loving

this winter poem

and 

this article on winter solstice traditons

xoxo

It is the sepia tones found in Paris that are the most satisfying to me. They can be spotted amongst the pleasant offerings of boulangeries, fromageries, patisseries. They can be found in cafes on the slick wicker of a woven chair, in the settlings of a coffee cup, on thin paper in a worn notebook or the ink scribbling of a small poem left behind on a wine splashed napkin after the sun has set.

The tint can be found in the dim light of the catacombs and in the neatly stacked skulls, femurs and tibias of the six million Parisians who rest in its glow. 

It is cast in candlelit shadows of centuries old cathedrals and in the furry fringe of a child's hooded coat in November.

It is between the pages of Hemingway's moveable feast.

The various tisanes found in pharmacies, brewed to relieve ailments and discomforts, are in undertones of sepia.

It is how I see the Eiffel Tower, perhaps because I looked at it so longingly in old photographs before honeymooning in Paris nearly fifteen years ago.

It is the essence of the tweed jacket with suede elbow patches and the Gatsby hat worn by a man in the Marais who stopped to comment on my Polaroid camera. It too, is the hue of the polished wooden cane that rested on the hinge of his arm.

Its ochres hover over Van Gogh's wheat fields and ripen Cezanne's pears.

It is the patina of aged leather books at Shakespeare and Company on the Left Bank where George Whitman extended decades of hospitality to readers and writers and where his daughter now does the same.

Sepia is the iridescence of the well-worn, well-loved. It is warmth and romance with a tint of nostalgia.

I've never visited Paris without a trip to Notre-Dame. The candlelight, stained glass, architecture, sonorous choir, chiming bells and the history of the Gothic structure itself perpetually leave me in a state of reverence. Today though, was the first time I climbed up the 400 steps of the concrete cylindrical staircase leading to the towers. (It reminded me very much of the narrow staircase leading down into the catacombs.) 

Oh, it was amazing! The gargoyles (originally used to drain rainwater) and chimeras enjoy magnificent city views from each direction. There is also access to the south tower belfry where the largest bell of the cathedral can be seen at a weight of more than 13 tons. This bell, known as "Emmanuel," is only rung on major Catholic feast days.

Invigorated by the chill of the November air on my face and the panoramic imprint of Paris in my mind, I descended the staircase and stepped back into the city streets where the melody of ringing bells slowly faded behind me. 

"Admirable, however, as the Paris of the present appears to you, build up and put together again in imagination the Paris of the fifteenth century; look at the light through that surprising host of steeples, towers, and belfries; pour forth amid the immense city, break against the points of its islands, compress within the arches of the bridges, the current of the Seine, with its large patches of green and yellow, more changeable than a serpent's skin; define clearly the Gothic profile of this old Paris upon a horizon of azure, make its contour float in a wintry fog which clings to its innumerable chimneys; drown it in deep night, and observe the extraordinary play of darkness and light in this sombre labyrinth of buildings; throw into it a ray of moonlight, which shall show its faint outline and cause the huge heads of the towers to stand forth from amid the mist; or revert to that dark picture, touch up with shade the thousand acute angles of the spires and gables, and make them stand out, more jagged than a shark's jaw upon the copper-coloured sky of evening. Now compare the two."

                          - Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame

Maira Kalman! Whenever I see her name I pay attention. I saw her exhibition Various Illuminations (of a Crazy World) both here and and in New York and I'm equally charmed by her unique perspective and whimsical illustrations. I came across this video on Brain Pickings, to which I subscribe weekly and always find of great interest.

Hoping your summer days are some of your very favorite! 

Summer afternoons in the garden with Rave, something cold to sip - the current rotation is asian pear and ginger kombucha, pineapple blueberry iced tea or pellegrino with slivers of tangerine and lime - and something to read until we begin to doze in the shadows and life is sweet and all is well.

 Tonight the hovering aluminum moon

listens to your orbiting thoughts

the way you listened 

to canyon echoes

in childhood,

transfixed and entranced.

The North Star looks you in the eye

finding each of your thousand selves,

the hollowed and diverted

the hopeful and enriched,

as glorious as its own reflection.

The murmuring waves of midnight

are as familiar as your own 

undulating heartbeat.

The tide, as if it were

your last quiet breath

in the life before this one

when answers finally revealed

themselves and your spirit

soared back before time

diaphanous and undistilled,

a constellation of its own.

At the shore:

the same fisherman each day; white hair, red eyeglasses, wearing a yarmulke and chest waders

fingerprint sized sand dollars, the rarest still intact

a trail of discarded, sea soaked sunflowers

a pod of acrobatic dolphins cavorting in the waves

the small pleasure of flying a colorful kite on a blue sky day

twilight's translucent sailboats like sheets of vellum as they drift back to the marina

two labradors laughing, I'm quite sure, as they clamber from pier to pier

a treasure trove of tottering sand castles adorned with delicate seashells

* so much happiness

When you die, God and the Angels will hold you accountable

for all the pleasures you were allowed in life

that you denied yourself.

- Roger Housden

Roger Housden here on the pleasure of not being perfect...

This afternoon I am at the kitchen table with a bowl of watermelon and a mug of vanilla jasmine tea, writing a few letters and working on cajoling a poem into form. The windows are open and an occasional spry breeze tosses an envelope from the stack beside me onto the floor. I've scratched out a packing list of things to take for an upcoming trip to Arizona to see my mom and have finished up the last bit of laundry, the air still holding the fragrant scent of lavender. 

The warmth and hospitality of a kitchen often makes me linger, long after meals have been served and the dishes cleared. I am happy I will soon be in the familiar kitchen of my mother's house, my childhood home. We will celebrate her eighty-five years over good food, laughter, and clusters of fond rememberings.

* I love this magnetic poem on the fridge left by my friend Brooke.