Beaded Ubuhle Beauty

 

Beads! These wall hangings are entirely tiny glass beads!

Welcoming us as if to South Africa, gentle, lilting rhythms of Bholoja’s “Mbombela” set a quiet mood in the Paine mansion’s main gallery. Awestruck by this immense wall hanging, I wandered wide-eyed to it without even reading the background placard. I felt a mixture of sorrow for Christ on the cross and curiosity about related scenes such as the Garden of Gethsemane and the resurrection-symbolizing rainbow just behind the cross. This artwork’s sheer size was symbolic of the grandeur and import of the inspiring event. That it drew me irresistibly, viscerally, said as much.

 

My appreciation grew when I did go back and read the placards explaining this art form. “Beadwork and the Art of Independence” is a traveling exhibit of the intricate designs of Ubuhle women, who sew shimmering glass beads on black cloth. Fulfilling the founders’ vision for traditional beading skills to provide financial independence, these rural women live and work together just north of Durban. A single panel can take ten months to complete. Ubuhle means “beauty” in the Zulu and Xhosa languages.

 

Another panel especially captivated me. Here is a photo of part of Zandile Ntobela’s “Cherry Tree” beaded design.

 

 

Just as we enjoyed the vision of Nathan and Jessie Paine to create beautiful gardens, we enjoyed incredible woodworking and design elements inside their home. During our visit, the Paine Art Center in Oshkosh showcased glass beadwork of South African Ubuhle women, whose art was also the lovely result of two people’s vision.

For more info: https://www.thepaine.org/events/ubuhle-women-beadwork-and-the-art-of-independence/   

Oshkosh in winter

 Thirteen named gardens grace the grounds of the Tudor-Revival-style mansion that is the Paine Art Center in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. At www.thepaine.org, you can read descriptions of the sweeping Front Lawn and the dramatic path through the Great Lawn. A silvery foliage palette in the Morning Terrace catches both sun and moonlight. By contrast, the Evening Terrace reflects the sunset’s golden glow. There’s a Rose Garden, a Shade Garden, U.S. Bank Garden, Mark L. Tremble Garden, Ceremony Garden, Pennau and Below Garden, and the New Formal Garden. Don’t forget the Woodland Path and Birch Grove.

 

Website photos of each named garden in the three-acre estate show blooming flowers, bountiful greenery, and flowing fountains. My photos, taken in winter, show just brown bark and gray stone paths—just a serene skeleton of summer’s colorful grandeur. But that’s enough to appreciate Nathan and Jessie Paine’s vision of an outdoor art gallery. The mansion interior’s artistry and special exhibit spaces flow into the gardens.

 

Wandering stone paths past classic statues, empty pergolas, and dry fountains was a contemplative pleasure. Floating, fleeting thoughts gave a sense of peace. That I didn’t know any of the names of the gardens now seems appropriate because I still don’t know the name for the fun surprise I stumbled upon. It looked like a large metal gyroscope with three spyglasses. A shallow bowl in the center held dead pine boughs and a birch log. My friend had seen one of these elsewhere in Wisconsin, so she clued me on how to use it. You slowly turn the bowl while looking through the eyepiece, and what’s in the bowl shifts in kaleidoscopic designs. Very cool! We had so much fun with this oversize, outdoor kaleidoscope. I don’t know if there’s a name for mid-meditation playfulness. I kind of hope not.

 

This Spa Called Covid

Every morning I awoke to realize that Boris Johnson’s hairdresser had flown from London to “do” my hair in the night. If I were to have my own personal house-call hairdresser, I might have wished for someone different, but hey, he or she gives a consistent hay-bale look every time. And no hairbrush needed on my end. Hah!

 

For a few days I had special spa heat treatments. Not sure whether to liken fevers to a steam room or sauna. Really wiped me out though. Think of the bazillions of toxins released!

 

I must have landed in a MedSpa, because for the first two weeks, at least one Covid Response Team nurse called me daily. One day, three nurses and one doctor called. That was very special spa treatment, to be sure. They kept reminding me, however, to call 9-1-1 if my oxygen levels dipped. From what I know of ambulances, they are not like spas, so I didn’t call one.

 

Alarmed as I was seeing 75 unread text messages on my phone, I felt no guilt not responding to them. I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow—or read words for that matter. I had a little guilt, but not much, not picking up phone calls. I could say only a few words before gasping for breath, so the calling friend understood pretty quickly that’s all I could do.

 

My Covid Spa was so relaxing, I slept upwards of 20 hours a day. Notably missing, however, was a good massage. When I am reasonably sure a massage at a regular spa won’t send me back to Covid Spa, I will schedule one.

