He seems to like this particular chapeau quite a lot, but has just a bit of difficulty keeping it on!

To Pay Attention

“That big dog looks so happy”, the man called out over his shoulder as he cycled past and out of sight. Edward paid him no mind as he continued his jaunty pace through the trees.
The winding forest pathway, snowcovered only days before, was now lined with the chartreuse velvet of new moss, transformed as a greystone bridge over leprechaun seas that flowed all the way to the clearing. Edward stopped to listen. The old forest fairly crackled with the expectation of Spring. How long now? Days? Minutes?

The March sun, happily unhindered by cloud, took full afternoon dominion and draped sheets of tinsel across the lake; such shimmering silver, it hurt the eyes. Edward flopped down to rest on a grass carpet which still remained reluctant to remove its winter coat of gold, not yet ready to unveil the lemon emerald dress of Spring. Ancient windchimes performed nonchalant overhead tunes and a clumsy bumblebee tested out his new Spring wings for the very first time. The big dog dozed while the wind gently played with his fur.

To pay attention at the arrival of a new season. To spend a quiet extra hour in the perfection that is Nature. These are the halcyon moments.
That big dog was indeed happy.

"One attraction in coming to the woods to live was that I should have leisure and opportunity to see the spring come in."
Henry David Thoreau

A Birthday Memory

I had come to Britain some years back to observe the occasion of my fortieth birthday with the half hearted hope that by not being in the actual country of my birth on the actual date, perhaps it wouldn’t really count, or even, by some magical quirk in the time- space continuum, the numbers attributed to my age account might happily begin to reverse. I was not exactly certain what I was supposed to be feeling. It seemed as though this particular age I was facing was meant to serve as a milestone of sorts, especially for a woman. After all, there were specialized magazines for “women over forty”, women in the public eye seemed to have careers divided into before - and after - forty, and it seemed as though everything from fashion to health care moved into separate categories at this advanced age, categories heretofore uncharted and not exactly welcoming. Was I supposed to feel differently now? Was a cultural shroud being fashioned for me at this very moment; my very own cloak of invisibility that was the requisite uniform for antediluvian women like myself? I had never before defined myself by any sort of category. Would I be forced to now?

I sat in a cafe in Bath pondering all this one damp and chilly afternoon, when the door suddenly blew open and I turned to see a quite beautiful lady of a certain age enter. She was an exquisite creature, clad in an exotic ensemble of black and grey, complete with a most fetching hat worn over enviable blonde hair, and followed closely by a tweedy gentleman, obviously younger, and obviously besotted. She arranged herself at the table next to mine thereby providing me with a observation point that I took full advantage of. Indeed it was difficult to take my eyes off her. Laughing frequently, with twinkling eyes, she seemed both enormously interesting and interested at the same time. I wanted nothing more than to scoot my chair up to her table and l talk to her all afternoon. I wanted to follow her home. As I watched her I realized, that although obviously older than myself, I could not begin to pinpoint her exact age, nor was that even remotely of interest where this woman was concerned.

And, as I sat there sipping Darjeeling and studying her, I began to feel like myself again, realizing afresh that age is of no matter in the true world. Life was a gift, pure and simple; a sublime journey of learning, giving and love, and it was meant to be lived, full tilt, for as long we are blessed to be here. In short, I got over myself, and went on to enjoy quite a jolly holiday.

I have often wondered who that lady was and where she might be now. She gave me quite a marvelous birthday present that day.
I can still hear her laughter.

Foretelling

I heard the owl at midnight. Not the fairy trill of the Screech, but the oracular notes of the Great Horned that frequently spends his evenings in the invisible branches of the nighttime trees. He often calls to us of other worlds; his low, mysterious voice imparting wisdom we mere humans cannot yet comprehend. But in the morning, upon looking out the window at breakfast time, I understood the message he had perhaps been foretelling. For there outside, falling slowly from the skies like heavenly cotton... Snow. For the first time this year. Each delicious flake drifting down so casually, one’s eye could pick one out and follow it all the long way from grey sky to brown earth, never losing it in the crowd of its ivory brethren. Within an hour our world was iced like a birthday cake by the wizardry of a snowfall and our little cottage now sat squarely on the pages of a storybook. Winter laughed at Spring as we pulled on newly knitted hats and scarves and rushed out to play our parts in this pageantry of snow.

