Today I’m tickled to be visiting over at Dian Reid’s place, talking about summertime and bats flying the belfry and all that. So what say you just bop on over and pull up a chair?
Category: Blog (Page 39 of 101)
News of The 70273 Project with a side of Jeanne’s Barefoot Heart
Putting things off is part of my process.
When I write, I transcribe the voices. When i stitch, I spend time deconstructing the image pinned to my imaginary design wall to see how it’s done and where to start. I’m not talking about that – that’s part of the process. But I’ll tell you the flat-out truth: I do procrastinate when it comes time to do something I don’t want to do.
Like, oh I don’t know, maybe CREATING BIAS STRIPS. I put that off as long as I could, but we have company coming for supper tonight, so I need to move forward and clear the table so we have a place to eat.
Don’t think I didn’t consider using tv trays, though.
For two nights I read about how to create bias binding. I did my (dreaded) calculations, but today when I took a deep breath and started, I never could get the square cut. It’s a spatial concept, you see, and I don’t do those well.
Just like I can’t do a lot of things in yoga on account of I have short arms.
I have only a finite amount of fabric (that was purchased in another state, mind you), so it really didn’t take me all that long to hit the Pffffft Point and just started cutting. Oh sure, I cut at a 45-degree angle and all that, but the instructions from Those Who Know About This Kind Of Thing say I should have little bitty points where I join 2 strips together.
Well, I didn’t. I had big points. Big, I tell you. If I covered the tip end of those points with a little bit of wadded up tin foil and sat the whole thing on top of the tv, I’d probably get much better reception. And you know what? I’m fine with that because while I may never make an A in bias, and while my bias points may be larger than your bias points (which may or may not be a metaphor.) (I’m from The South, so I’m used to being told that I have big biases.) (Mostly from folks who’ve never even driven through here.) (But we’ll talk about that later.), I still got the job done.
And I only have to do it two more times. (Hint: this is not a cause for celebration.)
I tell you one thing, thought: if I never have to deal with bias again, I’ll die happy . . . which may or may not be another metaphor.
i’ve been down the mountain for a few days, helping my mother and daughter with a few things and tending to some business. there’s never much time for editing or stitching when i’m down there, (not much time for journaling or even thinking either, for that matter), but i did manage to sneak in a quick – and i do mean quick – trip to the fabric store where i found a few pieces that will be just what i need (at least i think i need at this point) to finish out In Our Own Language, set 2. i’m counting that short-lived shopping spree as forward motion.
Doctor says she still thinks this second round of sinus infection, complete with ear infection, stems from that knock up side the head I got in Denver about a month ago. I don’t know, just hope this antibiotic works and works fast. Takes 1.5 hours each way to get to/from the doctor’s office now that we live on top of the mountain. Curvy, mountainous roads, you know. That’s almost half day just in travel time.
Spent the afternoon baking a cake and cooking The Birthday Boy Andy’s favorite foods for supper. The cake doesn’t look like much, but you know these that fall out of the pan in clumps taste the best.
All that left precious little time to hold a needle and thread, and as usual, I bump into things I hadn’t thought about. This time it’s wanting what is now the top side of the work-in-progress to be the backside of the finished piece. So I treated it like I take pound cakes out of the pan: put another piece of fabric on top, then basted the doilies down. Will turn it over, clip basting threads, stitch doilies in place, then add Nancy’s set 2 drawings on top. There’s got to be a less time-consuming way, but it hasn’t come to me yet, and I don’t have time to wait.
It’s times like this I wonder why I can’t be content to just sit and read books.
Today is Nancy’s birthday. We called her, but Nancy never has quite mastered (or bothered) with telephones. She does, however, like postcards, so perhaps you’d like to send her one every now ‘n then? I probably should mention that it’s an exercise in letting go to send her a postcard because somebody has to deliver it to her, read it to her, and tuck it away somewhere, and that’s a lot of hands that might get busy or distracted or just never get around to it. When I go visit, I seldom see any of my cards, but who knows why, so I just say Whatever and hope that somehow in the inexplicable magic that connects us, Nancy knows I’m thinking about her when I select, write, and mail the postcard.
