Melina Skye @melinaskye - Tumblr Blog

Morning of Summer

I woke up at 6:30 because my body told my mind that I have things to do, that it mustn't hide away in unconsciousness any longer. Then I mentally flipped through my to-do list. There were still many things in those files: get passport, mail belated mothers day gift, get new drivers license, finally file my FAFSA, return library books... but all those things could wait, if only a few days longer. It was the first morning of my summer, the morning after the completion of my pre-thesis year, and therefore I could sleep a few hours longer.

I woke again at 10:30. My room was still a disaster from the rush of the last few weeks but the open window across from my bed was letting in thick sun rays so it was a pleasant enough place to wake up in. And my room wouldn’t have to be messy for much longer. I have some time now. I have some time and some space in my mind that can now be cleaned out and recultivated.

When I went down stairs Karoline was on the porch— I could see her through the bathroom window. Home is more home when my roommates are here. There were dishes in the sink, beside the sink. I desperately needed to do laundry– the only underwear I had left were the uncomfortable and too-small lacy ones that are mighty unpleasant to wear. I also needed a shower, as I always do in the mornings. But the plumber was in the basement and the water was off. So all those tasks and chores had to wait as well.

The lack of water to make coffee warranted a walk down the street to the coffee-shop for iced coffees. My general lack of groceries and desire to generate more dirty dishes warranted a walk a little further down the street to the deli for bagels. We walked, in our unintentionally coordinating white t-shirts and sunglasses and it felt like summer— all warm and sunny and easy. Our neighborhood is always lush, thanks to the rain of the Pacific Northwest but it seemed more green, a glowing green.

When we got home we sat on the futon and ate and drank. The new wool blanket looks nice but soon it might be too hot to bare it touching skin. Before I had descended from the attic, Karoline had been working on some ceramics for one of her classes and the clay and tools and the beginning of a pot still sat on the porch table. After bagels I joined her, molding the clay into three amorphous beads. It felt nice, to make something simple, and for the simple sake of making it. It felt nice to have clay in my hands, on my hands.

I had to get my camera out, to take care of one of the more pressing items on the to-do list. Whenever I get a camera back into my hands I remember that I actually really like to take pictures, that I can take pictures however I want, that there are no assignments or grades.

I took pictures of this home, what it really looks like right now. Karoline and I are in school and work, Jules has been doing a major renovation and redesign of a space for the winery she works for. We haven’t been home as much as we like to be, haven't kept things quite as orderly as we like them to be. But I see the beauty in these little out of place moments, in the big pink yoga ball peeking from the closet, in the big old box fan, in the squished backwards pillow and the single clothes-pin on the coffee-table.

This is the first summer that this place is home. Last year in May I was moving into that little studio by myself with a view of power lines and treetops and a yoga studio and a water tower. That was a good, important summer. This summer will be better.

" -- Another time you bang a knuckle and maybe twenty years later, you it's other side. With each injury you learn how that patch of you feels. It wakens. Until it heals you're aware of those nerves.

--This is a privilege?

-- Of course. Every place you injure adds that patch to your consciousness. You grown more alive."

Annie Dillard, The Maytrees

_______

I wore white shirts and stained white shirts. I sanded my knuckle, burnt my wrist, bruised by thigh. My body grew smaller and then larger and I grew more aware of it. My hair grew longer. I paid rent and paid an electric bill and paid too much for lattes and croissants and muffins. I was more independent, more alone, more conscious, more faithful.

I wore black sweaters that became faded and pilly. I made things I hated and things that felt like part of me and things that made me feel apathetic and confused. I made things clean and orderly, I made things messy and chaotic. I was more vulnerable, more naked, more susceptible.

It was a year of education. I learned of self-restraint and of indulgence; of preserving and of succumbing. I learned of loss, of mourning and of celebrating--life lived and life dedicated to another in love. I learned of clinging on, letting in, letting go. I learned of creating home, planting roots, cultivating family. Portland began to be populated by traces and remnants and ghosts and the strata generated by time that gives a place body and character. I became infinitely more aquatinted with myself, more aware of who and what I am, why I do the things I do, the stuff of this life that is of value to me.

I am now the same person I was this time a year ago but I am also more. I have hurt more, healed more, become more alive. In 2014, I will continue to be this same person I am now but I will become more. I will hurt more, heal more, become more alive.

#annie dillard #reflections

Thoughts, Seagulls.

