Stretching my sewing tape end to end on one side of the kitchen, and adding a foot to the other, makes my kitchen 5′ x 6′.
It works fine. Two burners, tiny fridge, tiny sink.
The sun streams in.
The white reflects the brightness of the day.
I was going to leave it at that, until I started remembering different kitchens in my life.
The first was climbing up and sitting on the edge of the sink, who knows how old, as my mom cooked dinner. I would do different antics, wanting to lighten the mood. I remember vividly, mimicking an Indian accent, pretending I was “
Krishnamurti speaking” over and over “Krisnamurti, here, and speaking”.
The next was the most depressing kitchen I’ve ever been in. I’ll leave that one alone.
On to the one filled with sun and much fun. A huge round oak table that supported our changing lives- from my mom pounding out a story on her Smith & Corona to my friends gathering around after cutting class, eating everything in sight because of the munchies.
Summers and weekends we would return to where I pretend to be Krisnamurti. To the table that held a chip, marking the number of years of my dad’s sobriety, proudly displayed in a knot of the wood. The same table that I slammed my fist down upon, in anger, wanting so badly, to prove many a point.
Then came the low to the ground table in Guatemala. The hours and hours of drinking coffee, philosophizing, creativity flowing, under a thatch roof. A kitchen filled with beautiful hand made everything- from the dishes to the yogurt. The wake from the occasional boat passing, hitting the dock just out the open doors.
Skipping over many kitchens to the one that I made with my own hands. Heavy, round cornered, 1950’s stove and refrigerator. A stain on the wall where the match strike became the light for the burners. Simple. Easy to change. And change it did! Into a state of the art re-model. Expanding the standard, and raising the height of the cupboards, to meet that of my then husband.
Coming around, full circle, to the sun on my back, this morning, here, in my tiny kitchen.
Wake of the Lake
This morning’s walk took me further, beyond my usual route, ending up with my feet in the mud at the edge of the shore. There I could feel the energy of a storm just gone through the east, lapping in the heavy wake. My west coast people are concerned for me in these storms. I keep telling them to look at a map….see exactly where I am……”Go to Lake Ontario, about the center of the U.S. shore, straight down, the small lake shaped like a ‘Y’? I am there, at the southern end”. The storm didn’t reach here, today is filled with sun & blue sky, not snow.
The inspirational push to my boundaries this morning was a blog post. Reading it urged me to see a different vision, suggested expanding my horizon. And I did, and it worked. Though it all seems like an outer experience- “different vision” & “expanded horizon”- it’s not. It is happening on, which seems to be my theme these days, an Inner Level.
In the sound of the water, beyond the secure and known in which I create over and over in order to feel safe, I sense safety in the unknown. I watch the wake in it’s effortless push to shore. A flow. The process of this flow…. trustworthy.
Trusting does not come easily to me. It is my challenge. It is my change. I have not had the courage to allow….not even wanted to give a glance at how to go about it in order to “just be”. Though, my own soul, constant and loyal, still pleading, “Do you acknowledge? Will you stop and see? Can you let things be? When?”
In response I am grateful to say-
Yes, today, down at the lake, watching the wake, effortlessly.
The Assignment
Amazing Nature
Working at Keuka Lake Vineyard (KLV). Today there was the most incredible rainbow coming out of a cloud and just touching the KLV which is also on the other side of the lake.
It was most spectacular in real life. Wish you all could have been there.
Sequence Shots
October 31, 2012
Reflecting on Reflection
Kitchens
Inspiration Competition
Glass of the Past
Broken windshields at the dump. Sifting up the glass and letting it pour out of our palms slowly to the ground, eerily saying, “Jeeeewwwwweeelllllllsss” like pirates at a treasure chest.
The Bells
The tone is a cross between a bull horn & fog horn. It is LOUD. Since last May it has yelled in my ear that it is time to get up. It could be heard as charming and quaint history that the once factory town woke it’s workers.
To me, it screams “Work Ethic” plain and simple.
You are born, grow up, the factory calls, the product must be made, time to get up, time to get there, time for lunch, time to go home.
Life over.
Waking each day to the sound triggered my inner rebel who says, you go on to the call of the bell, I’m going to go and do my own thing.
My “own thing” brings me to Hammondsport, NY. Where the chimes wait until 8 am to sound from this church. And I have to laugh that the 12:00 chimes are sounding as I write this. They will sound for the last time of the day at 6.
It is musical chimes! Like someone in the basement actually playing a song from their heart. Just joy. Light hearted joy.
Now, what do I do with that?
The Fall
And, now the job is over, I allow my foot to heal here at the southern end of Keuka Lake, NY, one of the most spectacular places I’ve seen. Fall is on the way. Fall is here. Daily.