Away for
the weekend, and gratefully back home here to the coast, where I'm nesting
again.
Making a
chicken and farro salad with green beans, goat cheese, marjoram. With shallots—always tantalizingly mythical,
redolent of the Victorian poets, alchemizing those Medieval and Arthurian
elements. A kind of amber skin, amber a
kind of alchemy as well, fossilized tree resin holding inside it flowers,
fruit, feathers, insects, crustaceans, spider webs, healing, history, life
itself.
Getting
ready to read The Cleaner of Chartres,
by Salley Vickers (having loved Miss
Garnet's Angel, set in Venice, holding inside its own amber heart the
Archangel Raphael and the restoration of a 14th-century chapel).
I have
lived by the sundial motto, "Count none but the sunny hours," and am
pleased to learn there is a rose for such as me, named Amber Sun.
images: Christie B. Cochrell, Sundial
Amber Sun rose
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