Some people have expressed interest in the ornaments tha I made last year for my Yarn Swift. Swiftmas was born.
here are some links to get you started.

Balls Up 
Pinterest Page for Christmas Decorations
mini sweater

poem

things we measure
pages, words,
slope the descent of a line the
number of heartbeats
kisses & tides & bodily fluids
all attempts to control categorize order arrange
bound & connected
by the things we cannot measure
aura, intention, arrival
reflection

Whole30

So what is this thing called the Whole30? 
It is thirty days that will change you. I will leave it up to the website to explain it but I will tell you what it has done for me. If change is what you are looking for I hope you'll check it out. 

I think I first saw the Whole30 mentioned in a post on Instagram back in July. Something clicked and I ordered the book and jumped in head first. I began on July 14. 

I did not heed the bit about planning and not doing a Whole30 during a time with big life events and I was derailed by a three day high school reunion around day 20. I still stayed mostly compliant but not 100%

I jumped back on in August and went off the rails again in New Orleans as I was driving cross country with my daughter. I would not have passed up French Market cafe au lait and beignets, though. It would have been inhuman. 

September one rolled around and I decided to start again and this time there were no big events to get through. There were some social events but no marathon road trips or reunions with tempting non compliant buffets. 

One outcome is that I learned to cook again. My husband has been doing  most of the cooking up til now and he is now happy to share the kitchen. I am much more engaged in the planning and shopping and cooking and it has been a good change for us. He is happy to share my delicious meals although he still eats his non compliant food. He is a chocoholic - but I am not doing this for him I am doing it for me. 

Successes: my cholesterol has come down as well as my triglycerides. My blood sugar is returning to a healthier level. Still not out of the woods but no longer in imminent danger of type two diabetes. And I was right up against that number which was a scary thing.  My fingernails which were constantly breaking and shredding have grown back healthy. No more splits.

The tendonitis in my foot, which had me on disability on and off for the past two years, no longer causes me pain and I have been able to walk and go to the gym pain free. Also the swelling in my knee, which was another inflammation site is much improved. 

Alas, I am still not thin, but I have lost 25 + pounds since July. Believe me when I tell you I tried other ways including calorie counting and weighing my food, even counting steps, which was becoming impossible because of the tendonistis. So this was a last ditch effort. And for a post menopausal woman with a deficiant thyroid, losing weight is no small feat. So I am quite happy about that. 

All this and no going hungry. For me, if hunger was a part of the plan, I would have never made it.

Which leads me to this: If the Whole30 is so healthy then why quit after 30 days? My answer is that I will not be quitting. I will continue to eat this way as long as it is healthy for me. I may enjoy the occasional beignet - with no shame, and I fully intend to make some paleo treats fron the lovely recipes in my new cook books, because, um, banana pecan ice cream  . But for the main part I will still be here cooking up meals with protein, vegetables, fruit, fat and spices. The pic is me in July. As soon as I get one from now I will post it. Today I am holed up with a cold and do not feel camera friendly. 

knitting queue of shame...

So my knitting queue is getting rather long and unruly. I am definitely not a monogamous knitter. I have enough patterns to keep me busy until I am  200 yrs old- which sometimes seems sooner than later.

Oh Valencia

Cúram

On the needles now is a sock named oh Valencia by Kate Atherbey, And there is a Hat called Cúram from Ysolda , and a newly released old pattern for socks called Anemochory  by Hunter Hammersen. And there is the Mahy shawl and a sweater....and some other things that I know are in my room somewhere.
So that is my queue of shame.

Anemochory

making clothes, making art

Pattern crafted from Cal Patch's Creativebug class, Stencil from Alabama Chanin
cotton knit from Alabama Chanin

