Pursuit of Spark: Recent Episodes
Pursuit of Spark
Tea in the garden engaged all my senses this morning. Perhaps make a cup for yourself and listen with me?
The birds were singing their winter songs this morning. My tea tray was a symphony of green.
A mourning dove was sitting on my bench when I stepped into the garden for tea, and flew away at the sight of me with nervous chirrups. The air was cold but the sunshine was warm, and my tea was the same lovely red-brown of the oak leaves lit up by the sunlight.
I pondered the mock orange seedpods as I had my tea on this cold wet morning. They're spiky and beautiful in their severity, and made me think of the flowers spilling over the porch rail last spring.
The inflorescences of the ornamental grasses captured the bright winter sunlight and held it so they glowed in the wind. I held my teabowl in gloved hands, absorbing the warmth on this cold morning.
The tea was deep red in my teabowl, and then glancing again I could see the tips of the Japanese maple and a glimpse of blue sky. It’s cold and very still this morning, just the cardinals and sparrows calling to each other and the distant sound of a street being dug up. Two bowls of Elevation Red tea warmed by the sunshine.
teameditation
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pinchpot #teabowl #tealife #teatime #cha Elevation Red #tea from @globalteahut
The sun burned through the low clouds as I sipped my tea. Our garden is full of winter birds: a pair of cardinals peeping to each other, one in the serviceberry and the other in the holly near our kitchen door; sparrows swooping in and out of the Norway maple; mourning doves grooming themselves in the dogwood branches. The ground is soggy and the grasses droop from all the rain yesterday.
Squirrels chased each other across the leaves as I sipped two bowls of Puerh tea, stroking the smooth ribs of my teabowl.
Perched on the edge of my chair to avoid the snow collected at the back for two bowls of tea. The lawn looked like a platter that had been glazed with white, then strewn with leaves, then glazed again, then sprinkled with more leaves. The zinnia in my vase offered more surprises - petals that have turned from orange to pink and now to yellow.
Listened to a nearby snowblower wheeze to life as the sun came out.
I know where the squirrel is making its nest. I watched it nibble still-green leaves off the tips of the branches and stuff them in its mouth, clamber up to a huge silver maple limb and disappear inside, quickly emerging to do it all again.
Two bowls of kamairicha tea, surprised that the orange zinnia is turning hot pink at the tips as it fades. . . .
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Steady rain this morning. Chose my favorite rainy day teabowl by Sammy Chung, with clouds incised in wisps of white slip. Today what I fell in love with was the foot of the bowl, tall enough to protect my hand from the hot tea and deliciously rough to the touch because the dark clay is full of grog (which spellcheck wanted to write as frog, but that is completely ridiculous). What delighted me was the contrast - under the gray celadon glaze the body of the bowl is so smooth, and then, surprise, my fingers encounter the grit of the raw clay foot.
A couple of sparrows searches under the false sunflowers for dropped seeds, chirping and jostling the long stems which made the seedheads dance in the rain.
Chilly this morning so we moved our tea to the middle of the garden, our backs to the grasses, a perfect spot to feel the sun on our faces and see the light streaming through the spice viburnum leaves.
Three bowls of kamairicha tea listening to the wind in the leaves that are still hanging on.
On my chair I found four leaves, one green, one blushing, one brown, one skeletal. I placed them on my tea tray and mediated on their beauty because each one is beautiful, even the one that has almost completely faded away.
Took my time with tea this morning after a long week, five bowls of sencha, the first bright green but a little bitter because I was impatient and the water was a little too hot, the later bowls milder.
Listened to the robins try out new wavery waltzes and workmen a few houses away. Felt the cool air and the warm tea and the beauty of the world right now in all its contradictions.
Two bowls of Evening Sky red tea this morning. I loved sipping from the thick-walled teabowl, which allowed just the right amount of heat to reach my hands. I made the bowl but others glazed and fired it in @watershedceramics’ wood fire kiln, and I thought about the care they took to finish my work, and the power of community to make something beautiful. After waking up early and anxious about the state of our country, tea and this bowl gave me hope again. . . .
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Puerh #tea from @globalteahut
The red dogwood leaves I noticed earlier this week have almost all fallen off. The zinnias in the vase on my tea tray are fading. I sipped bright green sencha and listened to the light rain and the crickets, taking in the changes all around me.
