This morning it snowed. I was up early, about 6 am, and saw three deer in the field next to our apartment. My grandfather would have gotten the gun and talked about the wonderful flavor of venison, but I just watched them graze, their brown bodies nearly hidden in the gusting snow, the grasses still brown and yellow from winter. Every so often, one would lift its head and peer around. Allen says these suburban deer know very well how to survive in this block-sized woods. But I worry about them, how they cross Freya Street, whether they go up the hill, to sleep safely, hidden under the pines.

Allen's finished his medical tests (head to toe and more), and he's cleared to train for his cross-country bike trip (scheduled maybe next summer). I think we're going to be vegetarians. Mostly. Our apartment feels more and more like home, though we're still settling in. I unpacked five more boxes of books yesterday. The next two weeks we'll be traveling -- to Leavenworth with friends, then down to Corvallis. I'll miss my quilting ladies and Rachel and Nick, but all is well.

Rachel says I should be honest. I'm not sure I trust the future in the same way before Allen's stroke and our move here back to the Pacific Northwest. Most mornings begin with writing and revising, and that goes well. Maybe in another two months, I will be finished with Standing Stones, a novel of the clearances in 19th Century Scotland. But I haven't been writing poetry.

This month I'm trying to write a poem a day for National Poetry Month. What wonderful creativity others have posted, and what a rich tradition we writers can be inspired by -- those who have written before us, those who are writing now, those who post prompts (Sunday Scribblings, Carry On Tuesday), and those who read our work. And those who have the courage to look past the superficial.

I'm still remembering Peter S. Beagle's poem about the unicorn tapestries in his latest collection, We Never Talk About My Brother, and another writer friend who has written the most beautiful poem, "All Things Matter II" in response to this prompt from Carry on Tuesday: Write a poem that uses this line somewhere: "We are each the love of someone’s life".

So if a poem is a kind of meditation, an opening of the heart, a joining to a writing community that stretches well past the field outside my window, then I am as honest as I can be.

Tuesday Meme-ing

I just learned about meme-ing. I've seen these lists on various blogs but Anno from Sunday Scribblings posted a list of questions, ending with "How is your Monday going?" Here's my response:

Tuesday Meme-ing: Feeling Optimistic

What I’m allegedly reading: I’m allegedly reading Robert Hughes’ The Fatal Shore: The Epic of Australia’s Founding. Though I love the detail and vividness of his ability to bring history to life, the book sits on my current reading shelf, and I pass over it again and again. I’m also trying to read Lecturas Basicas as a way to review Spanish. I enjoy this once I get started. Lecturas Basicas is propped next to The Epic of Australia.

What I’m really reading: David Stone’s swashbuckling spy thriller, The Orpheus Deception and Gail Tsukiyama’s The Street of a Thousand Blossoms, both for fun and to think about style. Stone can write so vividly the blood jumps off the page as his characters (of course “with colorless eyes deep-set in a haggard face”) slash, hack and burn their way through international conspiracies. Tsukiyama’s story is a masterpiece of subtle style, each detail building on the inner life of a sumo wrestler.

What I’m eating: Pretty much the old 1,800 to 2,000 calories a day in an effort to stop the upward spiral, which means carefully choosing those grains, fruits and vegetables and remembering that portions of meat remain at card-pack size. Last night we split a heavenly seafood risotto, glazed with some French butter saffron sauce, at Scratch, a Spokane restaurant. Dessert: crème brulee, the burnt sugar topping lightly crisp and delicate.

What I’m drinking: Cold water after all that.

What I’m watching: The view out my temporary office window, mine for just another three weeks before we move to Vancouver, also here in Washington. Here I sit at my folding desk and see a line of what I call bottlebrush pines, interspersed with aspen, their leaves shiver in the slightest wind. The sky is beautifully blue and today only 84.

What I’m listening to: The drone of announcers for the Summer Olympics in Beijing that occasionally, when the crowds cheer, draws me away from my computer to appreciate anew the gifts and tenacity of these young people.

What I have scheduled in the week ahead: Writing that begins each day. Beginning to pack and re-ask what is essential, how many crates of books can I take this time? Lunch with my daughter on Friday at an Indian restaurant (think curry), another trip to the library, and a concerted attempt to read at least four more books on Scottish history this week. And maybe I’ll finish the Mermaid Quilt this week. Where’s my organizer? Ah yes, a Mexican birthday cake for my husband.

What I’m feeling: Probably ebullient. Missing dogs and cats, and a good Scrabble game.

What I want: What does anyone want? World peace. A new president.

And how is your Tuesday going?

Yesterday Rachel and I dropped off the African quilt to the Cozy Quilt shop for quilting. On larger quilts, I can't do the machine stiching that will hold the finished quilt together, but Lisa was wonderful and showed me this lovely leaf tracery pattern that will embellish my quilt -- by October. Just in time for the annual Quilt Show held by the Washington State Quilters' Association on October 17, 18, and 19, here in Spokane.

How does it feel to finish a quilt? Like most quilters, I'm guessing, I feel a little sad. The challenge is behind me. I know all those dangling threads, the two places that needed patching because I ran out of fabric, the several places that needed reseaming, and the hopes and history that were stitched in each line, not the least being the chance to research African history as well as other family memories that come with certain fabrics.

This week's writing prompt on Sunday Scribblings is about solace -- what gives us solace when all else seems to crumble. Perhaps it's quilting for me, though that's not really an answer. Solace digs deeper. I'm thinking about the view out my office window and how for moments I just like to look at the sky, watch the wrens fly about young aspen saplings. The leaves quiver in the wind, just like the wrens themselves as they hover, land and rush about. Perhaps there's too much of rushing in our lives so that solace comes unexpectedly, in such moments. I don't need long conversations with family and friends to feel settled in myself somehow. Just a word or a look, sometimes a hug, and I feel centered.

I was heartened by two texts this week from Barack Obama -- the inspirational text of his speech in Berlin and his very private prayer this week released to the press amidst great controversy, though, of course, it should have remained private. He asked that his family be safe first, and I feel sad we still have to worry about assassinations. Then he prayed that he not be prideful or carried away by a sense of despair; he asked to be the instrument of God's will. Scribbled on a sheet of paper from a hotel, how his simple words reveal the private person who has such a keen awareness of his weaknesses, vulnerabilities, and yet who sustains a vision of hope. If he is successful in being elected, I think we can take solace in his presidency. At last.