And in Seattle . . .

Our three-day trip to Seattle led us to a Mariners/Red Sox game (a friend came by free tickets and gave them to us), the awards dinner at the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, and a visit to the Seattle Art Museum. The sun shone, the sky was impossibly blue, and like any rare Pacific Northwest summer day, no humidity and no rain.

The Mariners game introduced me to the beloved Ichiro, the incomparable Japanese player, who approaches home plate with an unusual stance, knees locked together, feet widespread. When he hits the ball, his entire body springs forward, as if to release all his energy into that connection with the baseball and the run to first base. I am not a sports fan (except for being somewhat crazy about soccer), but Ichiro could make me fall in love with baseball. His every move breathes grace and intention. Though the Mariners lost, the game itself was a cliff-hanger, with loaded bases and splintered bats.

The Seattle Art Museum still dazzles with its permanent collection. An exhibit of Australian aboriginal art is planned for fall 2011, and we discovered the work of Lin Onus, whose mother was a Scot and whose father was aboriginal. His painting, "Gathering Storm" (1993) is mesmerizing. You look into a waterscape, eucalytus trees shadow the dark blue water and fantastic goldfish shimmer in the depths, painted with markings much like spirit markings. I didn't have my camera, but I will remember this painting. Allen says since the Museum offers this print through its shop, maybe that will be my anniversary present. Onus painted with a sense of the beauty of the environment and the essence of Australia. Unforgettable and he died far too young.

The reason for our trip to Seattle was to attend the Pacific Northwest Writers Association awards dinner as I was a finalist in the historical fiction category. As the names of the "winners" were called Saturday night, we held our breath. I came in second, earning my first check ever for creative writing, and so I remain humbled and grateful for this affirmation. Now, surrounded by books and online resources, I continue research for the next book in the series -- perhaps set in Hawaii, Tasmania, and the Pacific Northwest, all 19th Century. As Rick Bylina says, "Writers write!"

Last weekend we trekked south to Redmond, Oregon, to visit Jamie and Henry. What a visit! We rode a summer ski lift (with legs dangling over the side), up to nearly the top of Mt. Batchelor (some 8,000 feet high) with amazing views of snow-covered mountains.

A thunderstorm chased us down, and then Henry drove us on a loop route around part of the Cascade Lakes Recreation Area for different views of the mountains -- the Three Sisters, Broken Top, and Mt. Washington in the distance. We stopped for lunch in a funky lakeside cafe at Todd Lake, smelled the sweet smell of flowering manzanita along the way, and came home to a fish fry, fresh caught trout (what Henry calls fish bait). And that was Day One.

Saturday began at Sisters, at the 35th Annual Sisters Outdoor Quilt Show, featuring this year the works of Jean Wells Keenan, who began it all at her quilt shop, The Stitchin' Post. Now at the High Desert Gallery, her mantra still rings: "Nature always wears the colors of the spirit." Her artistry is inspirational as seen here in her quilt, "Inspired Journey".


Along with 20,000 other avid lovers of quilts, we viewed not nearly all of 1,300 quilts.


For more pictures, go to my Webshot photos for the Sisters Quilt Show or here to see the Sisters Raffle Quilt ("Timeless" designed by June Jaeger). The next five quilts I hope to make are waiting.

This morning I woke up thinking of round river rocks. Spring is beginning to soften to summer, time to hike again. Here is eastern Washington, the sky is so different, clouds move quickly, changing colors, shifting shapes, then the unadorned sky remains, that unforgettable sky blue, the color of the gods, protection. I never see a turquoise without feeling warmed by these stones.

Round river rocks remind me of how I tried to learn how to skip rocks, that magical skipping when you throw a rock and it makes these hops before sinking down, its own waves. Allen was there. He taught me to hold the rock just so, slant my wrist, and then throw with force. I only tried once, for my rock slammed into some little kid's stomach.

Tomorrow we go back on the road, south to Oregon, and we're both ready to see again the Willamette Valley, our friends, and those places along the river we used to walk. I think we've been in Spokane long enough to call it home. It feels good to sink into the geography of a place, to come to know the stones, the waterfalls, so full now with melting snow and rain, and family here, close to my heart.

Yesterday we hiked through the Turnbull National Wildlife Refuge with members of the Spokane Audubon Association, who were more than generous with their spotting scopes. We saw the elusive and rare Trumpeter swans in flight; our favorites, Yellow-headed Blackbirds perched on cattails, Ruddy Ducks with brilliant blue beaks, and a Great Horned Owl with two little owlets.

Best of all, we hiked through these wetlands and Ponderosa Pine forests, surrounded by just-blooming Camas and lots of bird song. We surprised a Western Bluebird (male) popping into a nest and spotted a very fat coyote on a faraway field. Apparently winter was mild here, and hunting was good. Still, a few minutes later, that coyote circled around and scouted our group, close enough to make us a little nervous. It was fatter than any coyote I've ever seen, fat enough to be taken for a wolf. Don't mess with mother nature.

Five hours of walking and sighting maybe 30 new birds brought us home with sore feet and a renewed appreciation for wetlands. Enjoy the pictures!



Turnbull National Wildlife Refuge

Spring has sprung here in Spokane. The air is filled with the sharp sweet smell of cherry blossoms. Sparrows, crows, robins, chickadees, and sneaker hummingbirds all chirp almost hysterically. Some 75 degrees today. Time to pack away those sweaters, though Rachel tells me it once snowed here in June.

The Dirty Dozen Band, featured on NPR, had a special song for Allen as his plantar fasciatis has reactivated. Check out their rousing rendition of "My Feet Can't Fail Me Now!" Good news, better sensation in that left foot. Bad news, too much walking brought that fasciatis back! Now he has the "boot" (foot splint) to wear every night. But he progresses steadily and is beginning to talk about possible trips. What siren song calls us to travel to Ireland for two weeks in the fall? Maybe? All depends on the neurologist if Allen can fly by then.

Meanwhile, we're going vegan, following dear Uncle Gerry's gift of Dr. Barnard's book, Breaking the Food Seduction. We're on Day 4, and I can report that tofu is fine, nutritional yeast also works well, but soy yogurt may be a taste too far.

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.

Quilt on . . .

The Waterford Quilters opened their annual show today, this sunny Saturday in Spokane. Nearly 150 quilts were on display, and the show featured Georgie Gerl, an accomplished quilter who specializes in stunning quilt designs. Many of her quilts are featured in Asian Fabric, a magazine for passionate quilters. My two-sided African quilt was on display with the rest -- the slide show has just a few pictures (I'm still getting used to being in one place AND taking pictures).



Waterford Quilters

I've come to love my Thursdays with this group of 10-15 women who meet to work on various stages of WIPs, applique, hand quilting, and counted cross stitch. We talk more than we stitch, but stitch we do as we admire each others' works in progress.

Allen and I just came back from a week's stay in Corvallis, a nice 6-1/2 hour drive south to Oregon, over the Columbia River, past Mt. Hood, down the Willamette Valley, almost still our home, and a chance to see friends, hours of good talk, hugs, and promises to return. Then back we came, north to Spokane, where, at 4,000 feet, winter still can be seen in bare trees and in traces of snow last night.