A flock of leaf blowers across the street made it a little hard to meditate this morning. But I was grateful for the warmth of the tea in my cloud yunomi.
Late morning tea. The sun illuminated the dogwood leaves from a different angle. As we sipped our kamairicha from beautiful teabowls I brought home from Japan half my life ago, we watched small clouds form in the blue sky.
The yellow ray florets of the false sunflowers have almost all gone, revealing a half sphere of tiny disk florets which will soon turn to seeds, to the delight of the goldfinches. Sipped my kamairicha tea, a weak echo of the golden flowers, and thought about the worlds within worlds that we have the chance to pay attention to when more flashy things have fallen away. . . .
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Bright yellow pollen on my shirt and scarf from the sunflowers in my vase, a pale bug with red eyes on a ragged, lichen covered piece of bark next to my tea tray. The new growth on the oakleaf hydrangea is a beautiful color I can’t describe. Sipped my sencha and listened to the crickets, power tools, and wind in the leaves on this cool gray morning.
Our little cherry tree lost all its leaves to a blight this summer, yet is offering a sign of hope for a recovery by pushing out new leaves at the tips of its branches in September.
The cries of the cicadas mixed with the clank of nearby construction and the growl of the garbage truck as I sipped my tea in the cool dappled shade of my garden.
The oakleaf hydrangea has grown so large that I had to cut some back this morning to reveal the path, which was my good fortune because the delicate panicles were exquisite to study as I sipped my tea.
The indefatigable mockingbird kept me company all through tea, never once repeating its comical calls (and hardly ever stopping for breath!). The patio stones were cool under my bare feet, sun warm on my face, the texture of the Jack Troy teabowl lovely to touch. The kamairicha was just the right mix of bitter and sweet, and the delicious scent of Korean Spice Viburnum wafted through the garden. A tea for all the senses.
The snow is receding and the birds are gathering. Sipped oolong tea and delighted in the changes.
Chose a small ‘three sip’ teacup this morning and was captivated by how the blue glaze revealed a spiral of pinches. The birds chattered, a train whistle moaned, planes crisscrossed overhead. I sipped my Puerh tea, grateful for how it opened my eyes.
After so many gray mornings the sun was glorious, illuminating the golden oolong tea. A fuzzy maple blossom had fallen so I picked it up and added it to my tea tray. Listened to the chickadees and cardinals and the occasional passing airplane.
I think a hawk may have been hovering nearby when I stepped out to the porch for tea, it was so quiet. Then a mourning dove gave a few cries to my right, a squirrel complained to my left, and now the sparrows are noisily arguing.
I sipped Puerh tea from a porcelain yunomi heavily painted with cobalt carbonate until it is almost black and looked up at the maple branches covered in fuzzy blooms.
Watched a chickadee hop its way up the honey locust, looking for bugs in the crenellated, lichen covered bark. It was joined by another, and then I spied a mourning dove higher up sitting placidly on a branch with its feathers puffed out. A second mourning dove joined it, and then two robins alighted in branches further down, the first robins I have seen.
So much life in the branches of a single tree.
The birds and the tea pulled me out of the gloomy mood that had settled on me this morning, and I feel fortified to go meet the day.
First cup, listened to the juncos as they whirred and chirped, more like R2D2 or Morse code than birdsong.
Second cup, crows and a flock of geese overhead, the oolong tea the same lovely color as a fallen Japanese maple leaf.
Third cup, tears fell again for the dead and welled up for the brave teenagers who are leading us towards change.
Listened to the sparrows and a lone chickadee, the wind chimes, a flock of geese flying north overhead. Sky a solid gray, warmer this morning. Instead of waking me up this morning I found that the Puerh tea sent me deeper into mourning yesterday’s losses.
New birdsong this morning, a crazy mixup of melody and shrill thrrrrps. I think it was just a single bird somewhere in the budding silver maple branches that kept up its song through three cups of tea.
Blue-gray teabowl, gray-blue sky. Sipped the earthy Puerh tea and looked for early signs of spring in the garden.
Snowflakes on my black coat, bright red beak against the cardinal's muted feathers, hot tea.
