Moye's gift

to me is so beautiful that it's worthy of a post all its own. Moye (pronounced like toy but with an m) is one of my oldest friends -- and that's not because she is old but because I've known her and been friends with her for almost 35 years (O.K., so maybe we're old, too).  Moye played Scrabble with me as I sat in a hospital bed, having contractions. She was the first person whom I loved other than The Husband to see Sophie when she was born. She is Sophie's godmother, and when she gave birth to her daughter Claire, I received the honor of being her godmother. Moye is one of the most beautiful, talented women I've ever known -- a gifted writer, incredibly funny and sweet, sweet, sweet. She is also an extraordinary ceramist and potter. Her beautiful pottery graces every nook and cranny in my house; I eat cereal from her bowls, place flowers in her vases and otherwise live and look at her gorgeous art every day. You can see it HERE.


A while back I shared a poem with Moye that I'd read somewhere and that I knew she would love.

Here's the poem:

The Patience of Ordinary Things


It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they're supposed to be.
I've been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

--Pat Schneider


Here's what Moye made me:

Thank you, Moye! I love you --