Weaving

We wove small apple twigs pruned from Maha's orchard in and out of the cedar bark skeleton.The gardener was not random in her selection of pruned branches. "Some of those apple buds will open while you sit," Maha was smiling as she worked." That ought to be a sweet surprise some morning Spring. We have plenty to wind around the whole nest at least twice." Like her beautifully tended gardens I would appreciate the art to this construction.

The Basket Weaver brought lengths of kelp--her trademark material-- with tubes, knobs and hold fasts still clinging to stones the size of small potatoes. Laughing her high-pitched giggle her nimble fingers twisted kelp into pockets. I thought of advent calendars I've always loved but haven't had in my life for years and imagined what could be tucked into the kelp for discovery once the babies had hatched. The hold fasts anchored on the inside on the nest in intervals. Fitting for a nest build above the ground.

Thin red alder branches are my favorite gatherings from the woods around my cottage. I have bundles of these long fingers that dry on the trunks as the limbs above reach for sun and life. Stored in empty tins or wrapped with ribbon and tied about the tipis we used to discourage eagles from hunting my hens and ducks, they are everywhere. Dozens of alder branches added to the nest for my eggs leaving soft tips poking out in random swatches. Finally, lengths of grape wines pruned off a week ago filled nicely into a strong wrap near the edge of the nest.

It was nearly dark before we finished layering and weaving apple twigs, alder sticks, kelp and grape vines into the giant nest. I heard his wings before I saw him as is usually the case. A Raven  in flight is an awesome sight and the displacement of wind with those wings is something to behold. The window beside the top of the bunk bed had been left open, Raven flew through with a bundle wrapped and secured with you guessed it, a safety pin.

"What timing, and you come bearing gifts," I was happy to see him and excited to introduce Raven to my old friend. Raven left the bundle on the bunk along with his feathered silver winged self. Transforming from bird to man he climbed the short ladder. We embraced. He kissed me and called me, "Miele. How are you?"

I stroked my belly and walked slowly to the couch where Max's bowler held the two silver eggs. "Amazed would say it all Silver-one." We sat on either side of the hat and took a moment to recognize this time. "We have a brood. Sure to keep us busy for at least ... the foreseeable future." Now that we were together the enormity of the journey threatened to overwhelm me. 

Instead I asked,"What have you in that bundle."

Raven replied, "Soft down and things to line the nest. Feathers. Scraps of wool. Pieces of this. Pieces of that." Raven climbed the short ladder to the bunk and returned with his treasure. Unwrapping the pin, he pulled at the downy contents until all of it heaped into a glorious muddle. His joy was contagious and that was a good thing.

Maha and The Basket Weaver watched us over the tops of steaming mugs of tea. Maha, known to many as The Gypsy Woman is Raven's old friend. When she is not tending her gardens or playing her harp Maha has a regular place at her round table at The Safety Pin Cafe. My Silver-haired Raven and she have a long and interesting history together. Rather than speak Maha walked to the harp that had been strangely silent in her case. I had forgotten about it until I saw the worn leather case. "Battered from trips into and through many dark forests," is how Maha often describes the weathered condition.

Raven looked up and nodded to Maha as she opened the case. And to The Basket Weaver, who I was about to introduce he said, "Nance of the Kelp. I should have know it was you Max would call."

"You know each other?" I was surprised and a little jealous of the familiar way Raven looked at the beautiful weaver. She is an old friend, but still ...

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When less is more

My naps: more than mildly invaded upon. Recollections and visitations from my past piled themselves into a dense line-up. Ma and her cooking, old friends with their oddities unveiled, careers that ended persist in the dreamworld. My history challenges me to yet another dual of priorities: now or then? There are things I'm good at: I care for people with precision if not obsession; my apple pie is legendary and like my mother before me I can make a dollar out of fifteen cents. Well, that's no exactly it; money hasn't been my magic. But what I can do is turn any place I'm at, into a place of comfort and home. That's my special brand of magic though some would just say I'm good at decorating. To get good at anything including magic, you have to practice. I have been in many places and practiced my brand of magic everywhere I've been: remodeled the nest of origin until we couldn't take it anymore; then there was the shared condo in town where we rented the Master Bedroom, turned it into an amazing studio looking out over Paradise while the young stoner, over-medicated nurse, and working girl shared a refrigerator with me. Border magic ...my unique version of it includes seeing the weed as vital. I can make something from nothing;use weeds or discards to fashion beauty. Planted into my name was the essential capacity to remain childlike in my vision. Innocent by choice. Thing is, what I have trouble with is how to weed a garden of history when it's more space that's necessary, not more weeds.

Is there room for old attitudes and wet blankets of regret masquerading as nostalgia when there are eggs to hatch, and a present to nurture? Max had come with his long view of life showing how his third set of teeth were erupting in his pink-brown gums. If a leopard does not change his spots Max's third set of teeth? Perhaps this: even Kahuna grow.


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