In The Woodland

Whose woods are these? I think I know. I have been here before, almost one year ago, if my memory serves. Silently standing all together, as a flock of elegant birds with feathers of fir - shoulders touching, wings folded - this woodland, like all woodlands, quietly bids me welcome.
I am Lucy in the wardrobe. Looking this way and that, I gently push aside boughs of green needles, and enter in. All outside sound evaporates to nothingness, and I am alone. Fistfuls of white light, man’s recreation of the stars, drape and swag above me, casting a surreal glow over this most unusual forest. I run my fingers through emerald arms, bury my face in soft branches. I am intoxicated by the overwhelming smell of winter.
One by one, each tree lets me pass, scores of silent beryl eyes marking my movements as I search for the one I came to find.
Soon, far down another long viridian hallway, I see him, off to the side, regal in his perfection. Tall as an ent, pure magic, his branches seem to wave me over. I stand before him, looking up to the place where a star should be, and softly whisper, “are you the one”? Perhaps it was the wind, for it was strong that night, but I am certain the great tree bowed.

We bore him home by moonlight to his place of honor by the grey stone fireplace and he stands there now, wearing his robes of tinsel and ruby, gold teardrops and fairy light. He presides over Christmas with a dignified beauty, a grace afforded but a few of his kind, trees chosen to share a small portion of the wild wood’s mystery with those of us who dwell indoors. He greets us every morning with his lush sparkle, his holiday perfume. He is the crowning jewel of our festivity, the guardian of our tokens of love for one another - those gaily wrapped boxes nestled under his boughs.
Once again, we are charmed by his presence.

Painting above by Sophia Elliott

Thank you for the food we eat,
Thank you for the world so sweet,
Thank you for the birds that sing,
Thank you God for everything.

Happy Thanksgiving
From the House of Edward

A Bit Chaotic

If it were possible to animate my to-do list, to breathe life and colour into each entry for this week and set them all loose on the landscape, no doubt it would resemble the above painting by Hieronymus Bosch. And, if that animation were suddenly to be given a soundtrack, I can bet that the strains of The William Tell Overture would be heard rollicking through the house. Are we busy at The House of Edward? Yes. A bit chaotic? Perhaps. Thanksgiving is on its way - if I squint, I can almost see the infamous sleigh coming over the river and through the woods even as I type. Well worn recipes are scattered amidst cranberries, sweet potatoes, pumpkin... tons of flowers and candles, cinnamon and nutmeg, linen napkins to be ironed, furry dogs to be puffied. There are even Christmas trees propped up in the back garden awaiting their turn in the festivity. They shall be up by the weekend. Needless to say, time is too thin for a thoughtful, thought-out post just now. So... here are some bits and bobs of interest....random thoughts, places to go....people to visit.... things to see... Christmas presents to consider. Have fun and I’ll see you later in the week... oh, and check out the latest poetry giveaway! Just leave a comment here and we’ll draw the name on Thanksgiving Thursday!!

In no particular order....

..... A couple of weeks ago I received a call for help from the delightfully talented designer, Brooke Giannetti. Brooke writes the blog, Velvet and Linen, and if you have ever wanted to visit the quintessential blog on interior design, you should certainly pay a call on Brooke. At present, she is holding a giveaway competition for three Mark Sage cocktail tables and she received 175 entries! Brooke asked some of her fellow interior designers to help in the judging process, and we all did our best to narrow the choices. Now it is time for you to cast your votes. Pop over to Velvet and Linen today and take part!

....Several mornings ago, I awoke bright and early with a fully orchestrated version of “Whatever Lola Wants” playing loudly in my head. The song is from the musical, “Damn Yankees” and I think I might have heard it once in my entire life. I only caught a snippet this time, because of course the orchestra ran for cover the moment my eyes popped open. I hate when this happens. It’s as if there is a party going on in my head that I am not invited to. Worse still, those in attendance seem to conspire to make me forget their festivities rather quickly. That is why I write them down.

....Since the charming Willow of Willow Manor so kindly posted about her recent giveaway win from The House of Edward, I have been receiving emails about The Songwriter’s latest CD, Laugh for a Million Years. For those of you interested, you can order your very own copy HERE.
He is a wonderful writer, and no, I’m not the least bit prejudiced.


