poem for a sunday morning

by the sea

why does the sea moan evermore?

shut out from heaven it makes its moan,

it frets against the boundary shore;

all earth's full rivers cannot fill

the sea, that drinking thirsteth still.

sheer miracles of lovelinness

lie hid on its unlooked-on bed;

anemones, salt, passionless,

blow flower-like -- just enough alive

to blow and multiply and thrive.

shells quaint with curve or spot or spike

encrusted live things argus-eyed,

all fair alike yet all unlike,

are born without a pang, and die

without a pang, and so pass by.

christina rosetti (1830 - 1894)

poem for a sunday morning

what are heavy? sea-sand and sorrow,

what are brief? today and tomorrow,

what are frail? spring blossoms and youth,

what are deep? the ocean and truth.

christina rossetti, sing song, 1872

blogging again?

 or . . coming back from hiatus . . or . . finally finding a footing in the midst of intense transitions . . or . . i just miss my mom so much that it hurts to live my life without her on earth? i was fortunate to have her around for so long. her mother died when she was twenty one. she would talk about that often . . about how her mother suddenly had a stroke in her sleep while they were traveling in california and she had to fly back to new york with her body on the plane somewhere in the baggage compartment. i could always sense the pain in that repeated statement. i would love to have met her mother, my german grandmother. i would love to have asked her questions about growing up on a farm in northern germany, about wearing wooden shoes and living with the cows and eating out of a communal pot set in the middle of the dining table.  i knew my father's mother, my italian grandmother, but of course there are so many questions that i would have liked to have asked her now that i'm so grown and curious. i didn't think to ask them when i was fifteen, and so i don't think i really knew her at all. she didn't speak english, and i didn't speak sicilian, or italian . . and then she died. the time we have to understand our older loved ones is too short! we are so busy growing up, and then maybe having children or working very intense and important jobs, and then death comes, and we lose our chance to know the physical person. perhaps that's why we place such importance on life beyond earth. we hope for a second chance to love and truly know and appreciate the people we knew on earth. perhaps. however, we can't live our lives thinking we have second chances, because earth and the living beings presently on it are too important and precious. earth is paradisal, and the people are special. we have to love and take care of each other now. 

alright, so much for the philosophical musings. it's springtime in new york city, and everywhere there are daffodils, pansies, tulips, magnolia blossoms, snow drops and crocuses. i hear the mockingbird singing for a mate at night, and the white-throated sparrow singing to the sun in the morning. my audubon app helps me to identify the bird calls. it's so amazing! i never see the birds, i just hear them every day and it's wonderful to go on this app and search for the birds that others are identifying in the neighborhood, and then listen to the bird calls to match up with what i'm hearing. we have cardinals, blue jays, black capped chickadees, sparrows, starlings, white-throated sparrows, and mockingbirds. oh, of course we have pigeons! oh! and mourning doves. the doves are very sweet and sit and coo on the fire escape windowsill until madeline comes along and scares them away. of course, the blue jays are the most precocious and boisterous.

poem for a sunday morning and everything else

                                                                         the cat

                                                                                    the cat

                                                                                              licks its paw

                                                                           lies down in

                                                                                              the bookshelf nook
                                                                                                                           she
                                                                                       can lie in a
                                                                                                 sphinx position
                                                                  without moving for so
                                                                                                 many hours
                                                               and then turn her head
                                                                                         to me and
                                                                                                 rise and stretch
                                                                   and turn
                                                                               her back to me and
                                                                          lick her paw again as if
                                                                                              no real time had passed
                                                                             it hasn't
                                                                                         and she is the sphinx with
                                                                                    all of the time in the world
                                                                                               in the desert of her time
                                                                    the cat
                                                                        knows where flies die
                                                                                 sees ghosts in motes of air
                                                                                               and shadows in sunbeams
                                                                     she hears
                                                                                   the music of the spheres and
                                                                         the hum in the wires of houses
                                                                                    and the hum of the universe
                                                                           in interstellar spaces
                                                                                                           but
                                                                                prefers domestic places
                                                                                             and the hum of the heater

                                               by lawrence ferlinghetti, born in yonkers, new york, march 24, 1919

breakfast with greg, morgana and chanda this morning: german pancakes and bacon and english breakfast tea and espresso.

the little monster is growing, but he's still kitten enough to spark gut wrenching ohs and ahs and cuddles.

tea with sock knitting . . sweet sparrow knits yarn in colorway hedwig.

last tuesday i cleaned out all my drawers and started a new bag of salvation army give away clothes . .

and i enjoyed having this honey all week in my tea . . greg enjoyed it on his yogurt. it's all gone now.

last day on the job

greg walked in the door at around 1:30 this afternoon with the rest of his tchotchkes from the office and his cell phone empty of all work emails. i took a pic of him with the little monster.

no more work for greg for a little while!

he looks very pleased to be through in this pic, but he actually spends a lot of his time at his desk by the window . . studying networking on an online course whose re-certification exams he will take in the following months . .

 that is: he's studying when not napping with the little monster . . oh no! i said i wouldn't post this pic . . but i did!

