It was the tradition of my husband’s family to try to say white rabbits every time the month turned over, and then make a wish. In over thirty years of knowing about this idea, I have managed it once.
Alice’s white rabbit was always late; well this too should have been posted three days ago. I love Lewis Carroll’s books and am pleased to own a facsimile of Alice’s Adventures Under Ground.
I love books, especially ones that have the immediacy of imagination. Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, and Life Doesn’t Frighten Me At All by poet Maya Angelou and artist Jean-Michel Basquiet are all favorites.
The Backwoods of Canada, which I have mentioned before as my annual winter reading is still, for me, a wonderful read.
We move the studios next week, leaving behind, oh twenty-five years of planning and planting. The trees now just beginning to show their maturity, the animals, knowing us to be a hospitable environment, show no fear.
The trick to that is to sit very still and very quiet, and then talk to them in a very casual voice.
The big trick required a delft hand in rearranging our lives, and trying to figure out just where a combined eighty years of work could reside. It turns out the burn pile was the only alternative for much.