We've spent the day together but now everyone has wandered off to their own pursuits. Daughter to her art studio where she is enjoying new oil paints, blank canvases, empty sketchpads, and charcoal pencils. Her first sketch was of Keil Bay, and she captured his eye and his whiskers with perfection.
Son is in his room listening to a new soundtrack he bought with an iTunes card from his stocking. It became apparent this year that he spent most of his gift budget on me: a pair of moonstones in a filmy bag, a tiny flask, and a skeleton key, all of which will find their way onto my little writing shrine in my garret. His blank canvas is money in his account, which he's saving for something special.
Husband is on a reconnaisance mission in town.
Horses are making peace with the little electric car across the road while they munch their hay in the front field. They've all galloped up the hill a number of times, more frolic than fear, heads high and ears pricked forward.
Cats are curled in various spots in the living room, worn out from new toy play and too much catnip.
Corgyn are outside sleeping flat out; after turkey necks, iced dog biscuits from the doggie bakery, and a few regular biscuits, what more is there to do but dream of running wild with a pack of their own kind, across a misty moor in Wales?
Merry Christmas! Don't forget to stop for a moment and let it all sink in.
billie hinton’s camera-obscura:
life and lessons on November Hill Farm
2 comments:
A cherishable moment of reflection here in your world, Billie. Gratitude? Yes, I think so.
Yesterday, a kind of desert-blown simoom descended over Santa Barbara bringing soot and ash from summer fires past to fall over and becloud our city and obscure the islands in the sea.
Winds raged last night until finally dying down, but today a stirred evidence hangs brown in the air, slowly clarifying, the gleaming titanium sea barely visible under sun glare.
New grass is pushing itself up through the ground between and around the oaks and what cannot survive the scour of summer thrives this aftersolstice quite well. It is a curious juxtaposition this green beneath an ecru sky.
And we do what writers do: express our surroundings both in and out. I sip coffee twenty minutes before noon PST. The whole day still with us, I will visit my caregiving client and friend, Alfredo, drive him to his chair at the dialysis center for three hours of blood cleansing, which is the best any of us can hope for, something to renew and refresh, vivify for the days ahead and the ones that follow us from behind, that wait for us morrow after morrow.
Joseph, happy day to you and to Alfredo.
Funny you mention the new grass. We've had some rain of late as well as some warm weather, and I noted yesterday to M. that it is odd to see the brilliant new green glinting in a winter's sunlight, with bare branches of trees as a backdrop.
The horses have been nibbling at it, as well as the bark of certain trees, almost as if they're trying to hurry spring along. I suspect they're craving the tender green stuff, although they get very good hay as often as they want.
You're reminding me of Alexander Durrell and his quartet.
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