Though
(or because) the world is so messed up and sad,
I'm grateful for a myriad of things.
I've been noting them this golden week, the intense heartfelt "last
hurrah" of autumn as it sends every last leaf into that blaze of
red/orange/yellow glory. People I love
are first, of course, and friends. A
friend I've come across again by chance after a dozen years apart, plus those I
found still there and still themselves after half a lifetime. And then the LP I pulled out at dusk—Hummel's
septet to cheer me as I washed our green and white Italian rooster bowls in Joy
dishwashing soap. The bright clementine
tart, the smell of orange lighting and lightening the kitchen. Za'atar spices another night warming eggplant
and lamb. Rain dripping from the lip of
roof. Birds frolicking. The purples, rubies, raspberries, garnets,
and burgundies of a Sacred Threads scarf.
Michael Ondaatje's way with words.
Red rice from the Camargue, brought home by travelers to France in
better times. Patches of sunlight. The Nunuma bush buffalo looking rakish and
magical just inside the museum entrance.
Artist's journals. Slippery elm
throat lozenges, and Bach Flower Remedies.
Just-baked bread, the fragrance too.
Wool socks, and Neruda's 'Ode to My Socks." Tables outside. Tables inside. Kilim pillows, Peruvian bird rugs. My silver typewriter charm. Nuggets of veined turquoise on silver
chains. Aquatic blue. Dove gray.
Earl Grey. Memories of
pilgrimage. Books of Hours. The full Little Bear's moon. Japanese Maple leaves. Cretan honey.
San Ildefonso pottery. My little
apple green teapot. Italian castle
stamps (reminding me of dusty Portuguese stallions and ships on stamps in
childhood given me by Joe Sena, who also taught me how to use chopsticks). Mozart piano concertos. Mozartkugeln.
Gauguin, Mucha, Piero della Francesca.
Burritos. Sea glass. A postcard of Alice Waters sitting with a
glass of coffee in a jaunty hat under a tree.
This blue vase, with a kiss of light.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Blue Vase with Sun
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