every stitch

Belle's notes, 28 December 2008, Brooklyn

I love you, darling J.
I saw the man at the library who looked like you
with his toddler daughter -- and I thought,
oh, that could be you -- could be us --
He was about your age, too -- maybe a
little younger -- but not much --
My dreams.

***

The above was me being strict recorder of my notes.
But to add to this, I can conjure the image now.
The man really did look like you - the way I remember you
smiling & laughing & engaged & completely enjoying the moment.
You're laughing at a joke and being tickled at the same time
And I regarded you enjoying yourself,
and it gave me such pleasure
multi-dimensional joy & jubilation.

Oh this post is a mess. So what. It's an instant message.

America Retold

Tuesday Afternoon

What we seek is a delightfully diverse, safe, healthy and just world, with clean water, air, soil and power, that is economically, equitably, ecologically, and elegantly enjoyed.
-William McDonough

All day long this snow day there has been a delightful diversity of birds at the feeders outside the kitchen window: more than one variety of woodpecker at the suet, cardinals, sparrows, nuthatches, and small glossy blackbirds whose name I don't know. I took a nap on the floor and woke up refreshed. Am sipping a cup of chamomile tea with lemon and honey. The music streaming off the stereo all day and night - I have taken to sleeping in the solarium these nights just to be with it - not so restful perhaps, but restorative in such rich, delightful ways otherwise. I drift asleep in one song and wake in another, and always I recognize me then you, and I hear my name and I can't believe it, am I dreaming? yes and no. I feel as though I am enjoying the sound of my name for the first time in my life. Most people I've ever met have always said oh what a pretty name - after I had to explain it to them (work, that). And here incredible musicians and angelic choruses are saying my name, shortened now to two syllables - Jola - yoh-lah, yohlah. My pen moves across the page, channeling my mind, and the pellet stove blazes and blows. On the settee Claire is sleeping next to her man, The Man with the Magic Jacket, who's snoozing himself. Bread is in the oven. Let me go lift the lid.