.....Ever since the summer afternoon when I saw the delicious movie, Julia and Julia, I have been, shall we say, hungry for a large, glazed cast iron pot. In red. Well, I am happy to say that dear Martha Stewart heard my wish and has invented the perfect one. Not nearly as expensive as Le Creuset, or even Emile Henri, Martha’s cast iron cookware is really wonderful. It is sold at Macy’s.

.....I know I cannot have him, for Edward would simply not approve and I most seriously doubt that his owner would ever consider parting with the fellow. But I do so want this rabbit.
Isn’t he magnificent?
His name is Herman.


.....For those of us who are, like me, in the midst of preparations for Thanksgiving, here’s a wonderful treat. Perhaps one to keep the kiddos busy whilst you are cooking? Pop over to Liberty Post and download her amazing Thanksgiving garland. It’s only $2! Just download, print out, cut out, and string up. Voila! Festive.


.....I think it is beyond wonderful that we now have a First Lady that can actually Hula Hoop. And will do so.


.....And, isn’t it a splendid thing when a child star grows up so beautifully!

Emma Watson of Harry Potter fame.
Photographed in Teen Vogue


....I miss George Harrison.

....How I loved the movie Where The Wild Things Are. Not a movie for children exactly, but a movie about childhood. It’s not always easy to be a child. Magic film.

....Along with many of my fellow Etsy artists, I shall be participating in the free shipping sale event this weekend. From Friday through Monday all Christmas items in Edward’s Shoppe will be shipped free of charge! It’ll be a great weekend to shop Etsy!


....Speaking of Christmas presents, here are a few more of my recent fabulous favourites....

.....The perfect hat for the perfect man...



I am so in love with these handmade journals!
This artist makes them in suede, leather and fabric.







And, these amazing nightlights!
This Etsy artist also makes lamps and suncatchers.
All are gorgeous.





Or, how about this imaginative teapot?? Isn't it great?



Last but not least, as promised, a second seasonal giveaway!
A beautiful little collection of Christmas Poems.


Simply leave a comment here, and Edward and I will draw the winning blog on Thanksgiving!
Good luck and enjoy your busy week!
Edward and I certainly plan to!

******* Congratulations to Ruth! You won the poetry book! *******

The Leaves

Perhaps they were tired of the usual, bored with the mundane annual routine. No doubt they had planned this for weeks, secretly convening beneath lunar light when the rest of the street was sleeping, tucked away in grey dens and brown burrows, twiggy nests and four-posters. The maples had thought of it first, whispering their mischievous idea to the oaks and the poplars whilst the pines and magnolias simply eavesdropped, for this did not concern them.
The plan was ingenious.
It made the old trees laugh.
For years, they had each shed their leaves in a casual fashion. It had always been thus, with the maples stepping off first, scattering their red-orange raiment on the autumn breeze like flaming sparks from a bonfire, and the oak leaves holding out till much later, as though reluctant to relinquish their lofty views up above all the others. A bit more mercurial, the poplars were always difficult to predict, for they adhered to a schedule known only to themselves. With a few leaves here, a bit more there, it had forever been a rather lazy process, almost nonchalant, and one that allowed the ear-muffed humans below ample time to catch up as they scurried around with their wood handled rakes. But not this year.
Meticulously organized, this colourful cabal executed its plan with precision.
On Saturday evening, the trees were full of leaves.
On Sunday morning, they were not.
Sometime in the deepdarkdead of the night - perhaps counting a prelude of three like a rainbow row of giggling children holding hands on the high dive preparing to jump - they all came down at once, leaving the cottage buried deep under crimson and gold. Up street and down, we all silently stood on our porches next morning, our various plans for the day visibly altered before our very eyes and, sighing, one by one, turned back inside to gather up coats and gloves, rakes and leaf blowers, determined to restore a semblance of order to the upturned landscape of our little world.
And later, from somewhere within one of those towering piles of crackling, fading colour, I could almost have sworn I heard an indistinct sound - a thin, strange echo of cheeky laughter.