After yesterday’s rain, what captivated me this morning was how the sunlight played on the grasses, sparkled on the frost, and lit up the inside of my teabowl after I had finished my tea.
The latest tea arrived yesterday from Global Tea Hut and I was so happy to steep it this morning. A shou puerh from the late ‘90’s - as old as my children! - and so delicious, bright red in the sunshine, and in my beautiful Jack Troy teabowl the rich tea reflected fast moving clouds.
Ground frozen under my feet, sun warm on my face. The grass seedheads glowed and even deep within the shadowed tangle of leaves I glimpsed tiny bright patches of sunlight.
Even on this gray day the Puerh tea pulled in the light and glowed red as it steeped. False sunflowers are wearing little snow caps, so lovely against the black of the wet street.
Gray yunomi big enough for a whole pot of tea, embellished with clouds, on a rainy morning listening to sparrows and cardinals and highway nearby.
I pushed my hood back to feel the warm sun on my face, and we listened to the windchimes and birds as we sipped our puerh tea.
A woodpecker investigated the bark of the massive maple tree, a cardinal perched in the mulberry, and many more birds celebrated the warmth of this winter morning. I sipped my green tea and listened.
It's been quite a year -- drought in Tuscany this summer, bitter cold now on the US east coast, and that's just what's happened in our gardens! But today in Maggie's Tuscan garden the sun lit up a rose that had just bloomed -- in December! In my garden, the weather was warm enough a few days ago that we finally cut back the irises, and seedheads on my tea tray look just like baby birds waiting to be fed.
Maggie and I laughed about what is hanging on, what needs to be pruned, and what we are looking forward to in the new year. Sending love and wishes for a happy, healthy, blooming new year to you! Buon capodanno!
Maggie just returned to Tuscany after a week in Berlin, where her husband Joel Meyerowitz has a photography retrospective. I was eager to hear about her trip -- and also yearned for her wisdom about where we might find hope in the winter garden. The morning's frost on the fields outside her window gave us both inspiration, as did a poem Maggie keeps on her desktop, by Pablo Neruda:
I sat in the garden spattered by the great drops of winter, and it seemed to me impossible that beneath all that sadness, that crumbled solitude, the roots were still at work with no one to encourage them.
Photo for this episode by Joel Meyerowitz. You can find out more about Joel's retrospective here: http://www.howardgreenberg.com/news-and-views/review-joel-meyerowitz-retrospective-at-c-o-berlin
As we finished our sencha we were treated to front row seats to the leaf ballet when a gust of wind sent maple leaves into the air.
I reached Maggie in her Tuscan attic studio on a late fall afternoon, and if you listen closely towards the end you can hear a riot of birds outside her window. Both our gardens spent the past several months longing for rain.
Friends sent a photo of late fall flowers in a vase I had made for them, which inspired me to pick a few of what's left in our garden while the teapot heated up.
The volunteer asters beside the tall grasses could be called weeds, but they are still beautiful.
The layers of clouds on my gray celadon yunomi echoed the cloudy sky, and my eye was drawn to the vivid pop of zinnias on a gray day.
A cicada emerging from its shell and bounty from a friend's garden for tea this morning.
We sat down to tea with heavy hearts, and took solace in the flowers that had bloomed only after struggle.
Golden Thread Liu An tea, silver threaded spider web, baby blue bug on apricot hydrangea stems.
My teabowl this morning is impressed with the bark of our dogwood tree, and I sipped my tea looking at positive and negative.
Spilled a little tea this morning, and wondered if it could be considered libations for a good week? The locust tree is putting out new growth that glowed, even on this cloudy morning.
Admired the enormous web woven overnight, but not as thrilled when the weaver jumped on me.
A quickly pinched bowl, with glaze that emphasizes its imperfections, was perfect for tea this morning listening to the cicadas.
While waiting for my tea to cool, I cut three blooms from the hydrangea, and marveled at their lovely theme and variation.
Green tea in a yunomi with pink-haloed spots. The potter didn't brush the pink on the pot itself, instead she put a copper-glazed pot near it knowing (hoping?) that the copper would enter the atmosphere of the kiln and find its way to this yunomi.
Listened to the rain and watched bees dodging the raindrops to feast on the false sunflowers.
