A partial mug collection. Yes, there's only two of us, I know...but one can experience so many moods, and one must have a mug to fit, mustn't one?
Some of my ceramic tile collection to brighten up the kitchen. Which is already very bright.
Studio. Been having some productive days. And I still need to frame that piece by
knitalatte.
Dining/Living room. Another sort of collection. (I have a lot of collections.)
I collect rocks, too. You can see some here: some from Cape Breton, California's Lost Coast, the Appalachian Trail (first hike with Tim.) When I travel I bring home rocks. Once (ahem, on our honeymoon), we got stopped by the X-ray people because the rock was so large; it was showing up as a black mass on the machine: very suspicious. We got to keep it. I bring the rocks home and glue where they're from on them, cut out of book letters.
And then there's rocks like these: nameless. Could be from Switzerland, Italy, Canada, or the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. We thought we'd remember, but we don't. We waited too long to label them.
But we're still keeping them.
I also collect favorite books, afghans, vintage white glass lamps, wool blankets, and polaroid cameras. I do not collect cats. Sometimes I don't even know I'm collecting something until I look around the house and see, oh, say, 4 or 5 of them. Like my wool hats and gloves. Or my vintage Pyrex bowls. (Tim: "Don't we already have a bunch of these?)
I do love my collecting.
What do you collect?
The snow is steadily and unexpectedly sprinkling down outside, dusting the edges of fences and the dried brown gardens. I awoke at 6am and saw that the sky was red. About an hour later, I awoke again to see Tim standing in front of the window. Upon my asking if he was watching the sunrise, he replied, "The snow is coming down quickly." He enfolded himself back in bed while I roused myself up in the dark house to the sounds of silent snowfall, dreaming dogs, and rustles from the guest room. I made a cup of chamomile tea and went and started wednesday (my volvo v70.) Somer put her accordion and bags in the back, and we quietly drove to the train station. Oh, the complex sleep-deprivedness of early morning goodbyes that have been preceded by a late night stay-up filled with talking, backgammon, and lemon-ginger tea. She disappeared into the station, melting into the dark coats of strangers. I drove back home slowly behind terrified drivers who were doing 15mph over the muslin-thick snow on the roads. I thought I would come back home and crawl into bed; I, who need 10 hours sleep to live a sane and capable life. Instead, I am working my slow way, mouthful by chewy mouthful, through a bowl of cereals, and am considering finishing the movie we started 3 nights ago, although it's 9am. I know it's New Year's Eve Day. I have no big plans tonight. Last year at this time I was at Kripalu, listening to chants and sitting in the sauna, walking the labyrinth in snow and getting lost in the woods when I hiked. Tonight I think I'll go to bed early. I think I'll take the accumulation of the past four late nights and say, "That was my end of year celebration: That was enough for me." All the candles lit, tea sipped, chocolate cracked off and nibbled, all the garlic minced and cheese crumbled, miles walked, treasures thrifted, all the verbal lineage and conversational entanglements. That sadness that comes when a friend who was visiting, leaves. Finding the balance again, the return to normalcy, to my rhythm. Tonight is another full moon, but I think it will be hidden by clouds. Tomorrow I'll wake at dawn to collect the first sunrise. I'll see if the snow is "coming down quickly." I'll sigh at the sorrow and wonderful-ness of it all, and slowly start my hundred turnings intended to spin me, eventually, into my studio. I'll gather all the little tendrils of the past few busy weeks and draw them in, turning them into roots inside, and be nourished.
