Among...

the gardens of the seaside park, I'll sit in a little chair. I'll bring water-based oil paints and watch very carefully the shaking stamen of a flower. Or learn about blue in the shadows of sails. It's a nice way to be quiet.

It's too cold to sit in that park today, so to begin simply, maybe I'll study the sunlit browns of the window shades. Or the purples of silk pillows among bed linens.

I'm not sure I want to spend time examining my bed linens, though: 7 pillows, 6 blankets, 2 cats and a buckwheat neckwarmer all remind me of the long, tall, 235 pound bed warmer I'd rather have in place.

Last week a client brought me an artist's rendition of the 55th Psalm. She said it speaks to the biblical promise that we will find a path in the wilderness. That's not my reading of the Psalm, but her faith is more interesting than anyone's dogma.

I'm not always clear how to know a true path, even in the quiet. But I believe our bodies know more than our minds. I discovered this in a surprising way at the driving range: thinking about this particular man who otherwise agitated me, also caused my neck to lengthen, shoulders to drop, and golf balls to fly effortlessly and accurately off my 9-iron blade. It was statistically measurable, and I named my golf swing for him. I may end up naming a brush stroke or color for him, too.

In the meantime, there's a contra dance tonight at a nearby church. My friend, Margaret, and her beloved are going and invited me along. I'd rather not be a third wheel on Valentine's Day, and I'm not wild about dancing with strangers. But my friends are great, and I may go for the happy music.

A hot bath would also be wonderful.

Here...

was something about a butterfly along the back of his neck while he slept. I worried I'd wake him.

On my last day in the little garret studio on the harbor, I walked up to Tiffany's and exchanged a birthday present. What I brought home and wore for my move, and since, was Frank Gehry's fish ring. It reminds me of the bulge and slice of a fish at the surface of water; or of a whale maybe, pressing through the deepest parts of the ocean.

I wonder if a whale is ever homesick, or if it just swims, enjoying only the shape and contour of it's skin within a current. Does it ever turn around, looking for the familiar in the depths of it's passage?

Is it my turn?

Mostly I just follow along, catching shadows here and there, someone else's voice drumming down the quiet.

I will hear the quiet again. Maybe soon. In the garden outside my kitchen door. Among trees and rocks. I'll grow carrots, beans, and rosemary. The Sound is a sweet walk away.

It will be warm and light breezes will exchange small gifts.

Every year I believe that.