All That Shopping

It is a commonplace feeling, I suppose. Still, last week, when I mentioned “Christmas” to the shopkeeper who sells Edward’s favourite carrot cake biscuits, his reaction was a bit of a surprise. Always ready with a smile in any sort of weather, he now clouded over, his expression falling somewhere in the range of gloomy to grumpy as he muttered something unintelligible about “nieces, and nephews and all that shopping”. He was relatively easy to tease back into giggles, especially when I brought up the name Scrooge, but I thought as I left what a shame it is that so many people view the holiday season as nothing less than a chore.
I must confess, despite the wonderful opportunity for people watching that they provide, I rarely enter shopping malls. I much prefer those tiny shops with creaky wooden floors, those intriguing haunts with wavy glass windows that look out onto crooked little streets, those cubbyholes with wonders not to be found in the mammoth halls of department stores. And to be truthful, I make most of my Christmas gifts, and even the boxes they are placed inside. I love doing so.
But today, for Edward’s biscuit selling friend who has all those nieces and nephews to think about, I thought I might put together a wee list of finds... just a few of the items that have recently captured my eye. They are mostly from some of those tiny shops, down a few of those crooked pathways....in the land of the internet.
So Edward’s friend can shop in his pajamas.
And, so can we all!!
********************

First of all, the marvelous painting of the Christmas shopping bears above is from a set of Christmas cards by Amber Alexander. You can find them, along with many more wonders in her Etsy shoppe HERE.

Next, is this just the cutest little hat you have ever seen?? I would have worn this everywhere I went when I was little.
You can find this charmer in an Etsy shoppe called Swirly Hats.


Etsy is the most fabulous resource for the unique and the handmade.
Just take a look at these felted slippers...


Or these magical little creations...


Isn't this Owl Mobile just the cutest thing ever?


Or this Owl Pocket Watch


....a perfect fantasy of a skirt from Anthropologie kids...


Or these from the amazing new Stella McCartney line for boys and girls from The Gap.
I'm crazy about these, wish they came in my size!




Or, this toadstool ottoman from Anthropologie!
The perfect accessory for a child's room, don't you think??




And, just look at these adorable dog ornaments!!!
This artist makes these in a variety of dog breeds.
She even creates custom ones!
Can't you just visualize Edward on the Christmas tree!!!?
Visit her shop HERE.




And if you wish to place on of these treasures in an especially wondrous box......
you might like to visit Edward's own Etsy shoppe!

This was so much fun, we might just do it again next week!
Perhaps a list of my new favourite gift books!

After the Dinner Party

The guests have all gone and the dishes are done.
The cottage speaks only in whispers now, in the muffled ticktocktick of the old clock in the bookcase, in the now and then crackle of the diminishing blaze still slightly aglow within the stone fireplace. Edward dozes at my feet as I sit, comfortably curled like a cat, deep in the arms of the orange velvet chair, sipping a toddy that is warm and so sweet. The playful personality of the midnight wind has changed since the arrival of November. It sounds more serious somehow, moving through the black leaves outside with a purpose, sending shadows through the windowpanes, muted grey dancers that silently waltz round the candlelit walls. I watch them move and imagine the music only they can hear.
Surely, this is the essence of contentment.

It had been the best sort of day. One spent chopping and slicing, stirring and tasting; a day decorated with antique china and pink flowers, old-fashioned music and red, red wine, happy dogs napping under the chairs of happy dinner guests. The cottage had been redolent with the cozy fragrances of fresh apple pie, crusty bread, boeuf bourguignon simmering in a fat red pot - the menu I had promised for the first truly cold weekend of autumn.
There had been spirited talk of books and of movies, music and Christmas, of Italian landscapes, bagpipes, and Renaissance art.

Cooking for friends, making them welcome, is such a satisfying occupation at any season of the year, but especially just now. When the nights become longer and the temperature drops it seems that a spirit of merriment knocks at the door, a woodland sorcerer clad in robes of crimson leaves and cardinal feathers whose talent is pure hospitality. I am happy to serve as his apprentice. An elegant soul, he is a bit more formal than his counterparts of summer, those alfresco fairies of barefoot spontaneity and pink champagne. No, he seems to prefer dressier occasions - richer colours, richer foods. He is all red roses and tapestry, mulled wine and dark chocolate - his candles are scented with chestnuts and pomegranate, and he hides the recordings of Debussy, preferring to fill the house with Mozart instead. A most convivial fellow, I highly recommend giving him free rein in your household all season long. I promise you shall have even more fun than your guests.