Today I took the street-car further south than I ever have before. I missed my intended stop and got off at the next one, near the river where the wind seemed even sharper than all the rest of the wind. To the right I could just barely make out the top of one of Portland's many bridges, one I may have crossed once but I can't recall. Above it flew seagulls. Their wings were the gray of the sky; they disappeared, leaving bodies of tiny-marshmallow white that bounced around in the sky.

Pop-corn in an air popper, cotton balls on a heat vent.

They seemed to fly closer to one another and then further apart. They seemed to fly up a little and then fly back down. They were in some force field, contained by invisible, magnetic forces that kept them close but not close enough, kept them together but not together enough. And with their wings all swallowed up by the wet gray, their soft little marshmallow bodies had no hope of defiance. They just continued to pop and bounce and float, separately, together, until I turned and walked away. It is most likely that they continued in the same fashion after I walked away but I cannot say for sure.

Tomorrow, I promise I will be nothing but thankful. But for tonight, I'm longing for the sunshine and white shirts and fresh fruit of summer mornings.

Gratitude

for the patience of my professor, who dutifully and attentively responded to each and every one of my questions about pattern drafting.

for the latte that gave me the energy to keep working, keep sewing.

for finding the green army jacket I've been wearing for years but misplaced almost a month ago.

for shattering the glass on the back of my phone rather than the front.

for the sight of glowing, gold apartment windows that signifies the presence of beautiful humans in this shared home.

Common Rituals

There is a new presence in the vast blogosphere- one that I am pretty excited to be aware of and eager to make others aware of as well. Two of my dearest friends, Brittany and Julia, have recently begun a project with the poetic yet telling name of Common Rituals. They both have a keen artistic eye and a deep-seated appreciation for the seemingly-mundane details of life that make it so full, so beautiful. This blog is their way of sharing these little pieces of their own lives and inspiring others to inspect the smallest fragments of the day-to-day; to fall in love with the brewing of coffee, the making of the bed.

All these lovely images were taken by either Brittany or Julia and are just a few from the first of many posts to come. Read along on the computer, follow them on Instagram (@commonrituals). May the words and images be a guide through which you become more aware of the common rituals in the life you lead.

#commonrituals

images from the blur

view from Centrum Studio, first semester of pre-thesis begins.

New home.

Treading on Montana rocks.

Friends. Eating, drinking, celebrating love.

Stop along the way. Long drive back to Portland.

Celebrating October with a breakfast at home.

A break from school for a Sunday afternoon with Brittany.

As of (Relatively) Late

If I ever get a cat that is wiry and sneaky and has a habit of entering into a room and wreaking complete and total havoc, I will name her September. Because no other month has the cunning and the dexterity and the passion for chaos of the month I am still in the process of recovering from. When September comes in, she likes to shift the quiet complacency that was born in June, nurtured in July and full-grown by August.

My September began with uncertainty. Then a rapid-fire series of events began to unfold. The first semester of my third year of college began. The most beloved mother of my most beloved friend from childhood left this world after ten years of battling a most ferocious cancer. An extremely expensive and last minute plane ticket was purchased for me to fly to the Bluegrass and be with people I love dearly while we all mourned and celebrated together. It was a weekend that left the heart feeling both incredibly full and entirely shattered. I flew back to Portland, for the first time with hesitation. I wasn't ready to leave the safe confines of home or leave the company of those I have known and loved most of my life; those people who are either family or as good as.

But my life in Portland wasn't going to slow down to adjust to my emotional state. I arrived back to my little studio apartment, packed my things into boxes, suitcases and grocery bags, and moved 9 blocks South. Since the room that was going to be mine was still semi-occupied, I became a nomadic residence of the apartment; drifting from Julia's room to the living room, to my own bed in a room still full of another's belongings. By that time school was in full swing. I ventured into the wood shop for the first time since my tour of the campus and started an exploration of a material with which I had no previous interaction; an experience simultaneously exhilarating and unsettling. Outside of school new and unexpected things began to occur and life was feeling ever more completely unlike it had been during the summer months.

