Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

This ‘n’ That

Believe it or not, I have watched the Twilight DVD extras and then those extras on top of it. Truly geeking out but I must say…the film company did a terribly foolish thing when they crossed Catherine Hardwicke (the director) and she said, “See ya.” Because really, Hardwicke’s a modern day hippie (hippies can be so pleasantly zealous about things) and was so completely Into the story, she really loved the damn thing and she did massive amounts of creative work to make the film have more depth than the poor book ever did. I mean…okay, okay, film is a different medium, so very visual (duh) so visual details are easy to add. But they’re also very easy to add in a book. Hardwicke gave the character Bella a wonderful bracelet with pictures of the saints going all around. And she wanted Bella to look very natural thereby giving her a connection with the nature surrounding her. Or at least to hint at it. That’s already more significant details than we get of Bella  in the books (she has brown hair, brown eyes and hates the wet??? Already a charming bracelet and having a connection to nature are beyond the capacities of this book)

And now for something completely different… I do need to mention a project I did manage to finish with dear Mollie’s help.

First the violet bracelet. This idea of violets is really taking hold. This is just a cuff put together with felt and lace and it has the violets (and leaf) sewn on.

This second one is a bonus. Mollie kindly gave me four circles, painted with the life cycle of a dandelion. Backed onto sparkly felt! This is probably the only time in my life in which I found a way to use sparkly felt.

Finally, I’m really loving this photo. Can you spot the little singer?

Comments (1):

  1. Roons

    April 6, 2009 at 10:57 am

    Swanky bracelets y’got there. Very nice!

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The Willows Converse Among Themselves

I look across the river and catch sight of the willows, lost in their own world. They have no regard for me. They are speaking to each other in whispers so I hear nothing clearly but I see their long golden-yellow chains wavering over the water. It reflects their light.

There are presences in this world that are not human but sometimes, a human being comes across one of these presences and this is when poetry happens—when we interact with the strange divinity that moves through the world.

I caught sight of the willows and so complete were they within themselves, so beautiful to behold, that my mind stopped dead in its tracks and my heart eased. In the presence of an Other, human commotion becomes impossibly silly and pointless. The past and future converge into the present and there is only now.

I exhale the stress I’ve held this morning as I watch them. The willows, their long hair hanging over their faces, disregard me totally and completely and talk in their slow tree way, something to do with the air, water, and earth. I cannot hear much but what I do hear makes me recall there were other beings on this earth other than myself, older than myself. They exist in this time, in many times, living, dying, always reappearing. The willows hang their hair over the water as they have done for centuries, listening to the currents and moving with the breezes and eddies of the wind.

With a gratefully diminished self, I thank the universe for the ancient poetry that is the willow tree and move forward, reborn, into the bright day.

 

茶の煙柳と共にそよぐ也

the tea smoke

and the willow

together trembling

Issa

(Trans. David G. Lanoue)

Beautiful Dirty Summer

The thick green groves of cup-plants (silphium perfoliatumare) stand eight feet tall and are in their late summer glory. I look up at their bright yellow ray flowers and shield my eyes, the bright flowers sway so high and run so close to the sun. When I squint, the flowers darken into forms without color like the outline of the sun beating through closed eyelids.

I take a step nearer and peer into the leaves. Tiny pools of still water collect where the thick cup leaves meet the stems. It has not rained in the last few weeks and I’m surprised there is any water here at all. For leaves that are not broken or rotted, thimblefuls of water weigh without movement, rimmed with the detritus of summer: a fly’s wing, a wad of spider web, bits of dead grass and portions of pollen.

These tiny pools are water for goldfinches, tiny birds that flash by like rays of light. It hasn’t rained for weeks and this is left, tiny pools of water full of dirty summer. I consider drinking it. With one quick gulp, I’d drink the essence of a passing summer, imbibe what August means, and taste the bitter part of the growing season. This is living but rotting part that underlines all our lives but that no one likes to see, much less taste.

I shift my weight from foot to foot. The sun beats heavily down. The yellow flowers tumble in overhead breezes and the goldfinches live nearby, finding water where they can as the dry weeks pass. My hands drop to my sides and I pass back through the grass, ready for the shade. Perhaps when it rains and all the cup plants are full, I’ll take my drink along with the many others.