"Frame thy mind to mirth and merriment,
which bars a thousand harms, and lengthens life"
William Shakespeare

This Little Blog

I was the child who sat at her school desk and day-dreamed. My parents were the ones often told by the teacher that their daughter paid little attention in class. Especially in math class. Despite sincere efforts from rows of well-starched figures of authority, the vibrant scenes that unfolded inside my little head remained infinitely more interesting to me than all the isosceles triangles, square roots, and algorithms combined. All the mathematical theorems in the world could have been dancing in a line atop the teacher’s head - it would have made no difference.

Throughout the years, I can honestly say, not very much has changed. I am still the dreamer and funnily enough, have spent my life getting paid for remaining so. After all, the ability to dream, to clearly see the possible quietly shining just beyond the pedestrian, is an invaluable asset in the field of interior design.
But just when I think that surprises are rare, I am amazed to find myself with the most delicious indulgence for all of my dreams.... right here, in this little blog. Here I have been allowed to cut my thoughts loose, to let them roam free. It has been so much fun and has sometimes tempted me to consider a change of career. Perhaps a fork in the road is just around the leafy bend.

I am now stunned to see that this is my 200th posting! With each post I just know I will never be able to think of another, but the muses keep raising their hands to be heard, so I guess I’ll continue as long as they do. To think that people actually follow along on this journey by consistently reading these writings and ramblings, is astonishing to me. I am incredibly grateful for all the wonderful, thoughtful, and interesting comments and emails you kind people send my way. They are a delight, and such an encouragement. I thank you all and on this, my 200th posting, I am holding a small giveaway to express my appreciation. One of my favourite books of Dog poetry, along with The Songwriter’s latest CD, will be awarded to one lucky reader at midnight on Friday the 13th. What a fabulous night to be lucky!
All you have to do is leave a comment on this posting and Edward will help me draw the winner!!
Good Luck and Thank You Every One!


Painting above by Honor Appleton


*****Congratulations to Life at Willow Manor!! Your blog was drawn out of the hat for the giveaway!****
Thanks to all who entered. So much fun! We'll be doing this again soon!

Scarecrows

There is an old man who tends a large garden not very far from my house. I pass by often and see him there, just sitting alone in the midst of his vegetables, quiet, still. I always presume he is contemplating the world and its mysteries, but maybe he’s just escaping a chattering wife.
He has placed a homemade scarecrow in the center of the bounty, a scarecrow well crafted, who dons a new outfit each Spring. By the apparent dearth of crows over the garden, the fellow does his job quite well.
I have always loved the idea of scarecrows. How marvelous if we ourselves could but station a figure outside our front door, a chap perfectly crafted to fit our uniqueness, whose only mission in life was to ward away that which would bring us trouble. We could tailor his garments to suit our own needs, each snippet of clothing holding significance for us alone. A magic red scarf to banish depression, an enchanted blue waistcoat to turn away grief. Illness would spot the striped bowtie and flee, anger would see the tweed trousers and fly.
What a smooth life we could fashion for ourselves.

-----------------------------------------

The Scarecrow

All winter through I bow my head
beneath the driving rain;
the North Wind powders me with snow
and blows me black again;
at midnight 'neath a maze of stars
I flame with glittering rime,
and stand above the stubble, stiff
as mail at morning-prime.
But when that child called Spring, and all
his host of children come,
scattering their buds and dew upon
these acres of my home,
some rapture in my rags awakes;
I lift void eyes and scan
the sky for crows, those ravening foes,
of my strange master, Man.
I watch him striding lank behind
his clashing team, and know
soon will the wheat swish body high
where once lay a sterile snow;
soon I shall gaze across a sea
of sun-begotten grain,
which my unflinching watch hath sealed
for harvest once again.

by Walter de la Mare

Sister and the Dogs

It is the fortunate person who discovers his passion early on in life. So many temptations are spread on the table, so many colours spin by. To travel deep within the grand mountain of possibility and bring out that one bright thing which possesses the power to absorb and enchant for the rest of your life is a blessing indeed.