Circle Dress From Marcy Tilton

     The first thing I remember wanting to make is clothes. My mother's family were all sewists. Not so much her - she was more inclined to the Fine Arts while the rest of us leaned more toward the Sartorial.
     But to my mind there is art in the perfectly conceived hand made garment. You do not have to look too far to see this. Recently at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC, there was the exhibit titled  "China through the Looking Glass" and if you saw the Alexander MacQueen Exhibit at the same place a few years ago-or in other great museums around the world - you have yourself witnessed where fashion and fine art have intersected.
      Lately I have had the time and inclination to re awaken my clothes sewing interests. I have been sneakily adding to my garment sewing stash over the years, waiting I suppose for just such a time,  buying the occasional pattern, or book and have been delighted to find all sorts of support on the internet, from classes on platforms like Craftys, Becreative, YouTube tutorials (tutes)- to name just a few, there is a dazzling array of offerings. Some are free and some not so much. And there is Pinterest, which can get you lost in a warren of distraction and inspiration.
   Currently I find myself with an overflow of fabric and patterns, and I am applying myself to the lofty goal of using them before they are completey obsolete or I am dead.
     I have availed myself of classes which have piqued my interest and even sewed some dresses. It has been a long time, maybe decades? since I have sewn an actual dress. most of my sewing has been quilting or window treatments - a different flavor of fashion.
     I have drooled over all of Natalie Chanin books, I have joined Creative Bug to to take a class from Cal Patch to learn how to draft my own patterns, I have done sewalongs with Grainline Studio and found designers who designing for all women, like Marcy Tilton and Catherine Tilton who make fun and creative clothes for women of all ages.
     So that is what I have been up to. I still want to make quilts. I have one in mind which will take shape over the winter. It is grello. If you aren't sure what that is, stay tuned.

speaking of clothes...

I bought some beautiful Italian wool yardage when I was in Germany a few years ago and packed it up in a box with all of the other beautiful fabric I bought and so it has remained.
My goal for the rest of the year is to make some garments that spark joy with some of this fabric.

One of the patterns I bought recently was the Marcy Tilton Circle Dress V9112. Marcy has posted several customers version on her blog and facebook page and that is what finally swayed me. I did not see a version I did not like.

I have some lovely black and white polka dot which I bought from Marcy's website and the aforementioned wool from the shop in Cuxhaven - a lovely shop!  Although the polka dot is a proven favorite I think I might risk the wool and have a jumper for the winter. Or maybe I will cut out both and have two. I have heard of people making four!
On this rainy day, I have a plan.
p.s. none of the links in this post are sponsored.

     Yesterday I bought some clothes. Yes this is a big deal for me. For the last 8.5 years I did not need to wear anything but a company branded tee shirt with jeans and sneakers.
     This made it very easy for me to avoid buying clothes. I could skate by on the minimum. And for the most part I did. There was very little that apppealed to me as a sophisticated, artistic older, no longer skinny woman. Clothes for women my age were all drab and humorless. And yes dammit I want my clothes to have humor and elegance and grace. I realize this is not a small expectation. But we only have one self, one body to dress and by the gods of fiber I am going to have some fun.
       So where does one turn? I get physically ill looking at the fashion rags with the starving children they use as models. I feel sorry for them and I want to take them home and make them soup and creme brûlée.
     I peruse the sewing patterns and feel more inspired but you cannot try things on and send them back once you have taken the time and effort to make them. You are stuck with them. They emit a reproachful aura of failure when they do not meet your expectations. Was it me? or was it the design?
     I am a skilled sewist, have made clothes for myself and all sorts of decorative items for my home so I am not likely to have a crisis in confidence at this point. But I do like to try things on.
So. This is what I found. First in Denmark and then here in NY
http://www.gudrunsjoden.com/us
                                                     and this is what I bought:

These fit the bill. And it seems to be a good company. And the clothes are FUN. And comfortable. And they fit.  And if you are so inclined, you can wear them with clothes from past collections. Love them.

Road Trip!

We left before the light.

There was a nice guy at Dunkin Donuts. And Coffee.

Bailey drove the whole way - 1670 miles.

Bailey and Fluffy the alligator. They served fried alligator. Poor Fluffy. Dinner at Mr. Eds's.

Bourbon St. Slow Season.

Mississippi River at dawn.

St Luis Cathedral. The oldest cathedral in the US. ocerlooking Jackson Square in New Orleans. 

Cafe au lait and ...

BaileyAnne

Kevin and Bailey in Houston-dinner at Ruggles Black.

Statue of Sam Houston

Homeward bound.

dresses

dresses in the closet

I don’t know why I counted them 

seven survivors 

worthy  desirable

at least 

in so much

as can be revealed in public places

in a 

not denied entry 

kind of way.

