winter, photos

looking off the front porch, © 2015 Amber Schley Iragui

Winter in Portland is mild. Snow is unusual, and lasts a few hours or maybe a day. It usually changes to rain, freezes again, coats trees and walkways in ice—and the city literally shuts down. Mostly though, winter here is wet. It is damp and cold and dark and rainy. But it is not bitter. It is the end of January and already daffodils are sending up green shoots, the crocuses are blooming. I have the window in my office open a crack and I hear the crows making plans outside.

At this cheerless time of year, an hour of sunlight is like gold. Yesterday afternoon it was sunny for a bit, and joggers appeared in running shorts. A boy walked down the road in bare feet. A quarter of an hour later it was dark again and raining.

after morning drop-off, © 2015 Amber Schley Iragui

walking to the grocery, © 2016 Amber Schley Iragui

puddles, © 2016 Amber Schley Iragui

ice storm, © 2015 Amber Schley Iragui

{More winter photos over at Day's Dearest Wish and Eine Hand voller Stunden}

So little is a stone

Amber Schley Iragui © 2015

B U R N I N G   T H E   O L D   Y E A R
Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.
Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.

*    *    *    *    *

It has been raining and raining and I'm having a hard time adjusting. I know that's what it does here: rain. I was born here; I lived here till I was twenty-five. But after fifteen years in New York—with the sun, and snow, and occasional thunderstorms—it's hard not to feel it is just too wet, too deeply damp, outside right now. I lay in bed and think about hibernation, of crawling into a warm little cave and sleeping until spring. A cave with a fireplace, and clearly a mantle, and a deep soft chair, and some books—and then we're basically dreaming about hibernating in my own house. My house but a little farther away from everything; away from the passing cars and the bouncing children.

But I like the sound of the rain, I admit. I like the sound on the roof of my office, now, as I write this.

I didn't watch the State of the Union address this evening. I only know that this event took place because, while the kids were falling asleep, I checked Facebook and there were all sorts of postings about it. And it occurs to me that I doubt I've ever heard a State of the Union address. Not one I can remember, at least. And similarly, when David Bowie died a few days ago—alerted again by multitudinous Facebook postings—I could not bring his voice to mind, or any song of his I knew. Disturbingly, his face is mostly familiar to me because a friend of mine owns a David Bowie doll that she dresses up posts photos of on Instagram. And so it seems to me that as far as popular culture and politics go, I'm pretty much hibernating all the time.

Which is not to say that I don't pay attention to things. I do, but just to a select few things. And to those things I pay close attention. For example: dreams, typography, the birds I see in the neighborhood. I pay attention to my children, not always what they say as much as how they seem to be doing. I pay attention to the plants in my kitchen window, and to book covers, and New Yorker cartoons; I take note of new authors and wait for their names to appear and reappear before I buy their books. I have been paying attention to what's been happening in Syria and Iraq, and watching the refugees streaming into Turkey and Eastern Europe and worrying for them. But I can't, you know, take it all in. There is far too much to pay attention to and I live in this small stucco house with lots of windows, under skies heavy with rain, and have small growing things to tend.

{ Julia's poetry wednesday post }

photo friday: brown

Me and brown, we go way back.

There's my hair, of course, but it's more than that. Brown is softer and more accessible than black. There is something slightly invisible about it, something quiet and ever-present. Mousey. Humble. Brown says, Relax, you're in this for the long haul. Kick off your shoes. Get dirty.

When I was a high school camp counselor for sixth grade outdoor school, I had to pick one "resource" to teach. The choice was between animals, water, plants, and soil. I planned to pick the plant resource, as I already knew a lot about them. But after we toured the different resource sites I surprised myself by choosing soil. Nobody chooses soil, that's the resource you get assigned to when all the others are full. But I wanted soil—it was so overlooked, uncared for, unglamorous. And yet so important. That's me and brown in a nutshell.

We will be gone for two weeks in Cape Cod, and our rental home does not have internet (and I am not taking a laptop with me). So Photo Friday will be on hiatus until August 10th. Uncle Mark suggested the idea of shooting contrasts for Photo Friday, and I think that's a lovely idea. So for August 10th, how about contrasts: old and new. Don't be surprised if I take the opportunity to do some diptychs.

And, finally, don't be offended if I don't comment on your Photo Friday posts. I will be on my way to the Cape!

rainy monday

It's Monday morning. It was raining when I awoke, and the sky over the inlet was low and gray. Rachel made eggs with black beans and onions, and after breakfast we knit awhile and listened to This American Life. My heart is heavy.

We're in a café in Bath now, with free wireless internet, spacious couches, and a hit-or-miss soundtrack (most Christmas music and the currently-playing Phil Collins hit included in miss). Our work here over the weekend filled more than half of the "frequent customer card," leaving us only four cups away from a free drink. We're getting a lot of work done. Both the work accomplished and the prospect of a free coffee cheer me. As does my new little digital point-and-shoot.

But my heart still hangs.

I want life to make sense, you know, the way plots make sense. The way elements in a novel work together, details accumulating meaning. I'm not saying I want life to be simple or obvious, no, but ultimately I want some reason, some order, at least a variation on a theme. I want to learn my lessons and move forward with a modicum of purpose. I suspect it's old-fashioned of me to want this.

The catch is, though, that I tend to skim through the real difficult part of books or movies. The part where things get sticky and the hero or heroine is revealed as the failure he or she is. I leave the room or close my eyes. I hate the scenes leading up to confrontation, when the potential for real disaster hangs in the air. I want things to skip ahead to when things are moving smoothly again, when all parties are privy to the important information, kung-fu duels confined at least to those between good vs. evil.

But in my own life it seems precisely those confusing scenes which are dragged out for years. I'm waiting to be privy to all the revealings facts, for all the characters to be introduced, for the central conflict to present itself in a way I can confront. Meanwhile I hem and haw.

And rainy Monday mornings present themselves as if to remind me of the fact. But I try to do what the best characters in novels do: wake up, make coffee, complete their work, and fill up their frequent customer cards.

pouty-post-pascha

I am grumpy.

It's still raining. The bellydancing video I bought to motivate myself toward movement annoys and overwhelms me. Not only are the moves incomprehensible, but the dancers outfits are silly and the background music techno-new-age with a subtle Indian beat. I hoped for a sultry Middle Eastern rhythm and curvy black-haired divas gently drawing me into a shimmy. These are blonde girls in teal work-out suits sporting a few obligatory bangles and California smiles. Sheesh.

And then, well, it's bright Monday, and as I mentioned, it's raining.

I'm going for a jog, which involves the kind of workout step I've already gotten down.