Michaelmas Time

Sometimes the time passes and I am gliding along the current without noticing. August came in like a roaring lion, early birthdays, visitors, readying a girl for university...I am just now catching my breath. Except the air is filled with veils of smoke and ash. This is par for the course here in Los Angeles in the late summer. It is as if the hills are combustible. Fires erupting here and there along the San Gabriel Mountain Range. The skies are ablaze, the light is filtered through a thick red haze, the inside of the house glows vermillion. The smell of heat and wood and golden yellow assault you as you walk outside. 

This time of year is Michaelmas Time. I often find it a challenging time, but feel it is a good time to set one's intention for the future, to plant the bulbs of possibility. Let the work of the cool winter deepen our resolve and come to bloom in the spring. The fire-filled sky serves as reminder to me of the heat and intensity of the dragon who can be tamed through the strength of Michael.

A Summer Day

I 

The dawn laughs out on orient hills 

And dances with the diamond rills; 

The ambrosial wind but faintly stirs 

The silken, beaded gossamers; 

In the wide valleys, lone and fair, 

Lyrics are piped from limpid air, 

And, far above, the pine trees free 

Voice ancient lore of sky and sea. 

Come, let us fill our hearts straightway 

With hope and courage of the day. 

II 

Noon, hiving sweets of sun and flower, 

Has fallen on dreams in wayside bower, 

Where bees hold honeyed fellowship 

With the ripe blossom of her lip; 

All silent are her poppied vales 

And all her long Arcadian dales, 

Where idleness is gathered up 

A magic draught in summer's cup. 

Come, let us give ourselves to dreams 

By lisping margins of her streams. 

III 

Adown the golden sunset way 

The evening comes in wimple gray; 

By burnished shore and silver lake 

Cool winds of ministration wake; 

O'er occidental meadows far 

There shines the light of moon and star, 

And sweet, low-tinkling music rings 

About the lips of haunted springs. 

In quietude of earth and air 

'Tis meet we yield our souls to prayer. 

Lucy Maud Montgomery

To Ponder

I Chop Some Parsley While Listening To Art Blakey's Version Of "Three Blind Mice"

And I start wondering how they came to be blind.

If it was congenital, they could be brothers and sister,

and I think of the poor mother

brooding over her sightless young triplets.

Or was it a common accident, all three caught

in a searing explosion, a firework perhaps?

If not,

if each came to his or her blindness separately,

how did they ever manage to find one another?

Would it not be difficult for a blind mouse

to locate even one fellow mouse with vision

let alone two other blind ones?

And how, in their tiny darkness,

could they possibly have run after a farmer's wife

or anyone else's wife for that matter?

Not to mention why.

Just so she could cut off their tails

with a carving knife, is the cynic's answer,

but the thought of them without eyes

and now without tails to trail through the moist grass

or slip around the corner of a baseboard

has the cynic who always lounges within me

up off his couch and at the window

trying to hide the rising softness that he feels.

By now I am on to dicing an onion

which might account for the wet stinging

in my own eyes, though Freddie Hubbard's

mournful trumpet on "Blue Moon,"

which happens to be the next cut,

cannot be said to be making matters any better. 

Billy Collins

Birth Day

Tomorrow is my Forty-Second birthday. My first born is heading off to university and my youngest is sixteen. I can hardly believe the swiftness in which time travels. I can remember the birth's of both children like it happened this morning. I can recall the first day of school, skinned knees, moments of quiet, luxurious napping the both of them did until they were five...I have been blessed in all of my days, the difficult ones and the ones brimming with joy. I have learned many lessons and been showered with numerous gifts.

However, this year has been trying and sad and long. I feel ready to package it up with the other Forty-One birthdays, tidy and sweet, tied on the top with a silk ribbon in bright red, a sprig of rosemary tucked under the ribbon. I spent the day passing out postcards and flyers for the new art endeavor, it felt good, closing a year with a bright and shiny new impulse. I even stood up for myself in FedExKinkos. I am truly tired of sub-par customer service. It has been a pet peeve of mine for some time. Today, I spoke my mind. I felt weird as I walked out, calmly after speaking my piece with the supervisor. I vowed to NEVER enter that establishment again. I won't either. When I am done, I am done for good. I was plagued with regret on the drive home. Then, I remembered the essential. Be nice. Just be nice, and helpful, especially when I AM PAYING YOU MONEY FOR A SERVICE. BE NICE, PLEASE.

I feel a little melancholy as I do around most birthdays, but I am looking forward to a new year. This one, like all of the others, is filled with the promise of joy, sorrow and love. I could not ask for more. I am very lucky to be alive.

Mr. Toad

Taking our cue from Mr. Toad.

Craft Caravan

http://craftcaravan.org/

Drum Roll, Please!

As I my body healed over the last year, so has my spirit been gaining momentum. I have been sewing and planting, painting and sculpting, all in anticipation of this great day!

Craft Caravan is now a reality! As a teacher, I had a side job at a local teacher training college. I had the opportunity to teach art to individuals training to become Waldorf  Teachers. It was a great joy for me and many times the highlight of my week. A student of mine would always comment on the trunk of my car, brimming over with paint, brushes, clay, beeswax, et all. She would say it was like a traveling art studio. The idea began to percolate between the two of us and we are now ready to launch our own mobile art studio. We will be offering classes in The Monrovia Cottage Studios and also offering mobile services to those who are unable to travel to us. 

We are excited to announce the birth our new baby! Follow the link below to inspire your creative impulses:

Craft Caravan

Morning Poem 

by Mary Oliver

Every morning

the world

is created. 

Under the orange

sticks of the sun

the heaped

ashes of the night

turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---

and the ponds appear

like black cloth

on which are painted islands

of summer lilies. 

If it is your nature

to be happy

you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination

alighting everywhere. 

And if your spirit

carries within it

the thorn

that is heavier than lead ---

if it's all you can do

to keep on trudging ---

there is still

somewhere deep within you

a beast shouting that the earth

is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies

is a prayer heard and answered

lavishly, 

every morning, 

whether or not

you have ever dared to be happy, 

whether or not

you have ever dared to pray.