Category: ART

Good Reads for Pride Month

Earlier this month I finished “Sometimes You Have to Lie,” Leslie Brody’s excellent biography about Louise Fitzhugh, the author of one of my favorite adolescent books, “Harriet the Spy.” It has occurred to me how appropriate it was to be reading this during Pride Month. Louise never hid her sexuality, well aware her money, privilege, and talent allowed it. Most of her long-term romantic partnerships were with women, and while she may have had a few “gentlemen” friends, they were never a serious interest. She was an outspoken social justice advocate, and I was thoroughly absorbed in her literary world of the 60’s and 70’s. Her gender fluid fashion sense had me captivated and a quote from another author’s novel sort of clicked into place for me how I feel about identity and sexuality.
It’s from Carson McCullers book “Member of the Wedding,” another story about a pre-teen tomboy, Frankie, in whose ideal world “people could instantly change back and forth from boys to girls, whichever they felt like and wanted.” Sounds good to me, Frankie.

Sweet Rolls

The wind here doesn’t cooperate with garden plans, but somehow we manage. At least there was sunshine and some warmth this weekend. After Saturday’s gardening, we ordered Chinese for the first time since the  Christmas before the pandemic — what a treat!  — then watched the rest of the Murdoch disc. Sunday morning was quiet and slow. Before heading out to the garden, I listened to classical music while making sweet rolls, this time orange ones, inspired by those from Marian’s Pie Shop down in Chatham. My mum used to love to drive down there for their pastries and they are still as good as ever — they’ve been here for years, one of those rare bakeries that offers truly old-fashioned goods reminiscent of a grandmother’s kitchen. I use my old Betty Crocker cookbook for sweet rolls and stumbled upon a recipe for orange rolls that I’d previously overlooked. Sharing it here. Happy Monday!

In the Garden


Today was the perfect day to get started on the garden cleanup. Spring is always touch-and-go weather-wise (and health-wise) here, so when all the conditions align — warm sun, but not blistering hot, no wind, and no rain; no aches and pains, allergy fatigue, headache or any other obstacle in the way — once I get started out there, it’s hard for me to stop, but I am trying to pace myself better these days so I don’t fall into overwhelm with little accomplished. Cleared out along the border fences, and spotted asparagus (already a couple pickable stalks) peeking out. Rhubarb, violets, poppies, coneflowers, lupines, bee balm, coreopsis — once it gets going, there’s no stopping it — especially now that we have it protected from Oonagh. Mugwort grows outside the perimeter of one of the fence lines — an herb for boundaries, protection and dreaming. Good for smudge wands, in smoke blends and tinctures. The violets are a gentle reminder of the simple wonders of just being — and the flowers and leaf, besides use in smoke blends — are also good for tea, edible flower garnishes (candied violets anyone?), flower crowns, simple syrup or an essence. It truly is a garden awakening, and should all the powers align yet again, I’ll be back at it tomorrow. (Photo is from last spring).

History and Mysteries

I love a good historical mystery, particularly those that are set at the turn of the 20th century. I learn a lot from a well-researched novel. My favorite decades are the 1920’s and 30’s, basically the years between the two world wars. It’s uncanny, if you’re a history buff like I am, how you can follow the social, political, economic and scientific events of those years in the last century, and see how they parallel similar events happening now in this one. People really were clueless, dancing and spending their merry way into two world wars. It’s interesting how journalists like Dorothy Thompson tried to sound the alarm, and yet no one paid attention until it was too late. But maybe that was the plan all along?

Bone Black

Just returned from an evening walk, and looking forward to finishing bell hooks “Bone Black,” Memories of Girlhood. It’s my second reading, and while I usually don’t like rereading books, this one is lyrical and dreamlike, perceptive and raw, and shares a spirited girl’s journey to becoming a writer.

Journaling and Artists’ Ways

Looking forward to working more with my journal today. I used to do morning pages religiously, as well as other practices that I learned about while doing Julia Cameron’s workbook, The Artist’s Way, years ago. An artist friend I met through dance strongly encouraged me to work with it and when I finally got around to it, it was a joy to work with. It kept me grounded on a daily and weekly basis. I’ve often thought of revisiting it, possibly with a small group, but wondering if I even have the attention span for it anymore. Perhaps it’s a good time to find out.

Magic and the Memories of a Doorknob

I aspire to live in a land of magic and wonder, and occasionally I realize that I already do. It’s just sometimes I forget. One of the reasons I love vintage pieces is for the stories they hold, and I’ve always loved a good story. The excerpts below from Mary Ruehle’s book of poems, “Dunce,” speak to this. They are from the poem “Inglenook.”
“I live in the museum of everyday life,… Open daily, the doorknobs are covered with curated fingerprints and pass on the latest news.”

Bone Deep

“The strange antlered language of phantoms” (quote from Mary Ruefle’s book of prose, “My Private Property”) and flickering shadows playing in the corners of your simple mind…the one that’s in tune with your body and what your body knows from centuries of carrying this knowledge in the DNA that flows from ancestors through their descendants. It’s the more powerful of our two minds, for it is pure instinct and sensual knowing before language steps in to confuse an eternal and universal consciousness.

Bibliophile

Books. They are as necessary as breathing to me. Actually, that’s a “slight“ exaggeration, but barely. At the beginning of the pandemic, when the libraries shut down, as the weeks dragged on and I watched my stack of library books dwindle, I tried to pace myself so I wouldn’t run out of them. It’s not that I couldn’t rustle through my own collection of books to find something to read if I really needed to, but I love libraries for the vast choices available — for free — and to suit every mood and interest. I have about twenty books out now, and should we end up with another shutdown, I am well prepared — with culinary histories, mysteries, poetry, and ecological essays and American Indian ethnobotany. Yep, something for every mood and whim.

The Poetry of a Single Day

What if we led poetic lives? To the best of each of our circumstances? If only it were that easy, but it’s not. So many choices we make with the hand we are dealt lead us down paths that make that poetic life a luxury rather than the core of our existence. And some of us are just dealt a lousy hand. I don’t regret many of my choices, only the ones that caused hurt to someone else. Besides, just for today I can choose the poetry. “Every day you play with the light of the universe.”
– Pablo Neruda