In the heady nascent days of any new passion, one often finds a hero of sorts, someone to look up to, a person who has sailed the waters before you, smoothly and with great finesse. Such was the case for me when I discovered my love for the creation of beautiful rooms.
I discovered Sister Parish.
Sister Parish, or Mrs. Henry Parish II as she liked to be known, was an American decorator before such creatures were actually known to exist. Her talent was innate, and timeless, and she held tight to a philosophy of design that resonated deeply with me. Though she decorated for Rockefellers and Gettys, Astors and Kennedys, and was known to be more than a trifle imperious, her rooms were infinitely approachable, with a comfort and graciousness that could only be called charming. I would study her furniture placement for hours and I learned a great deal from doing so.

One of Sister's glowing designs

Sister was also a dog lover who held a neighborhood dog show every summer on the lawn of her home in Dark Harbor, Maine. I always adored that idea, of course, so some years back I decided to hold a dog show here in my lovely old Southern neighborhood. Ours is a neighborhood of dog lovers, and the show has been a popular event from day one. This past weekend was our 9th annual show! Awards are given in five categories, with a trophy, medallion and gift basket presented to the “Top Dog” of the neighborhood. Quite appropriately, Edward won “Most Devoted” this year, whilst a bouncy Jack Russell named Ellie Mae took home the award for Top Dog. I wonder what Sister Parish would think if she knew how far her influence had reached!

Edward himself won Top Dog a couple of years ago! Doesn’t he look proud?

Oh and by the way, there is absolutely no age limit posted at the entrance to that mountain of possibility that I mentioned above. I have continued to visit it quite often throughout my life, hauling out new passions with each adventurous trek inside.

“As a child I discovered the happy feelings that familiar things can bring -- an old apple tree, a favorite garden, the smell of a fresh-clipped hedge.... Some think a decorator should change a house. I try to give permanence to a house, to bring out the experiences, the memories, the feelings that make it a home.''
Sister Parish

1910-1994

For those of you interested in interior designer, Sister Parish, I would highly recommend the book Sister, by Apple Bartlett Parish and Susan Bartlett Crater. There is also a brand new book on Mrs. Parish called Sister Parish Design: On Decorating, which promises to delight.
Oh, and it is no coincidence that Mrs. Parish’s daughter and my furry black dog, Apple, share the same delicious name! I told you I was a fan.

Portrait of Sister Parish by Ned Murray

Welcome November

Scarlet leaves are falling on the once green grass, a strand of perfect rubies broken and loosened by time, they tumble down one after the other, holding veined hands with the wind. They shall rest on the dappled floor of the garden, to fade into nothingness, turn into memory, leaving behind sweet bits of their spirits to nourish the green that will bloom in their wake.
We turned all the clocks back late last night, once again granting the darkness greater dominion over all the long hours that make up our day.
November is unpacking his cases and settling in.
And so begins the conclusion of the year.

So often the poet writes about death when he considers the month of November. William Morris spoke of this month as the “Bright sign of loneliness too great for me, Strange image of the dread eternity”, whilst Baudelaire wrote of the upcoming winter as the season of “derision, hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice” a time when he would be “exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison, My soul will harden into a block of red ice.”
A bleak picture indeed.
I do clearly see the illustration painted by nature, I just suppose I read it differently than some. To me November is a frankly delightful time, a thirty day gift all wrapped up in gold and kindly offered for introspection and preparation. My mind fairly glows with ideas that seem to sparkle best in the early, frost rimmed darkness - jigsaws of notions that now find the time to coalesce into colourful blueprints for the days to come.... intricate tapestries of Thanksgiving ambrosias, Christmas adornments, abundant new spring gardens. If, on a cold, windy night, you have ever curled up in a nest of a chair by the fire, with a mug of hot tea, and an enticing seed catalog or an opulent travel brochure, well you will know what I mean. Of all the months in the kaleidoscopic year, November offers the coziest atmosphere for plotting the most adventurous schemes and strategies.

In the metaphorical searchlight of deeper meaning, I can only hope that my affection for this season remains as I continue my journey through this, the great year of my life. I should like to think when all those days that are mine dwindle down, I shall still be found in my chair by the fire, absorbed in a pleasant contemplation of the grand odyssey to come.
Welcome, November.

