Yva Momatiuk and John Eastcott's exquisite photo series of clouds plucked across the wide world once graced the walls of my Rhinebeck shop.
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He is grinning, tanned, shirtless, thrusting a can toward me. In his one infinitesimal chance to grab my attention, this man has chosen to share these details: his thick muscular body which he is not shy about and might consider a kind of calling card, he likes beer, he wears a baseball cap and reflective sunglasses to conceal his gaze and any hint of vulnerability or longing.
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…it wasn’t ordinary at all, this inherently elegant thing. It was something much more: a cord that connected them before me in an overt way and to the women they secretly carried within them. Then the daughter turned her wrist over in a careless motion to indicate the way it was bound…
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“When I grew up, we were taught to ask permission of the water, just to begin a relationship with it. We were not to run up to a river, a lake, or a stream, but were told to always approach water in a quiet way, to be respectful, and honor it.”
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Curiosity, kids, and arriving someplace with an open heart-- these things I know plenty about though, so I was happy when Mary Jane (also known as MJ) and Melissa, my cohorts in Circle, had proposed this endeavor.
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In goes the cup of flour, not measured too carefully because there’s no need.
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The joyous, open-hearted man in this photo worked in a gorgeous antique shop in a town on our way back to Marrakech, Morocco where I went in 2015.
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I just returned a week ago from a pokey little town on the Pacific side of Costa Rica. The adjustment has been difficult, honestly. I seem to have left one foot in the wet sand, still searching for the sun.
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I found some lost poetry while making banana bread at 4am with Leonard Cohen.
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While in a foreign country, an ear for language and bartering abilities are only part of the picture when it comes to making connections.
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Somewhere in Rajasthan, India, we trudged for days through factory buildings and across open lots to look at myriad furniture, knick-knacks, architectural items, and antiques.
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Each morning, as my mother does, as her mother did before us, I put away the dishes. I rise early to relish in the rapture of a quiet house before the raucous of the day begins. Whether the children, the husband, or the guests are sleeping or I am alone in my house, the ritual is the same. This is my morning meditation.
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There is the anticipation of travel before the trip begins: the excitement and fear about what will be different, what will change within me, and how I might possibly impact the new place.
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I had a simple vision for our newest window display at Nectar for 2014; quince clipped from my snow-covered garden, their spindly, stark branches to be placed in a large vase on a beautiful hand-made dining table.
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At only 9:30a.m., a half an hour before I officially opened the store, a sporty silver 4 x 4 pulled up. Whoever it was sat in the car a few extra minutes and I used the time to continue with the morning’s tasks.
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I wanted to write about how incredibly grateful I am to be raising my baby and older sons in a community where mothering is respected and supported.
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The sun has risen over the equator and fleets of overburdened ancient trucks, some literally toppled over on the highway by the weight of their unwieldy loads.
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“Well, he said he wanted a bounty,” my grandma once said in her nasal, Long Island drawl. “So, yeah, I ordered ninety-eight chickens.”
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For Aidan, Manny and Liam, and the younger generations coming in— so you will have some kind of record. This was written long ago written; I am hoping you will all take it from where I left off.
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These walls hold ghosts of you
You are lying in the bed, sitting at the desk,
Dreaming of what could be
If.