the blue that reminds me of swimming pools

I gathered up these things from my workspace and the pile of things-at-the-bottom-of-the-stairs-which-need to-go-up, and from the kitchen table.  My bedroom is this color and my studio.  This is the blue that reminds me of swimming pools, reminds me of home.  When you fly over Southern California you see shimmering oval or kidney-shaped swimming pools, like so very many turquoise polka dots on the landscape.

I am missing home.  I do, all the time, but feel the sting of home sickness in particularly keen ways this time of year.  Even without the private sadnesses, there are so many public reminders and glimpses of home (the Rose Parade reduces me to puddles of tears).

I'm grateful for the memories and traditions of the magical Christmases we had in times past.  Those memories and traditions are mine forever: some captured in photographs, some I can still smell and taste or hang on my tree, some are conjured instantly through song or film.  And there are  a few new ones to look forward to too.

A big thank you to Lisa, for inviting us to blog gratefulness this past month.  It was a lovely experience both as participant and witness. 

abracadabra

One:

Two:

Three!

What if we lived in an alternate universe where rabbits
pulled people out of hats?

little things

"...it's the little things that seem to be saving me today."
(Mindy Smith, Down in Flames)

I'd only quibble with Mindy in that it's the little things all the time, every day, that keep me buoyant and make me happy.

I'm grateful for the ability to find meaning, joy, and consolation in the smallest measure of things:

the smell of woodsmoke curling out of brick chimneys

flipping through the Ikea catalog

making soup

singing along to Tammy Wynette in the car on the way to work

the sound of ice skate blades scratching wide circles at the rink

a stack of books from the library

a black and white movie from the 1940s

rereading

laundry, fresh and warm from the dryer

cheese popcorn

trivia

the lines in the carpet from the vacuum

reruns of The Carol Burnett show

email

warm socks for feet that freeze when the thermometer goes below, say, 50 degrees (F)

leaves in a vase on the windowsill in the kitchen