morning mugs

The shelf brims with mugs. 
One set of them is from my regular dishes, one set of Christmas mugs arrived after a lively name exchange at work, and then there are many random mugs of all shapes, sizes and colors who arrived on a variety of occasions and stayed.  I do not wake up in the morning with a cup in mind, but by the time the aroma of coffee fills the kitchen, I reach into the cupboard to fill one that suits the morning. 

My sturdy starbucks mug is fit for hunching over on cold or formidable mornings.
Two mugs from Germany are pulled out only for special occasions.
There is a tall, flowered one that feels fragile, and asks me to believe,
a white one that says "Grace", and
a deep blue mug with a low round reservoir ... to name a few.





On a good morning, there is time to emerge from the shadows of sleep
cradling the cup that speaks to the day.



a response to a writing challenge issued by Amber Haines in this blog:
   http://therunamuck.com/category/art/on-writing/
inspired by these words:

There’s a woman standing on her morning-tender feet on the hardwood floor, and in both hands she holds the cup, jolt hot, and she drinks it burning fast awake slow-poking her to the living room. A day ago she stood on a beach and even there she missed the creak in the floor and the low air conditioner hush of morning before the boys wake up. This is holy time, the gray of morning before the chaos of cereal bowls.
 

strawberries in september

It is late, and I still have strawberries to freeze.  I picked strawberries this morning with my daughter and her two sons.  One a baby in her arms, and the other son a toddler who helped me fill my pail.  Well, perhaps “helping” and “filling” are not completely true.  His red-stained cheeks and shirt told a tale of more eating and tasting than successful pail filling.  I did not tell my grandson, as we chattered along the path and picked and tasted the wonderful red fruit, that my mother had loved strawberries.  Had picked them with her Arthur every year, and put them into her freezer so that loved ones who came could enjoy something strawberry-ish.  It was something that Lydia and Arthur had done since the days of their courting, and every year since.  They loved to pick them. 

I did not tell my grandson this, as we sang about strawberries, and laughed and talked as we picked. 

There are so many ways to remember.

 

 

Come, stop awhile

I've walked through this room more times than I can count, but not till the lilacs bloomed in the rain did I think that I might want to occasionally sit here awhile.

My willow chair has been here since then, and a blanket that Jeana and I made when we lived in Alberta, and a three legged stool. 

Then yesterday, a dear friend brought me a bright yellow and burnt orange pot of fall chrysanthemums. 

And yesterday evening my daughter sent me our latest favorite Wailin' Jennys. 

So. While the Jennys sing their songs over and over for me, my bread rises and bakes, and I begin to move plants, a wind chime, and other odds and ends into my very temporary room.  A front porch on the prairies in September cannot hope to harbour plants long.

It is obviously not an efficient space, not a place to concentrate on a project.  People walk by on the sidewalk, visit on their front lawns, and drive by.  The wind occasionaly reaches around the corner and swings on through.  Birds won't often come - I've hung a glass hummingbird in acknowledgment of that fact. 

It is creative space, "come stop a while" space... although the teen age boys that most often come through may not even notice :) 

I do need to fine tune efficient space, but that day is not this day. 

Come, stop a while in these beautiful fall days.

And happy, happy birthday to my dear Randy. 

a shadow story

walking with mom into places we do not know well
waiting with her in a time we rarely visit

passed away
went home
bidding farewell

words that all seem too weak to describe the labor
of waiting with and caring for a body that was tired
finishing this journey
being overrun by a ravaging disease

   ears that already heard angel choirs,
   eyes that were seeing loved ones gone before

We counted the spaces between breaths
interpreting grimaces and groans when words no longer could be formed
holding
singing
praying

we did not bid her farewell
we gave her permission to give up the fight
and then we fought by her side
what were we fighting for?
her peace
successful passage
we fought against the pain

we urged her on. it was ok.
though our sobs belied our words

no way back, only forward into shadow
shadow of life
shadow of glory

finding ourselves blinking in the morning sunlight
trying to orient ourselves to a new day

Matt Redmon, 10,000 Reasons

Mom's Apricot Jam

Combine  4 cups fruit
                 3 cups sugar

Let sit 2 hrs.
Cook till it gets thick.

