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, walking the threads of entangled webs.
And speaking of feet, they were shredded by dancing in ridiculous heels the tango dance she loves, damaged along with her tattered dignity 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 toss the shoes and walk away from an activity which does not welcome Title IX in 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, where the earth below was invitation enough, and sky gives plenty of room for everyone to play.
During this same period 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 stick that did its best to prevent a dry return to dock. Readjusted, she pressed on and found herself testing and playing in 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 docking wind stole her boat away, so she ran down the ramp to reach the disappearing rig, during which time she made the terrible decision to jump in and swim out to it, with her rowing buddies’ screaming “no’s” reflecting off her determination: strike three.
Instantly stunned by cold water she could barely haul herself out never mind retrieve the tidal powered 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 deliberation, 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 beloved treats of rowing, dancing mercurial color forms. And here it was back again as part of the walking movement.
Birds too of course, water and shore birds a plenty. Hawks, falcons, and owls surprise her morning ambulations though she can’t identify them for you as she cares not a whit what they are named.
Since giving up painting, her hands still want to make stuff, play with color and ideas so she’s resurrected the childhood craft of knitting into a recent passion of creating knitted monsters for monstrous children, which she calls “Sokimo” derived/contrived 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 blazers 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.
Miba is made of 100% recycled materials, like the rest of us.
When she isn’t knitting or walking, you are likely to find Mira scuttling and squatting around the veg and berry patch readying for a new year, excited by the magical metamorphosis of organic 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 our collective folly, and enjoying themselves in the doing. The closest she has found to this is the Extinction Rebellion uprising now spreading across the globe from the UK. She recently found her peeps at a direct action in San Francisco.
She recognizes that it appears to be a characteristic of her species to prioritize new whiz bang inventions, technologies, and goodies over preserving natural, even essential life sustaining habitats and climates. Intermittently angry about this Mira now accepts that dealing with our predicament as it unfolds is probably more intelligent than trying to dial back to a lost state of environmental balance.
At times this breathtaking reality slows her to an empty stillness in which she finds solace in enumerating the loves and joys for which she is grateful.