Painting by Atkinson Grimshaw

Halloween

Shutter the windows tightly and bolt the heavy door. Wrap your shawl snug round you and watch the skies with a sharpened eye.
It is time for the danse macabre. The spirits are out on the wing.
Loosed for one night only, they shall flit through the dark like bats - green eyes aglow in the orange of the maple trees, waxy fingers tap-tapping upon the wavy glass.
Eyes wide open tonight my friends.
Circling round the cold stone chimney, or slipping beneath the wooden door - perhaps wafting through the keyhole like a icy vapour - they are searching, searching for a way inside. Hoping to hide in the wardrobe or under the innocent bed, longing to lie in wait for that one perfect moment at midnight, to appear in the mirror, just behind your left shoulder, silently smiling in the shadowy corner, close enough to touch. You may feel them brush past you in the quiet of the hallway as you make your way off to your bed - a faint cold laugh, a chilled breath on the back of your neck.
Hurry. Set your gargoyles at their posts - that happy bastion of grinning pumpkins, warm candlelight, and bowls of candy corn.
Don the ruby slippers and bring the dogs inside.
Open your door only to the little ones, those tiny ghosts and princesses, wee ghouls and little monsters, bravely out navigating the foggy streets tonight. For they know the secret already. The one that adults so often forget.....
Laughter is the only defense on this dark night of nights. So arm yourselves well, with plenty of giggles, plenty of smiles, and a light and happy heart.
And the best of luck to everyone!!
Edward and I wish you all a Happy Halloween!

Painting by Charles Altamont Doyle

Upon Stars

All through the dusty, deckle-cut pages of time, the stars have fascinated those who wander over the earth. Man stares at them in wonderment, pondering his own insignificance. Stars light the great stag’s pathway, are reflected in the eyes of the snowy owl - they kindly acknowledge the wishes of children. Whether shooting or falling or hanging suspended up far, far above us in a sky of dark velvet, they are effortless and unknowable, belonging to the beautiful realm of grand mystery. But theirs is a circumspect beauty; they do not impose themselves where man has declared them irrelevant, rarely competing with the false glow of his cities. I found this out for myself one cold, still night on a hillside in England.

Having flown all the long night before, locked inside the musty air of a plane, we were bone tired, with muddled brains and eyes that were stinging from the lack of sleep. The bed we were snuggled inside ranked at the tiptop on our list of pure comfort - a fat, old four-poster, draped to perfection, it was a sublime confection of linen, feathers and down and we were sleeping the deep sleep of the grateful.
But, the moon woke me up.
Draping his light across my face like a grin, he obviously had a sight his wished to share, so insistent was he that I rise to greet him. How could I possibly refuse? Sliding out from my cocoon, padding across the patterned floor, I climbed up in the old window seat, wrenched open the casement window, and popped my sleepy head out into the chilly night air. In doing so, I entered a fairy-land I had supposed existed only within books.
Stars. Upon stars. Upon stars.
The midnight blue sky was totally covered in stars, as if the snowflakes had decided to defy the age old commandments of gravity itself and had defiantly blanketed the firmament. I held my breath, wondering if this indeed was but a dream. My soul, I could see the Milky Way! Crawling back inside momentarily, I whispered to The Songwriter to join me at the window, but he understandably muttered something about being more comfortable than he had ever been in his entire life and slipped back inside the soft arms of sleep. But, I remained at the window for ages and my imagination continues to happily feast upon that magical image, drawing the most delicious nourishment from the sight. I suppose it will do so forever.

It is a thing that my friends in the country know well, but I realized that night just but a taste of what man has obscured with his cities. As I sit in my garden and gaze up at the dark autumn sky, I now know what remains hidden, what wonder lies out there just beyond the artificial light of man.
It makes me smile.

Costumes

Edward refuses to wear a costume on Halloween. He has witnessed, what he feels to be, the appalling menagerie that prances down his street once a year on the last night of October - that traveling band of his own kind, canines of every shape and stripe, dressed in the most ridiculous getups he could ever imagine. A spaniel Darth Vader, a beagle Harry Potter, a poodle masquerading as pink fairy princess. What could their people be thinking? He sees them, he shakes his furry head, he sighs. His dignity is so manifest I would never dream of asking him to participate and really, I think I understand his feelings. No doubt his thoughts are akin to my own when I happen to spy some poor chap dressed as the Statue of Liberty in front of a tax office in April. Human stature slips a rung.

