. . .  into my favourite season of all. . . because as much as I adore browning myself in the hot sunshine and inevitably begin to loathe (in a manner of speaking) the freezing cold temperatures, I adore autumn beyond words. 

    The smell of the air, smokey and earthy. . . like the delicious and indulgently expensive candle from Diptyque, Feu De Bois (firewood).  It mingles with the ocean, which is entirely wonderful in the way it carries a different scent not just every season, but every day. It becomes a part of the falling leaves, apples and berries fermenting on the branches that will be touched by frost soon, or in the fallen leaves that have begun to decompose and the scent fills the nostrils with a pungent and beckoning gesture- could it be the instinctual knowledge that the smell is of death and it will welcome us all eventually into it’s depths? All Hallow’s Eve will be celebrated soon and it’s beautiful to actually celebrate our cycles of life rather than fear the inevitable.

    

    Snuggled up in wool and fleece, I recently stopped into one of my absolute favorite shops in the city of Portland’s Old Port. . . on the cobblestone part of Fore Street there is a tiny hole-in-the-wall cache of nautical antiques; a treasure chest that smells of salt and dust and is watched over by the most amazing Mainer with his 50 year old parrot, Singapore.  She dips her wise old head and cracks peanut shells over the darkly stained wood by one of the few smokey-glassed windows above his head.  When he sees that you’re different from the loud tourists, he opens up, becoming a veritable chatterbox and suddenly you feel as if you’re able to peer through the kaleidescope of what he’s seen in dark corners of the world- shards that are side by side and reflected into one another, mixed with things from every nook and cranny of our own expansive and varied country. 

He mentioned that he may close up shop and head south. . . or answer the call of the sea again, and I’ll be a bit sad when one day the sign is gone and the store empty, but I wish him adventure wherever he goes.  I purchased some pieces for jewelry. . . bits of old documents, brass tags with Russian writing, old compasses and tiny cleats; all inspiring beyond words and imbued with something uniquely special that is, in a way, priceless. I also found a simple wool fisherman’s cap to keep the chill at bay on these nights that are becoming colder, no matter how warm the afternoons are these days.

 

    August days that are filled with trips to flea markets and the beyond-words fresh and local produce from Chase’s Daily in Belfast, emails and letters, writing and designing projects, nights with fires that send orange bits of ashes spiraling upwards to the sky full of stars, hikes and picnics under the mulberry trees at my family’s ocean-side summer house.  I took a break from the packed-in peacefulness for a week of noisy chaos in Manhattan, where the constant stream of parties, museums, restaurants, boutiques and general sensory overload was sheer bliss.  If I could find a way to go back and forth between the simplicity of coastal Maine and the constant and inspiring bustle of the city, I think that would be perfect for this Gemini soul. . . sea and city. . . juxtapositions. . . extremes. . . these are words that resonate within me.  PJ Harvey’s Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea  remains one of my favourite albums of all time- and now I fully understand why it resonates so much.

 

    Now back by the sea, I’m scrambling to fill baskets with the last of the blueberries and mulberries as I’m eating them by the handfuls these days, the burst of flavor tastes like home.  In the midst of hauling rocks for the construction of new garden walls, gathering sun-golds before the slugs get to them, leaping like a mountain goat over the craggy coastline, feeling the wind in my hair, I try to find the time to keep cranking out pieces of jewelry.  Admittedly, it’s hard to don my leather apron and head to the workbench when the weather is breathtakingly beautiful and fills my body with that inspired quality that only comes in the magical days of autumn. . . but if I balance outdoor adventures with studio time, I feel much more accomplished and responsible, but still childish and nourished! 

 

    I watch the pine needles glowing as if lit from within in the late afternoon sunshine, back from a hike, with the rest of the day’s hours promising to hold mason jars of sun tea, soft grass underfoot, tangles of vintage chains between my fingers and the light of the acetelyne torch ushering in nightfall. 

wishing magic of all kinds for everyone. . . and lastly: http://www.misprintedtype.com/v4/images/links/imagem.php?imagem=00.gif