I was thinking about March already, and how it is going to be black and white and shades of gray, and I remembered that for years when I thought of rods and cones, the light sensing organs in the retina of an eye, I imagined the rods to be black and white. Which is foolish because they see in monochrome, not necessarily black and white. They are not the colors they sense. And cartainly the cones are not the colors they are sensitive to. But there you are, brains are funny places.
We are having a (relatively) late season snow storm, and it has already dropped as much snow as the last three storms. We are snugged up for the night. I love how quiet snowstorms are.
Branching is basic. Fundamental, even.
Trees branch. Rivers do the reverse of branch, with tributaries coming into the main stream, until they get to a delta and branch out into distributaries across a nearly level surface. Veins and capilliaries branch and deliver oxygen to tissues, then regroup to return depleted blood to the lungs.
For todays circle I was thinking about the beautiful curl inside your ears where you actually hear things. Where secrets go. Where music goes. All the other noises go too, like jackhammers and farting buses, but I was trying to be poetical.
I was at an awards dinner last night, which was raucous fun. It was the end-of-year awards for Xenophon Farm, and as well as the high point scorers for various levels of dressage, there were also essays on why the author should get an award even though they didn't ride in three shows and/or get decent scores.
To my astonishment, I won the high point award for Training level Seniors. That was fun. But cheering for the people who were talking about having to halt because the screws in their broken leg were coming unscrewed was better. Or the bold kid who is getting used to a new pony and their scores are dreadful, but they keep on working.
So I did finish this circle yesterday, but then I had to bolt to get to dinner on time. I was thinking about red blood cells, carrying oxygen around so we can move and think, but more of them look like roses than blood cells. I don't know why all these ideas about cells in my body turn into roses. There must be a metaphor in there somewhere. Or a joke.
I know, I'm counting again! Just think of it in The Count's voice: "Three, three leetle felty spirals, ah, ah, ah ah" (and a crash of thunder in the background). Here you can see him count many things, including three (three) leetle pigs.
I couldn't think how to apply thread, so I left it alone. It looks naked to me, but pretty.
a double spiral, or a double helix, or a two armed spiral galaxy
I would like to give all of the February circles away. Some have been requested, some have been given already. If you'd like one, drop me a note or leave a comment.
Spiraling to find a center? When I ride, the horse and I will spiral from a large circle into a smaller circle, and then leg yield out again. This helps the horse place her hind legs more under her, and carry herself better.
To me though, this piece feels more like spiraling towards the center, the point of balance. It is a kind of seeking thing, the precise reverse of what a scenting hound does; spiraling out from the last known location of the target, and seeking a scent.
Balance is a process, generally. It happens, and then it stops and then I have to shift things around until it happens again. It feels more like brief shining moments of clarity than anything else. This is more of a reminder. More balance. Less shuffle.
Top two, left to right: Today's circle, yesterday's circle which is kind of doodly but has a whale in it (yes, a pink whale; see Nightbirds on Nantucket, and also Burt Dow, Deep-Water Man)
Bottom two: My mom's bionic knee (my apologies for getting it upside down mom, it was the direction you were in bed) and my outrageously, particularly wonderful nephew examining the February circles.
Take a deep breath.
I was thinking about the place where oxygen goes from air into the bloodstream, down at the bottom of your lungs. Little sacs called alveoli inflate, oxygen slips through the walls into tiny capillaries displacing carbon dioxide which is exhaled.
Except when I cut the piece out, I was looking at the back, and it looked like roses. See?
So you may take your pick: roses or lungs.