Some Januarys are cold. This one was more like February. I found this photo of Mom and the Old Sea. Taken one super warm January not so long ago. I like to remember her like this.
I know she was thinking of Dad. Dad died the January before. Her hair was as white as the crest of the waves. Like the clouds if there had been any.
And I am caught in the white of winter. White and not so white. Which is the way it happens. And caught in how we honor days.
January was deeper this year. There was cold that moved through me in a different way. There was young death. There were old sadnesses. There were way too many new questions. There was the noticing of the whitening of the man's hair. And mine.
I am finishing January with this sense of whiteness.
It snowed all day yesterday and into the night. But it was a very fine dry snow. Like salt. Or powdered chalk. And it didn't amount to much. Accumulating temporarily. Where the wind didn't catch it.
The light coating process was fun to watch. The slow erasing. But then the wind came and that was beautiful to watch too. Which parts would appear. How they seemed a focus then. These common cracks and meeting places. Now speaking. How the slow uncovering had me looking closely at the way things meet. Touch. Sometimes almost. What tender places.
I was inspired by that.
In this quiet unrolling and undoing that fills my winter here, I have uncovered some pieces that were started while I was considering white. And now I am undoing or should I say REconsidering the white of them. Like a kind of winter that might not be forever.
Actually not UnDone, same thoughts. But no desire to change anything. Not finished but perhaps exhausted... pretty much. I will let it hang there until tomorrow. See. I am looking at the center. That rotation of dark and light. That logic of how it simply goes. Is. The true-ness of nothing more than that. How and What, not why.
I am happy to find this consistency in my path of thought. Though sometimes I feel lost, I keep meeting my real self over and over on each small journey. Finding a simple companionship in that. Thinking about how travelling companions might not necessarily be on the same path but simply meeting now and then to share a moment along the way. How that can be just fine, the way it might go.
Sometimes when you look back on days they seem to make sense. But when you are in them they don't. That is just the way it is. I think story is that, the sense of it all. All of a sudden pieces fit. In a flurry they gather to say something.
The heart, where it started, is still a flap. I secured it with a safety pin for now. Forever maybe. It can be undone. Redone. It's a pocket.
I didn't know if I could do it, but I did. I cut through and wove a nine patch in some black silk. A fragment from a scarf from Grandma that she wore when she was mourning. Later she liked it because it warmed her to know it was OK. She told me that. I remembered. She gave it to me without telling me again. And now, like weaving does, it went through. This smokey black nine. Which has given darkness some natural order.
It is very important. This bit of darkness. It will help me complete something. This is when things happen fast. Because it is right.
I have a lot to do today to catch up. I know some folks have signed up for Small Journeys while I was offline and I have lots of emails to read. So let me do all that. This blog will have 2 layers now. After this post. As Small Journeys take hold as a new format. Thank you all for your patience. The new wiring and connection seems worth the investment. Easier going. Somehow, in these crazy days it has become October and I hadn't even noticed.
2:19 AM: Revelation. The nine patch is a check. Duh.Back to sleep.
4:00 AM: I began to put a nine patch in the center of that table cloth. I decided to to applique it right over the existing checks. Let Mom's checks ground it. All the while thinking, a Mother is a root. No matter what grows.
4:30 AM: After considering covering the center with a nine patch, I reconsidered leave some of it showing through. Still a nine patch, but containing the ground part. Like Mother Earth.
11:00 AM: I like the other side, How the the new emerges through the old. So now also reconsidering leaving this center piece visible when considering the lining. It is sort of the heart of the thing. Through it. Through it all.
Thank you Mom, for giving me life. I couldn't have done it without you.