Then, on the night of September 20th, I drove the ten hours from Portland Oregon to Hamilton Montana in order to celebrate the marriage of one of my best friends on this earth to the love of her life. The evening of the wedding, and indeed the weekend as a whole (about which I will say more soon) was filled with the most beautiful love. But another whirlwind weekend meant playing more catch-up during the school week that followed. And as September slipped into October, I could hardly take notice, so consumed was I by my studies and my work. Indeed it seems only this past weekend, nearly 20 days into the month, I was able to momentarily resurface from being fully submerged. I have been studying, memorizing, sewing, writing, sawing, sanding, welding, editing, reading, listening, working... occasionally eating and sleeping. So many verbs it seemed I was no longer giving myself the opportunity to simply "be." When busyness takes hold of my life, those little things that make me feel well suddenly drown in a flood of the things that I must do well. I think the general consensus is that it all boils down to striking a balance, but it is remarkably easy for such a phrase to roll off the tongue and quite another to translate it into life's pattern. But I start here, by taking some moments out of this fine Tuesday to sit on this bench outside of the Drawing and Painting department, looking out at the coastal range and tend my little plot of the internet. I apologize for the prolonged silence. I blame September.

as of this evening, this little room is no longer my home. It is empty now, but for my set of keys and a note on which is written the address of the apartment that shall, overtime, become my new home. and now i sit here on a new bed that is not mine, in a brief period of limbo before complete settling can occur again.

I appreciate that little chunk of space that was, in it's own way, a catalyst for much growth over these past four months. And I will miss sleeping beside that wide open window; the black sky, the white sky, the damp breeze. But more fervently, I feel pleasant anticipation for my future in this familiar place as it morphs into something that is, for me, entirely new.

Loss

Julian of Norwich (c. 1342-c. 1416), Showings

Beautiful and sweet is our heavenly Mother in the sight of our souls;

and, in the sight of our heavenly Mother, dear and lovely

are the gracious children, gentle and humble,

with all the lovely qualities children have by nature.

For by nature the child does not despair of the mother’s love;

by nature the child does not turn in on itself;

rather, by nature the child loves mother, as well as the other children.

These are beautiful qualities,

and there are many others as well,

and with all these qualities our heavenly Mother is served and pleased.

And so I came to understand that in this life

there is no higher state than childhood,

with its feebleness, lack of strength, and limited understanding,

until the time that our gracious Mother

shall bring us into the Father’s bliss.

And there the true meaning of those sweet words

will be made known to us:

All will be well,

and you will see it yourself,

that every kind of thing will be well.

I wore a black lace dress and stood before countless faces, many known and loved, some unknown and loved, and read these beautiful words, trying to simultaneously read and believe the last of these words:

you will see it yourself,

that every kind of thing will be well.

while all the while feeling in my gut the very emptiness, the very un-wellness of devastating loss.

Where the River Runs Deep

I don't put much stock in astrology. I take pleasure in listening as Brittany reads me my horoscope from Willamette Weekly whenever she comes across a copy of it but I take it lightly and somewhat flippantly. But in spite of myself, I have, in the last few weeks, begun attributing my craving for water to my star sign. The scales of my two fish, swimming in tandem, have remained far too dry over the course of this summer. Partially this is due to a lack of automobile, which makes accessing the numerous bodies of water that lie just beyond Portland's city limits, fairly impossible.

When my beloved Brittany arrived home from her European adventures and Ali took off for a month in Michigan, leaving B with the trusty red Jeep, I began badgering her to take us to a place with deep water and rocky banks. Then, of course, Kinfolk shared this video, making the desire all the more intense.

This day last week, after picking Lizzie up from the airport (she came from Boston for a visit-- more on her time here soon), and viewing a house that turned out not to be meant for us, we purchased some bread, cheese and fruit and set off in the direction of water. We ended up somewhere in Washington, walking along dirt paths in search of a little patch of uninhabited land beside a piece of river where the water ran deep to call our own for the afternoon. Then nothing remained but to strip down to bathing suits and slowly submerge ourselves in the iridescent waters. It was cold enough to provide cause for exclamation at first, but once I plunged in fully and propelled myself through that which is beneath the surface, allowing my body to acclimate, it felt unfathomably right. As if the water was quenching a thirst I had only begun to comprehend.

As of Late: In Photos

Because lately, I've been nothing but words, I decided to make my an As of Late post entirely of photos, taken by my iPhone, of little recent moments. And I will let them speak for themselves.

Hair, Growth

September 30th, 2012. "My hair will be long again. Unbeknownst to me, the follicles reproduce daily. Gradually, they will build up, creating minuscule brown chains that will fall past my shoulders. I will have a whole collection of them and every last one will be a symbol of growth. Of regeneration."

