When the meeting wrapped up, we were led down to inspect the dank basement of the Bank of the Arts as a potential storage area for "mud balls," a potential craft activity for Festival-goers. A local artist dug up mud, shaped it into balls, let it dry, added tint to a couple of them, and then burnished them with a smooth rock. No firing or glazing. The size of tennis balls with the heft of billiard balls, they were hard, smooth, shiny as porcelain----though still not completely dry, and apparently still redolent of the earth. The one that kept its natural color was a nice greenish khaki color.
In a yoga class, one is often invited to "set an intention." I see if a one-word intention comes to me that applies to the asanas, the physical part, but that would carry over into living the day. Today, it was "appreciate." Maybe that's why I liked the mud balls.
Perhaps "appreciate" arose in part from finishing "The Book Thief" this morning before I went off to Sun Salutations in the gazebo, with the river sparkling, the wind blowing, clouds piling up, gulls cackling. Death is the novel's narrator--that should tell you something. And much of it is set in a basement. Hmmm... And, it taking place in WWII, depravity wrenches all dignity and comfort from ordinary lives. Yet, desperate people persist in finding solace if not salvation in simple things: books, an accordion, apples, mute understanding.
I always appreciate the view from my study window. This evening:
Beautiful cypress trees!
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