That's all I have written on my paper.  Define "thick", you may say.  Well, according to my mom, you cook it till the thin liquid just begins to thicken into syrup.  The test:  you put a tablespoon of the golden liquid onto a plate and put that into the fridge for oh- just the right amount of time.  And when you take it out, it slides ever so slowly across the plate rather than running.  Last year I made the jam, and obviously boiled it far too long.  It completely lost its golden color in the brownness of thick syrup.  I was determined that that was not going to happen this year. 
One bowl had sat for 2 hours, and one for 3 hours when I called Mom. 
What do you think, Mom?  Would it work if I just let it sit overnight? 
Oh no - that would be far too long. 
What about if I mix the 2 hour batch with the 3 hour batch? 
Well of course that would be fine. 

How fine do you cut the fruit? 
Really quite fine.
How often do you stir? 
Often enough, you know.



Then there's the foam.  You have to skim the foam off the pot of simmering apricots and sugar or the jars don't seal.  And the jar with the skimmed off foam is the best - you put that onto fresh bread and it all melts into your mouth. 




Three of the four jars have popped as I've been writing.  Sweet sound of success :)

as far as the estuary

In our orientation to our home on Vancouver Island for the week, our host told us that the shoreline below the cottages was ours to explore. There was a little path down to the ocean, and we should feel free to explore as far as the estuary.  He threw his arm in a wide gesture southward and shoreward.
"You must explore the estuary."

I tried to remember what an estuary was as we clambered down the steep and winding path, sometimes aided by creatively constructed wooden steps and roped rails to the shore.  Recalling grade eight geography lessons with maps of peninsulas and islands and isthmases and things you must label and define, I thought it might be a place where fresh water runs into the ocean.

But a definition does not bring you to this place ...
where currents cross back on themselves,
white sails, carried on currents
of river, ocean and wind;
shoreline covered with down,
lifted by a breeze from the rocks and carried high or set down onto one of the currents.



The near bank was dominated by the river, running steadily toward the ocean.
The tides on the far banks overwhelmed the river, carrying the feathers back inland, lifting the kelp and weeds to give homes to crab and minnow. 




At first I hoped the feathers and down may belong to an eagle, but as the families of geese kept landing we realized that this was one of their favorite places to hang out.







Careless flapping gave the eagle away as he settled on a high cedar limb, almost hidden.
Perhaps this was the baby that our host told us to look out for,
kicked out of the nest just a few days earlier.
He sat, surveying the area, out-lasting us.
   Watched the geese land on the jutting shore.
   Watched another bald eagle soar over the territory a few times before heading back inland.
Smaller birds flitted back and forth through the sunlit river crossing under his watchful eye.



Gutteral raven sounds occasionally seeped from the surrounding trees. A yellow finch blended almost into the pine cones at the towering tree's fingertips, dropping too quickly for my binoculars to trace the first time. Second time I knew enough to keep the looking glass dropping till we both landed on shore.

 

estuary

 conflicting currents

salt tide and fresh stream

 eddies of water and wind

you must explore the estuary

silver thread

high winds momentarily shut down the ambitious spiders who
fling themselves across gaps on my deck in the night, leaving
sticky silver strings in their wake

one morning a single silver strand
drops from the poplar and swings across my line of sight.

some overnight projects are a little overly ambitious, stretching
across walkways only to end up caught in my hair with some spider frustrated
at the one that got away 

others create a tangle under a chair
no apparent pattern but a maze of ways for a fly
to get stuck

the perfectly constructed web
symetrically woven
sparkling with fresh dew in the morning, waits
for the first small creature to choose the wrong flight path.

Tyler spotted a web at the playground,
and we found the tiny tan spider sitting motionless at the anchor point
 where web touched metal
  waiting
a mosquito caught on the far side of his web
   still
we prodded the spider 
and then Tyler decided to take out the web. 

the spider instantly flew across her disintegrating trap
snagged the mosquito before it fell
 surrounded it twice with silver strands, and dropped
down on one of the remaining threads
to disappear
under a playground platform
before the destruction was complete