Mira was heard knitting in the attic, sighted stalking bear in the White Mountains, and glimpsed here and there in pursuit of the elusive human good sense. For the moment she is back messing around the place, stirring pots, cooking up trouble, none of it edible or pretty but it makes her feel alive in the midst of chaos.
During her wanderings there was little notable improvement in “the state of things” so she turned her focus back to that under her feet, listening to the imperatives of her body.
And speaking of feet, they were shredded by dancing in ridiculous heels the tango dance she loves, along with her dignity tattered by having to wait to be invited to participate until a male of the species bothered to ask. One desultory evening it was clear as could be … seven available leads and only two asks, time to hang up the shoes and walk away from an activity which does not welcome Title IX into its culture.
Her feet were ecstatic, her back soon thanked her, and together they decided to pursue natural bipedal walking out in the wild haunts of her own neighborhood, significantly more nutritious activity for body and soul, away from news stories and human hubbub, and waiting and hoping for invitations.
During this same period of time and in an equally decisive moment, another beloved activity, sculling on the bay, was released entirely following a morning of bad judgments on the water. She’d tightened the oars and in spite of feeling askew, pushed off, immediately noticing the oar collar on the wrong side of the latch mechanism resulting in a flopping useless oar that did its best to prevent a dry return to dock. Undeterred, she pressed on, and found herself testing the current forces by turning and maneuvering against them, impressed by the power of the waters compared to her insignificant craft and skill. And finally after returning, wind stole her boat away from the dock, leaving her running down the ramp attempting to reach the disappearing rig, during which time she made the terrible decision to jump in to retrieve it, with her rowing buddies’ screaming “no’s” reflecting off her determination. Final bad decision.
Instantly stunned by cold water she could barely haul herself out never mind retrieve the current driven vessel eventually rescued by a vigilant and helpful fisherman. Every fiber in her body said, “enough, you are too much risk to yourself and your buddies.” It was an easy decision. The clear NO was the inversion of the similarly embodied YES that got her rowing in the first place, a primal response to total desire. Neither time did it include a moment of thought or consideration, just a directive complete and clear.
One early morning during the daily bird sanctuary walk, Mira found herself fixated on the smoothly melding sky reflections on coastal shallow waters and remembered this as one of the most beloved treats of rowing, dancing mercurial color forms. And here it was, back again as part of the upright movement. Birds too of course, water and shore birds a plenty and even hawks, falcons, and owls would surprise her morning ambulations though she can’t identify them for you as she cares not a whit what they are called.
Mira’s prepping for a “walk” in England soon - that means fourteen miles a day for eight days - in the Queen’s English, and is deciding on footgear. The Brits seem to love those enormous leather ski boot things that feel like casts to her while she prefers as close to barefoot as possible. After questioning her friend and renowned Pacific Crest Trail expert about her plan, he encouraged waterproofing at the least, adding that there are lots of wet fields in the UK even if it doesn’t rain.
Armed with this useful information she set out the next morning in 36 degree temperatures, barefeet in minimal shoes and plowed across the wet and melting frost field to try out wetness walking. Twenty steps and the shoes were full of cold water, but Mira immediately noticed she preferred the soft undulating grassy ground to the hard flat groomed trail. Within ten minutes feet were warming and although they stayed sopping for the entire walk, it was cold but manageable. She is ever grateful for this wise counsel though rather than water proof, she’s decided to get comfortable with wet walking. Wish her luck.
Since giving up painting, her hands still want to make stuff, play with color and ideas and she’s resurrected a childhood craft of knitting into a recent passion of creating knitted monsters for monstrous children, which she calls “Sokimo” derived from Latin for monster buddy.
In an unexpected flash the idea of knitting a full size woman sprung into her idea box and she set right to it. Her rage over the perilous “state of things”, fueled the work of shredding nine men’s wool tweed jackets into strips, sewing strips together into “yarn,” and knitting them into a full size woman, a brown and fierce Kali-like woman. It took two solid months, a full time job, to create Miba, (my inner bad ass) her potent and dangerous doppelganger.
When she isn’t knitting or walking, you are likely to find her scuttling and squatting around the veg patch readying for a new year, excited by the magical metamorphosis of garden waste into rich moist compost, exhilarated by pulling large winter weeds from rain soaked soil, and ever hopeful that carefully timed seed placement will yield summer and fall groceries.
Don’t know how long Mira will stick around, but hopefully she will enjoy the harvest.
Mira grieves the human caused harm to planet and species and has no confidence in political solutions to sapiens created mess. She dreams of women trickster activists performing colorful hilarious and joyful acts of nonviolence, shining a light on issues, and enjoying themselves in the doing. The closest she has found to this is the Extinction Rebellion uprising now spreading across the globe. She recently found her peeps at a direct action in San Francisco.
Facing the profound destruction we have wrought is more than she can take in except on rare and particular days when a tsunami of grief, often with rage, knock her out of complacent distraction, and force her for awhile to see that soon nothing she has counted on will be recognizable or viable. Then she takes in that we have passed the possibility of mitigation and the best we can hope for is compassionate dissolution and if fortunate a sliver of possibility for a shard of humanity to carry on in a species deprived mangled environment on a sad little planet.
She finds solace in enumerating the loves and joys for which she is grateful.