Well, todays the Big Game.  A million wives, and probably even a few husbands, will be “widowed” for the afternoon by the Super Bowl. In the Northwest the statistics might even get worse with the Seahawks vying for their first Super Bowl win.

Michael never has to worry about me abandoning him for a sporting event, but willow, that’s another story. A few years ago I took the car and left him behind for a 400 mile trip to Christina Lake, British Columbia and Bluestem Nursery which grows and sells grasses, and willows. Michael’s not that interested in willows so I didn’t feel bad and he didn’t either, I guess. This weekend I took the car again to head up to Marysville, Washington, a quick one-hour jaunt north of here, to visit a different sort of willowy place, The Fishsticks Basketry School, and Bouquet Banque Nursery.

I met with willow growers and master basket makers Judy Zuglish and Bill Roeder. I got a first hand look into the world of willow basket making, from the ground up. They grow, harvest, cure and process in anyway necessary willow osiers for making their art. And art it is. Basket weaving has been cheapened by the importation of quickly made baskets from other parts of the world. But these two keep basketry alive and vital in their teaching as well as their baskets of fine rare beauty.

I love willows, as you know; no questions asked, no explanations necessary. So seeing its usefulness, an ancient usefulness I might add, engaged in the modern world made me happy. What better time to celebrate the willow then yesterday the Feast of St. Brigit, or Imbolc, devoted to the Celtic Goddess Brigid, both goddess and saint were patrons of artisans and craftsmen. And the willow is the tree associated with them and the beginning of spring, said to start on the first day of February.

So I celebrate the willow and the coming of spring with a few photos from my visit to that willowy place in Marysville, yesterday.

The ancient and continued winter harvest of willow.

Wonderful colors of willow twigs.

Rolls of willow bark in the studio at Fishsticks Basketry School.

The beginnings of an intricate willow basket by Bill Roeder. One of his skeined willow baskets was recently bought by the Smithsonian Institute.

The beautifully rustic interior of Judy Zuglish’s willow bark baskets feel like some place to nest , to feel at home, humble and exquisite.

“ His is the perfect strollers psychology. To his eye, everything is equal, to his heart, everything is fresh and astonishing; to his mind, everything presents a pleasant puzzle. Diversion is his principle direction, whim his master, the serendipitous the substance of his daily routine”

William Gass on Robert Walser

I’m getting walking back into my weekly routine. I used to only walk, or ride a bike, or a bus or train.  I came late to car-ownership, and commuting to work. Now that I live in the country I find I have to drive more and more to get what I need or to where I need to go.  Now that winter is here and work has slowed down for me, both out there in the world and here at the farm, I find I have time for long languorous walks some days.

The other day I was walking back home from Tolt MacDonald Park —it covers a beautiful bit of the Snoqualmie River basin and the bluffs above it—when I realized how nice it was to just wander mindlessly.  Dan Hurley the author of “Smarter: The New Science of Building Brain Power” writes “ One of the most surprising findings of recent mindfulness studies is that it could actually have unwanted side effects. Raising roadblocks to the mind’s peregrinations could, after all, prevent the very sort of mental vacations that lead to epiphanies.”

Though I am not always mindful, I do have a very full mind, busy with nonsense and survival both. A chance to flush what is often just noisy garbage rarely arrives while I am busy with those very things needing doing. But when I walk…

I walk slowly; always have; often to the disapproval of others. My mother used to call me “Pokey-Joe”. And any of my hiking friends always dread my innate ability to spot the tiniest blooming or creeping thing and stop to look at it. Goal is not why I walk necessarily. I walk to walk. I like the way my mind calms above the rhythm of my steps. I like discovering things, even old broken things. Or buds. Or bugs. Or blooms, if the season sees fits.  Even litter has a strange fascination for me. I love to say hello to fellow walkers, or pat a passing dog on the head. I wish I could remember to walk everyday, or make time to. Nothing pleases me more than to amble. I am a true disciple of Robert Walser.

I know one woman who was planning to walk across the state of Washington. Not hike, she said, but walk. She had set daily goals. And a final destination for the walk. I wonder if she ever did it. I lost track… maybe she just walked off somewhere and never came back.

I could see doing that.

Actually my retirement plans are to walk. Not from here to eternity… though I guess eventually all the walking will wind me up there. Just walk for the pleasure of it. To have that slow amble finally as the primary focus of my life, not as an antidote to my life. Sometimes I imagine myself like an Eskimo, so mindful as to know his end time, and wander off on my final walk and never return back home.

These are morbid thoughts to most.

But I’d rather not be driving at breakneck speeds when I finally come to a halt. I want to see every detail of the transition; and the time to practice is now.

Though I usually forego resolutions I do set hopes and I hope I will walk more this year than I have in years. I hope I will find time during the coming busy seasons to walk, weekly, even daily. I hope to write about it and post some of those writings here.

And some of the serendipitous photos of my peregrinations…