For after all, no one enjoys snow more than Apple!

The True Herald of Spring

He was the legendary harbinger of Springtime. everything a Robin should be, sitting fat and cocky atop my back garden gate, fully aware of his beauty as he turned his perfect head this way and that as if to give God Himself the opportunity to appreciate him in his best light. Impressive, yes.... a handsome creature to be sure, but alas, he could tell me nothing.

I look up, up and notice how the ancient oaks and poplars now appear pale-green, dandelion-fuzzy in the penthouse levels of their skyscraper dizziness. I have seen the smiling saffron faces of the daffodils as they wave to me each morning when I tie back the lace curtains over the windowseat. I have even spied a bunny in the moonlight. But delightful as they are, and try as they might, they have no real news to give.

The Arthur Rackham calendar on my office wall quite confidently declares that Spring will arrive during the month that begins tomorrow, but it is laughable to believe it. For the seasons pay no heed to the calendars of men; give no credence to his schedules or his expectations. They run a celestial relay all their own, handing over armloads of lovely hours to their successors when they alone decide the time is right. It is pure folly to think it will be on the same day each year.

One must watch carefully, must always pay attention, for the true herald of Spring is found in neither flora nor fauna but rather in a certain ephemeral, almost invisible, quality of light. It can appear on the coldest hour of a March afternoon, or as late as an April dawn, but if one is watching closely, one will see. The sharpness of the clean winter light will have melted round the edges, become more watery somehow, more suitable for the quiet illumination of a rose. Then and only then will Spring be here.

I once returned in April from a ten day trip out of the country. As I sat down my bags and walked into the kitchen, I could see it clearly. The light had changed. It was a languid light now that floated through the house like an etude, no longer the crisp light of Winter that had pierced my windowpanes just the week before. Spring had arrived and I had missed it. I resolved to never let that happen again.
So, I am watching.
Are you?

A Light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here

A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That silence cannot overtake,
But human nature feels.

It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.

Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:

A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.

Emily Dickinson

Painting: Spring, 1913
by Eric Harald Macbeth Robertson

New Inventions

Over the past week I have received three emails from friends who have just lost their jobs. Serious jobs, too, jobs that seemed secure. Being self-employed, I suppose I cannot really lose my job - I sort of am my job. But when those who once hired me are now contacting me for leads themselves, I know something troublesome is afoot. While I am truly encouraged to see the way our new president has grasped hold of the reins of this runaway coach, I know it will take a while to pull it up to a comfortable pace for all the rattled passengers inside. Indeed, even when this downhill ride has reached level ground, the economic landscape seen outside the windows might look a bit unfamiliar to us all.

All this has led me to think about reinvention. I was speaking to a friend a couple of weeks ago, a woman full of optimism and industry who thinks this is the perfect time to start a new career, to take a chance on an idea that might have been simmering on the back burner of one’s mind for ages. Her enthusiasm was infectious. It made me think anew of the old adage, “necessity is the mother of invention”. Perhaps, for some of us, this financially fitful time represents the impetus we have waited for. Too many people of my acquaintance work away everyday at jobs they truly despise. They look wistfully at the Songwriter and myself and say if only they could get up every morning and love what they do. Of course, we hasten to tell them that self-employment is quite often far from a bed of roses, but they are difficult to convince. Perhaps this current situation, though worrisome and rocky, may serve as a bit of a reshuffling of ideas and goals, of priorities and dreams. Perhaps, just perhaps, there are people like my friend, who will see this time as the fabled fork in the road they have longed for, a magic moment to reinvent their lives, to create a new venture, to realize a long held dream.

