Alfred: A Gift from Parlez

One morning I was standing at the picture window sipping tea and looking at the powdered snow. Up the path padded Parlez, something rather large and bird-like hanging sideways from his mouth. My eyes blurry, I thought it was a Flicker. "No Parlez", I said, running out the door in my PJs. He made a dash for his hideaway, under the porch. No way I was getting under there. I left him to it.

Then dressed, I crawled around and with a large stick gently pulled this young hawk out. He was perfect. And that's when I thought he may have succumbed to the same fate Athena had. Parlez didn't seem to be interested in eating him, fortunately. Alfred was barely breathing when he had found him; I had strained to look under the deck and see it on its back, legs twitching one last time. 

There's something sacred about a recently transitioned bird placed on the silent snow. Especially one of such beauty as this one. I marveled at his long, taloned feet, perfect for swooping down to snatch whatever his yellow hawk eyes spied. Marveled at his perfectly pointed beak, his own portable cutlery. And at his young tawny-spotted chest, the soft feathers downy underneath, his magnificent tail feathers. And the soaring wings, now stowed. 

Parlez went to play with his catch. "No Parlez. Let him rest in peace".

He looked at me as if to say, "But I found him, mama".

He looked again at the bird. . . 

OK, mama. I'll let him rest.

Just Checking UP On You All...

                        ©Elsa Kendall 2009. All rights reserved.

1559: 450 Years Later

Today is the 450th anniversary of the coronation of QUEEN ELIZABETH I of England. She was 25 years old, and she loved pearls and continued to drench herself in them all through her 45 year reign. To me, she is the ultimate Pearl Girl.

I learned this when I was doing research on the National Portrait Gallery's site here. Upon closer inspection I saw not only the necklaces she wore, but also that many of her gowns were sewn all over with pearls. Apparently she had a team of seamstresses who would transfer pearls from one dress to another. It's an odd thing I never saw earrings on her. I think it was the men in Elizabethian times who wore the earrings. No lie.

Pearls were very rare in those days and were all from the sea. The current Queen of England, Elizabeth II, wore the coronation crown that has two or three of Elizabeth Tudor's pearls on it. I wonder where the rest of them went...

The portrait above is circa 1588 when she was 55 years old.

To commemorate this anniversary of the ultimate Pearl Girl all earrings on Pearl Girl Pearls are $15.59 for a whole week. You can find them here. Long live the Pearl!

Why is a pearl so amazing?

Because it's made from an irritation that becomes something beautiful.

Things Are Not Always What They Seem

This is a wonderful story. Thank you Martha for forwarding it to me. I once heard this "Violinist in the Metro" play in Santa Fe at the Santa Fe Opera. As he played a Camille Saint-Saëns piece a pair of finches fluttered high above the orchestra in the rafters. The male finch broke into song and accompanied the violinist for several minutes. It was one of the sweetest melodies I've ever heard.

Stradavarius violin from Wikipedia, here.

A Violinist in the Metro

A man sat at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

Three minutes went by and a middle-aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.

A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.

A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.

The one who paid the most attention was a 3-year-old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.

In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth 3.5 million dollars.

Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats averaged $100.

This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste, and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?

One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be:

If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?

You can see the YouTube video here.

Shameless Self Promotion

Athena

I found Athena Screech Owl on the night of the new moon, laying on the dirt surrounded by snow in front of our shed. I am just in awe of her beauty, especially her fuzzy feet with the amazing nubby toes and talons. I cannot help but think she died of rodent poisoning as today Parlez brought a juvenile Cooper's Hawk who was in the last throes of its life. Parlez merely found it, he did not hunt it. Two raptors dead with no sign of external harm makes me suspicious. 

I will be posting images of him and more of Athena this week, with a plea to people not to use poison but instead let these beautiful creatures be the intrepid and profusely proficient hunters they are. For those who don't have these majestic birds in their midst, battery-operated mouse trap zappers work really well. 

You can pass this link on to others by clicking on the post title and copying the url from your browser into an email. Thank you for being aware. 

Wishing You a Sparkling New Year

Full of inspiration, innovation, contentment, and love~

Going For It

The roof. Would you jump onto this? I would not. But from what I've heard a rather large bobcat did. 

It must have been a good 60 lbs., mousing around the other night. 

Parlez and I shared a few raised eyebrows as it creaked about above us :)

What the hec... Should I jump?  I think I should just go for it. Snowy, icy roof here I come.

Yikes! Getting there was no problem. Getting back, however, is a wee bit more slippery.

Back down on terra snowa. Safe and sound.

Bearing Gifts of the Heart

Christmas in Yellowstone

I saw this on PBS and wanted to share it with you. It's beautifully photographed and written. Linda Hunt narrates it. The hibernating mama grizzly bear, the hunting red fox (below), all just incredible.

You can find it at this link, and perhaps still see it this week.  As I write this our own snow leopard (photos coming) climbs onto my lap.  

Merry Christmas. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. 

