What Are You Listening To These Days?

Blustery morning.

Rain overnight, bookended by snow.

Cold, bright Christmas Day.

12/25/2017

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tea from leaf

finest loose-leaf tea

holds flavors of place and time

within its buds,

like next season’s fruits

asleep in flowers

as yet unopened

in winter’s chill.

draw forth their

somewheres and their

sometimes

in the infusion of hot water

and skillfully dried leaves

that is the tea we share.

we are carried to the

edge of a realm

as cold and temperamental as

Shiva,

to the foothills of the Himalayas

and the tea estates of

Darjeeling.

fragrant steam and

delicate flavor

wreath our heart-thoughts,

bond porcelain moods,

revive fugitive memories,

and transform longing to

gratitude,

as you wait, and I

watch,

sharing tea.

© Sealanehill 2017

for @soulreserve

Early winter snow on branches of a Japanese maple. 12/10/2017, Maplewood, NJ.

Read to Me, My Darling. Handmade collage. Torn magazine and catalog illustrations (NY Times T Magazine 3/5/2017 and Anthropologie lookbook 4/2017), tissue paper, acrylic paint, and gold paint pen on a white sketchbook page, with artist and studio seals. ~7.5x10 inches (~19x25 cm), 4/16/2017.

Clouds, 7 PM July 7, 2017, Parsippany, NJ.

The monoprint class at the Visual Arts Center of New Jersey in Summit, NJ, that I’ve been attending since January is having an exhibit this summer. I’ve narrowed my selection to ten prints, and I can choose up to two. Decisions, decisions.

 In the solace of mist

Rhine full of  emaciated ghosts , clear faces with manic hatchets ,  disappointed trunks , floating flowers , agonizing masks , rustling dreams , palpitating empty baskets , plodding branches  &   thoughts of blithe martyrs

Like all the rivers

Many years ago I spent a summer studying Chinese in Taipei, Taiwan. One Sunday we went to the Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall, which has a large plaza in front of it. The plaza was crowded, and the sky above was filled with hundreds of kites, all dancing together in the wind. @soulreserve's photo and poem remind me of that afternoon.

My Spirit Soars

“A little thought floats away, unobserved… hidden among the flying kites, and my spirit soars”