 

Taking my tongue out of my cheek for a moment, I will end on a grateful note. For concern and prayers of friends and family, for God’s advance (little did I know I’d need these things soon) provisions, and for the contentment of forced self-care-only days.

Different Is Fine

 

My 2021 Christmas season was different for a variety of reasons, some grief-related. Many people felt a sense of loss this Christmas. Covid-weariness has taken a toll on everyone, and I was not alone in wondering what level of celebration I could muster.

 

This year I spent more energy vacillating than decorating.

• Should I set up and trim the tree? Do I really have the energy?  
• My tree is so pretty! But why put it up? Really, why?
•  Because I love to look at red, blue, and green twinkly lights and remember the stories behind all my ornaments. Because having festive décor one month a year adds variety to my surroundings, and variety is the spice of life.
• Maybe spices are overrated. Sigh.

 

I had fun helping two girlfriends decorate their houses, and they both offered to come help me decorate. Very tempting offers. Still, I chose to put out a crèche and a candle and call it a day. I wanted to conserve energy for spending time with people, choosing and wrapping some gifts, mailing at least a few Christmas cards. In retrospect, I think that was wise.

 

I do miss seeing a colorful, twinkling Christmas tree, a basket of red and silver crystal balls on the coffee table, and red wooden angels and Santas tucked here and there. But I got to see festive bows and wrapping paper in the living room for several weeks, and they provided pops of color—my own original, dorky, low-energy Christmas-bow decorations. A plus—dismantling my Christmas décor will also be easy this year.

 

Connecting with people in various ways made for a warmly meaningful season. Accepting my energy limits felt odd, but wise. Christmas traditions are awesome! But you know what? Different is fine.

The Girl Who Reads on the Metro ~ my review

 

If you enjoy reading, you must meet Juliette. And Soliman. And Leonidas. Noticing what others on the Parisian subway and in parks are reading, they sense what people might like to read next and leave that book on a bench for them to "coincidentally" find. In this, they act as passeurs, the term for people who sneaked books into the hands of book-loving Jews in Nazi-occupied Paris. That Christine Féret-Fleury's novel, The Girl Who Reads on the Metro, is a modern-day story makes their secret society all the more charming.

Although the novel includes some relational drama, not least of which is young Juliette's courage to follow her heart into this mysterious, oddball adventure, the story is really about love of literature. Literature expands our horizons and engenders empathy toward others. Although a solitary act, reading can bring us together. Féret-Fleury includes a suggested reading list.

For me, Féret-Fleury's lyrical, sometimes symbolic, descriptions were the most delightful aspect of The Girl Who Reads on the Metro. Oh, how I would love to be able to write literary fiction like this!

Amor Towles' The Lincoln Highway novel ~ my review

  

What a ride! Like the epic tales in Billy Watson’s Professor Abacus Abernathe’s Compendium of Heroes, Adventurers, and Other Intrepid Travelers, The Lincoln Highway is a true epic tale. Throughout his and his brother Emmett’s labyrinthine adventure, eight-year-old Billy eagerly shares the compendium’s stories of mythical heroes with his traveling companions. All adults, they humor him as he reads these fascinating stories. But in savant-like fashion, Billy understands the heart of these stories and practices their lessons in the many scrapes the group gets into.

 

Their scrapes are usually the machinations of wily, slippery, sociopathic, but wildly entertaining Duchess (Daniel) Hewett. Billy and Emmett Watson’s aim is straightforward—to drive the Lincoln Highway from Nebraska to California. Billy wants to find their mother, who deserted the family when Billy was just a baby, and Emmett wants to not follow in his failed-farmer father’s footsteps and instead flip houses in San Francisco. When smooth-talking, pathological liar Duchess inserts himself into their plans by stealing Emmett’s car and money, the trip’s twists and turns begin. Duchess and simple-minded pal Woolly drive to New York for Duchess’ nefarious purposes, which necessitates the now-broke Watson boys’ boxcar train travel to find Duchess and Woolly and retrieve their car and money.

 

Oh, the storied characters they meet along the way! The pluck they show in finding Duchess and Woolly in New York City and in navigating unfamiliar territory! Their challenges to not repeat past mistakes! Amor Towles has written a storyteller’s dream novel. I could not have imagined the people in this book, which is a rich, character-driven, 576-page chase scene—creative, suspenseful, and engaging. As if the characters’ stories are not enough, Towles gives them each golden nuggets of wise observations to drop in the reader’s path.

 

Amor Towles’ The Lincoln Highway is a brilliant literary adventure. Even after reading the dust jacket plot summary, you will be clueless about the treasures within until you read the book.