Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Out of the quiet,
answering the call.
rocks needed, wrapped.
so it began again, the bundling. which goes with which, who needs paper, or a little old bead?
the "call and response" works everytime. a message from a friend who once displayed and sold my pieces a decade ago in their aveda salon. happy to throw myself into the process, the weekend buzzed by, a window open, birds chirping, spring has come and the rocks are moving on. some sitting outdoors, some in, all put together in my little world and taken off to the shop yesterday to begin their new life, enRAPTuring others. carried away to a shelf, as a gift, a tiny voice from the earth.
at least i like to think that.
and i'd like to leave this with a poem:
LIKE A LITTLE STONE
Like a little stone, feel the shadow of the great earth;
let distance pierce you till you cling to trees.
That the world may be all the same,
close your eyes till everything is,
and the farthest sand can vote.
Making the world be big by hunting its opposite,
go out gleaning for lost lions
that are terrified by valleys of still lambs,
for hummingbirds that dream before each wingbeat,
for the mole that met the sun.
If time won't let a thing happen, hurry there,
to the little end of the cone that darkness bends.
Any place where you turn but might have gone on,
all possibilities need you there.
The centers of stones need your prayers.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
this is the only grandparent i knew.
he lived with us and died when i was ten.
i've kept this one photo and the note that he
wrote with me forever, in my many moves.
i hadn't really realized how beautiful he was
until i scanned this small 2" sq photo,
and made it my wallpaper on the computer.
now, i look into that sculpted face,
those deep eyes everyday.
he was quiet, a writer, a poet.
he spoke little english.
he took care of me when everyone
was off on the farm.
he had creamy coffee and bread for breakfast.
he tied my shoes. combed my hair.
this note in italian and his gorgeous handwriting, which i must have translated,
was written on my first birthday, december 11, 1946.
there's my name, nunzia neva.
from Nonno Rosario.
he was born in 1883 in catania, italy (sicily), came to the US in 1905.
(i've been feeling maybe reflective, certainly VERY quiet these days,
very quiet. no posting lately, but well and happy. thought i'd check in with a hello.)