12.09.14: Darkness

For me darkness is as much about the light that isn’t there as the light that is.

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Posted by Gabriella.

Solitude: 12.07.14

posted by: Shannon

 

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Solitude: 12.02.14

Posted by Gabriella

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Gathering: 11.30.14

posted by: Shannon

 

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It gathered, as we gathered, and we were grateful.

Gathering: 11.28.14

From our guest today, Kim Rak. Thank you, Kim!

 

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We had almost always gone for a walk after our feast, and would be Gathering some of natures bounty in the woods, along the rivers and in the mountains, in the East. Here, in the rocky highland desert, our wanderings have found us gathering ancient pottery shards, arrowheads, and more then a few cactus spikes, in our Willie’s paws, and our socks.

Gathering: 11.25.2014

This Thanksgiving I will not be enjoying gatherings of friends family or insane amounts of food, but I will be gathering my blessings, among which is the fact that all I need to do is step outside my door and find insane amounts of beauty in gathered leaves, water and light.

Posted by Gabriella.

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Ancestral: 11.21.14

posted by: Shannon

 

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I wonder what stories he will tell?

Ancestral: 11.19.14

Posted by: Stasa

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Summer stretched endlessly at the cabin. While my mother wrote in the mornings I would wander out to acres of wood that surrounded us. There was one small meadow that never regrew trees. There had been a house there in the 1900s, mill workers. In one corner of the field was their dump. For years I reveled in digging through their garbage to find treasures. Too many of my mother’s stories of archeological digs in New Mexico infecting my mind.

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When I visit home there is a need to touch things. I pull out my grandmother’s sewing kit and let my fingers move over the old spools, bits of cracked soap, and crumbling pin cushions.

Ancestral: 11.18.14

Never mind the ethnic hyphen. My body may have been born in America, but my heart and soul are pure Italian. We are bakers, makers, singers, keepers of tales and talismans, the silliest and most serious people on earth. And we love like there’s no tomorrow.

Posted by Gabriella.

My maternal grandmother was born on the Adriatic coast. She taught me to crochet. My fingers bend slightly at the last joint just like hers. She’s been gone for almost 30 years but whenever I do handiwork I see her hands.

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This is the silver St. Anthony medal she wore from her 30s to her last day. It is 83 years old and worn almost past recognition because now I carry it with me every day too.

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My paternal grandmother was from Bari in the south and had an amazing voice, which I do not, but I sing anyway, and I have even taught myself her songs using sheet music purchased in a dusty old shop in Little Italy when Little Italy still contained Italians. I can’t read music.

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Food is a physical and spiritual thing for us, requiring the ancestral recipes and tools. Below, the baking tray for my grandmother’s calzone, which no other living human on earth can now replicate due to some evasive maneuvers regarding the true ingredients. Don’t bother zooming in on the card, this recipe resists even the most gifted baking outsiders. Followed by my Nanny’s ricotta pie lattice top scoring tool, which I am pretty sure predates the dinosaurs.

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And here is my paternal grandfather Enrico, a Southern man of silences and passions who would have been 117 years old last month, but alas, only made it to his seventies and left me before I could get to know him well. My cat Henry is named after him, and I feel him watching over me still, and always.

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Survival: 11.14.14

posted by: Shannon

 

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Winter: I’m ready for you.

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