Invention, it must be humbly admitted,
does not consist of creating out of void, but out of chaos”
Mary Shelley

The Alchemist

Watching the Academy Awards is a tradition for me. Popcorn, comfy pajamas, fire in the fireplace....all the necessary accoutrements for a long and entertaining evening. I usually make an attempt to catch most of the nominated films, but this year I fell woefully behind and shall try to catch up over the next couple of weeks. One I did see, however, and found to be amazing, was Doubt. Engrossing, with blistering authenticity and truth, it contained four peerless performances. Of course, I am unabashedly a fan of Meryl Streep.

I well remember being in Paris in 1981, walking down the street past a newsstand and seeing her on the cover of Time magazine. It was a winsome photograph, but I don’t know why it stands out in my memory. Funny, but I can still see the sunlight that dappled the road that day. I have followed her through the years from a farm in Africa, to a hilly seaside town in Greece, from Auschwitz to Oklahoma, Lyme Regis to Madison County, from a courtroom in Australia to an editor’s desk in New York City. She possesses the ability to create another person so completely one would expect even her fingerprints to have changed in the process. She brings people to life in such a transcendent fashion as to give one a real glimpse into the inner workings of other minds, other souls. In doing so, she enables us to understand our collective humanity just a wee bit better.
How does that happen? I am grateful for the mystery. I don’t want to know the secret to how it’s done. I am just grateful Meryl Streep does it.

Pure Magic

I sat in traffic on a rainy day, absorbed in browsing through my treasured album of mental pictures, searching wistfully for a fair and carefree place, a moment in time or imagination to pluck from my memory and disappear inside, far away from the gloom of the unfolding afternoon. Lost in thought and miles away, I slowly turned to my left and... I saw him. Standing alone in the middle of the asphalt ocean of a bleakly empty car park, like a perfect pearl pendant on a cashmere grey sweater. A Seagull. Hundreds of miles from the sea. As astonishing a sight as a kelpie in the supermarket or a unicorn on Main Street. He calmly held my gaze for a moment or two before stretching out his grey white wings, lifting up in the air and flying away through the mist. I watched him go in open-mouthed amazement. No one else seemed to notice and I wondered for a moment if indeed, only I had seen him, if he had popped through some enchanted portal as a feathered epistle, a reminder to me alone. If so, I am grateful he took the time. For the sight of him was a lovely gesture and served as an admonishment to me to always remember the pure magic that is in floating about in the world for those with eyes to see, that even though a dismal rain may be falling all around, somewhere a warm wind is blowing and sea gulls are calling out to each other over glittering blue- green waters.
How could I have allowed the gloom of the day to overtake me?

A Favourite Chair

This photo is on my desk at all times, within an easy gaze of my eye. To me it is a therapeutic talisman. When I am on the phone, or with my head bent over a particularly exacting piece of work, it is such the welcome distraction and certain antidote to any stressful emotion I could possibly conjure forth. I simply stop, put down my work, and stare. Slowly, softly, I begin to remember the smell of the moist, salty air rising up the hill from the sea, on the wind I hear the bleating of the ewes just past the fence and I sit down for a moment in that little chair, tilt back my head and let the sun shine its golden light onto my face while that remarkable wind blows every care I could ever have far, far away. If I have the time, I just might venture inside. Oh, I know the magical interior of this modest stone building isn’t visible in the photograph, but it is there in technicolour in my memory. Like walking inside a fluffy kaleidoscope, I see the wooden shelves, floor to ceiling, stuffed with rainbows and colour wheels of hand-dyed yarns. The sheep outside have a distinct right to sing out loudly, for it is their own wool that helps to supply this wonderland, wool whose colours are dyed from the flowers and herbs that grow along the old wooden fence. I have knitted a scarf or two from these fabulous yarns, but this past autumn I decided to add a few more arrows to my quiver and enrolled in a couple of serious, no fooling around knitting classes. Two of them. It had been one of those annual resolutions that never seemed to get done, until this year, and what a grand time I’ve been having. Who knew knitting was so much fun? I now find myself looking forward to evenings spent by the fire with needles ablaze. So the next time I walk through this magic little door I will be ready for much grander things.
And believe me, I cannot wait for the next time.