If you feel like it, send postcards to Nancy Chambers/Gatlin Cottage/Duvall Presbyterian Home/POB 220036/Glenwood, FL 32722-0036. And hey, thank you.
Tonight my niece Betsey, along with her mom, dad, sister, and brother-in-law, will participate in the Out of Darkness Walk, an event sponsored by American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Beginning at sunset, they will walk 18 miles or so through the streets of Washington, D. C., crossing the finish line about the time the sun rises tomorrow.
. . . The sun rises tomorrow. If I had a magic wand, I’d make sure every single soul has at least that much hope . . .
In November 2010, Betsey got home from work to find that her boyfriend Nick had committed suicide. Mourning for Nick was woven in with concern for Betsey, of course, and how she would go forward. Of course she’ll never be the same – survivors never are. But you’ll be happy to hear that she’s good and getting on with her own life. She continues to accept the support of her family and friends, practice good and unapologetic self care, and now gives support by sharing her experience and knowledge with other survivors. She is amazing, my niece, absolutely amazing, and I love her more than I can count.
I am with them in spirit tonight, members of the Chambers, D’Angelo, Okuliar Team (I’ve already volunteered to come up with next year’s team name) and all the other (perhaps more creatively named) teams. I won’t be walking through the (hopefully well lit) streets of D. C. tonight, but I’m here, with my journal and my needle and thread, lighting a candle in memory of those who could conceive of no other way to deal with the situations, problems, demons, thoughts, people that tormented them relentlessly.
And in honor of the loved ones who are left wondering and wounded by a grief that never goes completely away. Those who curl into fetal positions and weep, sometimes raising fists to the sky, and always, always, always wondering what they could have done to assure their loved ones that nothing is ever that awful or that insurmountable, to convince the loved ones that there’s nothing they can’t get through together. For survivors, the “how” is often immediately obvious, it’s the “why” that plagues them without end. Even if there’s a note, even if there have been indications, even if, even if, even if . . . they never find The Answer that makes sense, that would leave them incredibly sad but understanding. I honor those whose lives are forever changed.
My candle also burns in honor of someone I deeply, hugely, gloriously love who once saw only darkness, who took steps to end that darkness, and who didn’t “succeed”. I honor my loved one and all the others, for that matter, who are brave enough – and hear me on this: it takes a tremendous amount of stamina, determination, and flat-out courage to ask for an ear or a shoulder or whatever else they need to get through any given day. If you’re reading this, I want to thank you for staying, even though I know it’s not an easy thing some days. I know it’s not about me, and I admit my selfishness when I say that despite the fact that you still have the power to drive me crazy with frustration and concern, you also have the power to delight and tickle me . . . and creative as I am, I can’t imagine stepping out into a single day that didn’t have you in it. Thank you for for reaching out when you need to, for making the effort, and for allowing yourself to feel laughter and lightness on occasion, even when the darkness is more familiar.
While others lace their shoes and walk, I sit here in my bare feet beside the candle that’s already burning in memory of those who saw no other way, in support of those who love and survive them, and in honor of those who continue to find just enough light to hold onto.
As we find our way around this big rock called Earth, as we ride on the magic carpet ride called Life, may we all be more gentle with each other than fussy; may we replace the arrogance and condescension with acceptance and (at least an attempt at) understanding. When we find ourselves feeling scared or lost or confused or desperately sad or hopelessly depressed, may we dig deep and find enough strength (a.k.a. dregs of self love) in our vulnerability to ask for help, and if we’re the ones asked, may we check judgment and disgust and to do list at the door and respond with tenderness and patience. May we listen more than we speak, hold hands when the words won’t come, and may our loving concern seep and shine through every pore. Amen.