: that would pass 

though.

given enough time,

even the carefully edited collection loses its relevance

you are the compendium of all of our hopes and dreams

and also the what we have to put before we go outside. along with our faces and expectations

I taste the cloth between my fingers 

and categorize each by its texture

a memory imprinted on my fingertips

signaling for recall 

to unfurl and fill in the rest. 

like a fern frond

slowly

That one was bought in a shop on a corner of a street in Barcelona. 

And that one I wore to lunch of tapas in Oxford.

Never mind that I have never been to either place. I could have,

in that dress.

It was a good time.  

without this -last day of winter poem

the winter trees are brown with promise

tired snow lays listlessly on the ground

yielding patches of its former glorious

sun soaked chlorophyll drunk riotous color.

this is what we draw:

leaves, fences, faces, time travel, 

stacks of books,

clutches of pens,

promise of blank paper,

whisper of time.

this is what we fill with each stroke, each intention, 

each bow drawn across the strings,

straining to hear ancestral composer’s articulations

building bridges through generations, 

to the seeds of yestertime

without this we are still some form of us

we are still we and

without this we are hollow

maleable

soundless paper marionettes dancing 

dangling in the foul wind 

of fruitless winter

personal ad from 20 years ago

Angry woman.

near forty. Broke. alcoholic. two time loser with four kids. Likes to take long walks off short piers. For a good time call .....

Valentines Day Détente

it is my heart talking

those words you cannot quite hear

the ones you strain to listen to 

lean in to catch

but the torrent continues

you think you get the gist of it

then it rains on

and you realize 

you did not hear what 

you thought you were listening to

when you heard what you 

thought my heart was saying

its all right

its just another kind of energy that connects us

we read between the lines-

as if that were possible -

to ever even understand what

someone else is feeling 

much less to be able to convey this

with an alphabet of mirrors and lost art

its all right. 

we assume so much 

in direct opposition to our own finity.

legacy! all hail!

the stones thud against us 

and fall,

mad meteors

and

we lean in

as we strain to hear the angel’s song

DNA~ january 5, 2014

Her DNA thrums 

like water under ground,

going places.

waiting for her to listen, 

to see, 

to be able 

to claim her place; 

evolve, 

make a left turn, resolve

to become the navigator of her own chemistry:

a treasure hunter – 

pirate of her own ocean -

drifting on the periphery of her 

softly folded in 

dreams.

for what of this plunder? pillage? loot?

What lust 

is thus 

aroused? 

for it is not the treasure 

that seduces us

like sirens,

surges in us 

like sudden, 

unfathomable desire.  

It is not the plunder, 

but the hunt. 

Always the hunt

busy month! Happy New year!!

knitted ornaments

knitted ornaments

window shopping

luke calls it a cave

Bailey made cupcakes

swiftmas happened

luke and bailey

the office

pretty things

knitting happened

7 months!

Some Things Remain the Same. published in the Long Island Quarterly in the early nineties

Some things remain the same 

I am carried in a rickshaw

Only conscious for the epiphany from one tableau to the next, bundled like a cocoon, 

strangers speaking in muted voices so as not to wake the sleeping child the patient the victim

The smells are different in each recollection

The wallpaper a cipher the clocks tick rocks bound

Each to its own rhythm a separate rendition, 

This torturer in banana curls this one on a bicycle - these a pair under the bathroom window squealing and squirming in gleeful whispers trying to espy the child naked and unsuspecting. 

Sometimes the language is not my own

The food smells overwhelmingly good

It makes me want to live again to inhale to taste 

To be a member of this table or that one 

To be a known member of this tribe

No secret customs or furtive glances no secret codes of conduct
out of my reach beyond my ken.

What remains the same is the need to stay
as still as death as silent
as twilight falling snow
til they have forgotten you are there and
you can join them with your shadow self
annihilating your own bulky needy presence 
to become a member at this table
no terrifying unknowns no treacherous unraveling edges
no children unprotected no un tendered questions. 

I awake in each new tableau as from
an interminable unconscious state.
I do not remember who I have been,
if I have made ketchup and eggs for my daughter this morning
or watched as they took my mothers furniture down the narrow staircase and loaded it onto a truck
destination undetermined.
Some things remain the same - there are the smells of the food cooking- there is the silent interrogation of a strangers eyes, the hollow reproach of ill spent youth
and always the accursed bounty of other peoples tables.    

revision

sometimes poems get revised and become new poems or better ones. I do not know if I have put this here before but here is it revised. It is called

Undisclosure

I.