A water main ruptured last night. We made tea with bottled water and sat in the garden, still humid but cooler today, thinking about the luxury of running water.
The cicadas are singing their love songs, the lavender has just been cut back, and Maggie and Julie think about how time passes differently in the garden.
Cicada songs created a refrain for tea this morning. Chose deep green sweet Gyokuro and a black and white yunomi whose subtle texture felt wonderful as I sipped my tea.
Green tea in blue bowls. The layers of slip and glaze give each bowl a sense of history, even though they are just a few weeks old.
Cool steady rain. The false sunflowers are beginning to bloom, a pop of color on a gray day.
Global Tea Hut's new tea is best, they write, steeped right in the bowl. The tiny green leaves were tender enough to eat.
Raindrops clung to the leaves and workers raised ladders in a nearby yard as I sipped vivid green Gyokuro tea.
Blue jay fledglings, just a few weeks old, are already learning to fly by flitting tentatively from branch to branch of the dogwood tree.
Liu An tea from Global Tea Hut woke us up. In the garden, the summer colors are emerging.
As I sipped my puerh tea this morning, I thought about what tea master Wu De, of www.globalteahut.org, told us yesterday, that what matters is where a tea grows -- "Mountain, garden, tree."
Savored deep green Konacha tea while the robins and squirrels ate bright red serviceberries.
The patio stones were cool underfoot, the tea was hot in our cups, and the robins and mockingbirds feasted on ripe serviceberries as we sipped our tea.
Slender tea leaves danced in hot water while a robin gorged itself on ripe serviceberries.
The oakleaf hydrangea languished in the shade until we moved them two summers ago. In the sun they are thriving, their blooms opening like little stars.
Light rain sent us to the back corner of the garden, for tea under a canopy of maples listening to the growl and hum of a neighbor's lawnmower.
The simple pleasure of new red tea in a blue cup, looking at white blossoms and listening to the birds.
The fragrance of mock orange blossoms reached us as we sipped green tea harvested in Japan just a month ago.
My chair was dry when I stepped out for tea this morning, but the garden held memories of yesterday's rain.
The roses are in bloom in Maggie Barrett's Tuscan garden, the peonies are about to open in mine, and we talked about the stories that are embedded in their beauty.
Daughter of the Forest red tea this morning in a teabowl by potter Jack Troy impressed with roots and glazed with ash from the bark of Pennsylvania trees.
The leaves were still wet with yesterday's rain, the sun came out, the gray yunomi held the outline of clouds.
The garden beds are newly defined with thick mulch, the red maple glowed in the sunlight.
The sun came out, and three girls walked past on their way to middle school, practicing their dance moves.
Everything was damp, but I was determined to sit under the dogwood while her bracts were still tipped with red.
From the shelter of our porch, I watched commuters open and close their umbrellas as they walked to the station to catch the 8:33.
He put down his tea and took a photo of the locust tree, whose spiky branches looked like veins, he said, or neurons.
Cherry and serviceberry are in full bloom, and the astilbe we thought we'd killed last year are peeking out of the soil, ready for more benign neglect. . .
The serviceberry is in her white party dress, and everything else is getting ready to bloom.
The soft hazy sunlight illuminated the beauty of the morning as I sipped my tea and listened.
The crows laughed at me while I finished my tea and thought about how so much is thrown at us to knock us off balance. Tea meditation helps me find equilibrium again.
The birds were quiet, the sky was vivid blue, and the sunlight turned the tips of the branches silver this afternoon for tea.
Listening to kids a few doors down swinging on their swingset, watching the clouds grow and change and dissappear.
The last few days of hard rain sent earthworms to the surface. We sipped pu'erh tea and listened to the birds battling over the neighbor's birdfeeder on this cloudy day.
Sculptor Miya Ando has created a work of art that is both a kimono and armor, formed from thousands of squares of anodized aluminum. I met Miya in her studio, where she told me stories about growing up in two cultures, apprenticing to a swordmaker in Japan, and fixing cars in California. To see more of her work, visit miyaando.com.
In Jody Oberfelder's 4Chambers, we're pulled into the power of the heart by dancers who let us feel their heartbeats -- and make us aware of our own. In my story for Studio 360, dancer Mercedes Searer offers a visceral experience of being in the piece -- and shows us it's possible to dance on the radio!
