Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Summer 2014 has been a a real summer and while I welcomed the blue skies, long days and being able to be outside so much I've also struggled health wise, and particularly with the energy to get things done, to get to work, to get home with any thought of doing anything and the heat has not made getting around any easier. Oh but I wouldn't wish away the hours in my new chair, under my trees. A wonderful gift. Always that slight bittersweet tinge of regret for what is going, going, gone and what didn't get to be but mostly, anticipation of the new possibilities.
One of my favourite souvenirs of this season is the french knot. This summer I finally learnt to make an intentional knot in my embroidery thread and feel a real thrill at those little swirls, bobbles balanced, work suspended. I've lost count of the failed learning the mystical knot attempts there have been and can still remember feeling a great sense of relief when reading in her beautiful book that Caroline Zoob had never mastered these tricky little creatures. It let me off the hook but didn't quite remove a yearning to have bested them. So when Squam cabin mate extraordinaire Austen came back from class one day to show off some exquisitely formed knots I readily took her up on the offer to teach me too. With her clear explanation and demonstration it really was, finally, simple. The knots just stayed where I put them. I don't really understand the magic, I suppose like all of these thread wrangling activities, it's really about how you tension the work as you carry out the actions. Whatever the charm I am still enchanted by these dainty carbuncles. Threading the needle to create a few more is my favourite current pastime free from any should, must or need. Simply twiddling my fingers and thumbs and watching what appears.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Friday, August 01, 2014
The bright pelargoniums planted last year have been telling me for months now that trying too hard is often destined to back fire. I managed to get around to replanting one of their companions to overwinter indoors, it of course rotted and died. Those I mercilessly left to that fate survived our very mild winter to flourish as the stars of my haphazard garden this season.
Time in the chair has revealed a secret treasure I would undoubtedly have missed if I had been more endeavoursome. Tucked in the crook of two branches with about half a dozen twigs is a nesting collar dove. It looks impossibly vulnerable from my seat and yet its very slight nature is the perfect camouflage and it is all but invisible from any other angle.
Simple pleasures that come when I let them. A special kind of magic in not doing and just being.