Costumes are tricky. If you have ever found yourself clad an ensemble that caused you to feel dreadfully out of place - a walking oxymoron of sorts - then you will know what I mean. I well remember the one time I was seduced by a jacket in the Anthropologie store. I generally shop there for unusual bits of kitchenware, perhaps a bar of soap that smells like mimosa, or a candlestick the colour of dawn. But I give the clothes a wide berth, knowing they are meant for others. So perhaps I had a fever that day, or maybe my inner compass momentarily slid from its moorings, but I spotted a colourfully embroidered jacket and I was intrigued. I decided to try it on. Once in the dressing room I held the garment out in front of me trying to decipher exactly who it reminded me of. (I now think it was Heidi, but that name didn’t come to me then. It should have.) I slipped on the jacket with my back to the mirror, turning around to assess my reflection. I stood there, shocked into silence. And then I began to laugh. Long and hard. The kind of laughter that can make your eyes water. Imagine if you will, spotting Jackie Onassis in a drill team uniform, or perhaps The Queen in a pair of skinny jeans. I looked that silly, in an article of clothing so unlike myself I seemed to be in costume.

So yes, I know how Edward feels, and once again, he shall not be participating in the Halloween festivities like some of his counterparts, no matter how cute I happen to think they are. He will however, be assisting me with my duties at the front door - handing out candy and homemade cupcakes, making everyone welcome - tasks much more suited to both his noble temperament and exalted station.
I applaud him for remaining true blue to his well-honed sense of self.



Painting above by Thierry Poncelet

Sincerely, L. Cohen

Stars waltz beneath my feet and twinkle in an enchanted sky as I sit inside the Moorish cathedral of song. Owl-feather clouds float lazily above. With my hand to my heart I listen as the fedora clad prophet tosses peerless gemstones out into the crowd, lyrical words that brush past our faces like angel wings, words at once enigmatic and revelatory, blessed with a wizardry that can bare the innermost workings of the soul. With a kindly air, he gazes out over the sea of faces gathered at his feet, as if bemused at the power of his own thoughts. We are entranced. And when the warm spotlight hits him - hat cocked to one side, time weathered and wise - as he stands alone on the wooden stage of history beneath that enchanted sky, we feel the recipients of a rare and most wondrous gift.
His like shall not pass this way again.

“Ring the bells that still can ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack, a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.”


Leonard Cohen is currently on tour after a long absence.
If he visits your town, take it from me, he is not to be missed.
This was the third time I have seen him. He does not disappoint.

Sightings

Her image cannot be captured on the glossy surface of a photograph. It will only appear as a pale, shifting shadow and within the blink of an eye, all the blacks and blue greys simply slide off the paper and float away on the air. Some intrepid souls have enjoyed a modicum of success with a sketch, hiding within dark thickets of pine with their thumbs pricking, charcoal poised over tablet, squinting in the mist, waiting....waiting..... but the majority only find themselves so stunned at her sighting that they are unable to breathe, let alone to attempt a rendering of her countenance upon paper. Abhorring crowds, she will only appear to the solitary witness, therefore making the paltry accounts of her presence unsupported and suspect, and altering that witness till the end of his days. Mercurial and wayward, she is thought to show herself only in the last two weeks of October, sailing along through a chilled moonlit night, but as mentioned, few have owned the certain type of bravery required to wait all alone for her appearance as she soars past, high above, on the mane of the wind.
The sound of her laughter, high-pitched and hair-raising, has been said to raise from the dead those bent on mischief and mayhem in the cities of men, and her visage, admittedly extreme, has long been thought malevolent, but who can say for certain. Her antipathy for canines is well documented, but she does seem to be charmed by the felines amongst us, making them comfortable in her uncharted stone castle, hidden deep inside the thunderclouds.
The time is nigh for her sightings to occur.
Watch for her if you must, but far better I think, to sit by the fire and read of her exploits, words written by others no longer able to write, their thoughts forever doomed to wander one lone memory of a cold autumn night.