I raise my body from the couch and scrape the leftover oatmeal in my bowl

into the noisy aluminum waste bin

and notice the crumbs left on the shiny winter table

II.

In a dream I was invisible and therefore had the power to glide unseen through infinite aisles of a heavenly supermarket

to take what nourishment or luxury I wanted, unheeded.

Unheeded, not like in the way when you complain about being starved by your mother and they respond,

‘Oh honey, some day she will be your best friend’

unheeded, as in you can have as much as you want and no one will stop you, 

nor shame you for your profane need

III.

(when I married the first time it was because of 

the act of food as love,

it was as though I was full for the first time)

IV.

I did not have the vocabulary to tell

our story, then, 

or what portion of it was left for me to discern

to trace like finger prints upon a frosty window

or the breath caught in that place in your sternum,

just south of a full breath.

V.

be perfect in this one moment

allow the present to swell in your breast 

the moment being perfect itself

That is the lesson I have learned, that  

there is no wrong or right way to breathe,

no moral to the story, just the listening, and discerning,

and we are all already connected more than can ever be told with fragile homilies,

or removed with insane malice.

poem of the day- 100 words

snowflakes

december 8

hardly noticeable and yet they are there

frenzied frozen 

tiny whirling 

dervishes

alighting on your face

just a speck of wet

a droplet of water on your eyelash

a blurred lens

the smell of snow in the air

the wind is picking up

a nor’easter the weather beings toll

like the bells in buoys 

they way they used to toll

softly caroling in the night

but that would come later when we were separated

beyond the arc of time and place

I do not know if you ever sensed the impending storm 

or heard the buoys chime

poem for the not silent night

Standing at the edge

of the field of queen anne's lace

I know I belong there

sycophants notwithstanding 

I see over you 

“I  am looking through you”  he said airily

I turned and walked away 

back to my own field 

where he does not exist

did you think I would be silent as I was marginalized?

I have given birth to 

worlds of seeds 

tumbling like time

crashing through the river beds

into oceans I have wept

the places that change you-

memory is a canticle

informing the present with its solemn grace and cadence 

Like Lot’s 

anonymous wife, 

whose passion lay behind her,

we look back through the caul of the ever-

present consequential 

thrum of traffic and dialog.   

needs and must be. 

appointments with no consequence. 

No resonance. 

we drink from this the chalice of rotting leaves. 

makes good compost you say

always thinking of the garden

a thinning stand of trees 

a fire in the distance 

you can smell the smoke from the fire place 

where someone has bought expensive wood from the stop and shop.

I want to go there again. 

Like Lots nameless wife I am powerless 

I look back 

and am 

frozen in place.  

There is no forward. 

Cursed by a tide of unreasonable expectation and given no carriage out

I want to go there again 

To drink longingly from the river of Pieria. 

The lady's perfume

The lady's perfume
accompanies her like an aura
on the train which speeds along the tracks, faster than I could run, but not really fast,
and causes my bronchial tubes to contract,
and wheezing ensues.

She is one of the
"they who carry the many bags" tribe.
The second bag is a Disney tote bag confection,
in the style of what someone thought was an old movie marquis.
Complete with glitter. And typography.
Diagonal typography.
We exchange a glance and
a polite smile.
My wheezing is congenial.

Outside as the scenery slides by
I imagine breathing in the cool fall air.
I breathe from the bottom of my abdomen, as I have been taught. I consider whether the inhaler I think I have in my single bag actually contains any magical mist to calm my bronchial passages.
Not likely.

We pass a stream with an arched Monet like bridge next to parking lot and I wonder if Monet has a parking lot next to his garden at Giverney.
I muse that I would like I go there someday and think that I would make a mental note the placement of the parking lot.
Perhaps we can take a train from Paris,
if we ever make it to Paris.

The buildings are closer together as the lumbering train which carries me
and the perfumed one
and the other worker bees into the city.
She types on her iPhone with the typing sound turned on and it annoys me inordinately - the typing sound
the glittery oversized second tote bag
 - and her aura of pernicious perfume which
is choking me.