Shilasdair
Waternish, Isle of Skye

On A Night Last Week

Was I really supposed to sleep? With a moon like that one dangling up in the sky above my window? A moon that sang out to me in a silver aria from behind a wispy veil of winter cloud that draped across its face like the tissue-thin lampshade of a glowing Chinese lantern. This moon lantern that radiated a cool light, that illuminated every surface of my room as if midday in a ghostly story of old. Was I really supposed to pull the covers up under my chin, fold my hands, close my eyes? Not to get up and sit in the window seat to watch? If so, I should have missed seeing the shadows dance a graceful ballet around the poplar trees. Missed hearing the mockingbird as he eerily sang half a stanza of his favourite tune before realizing he’d been fooled by this trickster of a moon into believing the dawn had come early. I would not have noticed the cavernous quiet that dwelt underneath this abalone moon, an absence of sound found only deep inside the dead of a moonlit night. Oh no, I had to be a witness to this moon this night. Had to sit enraptured beneath his gaze and confide a few tiny secrets to him alone, and eventually to drift away to sleep, grateful he was keeping watch.

In all of spangled space, but I
To stare moon-struck into the sky;
Of billion beings I alone
To praise the Moon as still as stone.

And seal a bond between us two,
Closer than mortal ever knew;
For as mute masses I intone
The Moon is mine and mine alone.

From the poem Moon-Lover by Robert Service

"Love.....
If you have it, you don't need to have anything else.
And if you don't have it, it doesn't matter much what else you have."
J.M. Barrie

"Ain't it the truth!"
Edward


Happy Valentine's Day to All!!

Designing Thoughts

I have an unabashed love of exuberant rooms; those creative and colourful interiors that speak such engrossing volumes about the individuals who live within them. To me, there is nothing more enticing than a home filled to pop with books, collections, patterns, textures, antiques, paintings, flowers and dogs... rooms artfully arranged - a bit dramatic, and eminently comfortable. The English Country House style, although admittedly fictionalized a bit, has always made my heart sing and it is a style certainly reflected in my own home. This of course does not mean that I cannot appreciate other avenues and other approaches to design. Indeed, one of the more enjoyable challenges of my profession are the projects that require a jump or two outside my personal taste and total immersion in another. I have created many varied interiors for my clients, from all white romantic country to sleek sophisticated urban, but no one could ever call me a minimalist. The straight lines and stark colours of the minimalist style leave me a bit chilled. It appears I have a kindred spirit in the British furniture designer, Mark Wilkinson. Known best for his gorgeous kitchens, Mr. Wilkinson has a rollicking interview in the latest issue of The English Home; an interview that left me nodding and chuckling a bit. Here is his quote on the reason why he is not a fan of minimalism. While I would not express myself quite as stridently as he on the subject - especially in that first sentence - I do think he has a wonderful philosophy on the importance of interior design as the vital art form that I feel it is.

“...Minimalism is a kind of emotional bankruptcy...a refuge for those who do not understand the grammar of ornamentation or the symbolism of colour. I can see and make an argument for design being the most profound and enlightening of art forms. A play or piece of literature by Shakespeare is very effective, a painting by Monet or Van Gogh especially is shudderingly expressive, a piece of music by Rachmaninoff, by Elgar, by John Lee Hooker, whomever, can be very effective, but you don’t live with the piece of music playing in your ear. The voice of design is softer. It doesn’t have the same volume of other artistic mediums but it is all-powerful and all-persuasive by virtue of the fact that it is there subliminally all the time that your eyes are open. If we put people in surroundings of wonder, they express that sense of wonder, of beauty, of joy and that’s what you should be doing with design. Why create an environment that says, “I’m not here to look nice cluttered.” I want to walk into an environment that says, “hello mate, been working hard all day? Take off your shoes, that’s ok...”

The photo above is of the famed Yellow Room of Nancy Lancaster and is often referenced as the definitive example of English Country House Style.