So much in the last week. Among the busyness, these moments:
Thousands of crows flying overhead in a snowstorm. Looking up from city streets to see their dark silhouettes darted through the falling snow, like shadows above the lamplight of early evening.
The moon rising, gibbus and golden, smudged with snow clouds. Its bright disk filling up the winter night sky with pale yellow, like painted rings on an opaque piece of glass. Just below it, the hilltops were dark and scraggly with pines and the thatched branches of a hundred maples, birches, and oaks.
Driving back from a long, but too-short trip to New Jersey, two red balloons were caught above the highway in the bright arboreal green of a hemlock. Above them, the sky bluer than song, bluer than a china bowl.
So much, and in between also this:
Starting a clay throwing class tonight, with a friend. Sitting side by side, but apart enough to be entirely separate. Seeing each other from an outside slant. Sinking in to the center of each piece of clay, the rhythmic circling of the wheel, slip gathering between fingers, the hum of the heater turning on. On the wall, glazed shards arranged like multiplication tables. The laughter of people together for the first time. Working in a tank top, like summer, utterly focused for a few clear moments on the supple piece of clay at hand.
So much, and I'm still trying to get back on track. Two weekends away from home, laundry piling up, papers at work in stacks inches thick, not enough sleep. This week I'm trying to catch up, and also to shift towards healthier things: earlier to bed, earlier to rise; regular exercise, and baking bread.
words: Christina Rosalie, webland (my topograpy)
picture: Jeff Crouch, Texas (more)