Heirloom Spoon

I have a huge appreciation for skilled craft and for unique approaches to materiality.  I’ve always supported emerging/existing artists and artisans and when I first saw Adam Weaver’s spoons, I knew that I wanted to invest in a spoon each month for a year, so that I would have a beautiful collection to enjoy for a very long time.

While attending the University of Lethbridge, my friend, Brian, carved me a beautiful wooden spoon and I treasured it for as many years as I could, when at some point, the spoon split and it was no more.  The idea of hand carved spoons has been nostalgic ever since.  Sometimes I think that with mass-production, we have lost touch with some of these hand crafted items.

This morning, Adam Weaver (Heirloom Spoon) came to my place in order to deliver January and February and so that I might select, from a collection of other carved spoons, March and April.

We shared a coffee at the feast table and I had the chance to look at and hold the spoons as he set them out in front of me.  They were all so unique and so lovely.

I’m very grateful for the new friendships, Adam and Pascia.  Thank you for taking the huge diagonal across the city to meet with me and to visit about travel, tools, art and life.  May you be richly blessed on your journey.

If interested, you can access Heirloom spoons via Etsy, as well as through various artisan events.

January: carved out of maple…a beautiful long-necked spoon with a leather toggle at one end and a beautiful scooped bowl on the other.  The wood was gifted Adam from Brampton, Ontario…so, given my family history and my connections with Ontario, this one sings to me.

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February: carved out of a piece of knotty birch wood, found right here at the edge of our beautiful Bow River.  It was harvested from trees cut down by some city workers.

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It turns out that I couldn’t resist May either…picking up a coffee scoop as a gift for my own birthday. The scoop is carved from Applewood, harvested right beside the studios at Artpoint Gallery.  They’re demolishing everything around there to build the new C-train line. :0( I love the many concentric circles that draw the eye into the depth of the bowl of the spoon.

The smaller lighter spoon is made from a piece of Ash (Latin name: Fraxinus Excelsior!) found in a small village called Clare, in England.  I like the feel of this spoon in my hand…it’s flat and seems to have some sort of interesting weight/balance thing going on.  I just like it so much.

The big ladle…I chose for March…it felt the most womb-like to me and I was thinking about the birth of my son on March 17, 1990.  Adam used the natural curve of the wood.  This piece was from an arborist-friend of Adam’s again, harvested in Calgary.  I’m wondering if this would be my favourite arborist who trims up May (Mayday) every year for me, before the spring.

 

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When Adam puts his tools down and stops carving, he plants and tends gardens and fits in a lot of travel… as well, he enjoys his authentic relationship with wood and beautiful objects.

 

Every December Sky

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The calendar page turned…and it was December.  On December 2, 1979…I married.  The marriage, like snow on December trees, disappeared.  I am always and forever in a state of acceptance because my life did not turn out as I had planned or how I had predicted it would be.  I strive to practice happiness, however…to create daily, an experience of the full spectrum of emotion…even if that happiness is aroused out of the humming of an Advent tune on a sad day or the flow of purple satin under the nativity set on a frustrating day.  Somewhere, I find it.

Things That Grow

Listening to the news, it sounds like much of Canada is suffering drought.  It makes me wonder about how we’re going to be doing with produce this coming winter and how our farmers are going to cope with such devastation.

I woke this morning disheartened. A neighbouring tree was being taken down.  I left for a while to hike with Max because I couldn’t bear the sound of the saw anymore.  It’s been going on for three hours…”The wood is so hard,” said one of the fellas who was hired for the dirty deed.  I felt as though the saw was cutting into my own limbs, the pain was so real for me.

The earth sometimes screams back at us.  For no obvious reason, part of the mountain came down on Johnston’s Landing recently, taking two, possibly four beautiful lives with it and shaking a mountain community as well as reshaping and carving out the land.  I’ve driven on the scenic road that is now washed out…stood overlooking Kootenay Lake, in awe of its beauty.  I lift up my prayers for all of the community as they rebuild and appreciate more consciously, the wonder of peaceful walks along the river.

This morning, I looked at the wee things that were growing; again, amazed by how different an environment can look, one week to the next.

Everywhere, things are growing, producing and feeding the earth.  It is a glorious thing…how the earth bears fruit for humanity.  I just sometimes have to focus on the blessings, and not so often on how we are turning our backs on ‘the covenant’…our part of the bargain.

For lunch, I prepared myself a salad of red and green leafed romaine from the garden, cherry tomatoes, lemon, olive oil and salt and pepper and appreciated every morsel. I am richly blessed by things that grow.

If the writing is honest it cannot be separated from the man who wrote it. Tennessee Williams

May

May Day Tree May 2012

This morning everything dazzled.  I enjoyed sitting for a time on the back deck and pleasured in the way that the plants and shrubs have matured and the perennials have established themselves over these past ten years.

The Sound of May is Bee-Buzzing

 I treasure times, sitting still and observing the seasons change.  The passage of time is both sad and beautiful. 

Closer

A Memory Of Youth

THE moments passed as at a play;
I had the wisdom love brings forth;
I had my share of mother-wit,
And yet for all that I could say,
And though I had her praise for it,
A cloud blown from the cut-throat North
Suddenly hid Love’s moon away.
Believing every word I said,
I praised her body and her mind
Till pride had made her eyes grow bright,
And pleasure made her cheeks grow red,
And vanity her footfall light,
Yet we, for all that praise, could find
Nothing but darkness overhead.
We sat as silent as a stone,
We knew, though she’d not said a word,
That even the best of love must die,
And had been savagely undone
Were it not that Love upon the cry
Of a most ridiculous little bird
Tore from the clouds his marvellous moon.
ALTHOUGH crowds gathered once if she but showed her face,
And even old men’s eyes grew dim, this hand alone,
Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping-place
Babbling of fallen majesty, records what’s gone.
These lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet,
These, these remain, but I record what-s gone. A crowd
Will gather, and not know it walks the very street
Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud

William Butler Yeats
 

May…the night I planted her…lit by lamplight! 2002.

 

Tuesday’s Painting: The Tree of Life

My readers are likely wondering when this wall mural is going to be completed…it’s coming!! I continue to embellish and paint into the negative spaces and today Marilyn worked to create a rich sense of warm violet/red soil beneath the tree.  You will know that the piece is completed once I paint the Omega symbol in the bottom right of the picture plane.

Dylan Christopher

Today, ten-year-old Dylan was welcomed into the space and adhered his angel to the wall, shown here just to the left of his head.  I told him that in twenty-five years, he will be able to bring his friends and family into this space and explain that this is where he stood in 2012 and posed for this photograph for me.  Thank you, Dylan.  I think that his angel is a bit of a caricature…so whimsical and lovely.

More than One Hundred Angels Contributed by Children

Breath: Fragments

When I went outside

Maple leaves,
thick textured clumps on dark boughs,
bathed in sunlight
blew
and suddenly looking up, my face was wet,
surprised.

And then I knew
the trees were raining.

Warm shirt sleeve, arm reaching for
Forehead, eyes, cheeks.
Again and again, drips dropping.

There hadn’t been any air to breath
all day.

The blue sky still somehow
boomed in the distance,
weather traveling,
as quickly as it had come.
And looking down at my feet, I
was left with this.

Breath.
The cast shadows of trees
bright cement,
making light dark light dark light dark
lines on the sidewalk.
What was chirping?
Cool air and blue sky.
Wet grass on ankles.
Grace.

©Kathleen Moors 2011