Kicking Hard Into Spring

I’m going to piggyback onto Sharry’s post last week about water.

About snow melting
                      dripping
                         cascading
                                 flooding.

About rain falling
                    pelting
                         rising
                              flooding.

For the second time in the last month, the snow and the rain have converged here in my town, and the result is…well…water. And lots of it. I agree with Sharry. How can there be enough water—of the frozen or falling variety—to make a lake out of our park? Check it out:

The air is thick today. Full of moisture. Full of heat. An unfathomable change from the paper-thin, cool-as-a-cucumber air we have been experiencing. It feels like a rite of passage from winter into spring. For some reason, this transition has not come quietly or easily this year. But sometimes change is like that. Sometimes it does not happen the way a child grows; the way you look at that child and realize that right before your eyes, for all of these days and months, she has gotten taller and wiser, and you wonder how you missed it happening. No, sometimes it comes kicking and screaming at the top of its lungs: I AM HERE! I AM HERE! I AM NOT SURE I WANT TO BE, BUT I AM HERE!

Melting
     falling
          dripping
               pelting
                    cascading
                               rising
                                  flooding
                                       flooding
                                              flooding.

Sometimes—like in Karen Hesse’s Come On Rain!—water calls to the angels and whispers to the seeds in the earth…life is new again.

Tam Smith

Twelve Waterfalls

One of the first things I do every morning when I get up is look out my bedroom window at the San Francisco Bay. All that water. And it’s just a dropper full compared to all the water in the ocean.

Last week we took a day and a half mini-trip over to Yosemite National Park to see more water—twelve (twelve!) major waterfalls—gushing, roaring, cascading, pouring, surging, spilling over the breathtaking gorgeous, awe-inspiring landscape of jutting mountainous rock. The amount of water falling into the valley, into the Stanislaus River, was unfathomable—how could there possible be enough snow melt to keep feeding that endless rush of H2O?

We took the mile hike up the paved path to Upper Yosemite Falls, through a sub-alpine forest, the cold air rich with cedar and oxygen. It tasted of granite. Birdsong laced through the thunder of water on stone. Our clothes and skin were saturated with the fine mist of airborne spray: it felt like a kind of initiation into the mysteries of Spring.

I couldn’t help but think of one of my favorite YA novels—Alison McGhee’s ALL RIVERS FLOW TO THE SEA—the deeply moving story of one sister’s journey through grief to redemption. 

Now when I look out in the morning, I think of all that snow melting, dripping, falling and gushing into that river that flows into the sea and then into the Bay outside my bedroom window. And I am even more astounded.

Sharry

I'm Not in Kansas Anymore

Well, I was never in Kansas. But I was in Vermont. Only yesterday. And now I’m in Texas. Austin, Texas. (It is an hour earlier here, but I still managed to be a day late with this blog entry. Sorry about that.) I’ve never been in Austin before. I’ve actually only ever been in Texas once, and we were driving through the very northern tip of this big state and I was sick with a fever, lying down in the back seat of the car, for the duration. So maybe that doesn’t really count anyway.

I’m here now, though! And I am thrilled about it! My agent is having a writer’s retreat with her clients this weekend and I am lucky enough to be able to participate in that, and right now I am attending the Texas Library Association’s conference, and visiting with my amazing friend Kelly Bennett, and, boy, am I lucky on top of lucky to be doing that too!

Austin smells different than home. It smells like flowers opening and cedar and sage. The air is thick and just a little bit moist, like a sponge, and it soaks up the scents and holds them there for you to walk right through. Birds are chirping and the sun is shining and a lake saunters along the city. And here’s a cool thing: bats live inside the bridge that spans the lake. Lots of them. At the height of their season, which is July, there are more than 750,000 bats—all mamas and their newborn babies—who live there. And they all fly out whoooooosh at dusk. Incredible.

Kelly has been teaching me all about lovely Austin. She is a brilliant guide and an even better friend AND a phenomenal writer. Her new book Dance, Ya’ll, Dance is a gorgeous tribute to dance hall dancing and to Texas. It has been pure joy hanging out with Kelly here. And there is more to come. Soon I will connect with my fellow agent-mates and talk writing process and the mysterious publishing world and life as a writer.

Whoooooooosh indeed!

Tam Smith

Nizhoni Shima’—“My mother, it is beautiful!”

I just returned from a week in Santa Fe with my husband—our fifth visit to this place so radically different from where we live that we find ourselves drawn there time and time again.

The differences are obvious; the high (more than a mile high!) desert is a stark contrast to our watery, sea-level surroundings. Where the predominant colors in the Bay Area are shades of blue-grey (as in water, fog, air and cement) and green (as in trees), Santa Fe’s palette is made up of earth tones: browns and tans, terra cotta, adobe, pale sage and a lavender taupe that is the shadow of hills. Red and turquoise are decorative accents added to homes and personal accessories the way chilies are added to spice up the hearty fare.

Over the years of visiting we have gained special appreciation for the native handcrafts, especially the beautiful woven rugs and tapestries that the Navajo women have been creating since the beginning of the 20^th century. On our recent visit, we were very fortunate to catch the end of a display at the Wheelwright Museum of the American Indian; Master Weavers from the Toadlena/Two Grey Hills region. To even try to describe the exquisite intricately subtle artistry of the work shown could not do it justice. The show title best describes it; Nizhoni Shima’—“My mother, it is beautiful!”

 

Even more humbling is the understanding of the time dedicated to each piece; the shearing, cleaning, carding and spinning and washing alone can  take up to six months and then the weaving another 6 months to a year. For a better sense of the patience, dedication and attitude around the process, watch this wonderful 10 minute video of Master Weaver Clara Sherman. 

Many of the pieces have a thin line woven into the upper left hand corner that goes from the outer border to the interior of the weaving. We were told that it the spirit line—the path where Spider Woman enters the weaver and guides her through the process. A reminder for us all to leave space, leave a path that the universal creative spirit can enter to guide us in our work, whether it be weaving wool into stunning rugs or words into stories.

Sharry