This Winter Solstice

Kindness in words creates confidence.

Kindness in thinking creates profoundness.

Kindness in giving creates love.

~Lao Tzu

Morning Glory Looking Out At The Snow

A while back this morning glory seed made headlines when it sprouted and began climbing up the avocado plant (here). It kept going, and going, and going, and recently started blooming. Here you can see one of the blooms sitting snug inside on the table, wide eyed, looking out at the falling snow.

I Invite You. . .

A winter walk through the arroyo

. . .to take a walk with Rob Brezsny through his voicescape of Fear Versus Intuition, here.

Someone very wise and wondrous once said that fear is an illusion which comes from the subconscious mind. It is not real. I heard this when I was walking in the arroyo above. And I decided to believe it, in spite of anything I might see or hear on the 'news'. It is making for a blessed winter solstice contemplation. 

Male Northern Flicker Stays Toasty

Male (with red "moustache") Great Northern Red Flicker

I was passing by the north side of the house and caught sight of this little guy through the screened window. It is so rare for me to see them "sitting", but this young male (it seems to me he is) Red Flicker was just hanging out endeavoring to stay warm. He was all puffed up and stopping for a bit before he began to tip some snow flakes into his beak for a drink. 

Earlier in the day I was watching the snow in the little woods behind the house and saw several Flickers flying from pinon to pinon. Such majesty. I just love these birds. As you can see from the video here...

I can see why wildlife photographers love those 300 mm lenses (I was at 200 mm shooting at 800 ISO). And not shooting through dirty windows with screens :-) But I just loved that I got to watch him for so long. More shots of him digging in the snow soon.

Micaceous at the Craft Fair

Last Saturday I participated in Jeanne's annual holiday craft fair, along with several women of many talents. It was great for me to get my hands back in the clay (micaceous) and while I didn't make any new pots I made hearts and necklaces. You can catch a glimpse of the booth above.

Here's a detail from one of the necklaces. The heart is suspended by copper, strung with glass and copper beads, micaceous beads, and copper Irish love knots. 

I'm in the process of photographing what I have, making more and uploading the goodies to my Etsy gallery, which is now called Golden Bee.  I will also have crochet scarves, fabulous fleece hats, head bands, and neck hoodies. Stay tuned for the link. I will post it soon!

Mousin' Around

Mousey is that you?

Arrgh!

Mousey, I would never hurt you.

Chase you, pounce on you, terrorize you, bat you around, and slobber on you. But never hurt you.

Posted on the one year anniversary of the first sighting of this little guy who came to be known as Parlez Beaucoups, as he wouldn't stop talking, hollering and earnestly trying to communicate something very important. He was in the car port stalking mice for his lunch. It was clear he'd been living off the land, lean and afraid to get near anyone. And that he just might be ready for a new home where hunting mice was for sport, and gifts for mama in her work room. Often. :-)

Gift from the Flowers

What you are seeing here is nectar from thousands and thousands of flowers, collected from hundreds of bees then miraculously turned into honey and stored in perfect wax canisters called honeycomb. Amazing. 

From my friend Tom's hive during a honey harvest in August.

Lesser Goldfinches Hold Their Own with the Siskins

Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness

Season of mists and mello fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees;

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

—John Keats, Ode to Autumn

These are the first two verses from one of my favorite poems. I learned it in school as a young teenager in England; sounded to my ears for the first time by Mr. Evans, my baritone English teacher who happened to be Welsh. There are not too many I remember but Keats was one of my favorites. He lived for a brief time in the literature paradise of Hampstead Heath which is not too far from the county in which I grew up, Hertfordshire. Last summer I visited Keats's house on the heath. He was of very modest means and rented it for a time before his tuberculosis became so acute he moved to Rome for the warmer, dryer climate. A few years ago I had seen the home he occupied there, above the Spanish steps of the Piazza di Spagna, which contained one of the tiniest and most lovely shops I'd ever seen, selling just gloves. Luscious.

I found this poem in an old letterpress dual-volume I bought here in Santa Fe. Inside the front cover lays a book label with a crest which reads in Spanish, Honor is my guide. The name on the crest is Frederic Perry Lousada of Her Majesty's 84th Regiment, which seemed to have been formed from the Royal Highland Immigrants' regiment during the war between the British and the Colonials in 1775; and was known as the 84 Regiment on Foot. Through additional searching I see Lousada may have lived circa 1858, not forty years after John Keats' passing. This book was published in 1904, so perhaps he enjoyed it as a retired gentleman soldier. How the books came to be in Santa Fe remains a mystery.

Time to collect the seeds and put away the hammock~

Autumn Sunday Afternoon With Parlez

Ah, nothing like a nice reposé on Sunday afternoon.

Warm sun, golden aspen leaves and the perfect place for bird watching.

But what's this? Mama with that box again. I think I'll just sit here looking alert but nonchalant.

We cats can only do that for so long. Time to stretch and see what's happening elsewhere.

Adios amigos. Until the next time. . .