Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Maybell felt a little angry with her Mother, and would have told her Mother so if she still lived. Her Mother Marvel, had made so many things look easy that were not so easy. Maybe this is the thought of many children who love their parents, I don't know. But Maybell knew that Marvel had left this part of the story out...left out the part of the creepy tunnel.Did she know that the knowledge of this place would put her off this quest? Many mice faced with a fearful place will turn around and go back. Retreat, retrace their steps. Some get frozen to the spot and wait for someone else to rescue them: their rigid bodies are toted off like statues in need of sunlight, and some cheese wine.
Maybell sniffed the air, and smelled the wormy loam smell of rich earth. Her tiny whiskers twitched with anxiety and fear. This would never do. "One paw in front of the other." And reaching forward blindly, she felt what seemed to be a thread on the floor of the darkness. She grasped it, and tugged. It felt secure. And so, paw over paw, she followed its narrow length through the tunnel.
To settle herself into this task, she thought of the long stories that her Mother would tell her about Mrs. Tenderstitch. "She has the love for all creatures," her Mother would say. "She has tended us when we are sick, fed us when there was nothing to eat and taught us to push threads, to make our clothing. Most importantly, she has what the animal world calls the 'EAR.' "It is something wonderous to speak to a Human, and Mrs. Tenderstitch felt that it was indeed a wonderous gift to speak with us."
These were the thoughts that provided the courage that Maybell needed as she followed the thread through the gloom.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Maybell Mouse was born on a Sunday in May. The Church bells were tolling the Sunday meeting when her Mother, Marvel, looked at her tiny form for the First time. She was neither a good child nor a wicked one. She was medium, I would guess and knew that both of these opposites, like the sunshine and the shadow, were woven together in her tiny soul. Maybell possessed the kind of curiosity that could lend itself to either situation. She could find things to do that would at times lead to a little trouble, or be helpful with the sewing, gathering of wood for the fire, or telling of the stories. She mostly liked to play alone and dress up the Toads for the Toad Circus.
Maybell also liked to listen to her Mother tell stories about her long friendship with the Tenderstitch family. The Tenderstitch family had one unusual Gift. They could speak to animals and the animals could speak to them.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Christmas is complicated. I am not able to make and to be present. It is the very Making that allows me to be in the NOW. In the present time. There are no complicated strings to unravel in the NOW. There is no mourning the loss of anyone in the NOW, and there are no regrets over my hideous mistakes in the NOW. There is the Gesalt of Making and that makes me present in this Moment. I feel the closest to God in the NOW.
Christmas is complicated. With the studio under seige and the fingers loose like this, it is hard to stay Present. Yesterday I cast my net into the Past and remembered something that filled me with a terrible longing to see my Parents again. My sister asked me if I could write about something about my Dad that was a good memory. I would like to say that I would have loved my Dad if he had been an axe murderer, ditto my Mom. But the thing about growing up is accepting that we are all flawed. Even my Dad who I adored. He had a temper. I cast the net and it brought up an ugly, sad fish. Sometimes before you cast it back you have to hold it, and see what its about. Then you can throw it back.
Tomorrow, I am going to work on the Studio, getting it back in shape and organized, so I can begin again.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
I am looking at my Father's boots. They are unbuckled, black and rubber. He wears them carelessly upon feet that should belong to a giant. The snow spills in but my Father is impervious to cold. I long to reach over and buckle them them up, as if by doing so I will also buckle up his volatility, and anger. And secure stability in his mood.
The sense of expectation hangs in the hoary night. We pull our sleds free from the snowbank and load ourselves with cautionary words from him, not to spill off, to be careful, to go slowly. The sled creaks, and I am upon it with the grocery bag between my knees. The mesh net handle of the unripened oranges flags my face. I want to do well and fly down this rocky slope without a tumble. I so long not to be the source of his anger.
Off we go. The wind cuts my eyes and I cannot see. I see the darkness and the flying of sparks where the metal runners collide with the rocks in the lane. I am going fast. Then, I am spilled off in a tumble, my grocery bag spilled into the night, oranges flying into the darkness, and my Father spilling curses into the shadows. I am glad the darkness hides his face, I have only to endure his voice. That is enough. We make our way home.
I am with my Father at the fireplace. Kneeling beside him to get the fire going. Kneeling beside him like the penitent one. Sorry, so sorry. There is the blowing and cajoling of the flame, not enough tinder. I gently offer my twigs of contrition. Trying hard to help. I watch as the flames begin to lick the dirty bark of the hard wood. It catches. The smoke rises straight and fast and as it rises I feel it take my Father's anger with it into the winter night.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
I was walking Albert this morning, up the back path that winds its way behind the homes of my neighbors. It is a path through trees that hang over a drainage ditch, that is frequently inhabited by Wood Storks and Ibis. this morning, the wild ipomea has grown its lavender trumpets upward and over the banks of this tiny river. I have startled Myna Birdly, from her perch in the Golden Rain tree. She flys over to tell me that the Autumn will be over soon, and the The Baggaraggs Winter will be arriving ahead of schedule this year. Time to walk in the woods and collect the a "walk in the woods bag."
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
the leaves are peering into my kitchen window. They are greeting me with their faces of interest, smelling coffee that leaks through the seams of the the Land of Baggaraggs. I love their faces, their company and their season. I am soon off to the studio, making,making ,making. I am happiest making dolls, sculpting faces, painting and creating. I am in the Land of Baggaraggs. The people there speak to me with their ideas, wishing to be made real. I will try to define them as they wish to be defined, and help them find their way out of the studio. They can be found on Baggaraggs.etsy.com. Peace and Blessings to you.