I cut off my hair the day I finished my first year of college, the day I finished my last day as a student at AIB, the day the tiny root I had put down in the Boston soil began to be severed. In a personally significant, symbolic gesture, I walked out of that big urban brick building, caught a train to a light drenched, all white salon on Newbury, and told the petite woman wielding the scissors to chop it off and let it fall to the ground where it would remain, limp and lifeless and discarded, until it was swept away. That long thin hair had originated in years of Kentucky high school and then had grown longer still in that stifling year of Massachusetts, despite a great lack of breath and life and light and air; the things of growth. I never much liked the brown, stingy substance. I washed it quickly, towel dried it momentarily, and then threw it up into a pathetically inept bun that usually needed fixing within the hour. Friends told me I should wear it down, that it was beautiful when it fell down in one lengthy curtain. But I could never think straight with it down and it would end the day in a pathetic ponytail, no matter how it had begun it. It contained within its atoms, all my immaturity, all my insecurity, all my doubt, all my discontentment. Severe the chains, cut the dead weight free, and I would be liberated of those girlish flaws, reborn a woman.

I didn't feel much when it came off and flopped to the floor. I was not overcome with regret, nor was I overcome with relief. I was not liberated, nor was I revolted. I felt the pleasant spring breeze on my neck as I walked back to the T and then the change generated a kind of attention that can feed the attention-hungry ego we all do our best to keep at bay. Showers were faster, shampoo bottled lasted longer, ponytail holders were no longer a necessary expense. But most importantly, the deeply entrenched change I had felt take place within myself and my life was made manifest. When I returned home, to the characters of my past, they would be unable to lay eyes on the gently executed incisions, revisions and subtractions that had been made to the fabric of my interior. But they could see the hair I once had was now gone. And why should those not become one in the same.

The events of last summer included several other haircuts, yet as time wore on, the potency of the gesture faded. And suddenly I simply had short hair. It would stick out funny when I woke in the morning and it looked awful when it was drenched in the ocean's salty water. As the summer worn on and morning scones lead my stomach to expand and as the Kentucky sun led me to feel perpetually sweaty and poorly dressed, all potential to be beautiful seemed to evaporate. My long hair was no longer there to provide a shield and a security blanket; to reassure me of my youthful, female identity. I began to feel old, not in a sense of maturity but in a haggard and hopeless sort of way. I began to feel remarkably unbeautiful. I began to feel stunted, limited, marked by endings.

I came to Portland with few belongings and even fewer preconceived notions. All I was convicted of was that I needed a distant, soft and healthy place were I could find new roots and begin the process of regeneration. I knew it would take time; as Rilke once wrote, patience is all. Soon after arriving I got my hair cut one final time, despite my increased loathing of its shortness. Even as I sat there and watched the woman's scissors at work in the mirror, I knew it would be the last for quite sometime. The process would be time intensive and at moments, bothersome and frankly ugly. Yet I felt in my gut that I had come to the time and place where I was meant to allow regrowth. And thus, a symbolic gesture that was the very antithesis of the original, began to take its course.

Just under a year has now past, and in that time I have covetously treasured every centimeter of hair that has silently come into existence. I haven't been able to allow myself as much as a trim, even when at its worst stages of transition, for a trim would mean sacrificing some small piece of progress. I attempted to maintain a tunnel vision of sorts: avoid mirrors, attempt to wear hats, focus thoughts on the end to which you are aspiring. Again and again, the motif of hair appeared in my writings and drawings, making it nearly impossible to avoid the metaphorical weight I had appointed to it.

On Monday, I returned to one of those black chairs and stared at my own flawed reflection as another petite young lady took her silver scissors and trimmed of little bits of my beloved strands. After, I felt neither more nor less beautiful. The growth I have undergone in this past year was not truncated; it remained perfectly intact, completely disassociated from my hair. For, as many symbols and poetic metaphors as my overactive mind may concoct, it is, as my mother used to say when people would comment on my brother's unruly, multi-colored mohawk, "only hair."

In the Evenings

There is an elderly man who lives in the apartment bellow me and is rarely to be found anywhere other than on the buildings wraparound porch, in his chair, reading from a thick hardbound book that is covered in the protective, plastic coverings used by libraries. This man, who is polite and neighborly tends to play smooth jazz music in the evenings. It wafts up into my room along with the cool air and the sounds of passing cars and the opening and closing of the building's front door. And all the little everythings of life become more pleasant, more romantic, more elegant than they otherwise are. Most of the time, I take the opportunity sprawl, stomach down, on my big white bed and stare out the window at the trees and buildings and rapidly darkening sky and feel more picturesque than I actually am and try to absorb into all my pores, the pleasantness of now.