 we did celebrate his last day by going out to eat at chumley's, an old speakeasy in our neighborhood that was founded in the 1920's by socialist activist leland stanford chumley (it was originally a blacksmith's shop). it's nothing like it was during its heyday when it was frequented by a myriad of writers, poets, journalists and activists, but it's still around with wonderful photos on its walls and very good food (this article in the ny times points out that the old time writers wouldn't even be able to afford one drink at the bar these days).

it was a very cold night! i think it was 11 degrees fahrenheit.

the entire building was renovated several years ago as it was (literally) falling down.

my photos aren't very good . . i was taking them with my cell phone and it was quite dark, but you can see behind greg's head, several of the photos they have up on the walls.

we sat at a cute round table in front of the fireplace (non-working) in which sat an iron english bulldog. very apropos! (you can see him clearly in the new york times article).

i thought this plate was incredibly beautiful! i was looking forward to eating from it, but it was removed by the server when our appetizer soup came out. i really, really wanted to turn it over and see where it was made . . but i didn't, which i regret! i'll have to return with more chutzpah to do so. (update on june 12, 2020: kathy read this post on january 5th of this year, and recognized the plate from her visits to the villeroy and boch store in southampton. its pattern is called audun ferme - autumn farm - from villeroy and boch.)

 i had "hemingway" chili which was delicious, but slightly salty. it was minced white fish and octopus. i did not expect the minced part and was a bit confused for awhile, thinking it was meat (though it certainly smelled fishy!).

the amazing dessert: a chocolate, chocolate chip cookie cooked in an iron pan so that it was like liquid chocolate with vanilla ice cream on top.

vogue knitting live weekend

i was out the door at 7:45 friday morning, on my way to the vogue knitting live event. somehow i managed to find the knitting needles i needed.

at the marriott marquis hotel on the 7th floor. the market place wasn't open yet, and the vendors were busy setting up,

 

while on the 8th floor the artists were preparing their exhibits.

 

ready for my brioche knitting class . . 

here are two of the other knitting students and the teacher. i enjoyed talking with the woman next to me who was from georgia. she was wearing a martina behm hat that i admired (tensfield).

it was an all day workshop with a lunch break at 1 pm. at 5:30 pm, after it ended, i wandered around the marketplace which was now packed with people. i stopped at park avenue yarns from texas because i loved their taxi cab themed skein.

michelle and leslee are mom and daughter and indie dyers. they're holding their skein of home dyed yarn which they prepared specially for the new york event. i thought they captured the colors of the night lights and taxi cabs perfectly. michelle also owns the park avenue yarn store in texas.

taxis and night lights . . this was my walk home. i'll have to add a pic of the yarn in the next few days . . 

 

(here it is . . city lights and taxi cabs, vogue knitting live event 2019, olive yarn dye company.)
 

----

my breakfast saturday morning on my way to meet korrina.

one of the first things korrina did was to visit london kaye's exhibit where she could extend a strand of yarn from new york city to another city of her choice anywhere in the world. it was a massive knitted universal map. this was a popular exhibit and everyone had fun picking their favorite vacation cities/countries. i chose san francisco (of course) and korrina chose japan.

london kaye in front of her masterpiece.

having lunch . . 

saying hello to brooklyn boy knits, louis boria . . 

and listening to his inspiring story during one of the interview events . . we wandered around the two floors of vendors all day and then wearily made our way home.

 

----

 

breakfast sunday morning . .

morgan preparing breakfast after having fed pluto . . morgan flies back to london this evening; we will all miss each other.

sweet pluto, resting after his big breakfasat.

riding the subway to sunday vogue . . we sat right in front of a poem that included knitting as part of its theme. it was such a perfect poem for this morning:

my words to you by jean valentine

my words to you are the stitches in a scarf

i don't want to finish

maybe it will come to be a blanket

to hold you here

 

love not gone anywhere 

 

--

did nyc transit know about vogue knitting live at the marriott marquis hotel? or maybe they knew morgan was traveling again?

 

times square . .

heading in . . 

it was fun riding the escalator and taking pics . .

and movies!

in this photo you can see that korrina has an avocado pin . . we both got one . . but i lost mine! i didn't find it until a few days later when i received a message from carlene at brooklyn general store (i had retraced my steps and visited all vendors whose yarn i had been admiring). she had found it in their pom pom bowl! i had been holding it in my hand and accidentally dropped it in. next time i need to pin it on my bag immediately!

at the ritual dyes/farmer's daughter booth . . korrina was looking for specific yarn for a sweater she was planning to make from the winter design book she had gotten at rhinebeck.

tired . . and time to leave . . 3:26 pm . . 

we walked to apple jack restaurant for coffee and fuel and to admire our purchases . . 

 

---

 

 (while we had been at the knitting event all day, morgan had been at the new york live arts theatre, helping ellen with a family matters show - i received these photos while at the diner:

backstage . . 

a view of the audience's "lesson" from the wings.)

--

matzoh ball soup and greek salad . . 

korrina's treasures . . 

and mine . . and then we went our separate ways home . . 

correspondance with carlene . . 

and correspondance with korrina . . greg and i drove morgan to the airport to catch the flight back to london. i must be tired . . good night!

(this was actually posted the night of june 10, 2021, when i was writing about a skein of trés liz yarn that had been purchased at this event. i wanted to link to it, but there was nothing for january 25 . . indeed there's not much for this year at all. i was so bereft at losing mom . . )