Gratitude

It is difficult to imagine a more sublime collection of hours than the twenty-four that constitute a Saturday in autumn. I wait for them all week, all year - and they never disappoint.
Those maple-syrup mornings, when we throw open the windows to a crisp and cheerful greeting from the wind. Those pumpkin-orange afternoons spent planting red chrysanthemums and purple cabbages, pink pansies and lemon thyme, while the dogs chase each other through the garden, surprised once again by October. Those warm and cozy nights when the only place on earth I want to be is in my kitchen, stirring a cauldron of homemade soup, peeking in on an oven full of rising bread, with Edward and Apple dozing on the floor.

On these delicious Saturday evenings I am always joined by the sounds of A Prairie Home Companion on National Public Radio. A long time staple in our house, Prairie Home Companion is a wonderfully entertaining two hour variety show created and hosted by writer, Garrison Keillor. The show is funny and smart, with marvelous stories and eclectic music - everything from Jean Redpath to Randy Newman, Emmylou Harris to Yo-Yo Ma. We love it. I am convinced if Edward met Mr. Keillor, he would know him instantly, so well acquainted is he with the man’s voice.

The Songwriter and I were fortunate to talk with Mr. Keillor ourselves the other evening after he spoke at a local college here in town. A charming man, affable and witty, with just a soupcon of crankiness - just as I knew he would be. I was especially struck by the words he spoke on the subject of gratitude. In response to a question from the audience about God, he replied that the only way he knew to live, and the only way he knew to relate to God, was in gratitude. I sighed a happy sigh of recognition, for I so agree. Indeed, I have long felt that if we spent our hours feeling thankful for the gifts we’ve been given, gifts that are never more evident than in the month of October, what contentment we would find.
Glowing stars in a velvet sky.... a blue-green Cinderella pumpkin resting solemnly under the leaves of a foxglove.... a perfect Honeycrisp apple.... a dog’s cold nose and smiling face.... drifting off to sleep under goose down while an autumn rain peppers the fallen leaves outside.
Once you begin to notice, the simple beauty, the grand mystery, that lies just waiting to be found in the natural world this time of year is endless. So much to be grateful for. I was warmed to the bones to hear Mr. Keillor express the importance of gratitude so clearly. He is a wise man. And his radio show makes the best autumnal Saturday even better.

**************************

Welcome Morning

There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry "hello there, Anne"
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,
dies young.

~ Anne Sexton ~

Window Shopping

A most unwelcome fact came crashing into my consciousness on a sunny afternoon last week. Engrossed in my twice yearly chore of packing away my summer garments and replacing them with winter ones, I was happily rediscovering pieces I had forgotten over the past six months and modeling them all for Edward, who seemed to be having a grand old time in his role as audience. All of a sudden, somewhere between a black cashmere sweater and a green tartan jacket, it hit me. I had enough. There was not one single article of clothing I needed. I was completely, totally, without question, sartorially well-suited for any endeavour. From a luncheon with a bearded duke in a ivy- covered gazebo, to an afternoon spent mucking out a stable. A trip to the zoo in the rain or an cold afternoon walk to the library. A matinee, a dinner date, a business meeting or a carnival. Christmas shopping in London, a snowy wedding in Maine, a hike in Glencoe in the most frigid of weather.
I was well prepared for anything.
Now, this thought certainly should have pleased me no end. But to be painfully honest, I was just a bit disappointed. After all, shopping for winter clothes and all their associated accoutrements is one of the more enjoyable of shopping excursions for me. But, like so many thinking people in this particular season, I am attempting to follow the time-honoured philosophy of “make do and mend”, so welcoming more garments into my already crowded closet is not high on my list of priorities. I shall be window shopping instead.


But.... if I were to be on the hunt for new clothes just now, here is a bit of what catches my eye.....



I would love to step out in some of the beautiful choices offered up by Sonia Rykiel for fall....

And I adore this particular
shade of red at Ferragamo....

Or, perhaps these delicious outfits in winter white
by Ralph Lauren.....

.... this coat by Alexander McQueen would have to come home with me...

And this Prada boot would be a must....
Ah, well.
I must confess that I did succumb to this one lone pair of shoes.
I know. It was a moment of weakness.
But in my defense, they were on sale!