Breakfasting

And I have always been the redwood

In honor of my best poet-crush, Billy Collins, and inspired by his poem, Litany.

I am the scent of rain on asphalt

As well as that of horses at dusk

warmed from the streaming Summer light.

I am the knocking call of the raven

And the silver peep-toe stilettos

And some days

The glossy orange tea kettle as well.

I have never been candlelight at midnight

Or the first wind of November

I am not a red delicious apple

And while their first appearance tugs at my breath

I have never been the crocus.

I am the fruit stand on the long highway

The merry chiming of a palette knife on glass

The cherry blossoms piled like pink snow

in late April, confusing the seasons

And always

yes

Always have I been the redwood.

And what, my friends, are you?

Molbak's and a Mosserarium Update

Remember the mosserrariums?  Well I managed to very successfully kill one of them.  It became more of a mush-errarium which I pretended was making a comeback for approximately one month before I admitted to the being the grim reaper of moss (this was actually quite surprising to me, as I generally have quite the green thumb - I COMPLETELY talk to my plants and largely chalk that up to their success).  But, even in its pitiful state, it served to give me the excuse to BUY MORE PLANTS.  Which is not something I need convincing of to begin with.  

Photo taken by the Mme. with my camera, and therefore shamelessly stolen and edited for my blog-o-rama.

So Friday morning, the good Mme. Bookling and I set off to Molbak's, the Nordstrom of nurseries (especially because in Molbak's, one can casually shop for plants, grab a bite to eat in the garden café, or sip a cool glass of Pino Gris - all of which may or may not have happened Friday morning).

Also snapped by the Mme.

Super pleasing selections.

Classic Mme. Bookling self-portraiture.

A very sunny Miss Melancholy Chic.

The cheeriest pot of all - which wiggled it's way right into the Bookling home as the newest family edition.

Color that makes me want to shout "Cadmium!"

I wish the best of Sundays to you.  When I spontaneously awoke this morning at six (!) fourty (!) -five (!) the rain was falling soft and and every feathered creature within a ten block radius was chittering and chattering.  But now, the sun is sparkling in the last drops hanging from the cherry blossom tree and warming the toes of my kitty boys.  I am appropriately caffeinated, have a painting luring me to the studio, and a date night out with my man to look forward to.  Make it a good one friendlies!

Tootle-loos and cheerios!

- Umber

The Friday (Night) Confessional, February 27th

Confession Number 483:  I am a total pen kleptomaniac.  No excuses, no apologies.  But I do have class, meaning I never snag the only pen on the counter or pens from little old ladies with lilac colored hair.  But other than that, they somehow wind up in the center console of my little coupe or the back pocket of my jeans and I hand them out freely to those in need of ink.  I like to think of myself as the Robin Hood of pens, stealing from the [pen] rich and giving to the [pen] poor.

Other than that, my morals are fairly high.  Just to be clear.  'Cause we can never be too clear on morals.

Climbing

I stride over these steep mountains with a small flock of birds winging in my hair, circling my head, securely riding my shoulder.  

No one ever said the life of a mountaineer would be easy, and I never asked for a level path.  But these last few days, I've had to climb on all four, the footing has been shaky, and the smallest stones have threatened my progress.  When I've run out of food, these birds have brought sustenance to me.  When I've been tempted to throw my bags down and wait out the storm, they've shown me a steady path.  Solitude they've respected, but silence was never a barrier.

The phoenix breathed trust to me, in me, rekindling that flame of self-belief.  

The raven cried comfort, in her beautiful guttural song, "I too am here, and we are not lost." The owl with the bright yellow plumes rode close and quiet, but firm in her support.  

The humming bird asked, in her silvery song, and that was enough.  

The chirpy little shorebird, always clear to my soul, reminded me of my purpose, reminded me how to laugh.

And from the spindly branches of the birch to the deep burgundy buds of the cherry blossoms, a host of robins, starlings, and chickadees trill together in lilting chords:

Winter, the great cleanser, the great quiet, the season of silence and struggle, is passing

And Spring, our beloved Spring is coming, riding the breeze from the East

So look up.

Stop thinking so hard.

Breathe.

Give thanks.

And now as I sit here today, I feel hope flooding though my limbs.  I have crested this precipice. And the scales are slowly falling from my eyes.  

We're going to make it.

Please remind me when I forget.

- Umber