Redstone, Colorado in Winter

There was yoga (Susan, our esteemed teacher practitioner)

At the ice skating rink, skates ready for fun

 Chrome Hubcap Sculpture in front of Redstone Inn (by O. Louis Wille, obituary here)

A few of the group

Initial Writing Exercise

Directives given in first assignment:

Think of an object

What is its shape?  What is its texture? What color is it?  What does the object evoke in you?

Write about this object.  Timed for thirty minutes maximum.

Green Man on the Shed Door

He lives on in the cold January exterior.  His face is a yard wide, painted on rough cedar planking in acrylics of burnt sienna, thalo green, color of lemons and limes interwoven in the giant leaves of his face.  Stark black outlines his wreath of greenery making up his features.  Green Man's wide mouth, though worn down and made more faint by five harsh summer sunbeams and the like number of winters and cold rains coming down on his weathered cheeks, is nonetheless visible in a malevolent moue. His brows are painted veins of leaves twined between foliage.

Frozen boards below him are stiff with winter chill and the skiff of ice on the shed entranceway gives warning of careful entry into his kingdom of plastic chairs and worn pots.  He guards entrance to the lawnmower, now stiff from disuse, with his silent stare.  Guardian of the tool shed, he is a symbol of earth, of all things green and growing.  He is a mystical creature, a keen observer of creatures moving in the garden, animals gambling on the lawn.  In day, his countenance is obvious, but at night, he keeps close count of stealthy foxes and raccoons, always on the lookout for night creatures of mice skittering through tall buffalo grass.

The Green Man smiles, at least his painted-on moue perhaps grimaces at some unknown secret not yet revealed.  Maybe he is contemplating his future of soon-to-be warm days when perhaps yet even more undiscovered observations will occur under his benevolent, hooded eyes.

Is that smile on his face?  Or maybe it is I who sees a generous future harvest of wild flowers, showy zinnias, blue iris, herbs, all welcoming a much anticipated spring, and his face is reflecting my wishful gardening thoughts.

Writers Weekend Coming Up

Tomorrow and over the weekend fifteen women will be attending a writing workshop in the mountain of Colorado at the Redstone Inn, a quaint hotel originally built as a boarding house for coal and marble miners at the turn of the nineteenth century. I am delighted to be included in this group of women.

One of our readings in preparation of the workshop, in case you might want to take a further look at an author with whom you might be unfamiliar, is entitled The Tiger in the Grass by Harriet Doerr.   Born in 1910, Doerr began writing at the age of 67 and made a splash of a debut with her novel Stones of Ibarra at the age of 74.

excerpted from The Tiger in the Grass:

Updating information from the workshop next week.,,