Last fall when I spoke at Middlebury College, my hosts told me about a fascinating program at the vocational/technical high school in town, where students learn how to weld, paint, sew, hang lights, and build just about anything, all in service of theatre. Alumni from the program are mixing sound for Motown the Musical, rigging Cirque du Soleil, and acting on TV shows such as The Office. I'm thrilled that NPR's Weekend Edition asked me to report a story about the Addison Repertory Theater high school program at the Hannaford Career Center. Here it is.
Thanks to Sarah Popov for production assistance on this story, and Laura Bertran at NPR for her insightful editing. And thanks to Steve Small and all the students and teachers at A.R.T.
Now that school has ended, college graduates are ready to take on the world and take on a new job. Negotiating a salary - in particular your first salary - is a complicated task, and Dick Nodell offers some wisdom.
Being an intern is an exciting (or, for some, scary!) step from college into the world of becoming a "real person" with a real job. What is the most important work one can do as an intern? And how might it lead to something that pays? In this conversation, Dick Nodell explores the work mystery of what it means to be an Intern.
Photographer Joel Meyerowitz and writer Maggie Barrett talk about their life together, and their collaboration on their new book Provence: A Lasting Impression. Their honesty, about the pleasures and challenges of their creative partnership in life and in art, is an inspiration.
In Today's Work Mystery, Dick Nodell talks about the Spark conversation with Maggie Barrett and Joel Meyerowitz. He notes the vibrant creative connection the two have in the way they talk about their work and their life together, and offers a couple of ideas about how to revitalize a relationship.
Ed Zimmerman is a lawyer who specializes in tech deals. He's happiest in gatherings where he's the host, so for many years he's organized conferences and workshops for entrepreneurs and venture capitalists so they can get to know each other, and he can get to know them. Ed came up to me at TED right after I'd given my talk, and invited me to one of these meetings, where I got to see up close the informal and engaging way he gets people to talk about what they do. I was interested in how he chose this kind of work, and in talking with him found that the answer is complicated and fascinating, and that part of it comes directly from his father. Here's the entire interview, which is full of Ed's humor and generosity.
On my way home from recording with Dick Nodell in Connecticut, I stopped to listen to these tiny frogs sing their desire on a spring night.
In social situations and at work -- and maybe especially at social situations that are work! -- it's not uncommon to face an uncomfortable situation (like being mistaken for a waitress at a gathering of CEOs when you're one of them!). In this episode of Work Mysteries, Dick Nodell offers some intriguing ways to turn an uncomfortable situation into a powerful interaction, as well as thoughts about how to create a public persona that's true to who you are.
With the money she'd saved from babysitting jobs and a sewing machine her parents gave her for her birthday, Liz Forkin Bohannon began Sseko Sandals, a company in Uganda where women earn the money they need to go to university.
Liz Forkin Bohannon was just named as a finalist in Cartier's Women's Initiative Awards. Liz was my first interview for Pursuit of Spark, here's her delightful and inspiring story.
Right after college, Liz went to Uganda to work for the Cornerstone Leadership Academy. She fell in love with the students, who came from poor families, and asked the school's founder what she could do for them once she returned to the US. He asked her to figure out a way to help young women earn the money to go on to college.
Liz's first idea was a chicken farm -- and we're lucky she quickly abandoned that concept and moved on to create sandals that could be made in Uganda and worn by women all over the U.S.
Lucy is a newlywed with a big new job -- and her husband is getting a bit miffed that when she's home, it seems like a part of her is still at work. Daily Juggle's leadership coach Dick Nodell has some great ideas for how to keep the passion going both at home and at work.
September has begun -- and the required lists of school supplies from teachers can be daunting. Daily Juggle's Julie Burstein sits down with Diane Thomson of Creative Organizing to get suggestions for a system that will let your middle or high school student get ready and stay organized throughout the year. Diane's emphasis is to SIMPLIFY! Here's our conversation.
September has begun -- and the required lists of school supplies from teachers can be daunting. Diane Thomson of Creative Organizing has some suggestions for a system that will let your middle or high school student get ready and stay organized throughout the year, and her emphasis is to SIMPLIFY! Here's our conversation.