Winter, oh, yes, indeed

The "dawn came up like thunder," as Kipling wrote. But very shortly thereafter the clouds crept up "on little cat's feet," as Sandburg wrote about fog, and then the snow blew in, thinly but persistently so that it is whiting everything. Not the big fluffy stuff; the little, insidious stuff that travels on a cold wind. This is winter, no point in complaining, after all it's January in New England. Those in the midwest where it's much worse may well envy this paltry problem. It's the kind of evening to get into cuddly warm clothes -- and remember to be glad to have them, knowing many in the world are inadequately clothed or housed -- and to read something interesting. Which is precisely what I plan to do. I began a collection of Rushdie short stories last night so I am transported to India until the next segment which take place in the West.

I have long wanted to do a year of journal quilts [I did a year of daily 4x6s but that was a special year that demanded special memorializing]. I began a swap and enticed fourteen people to join me. I want to experiment with ways of showing "Tree". I have a number of ideas already. In the not too distant future I will set about finding how to represent one of the "naked" trees I photographed in Central Park a couple of winters ago. I think not the grand and enormous elms but a smaller tree. How to do it is eating at the edge of my mind, along with characters from a novel who have to somehow sort out their lives and reach a concluding moment. I love to give the brain orders to work on a problem on its own while I'm busy doing things of lesser importance: eating dinner, blogging, etc. It feels as if the year is off to a good start with plenty of things to keep me busy and humming.