Home

Well it's official.  All those little well wishes you sent out last week, all ten of my fingers tightly crossed, all the breath we've held hoping to find the right home?  It all converged at the right time and place in a way that was nothing short of miraculous.  

Welcome.

Upon arriving in Seattle last week, I attended a few frenzied open houses, weighed the pros and cons (I was almost terribly swayed by a clawfoot tub and a breathtaking sun-porch in a very unpractical house), but in the end listened intently to my intuition.  I think sometimes our bodies are wiser than us, that somewhere deep in our solar plexus a compass spins with absolute accuracy.  And when we pulled into the drive of this charmer, my compass spun with the fire of the sun.  I knew it would be right even before I stepped over that 1920's threshold.  

First though, I need to come clean.

The last few months have been rough, and I confess to being the small wounded beast who hides in private, shadowy corners when life turns upside-down.  I've vacillated between a light heart and nimble fingers, and a black crush of anxiety.  I've been wrestling with a fear-demon and there were days when the flame of light in my chest sputtered and dampened.  Truly, never has an impending move felt so strangely full of symbolism, hope and threat.  It's been a mess of illogical terrors that the mind concocts to explain away the bad things in life (i.e. cancer.  Shitty, shitty cancer.  What has happened to me, what is happening to a dear friend, and what had happened to a recently departed).   In the name of authenticity I want you to know this: no life is always easy, and no life is always full of butterflies and rainbows, and mine is certainly no exception.  I suppose really what I'm trying to say is that sometimes, life is damn gritty.  And it hurts.  And that sometimes, you'll wake up in the morning and that ball of panic that has been rolling around in your stomach will have rolled right out the front door and the only thing you notice are the birds singing in the dawn.

For me, that open door was the thing.  Nearly a quarter acre, hemmed in by ancient cedars, somehow still smack in the middle of the city doesn't hurt either.

* * *

Other bits of interest and education?  I heartily recommend that one DOES NOT eat an entire pound-and-a-half of cherries during the course of an eleven hour drive, topped off by a large grapefruit.  I thought I was immune (in fact, after the drive up, I may have uttered those exact words with smug pride), but apparently, everyone has a threshold for fruit consumption.  Who knew?

When returning from the Camelot of Coffee, from the land of milk and caffeine, from the seventh heaven of sweet crema, to a house devoid of a single coffee bean know this: dirty, dark beans clearly roasted sometime during the revolutionary war, from the shady little corner market will taste like motor oil and you will cry exactly three tears before dumping that crap down the drain.

In other news, if you haven't yet seen THIS, well then let me regale you now.  BC and I had that hat stashed away before we even knew if our new "niece," Bowie Andromeda was a she.  We're totally going to be the cool aunt and uncle who keep her in sci-fi-geek-wear, teach the little lady words like "mullet" and how to fist bump grandma.

It feels good to be home, but even better to know that "home" is waiting just a few hundred miles up the coast for us as well.

Cheers birds,

~ Umber ~

Land Tribute

I've been a bit obsessed lately with thanking the land.  The earth we both tread upon, the terroir that has grown us into the bodies we possess, the landscapes that mold our existence.  I am, in my heart of hearts, a documenter.  A recorder of sights and scents and travels and passages.  This piece feels like a narrative for your heart; a story of wind currents and wild grasses, of rippling leaves and red-tailed hawks.  There is substantial weight but simultaneously so so much room to breath.

Land Tribute
(the second in the series)
(100% sterling silver)
(and of course, you can read more about it over in the shop)
(this may be too many parenthetical comments)
* * *

In other news, the move north is fast approaching.  I'll be leaving well before dawn tomorrow morning, logging a few hundred miles with a thermos of hot coffee and a trough of chopped fruits and veggies.  With any luck I'll weave through the rivers and cliffs of the northern California-Oregon boarder, slip through Portland before traffic hits, cover that long, straight stretch of I5 through southern Washington and reach Seattle in time for cocktail hour.  And with lots of luck, I'll find our new house.  I've got one week to do it and could use all the crossed fingers and well wishes you can muster!  That said, be well birds, and I'll see you next week!
~ Umber ~ 

4:30 pm

Ehem.
(crackle crackle)
We have a 754 on some illegal pond swimming activity.  Perpetrator is sopping wet, smelling like stagnant river and will be leaving a trail of duck weed.  Beware of clean jeans, recently mopped floors and white sheepskin throws.  Over and out.

A Horse for the Journey

This is about the journey.

My path, your path, the way they converge mountaintop in the setting sun, the way we each have to pick a careful trail through the detritus of shifting plans and outcroppings of trials.  It's the sharp gulp of air across the tongue, the heady rhythm of a gallop, the wind blowing through every hidden layer.  It's the way memory is recalled in scent and sound: the crunch of oak leaves under hoof and the smell of late afternoon grapevines.  It's about wearing grime under fingernails as proof, about those frayed pony hairs you braided into your own.

Really, this is about holding a streak of horse-fire in your soul.

Last weekend I had one of those moments of insistant intuition, those moments where one has to drop EVERYTHING else and leap into the abyss of an idea.  I sketched and drew and sawed out this tiny thundering herd, not entirely sure where they would gallop but positive they needed life.  As they began to take shape, I thought about everything that the horse symbolizes to me; an open road, the afternoon sun, the start of a fresh journey, soulful travel and above all, the intimate connection with the wild.  I think when one had horse-fire in their blood it never leaves, but always courses with a whinny and a snort.

The Equus Ring

(100% sterling silver)

(in the shop!)

Sur Le Banc

The sun is shining and four little silver ponies are running underfoot.  I'm off to give them a bath, a polish, a sip of cucumber-kale-lemon-juice and then a good gallop behind the cattle fields.  Tally ho!