As of Late

perhaps i've been out of school a few days too long, or I've been in one place without even a very brief change of scenery for a period of time that has extended too long. perhaps I have ridden the bus too many times or eaten too many meals alone in whole foods. perhaps i've just incorrectly cooked a couple too many blueberry pancakes or overdrawn my bank account two too many times. maybe i've eaten too many crackers and pieces of banana bread, consumed too many expensive creamy lattes. maybe I have watched the few dvd's I own a few too many times and maybe it's been too long since I've hugged my brother or father or had a family dinner. perhaps it's just been too long since I got my haircut and all the split ends aren't letting the little follicles keep growing. or maybe it's just been too long since I have had a good reason to stay up past midnight. maybe it's been too long since I've done laundry and it is spilling from its basket and maybe its just because the sky has been a little gray. perhaps its been too long since I've written something of substance or perchance i've been filling out too much paperwork or perhaps I've just unintentionally overdosed on "me" time.

as of late, I find myself singing to myself "The Lord is my Shepard, nothing shall I want" to the tune by which I learned it freshman year of high school in that little choir room at Second Presbyterian. And yet, despite my best efforts to allow the words of this psalm to be my truth, I've felt in want of something.

the gray blanket of the morning had entirely lifted by the time I walked down the driveway and into the backyard of a little unassuming home in NE Portland. A simple handmade banner that simply read KINFOLK Workshop told me that I was in the right place. When I reached the backyard and saw the little clusters of people engaging in conversation, the table laden in herbs and honey pots, the blankets and rugs spread out on the grass and the hives in the distance, I was even further assured. I arrived exactly on time, just as the clock was transitioning from 12:59 to 1:00, but we waited, nonetheless, to allow for potential stragglers and in the meantime, we chatted in the shade of one the the yards many impressive trees. I met and heard some of the story of Damian Magista, beekeeper extraordinaire and founder of Bee Local which brings fresh honey, harvested from hives all over the Portland area to people all over the country. I met our lovely hostess, Julie Pointer, who, which immense craftsmanship and grace, plans and executes all the Kinfolk events and gatherings, as well as coordinates the satellite events that are held world-wide. I met Laura Dart of Dart Photographie, whose beautifully genuine photographs can be found on the pages of Kinfolk as well as many other platforms. Of course, I also spoke with Julia, a friend, recent graduate of OCAC and a now an intern for Julie. We talked of art and school, coffee shops in Louisville, travel and islands off the coast of Washington, where Mollie, another workshop attendee, lived.

When we were all assembled, we ventured into the hives, with Damian as our guide and educator. He imparted more information than I can possibly relay; needless to say it was enlightening. All those who know me, which is quite probably most of you who are reading this, no doubt know of my deep-seated love for honey. Indeed, the title of this blog is a testament to it. To be able to see the inner workings of the hive, hear even more remarkable things about bees than that which I already knew, to be able to hold a portion of their hive in my hands, closely observing their incredibly little bodies working tirelessly at the task at hand, was, for me, a transient experience. My fingers were covered in the bright yellow waxy resin sap concoction that the bees use to seal their hives and I didn't even wish to attempt to remove it. I could have stayed with the hives for hours, watching in awe, smelling the smoke from the smoker, tasting the honey straight from the comb. But the bees were ready to be left alone so we returned to our patch of grass where we sampled honeys from all over the globe. Unfathomably distinct as the each were, it seemed impossible to chose a favorite until I tasted the creamed honey from a nunnery in northern California and then my heart was stolen. Quite possibly the most beautiful thing i have ever consumed.

The sweetness continues with a meal; bread and cheese crackers and rose-hip chamomile infused honey and tea and wine and plums and apricots filled with ricotta and topped with nuts, fresh baked short breads with vanilla icecream and peaches. In true Kinfolk fashion, the presentation of it all made it ALMOST hard to take utensils to it, but the guarantee of deliciousness made it irresistible. And indeed it was delicious. We ate, and conversations continued. I met Tina who was in town from Tokyo and hosts all the Kinfolk events there, and her friend who was visiting from Seattle. And I met two very kind young men here from Japan to study at PSU who spoke beautiful broken English.

We all spoke and ate until eventually, the time came to part ways. We each left with a little burlap bag that contained our own pot of honey in the beginning staged of being infused with the herbs we chose (in my case lavender and chamomile), a honey stick, a sprig of rosemary, a bees wax candle and handprinted cards with a beautiful image of bee & hive on the front and instructions for honey infusions on the back.

I left that back yard full. Of food, of good conversation with good people, of beautiful imagery, of the sweetness of life.

#kinfolkworkshop #honeyharvest #foodforthebees

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Melina Skye