early spring stars made of scraps

Noticing

I just came into my study and outside the door is a basket of quilts. We have so many — the ones on beds, the ones on the couches for people who want to drape them over shoulders to watch tv or to spread over themselves for an afternoon nap. We have them on chairs. And this big basket from Ghana holds 5 more. I hardly notice them. Until I do. This morning, this variable star on top, pieced and quilted 35 years ago, using scraps I had in my trunk of fabric. It’s been washed so many times. The stars have faded and the unbleached cotton is soft, almost threadbare. But it’s the quilt I put on my bed in summer. When I looked up “variable star” to make sure I’d used the right name (I also have Ohio Star quilts), I learned via the Royal Astronomical Society of Canada that there are stars that vary in brightness over time.

Variable stars have been observed throughout history but it was not until after the invention of the telescope that organized searches began. The reason for this is that there are only a handful of variable stars visible to the unaided eye and so there was not much to do before the time of Galileo – the first person to point a telescope toward the night sky. Besides the few known bright variables, ancient peoples occasionally observed bright nova and supernova explosions of distant stars that would reach unaided-eye visibility and would sometimes even be visible in the daytime.

(I can’t help but wish for a star visible in the daytime sky. Other than the sun.)

Appreciating

I had a good swim this morning, all the more appreciated because I had to miss two swims last week due to a medical issue which required me driving John to the hospital twice, and then I spent a good part of the weekend in bed because I’d pulled or knotted a muscle in my lower back. I don’t remember it happening but realized on Saturday morning that I could barely walk. A day in bed is something I always think will be nicer than it actually is. I couldn’t get comfortable. I was reading a murder mystery and it was too intense to be relaxing. But then my husband found the muscle area and eased the difficult knot out, a little at a time. The cat was very interested to find me in bed during the day and provided excellent company. To swim this morning was a joy though the cat is hovering outside my study, wondering why I’m not upstairs, vying for the sunbeam. Reader, he edged me out every time.

Anticipating

Does it ever get old, baking bread? Feeding the starter, mixing the dough, letting it set overnight, warming a dutch oven, sprinkling semolina on a piece of parchment? Does it ever get old, cutting the cross into the surface, setting the timer, the scent of baking bread filling not just the kitchen but the whole house? Does it ever get old, anticipating a slice of warm sourdough for lunch, flecks of flax and wheat flour and a little rye for that wild flavour?

there will be enough:
there will be bread
for all the peoples of the earth.
And we will also share with one another
whatever has
the shape and the flavor of bread:
the earth itself,
beauty
and love–
all
taste like bread
and have its shape,
the germination of wheat.
Everything
exists to be shared,
to be freely given,
to multiply.
(Pablo Neruda, from “Ode to Bread”)

(This could be us, couldn’t it? It wouldn’t take much, making sure everyone had enough to eat, freely given?)

Making

Well, it’s not so much me doing the making but John. Or at least right now. He’s set the text for a little card or keepsake to give to those who buy copies of my forthcoming book, The Art of Looking Back: A painter, an obsession, and reclaiming the gaze. This week he’ll print them on our 19th century Chandler & Price platen press, one at a time, and when the ink is dry, I’ll sew tiny canvases onto the cards, embellished with paint. You’ll see! Just let me know if I should reserve one for you! (He’ll print about 100 and when they’re gone, they’re gone.)

Enjoying

It happened almost overnight, the return of masses of robins (there are usually one or two who overwinter here). They’re everywhere! And the northern flickers in the moss, plucking insects, the red-breasted sapsuckers drumming on the fascia, the long whistle of the varied thrushes just in the edge of the woods,. Almost overnight, a flutter wherever I look, the bright flash of red as the flickers fly away when I come outside. And before we know it, the salmonberry song, when the robins get so carried away by love, by beauty, by the taste of ripe berries, that they don’t know when to stop.

Wishing

Last night, hobbling to the bathroom in the dark, I looked out to see a star. Well, a whole constellation, the Big Dipper hanging over the printshop (maybe interested in the activity at the type cabinet?). I wished, I did, but for now my wish is secret.

Listening

Kathleen Ferrier, that grand voice, singing the Brahms Alto Rhapsody. It is so timely. A song to play over the over.

Ah, who heals the pains
Of him, for whom balsam became poison?
Who drank hatred of Man
Out of the fullness of love?
First despised, now a despiser,
He furtively consumes
His own merit
 In unsatisfying egotism.
(trans. Lena Platt and Daniel Platt)