The Circle of Life: On the Bird's Wing...

My  grandmother, a beautiful and quiet woman of resolute will and refined grace, would wait every morning by her kitchen window for Spencer. And every morning he came. If, perchance, he were late, she would move through the kitchen to the pantry and out the garage to the front yard, and she would call in her sweet Southern drawl "Spennnnccerrr..." only to be followed by a perfect bird's whistling. Something I could never do. Within minutes the bird would answer back, and all would be well.

For years this went on. I do not remember how Spencer got his name, nor do I remember exactly what Spencer was. A sparrow, warbler, blue bird? He was one of the many joys of her life -- a life smoothed on the edges with constancy, delighted in by discovery, and brightened by beauty. She loved her roses, freshly cut from her own garden. She lived by her pink lipstick. And graced herself with gifted jewelry, never garishly, which was almost always lovingly, passed on, doled out in secret trysts in the hallway.

Grandmother Hazel has flown. And we all know she is flying high. But her legacy circles around us in a ring of love, a circle of life. In my own discovery, I found this beautiful, vintage gold and diamond circle brooch with birds playfully in flight by the famed Italian jewelry designer Duke Fulco di Verdura, he himself deeply influenced by his own grandmother growing up in Sicily. I know Miss Hazel would wear it oh so proudly.

Designed as three birds in flight forming a circle, with beautifully chased gold wings, diamond-set heads and tails, further accented with ruby eyes, signed VERDURA, mounted in 14kt gold, double pin clip back with safety catch, circa 1953. Accompanied by original vintage turquoise Verdura cloth case stamped 712 Fifth Avenue. Courtesy of Neil Marrs.

The Flight Path

We speak of being grounded as a good thing, a stability, a force that keeps us centered. Yet don't we all long for flight? The lift -- off and out. The ascent, the fight, the climb. The hope to attain a leveling out, but with a view. Perspective anew. And with moments of grace, too?

Fluidity and force.

It's a fight to defy our fundamental law of physics.

If even for temporary moments, it promises transformation. It lifts us, flight. Releases us from the weight of grounded gravity. If not, then why do we look to the skies for hope? The bird's wing. So fine and feathered, hollowed, patterned and layered, yet so structured, strong with one sole purpose... To fill with breath and lightness to soar.

This bird's wing is made of polished aluminum (Al), a fundamental element (metal), noted for its light weight and non-toxic, non-magnetic and non-sparking properties. It's abundant in the earth's crust but interestingly not found in its free form in nature.

"Bird in Flight" 1960's abstract sculpture in polished aluminum, www.flairhomecollection.com

Summer Break -- What of a Dovecote?

Summer has flown in, fast and hot and almost unnoticed, like the Mourning Dove who makes her nest under our nose, quiet except for her cooing. Given the 4th of July is just behind us, I thought of taking a little "independence" from the standard fare.

Somehow this Italian, 18th-century limestone Dovecote from Roarke Antiques in East Hampton caught my eye, if not simply for the deliberate intent of the carving to house such a simple yet symbolic bird. As a universal symbol of peace, she's a statement of transformative grace, and seemed to be ever-present during my latest flight from town.

Imagine this dovecote in a beautiful open room, perched on a French side table, beside it, a book opened to a passage by Eudora Welty, offering a literary juxtaposition of the hard and soft:

"It was July when Jenny left The Landing. The grass was tall and gently ticking between the tracks of the road. The stupor of the air, the quiet river that now went behind a veil, the sheen of heat and the gray sheen of summering trees, and the silence of the day and night seemed all to touch, to bathe and administer to The Landing. The little town took a languor and a kind of beauty from the treatment of time and place. It stretched and swooned...

Pears lying on the ground warmed and soured, bees gathered at the figs, birds put their little holes of possession in each single fruit in the world that they could fly to. The scent of lilies rolled sweetly from their heavy cornucopias and trickled down by shady paths to fill the golden air of the valley. The mourning dove called its three notes, kept its short silence--which was its mourning?--and called three more." -- Eudora Welty, The Landing