There are so many things I want to do, create. I have a sketchbook with designs for more than 52 more cloths, a number that is probably low by comparison to others who’ve been doing this longer. It’s easy to take the small pieces with me, Nancy’s drawings pinned to pieces of cloth that I can whip out and stitch wherever I find myself. I have a little bag – my American Express, I call it – that goes with me everywhere I go – I even stitch in the car as we scoot around. But I feel perpetually behind, almost breathless in my desire to get cloths done – a feeling I don’t like one little bit. As I see it, I have 2 options: keep stitching or stop. And stopping is just not an option. Getting up earlier might be, though.
p.s.:
Did I show you my needle case? It’s a felt doll jacket I found in an antique store a while back, and it makes me smile every time.
I know we’re supposed to live in the present, period. Not supposed to look back, not supposed to look ahead. Well, pfffft to that. I love anticipation, love to look forward to something. And I have a nostalgic streak in me about a mile wide. I love to remember when . . .
Today I got to thinking about telephones. Mother worked for the local board of education, Daddy designed and built golf courses and was quite active in politics. I am the oldest of three siblings, and yet despite all that community and civic involvement and popularity, we had one phone. That’s right: one single solitary phone. In the house, I’m telling you. One telephone to be shared by five people. It was a white wall-mounted phone with a curly cord long enough for me to take the receiver into the living room where I could talk in what amounted to the only privacy anybody could find in the confines of that house.
We didn’t have options for phone service – for the set monthly price, you got to make and receive local calls. Long distance calls had to be placed collect (as when letting my parents know that I, their college coed, had arrived safety back on campus, for example. Funny how they never – not once – accepted charges.) or it was charged to your monthly bill. We didn’t have caller id or call waiting or voicemail. Not even answering machines. If somebody called while one of us was on the phone, they just got a busy signal and had to call back.
Busy signals is what I was really thinking about today, if you want to know the truth. That dreaded beep-beep-beep sound that lets you know the person you desperately want or need to talk to is unavailable. And of course all phones were landlines – we didn’t have mobile phones or even phones that were wired into our cars. When we were out traveling and something happened – like, well for the sake of story, let’s say we ran off the road and into a ditch – somebody would happen by and help. In this particular instance – I mean story – somebody happened by on a tractor, pulled out my green Mustang, and promised faithfully to never, ever mention this to my parents.
My first car only had am radio – which was fine by me. I was just tickled to get a car, period. I think it cost $1260, this 1970 green metallic Mustang, but Daddy was friends with the car dealer, so I trust he got at least a bit of a discount.
But back to phones . . . as a sophomore in college, I attended what is now called North Georgia College and State University. Yup, it’s a mouthful. We had a bank of phones on the hall – 3 campus phones and 2 long distance phones on each floor. Folks would call into the central reception desk in the lobby, and whoever was on duty would direct the calls to the floor on which we resided then page us over the loud speaker and direct us to go take the call.
When I met my husband, I didn’t know his last name. (It’s a long story.) (I’ll tell you later.) It was definitely a case of smitten at first sight, but when folks asked his name, call I could say was “Andy” then talk fast so they would hopefully not think it odd that, well, you know. We met on a Saturday night, and apparently I made a good impression because he called me the following Tuesday to ask me to go to a hockey game with him. “Jeanne Hewell – long distance. Jeanne Hewell – long distance.” came the page, which I like to think I would’ve somehow magically heard even were I not sitting – I mean studying – in room 319 Lewis. Because he was calling long distance, the conversation went something like this:
Him: “This is Andy. You wanna’ go to the hockey game Thursday night?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Him: “Okay, good.”
Click.
Must have cost him the better part of a dime.
I did eventually learn his last name (when he introduced himself to my brother that same weekend), and I’d be happy to tell you the point of this post if only I knew what it is.
A few weeks ago, we were in Denver visiting my son, and who can go to Denver without visiting The Tattered Cover book store? Not me. Got two treasures there, both on the half-priced-because-they’re-used rack. One is a coffee table book titled Quilts in Everyday Life, 1855-1955: A 100-Year Photographic History, and its 192 pages contain the author’s collection of antique photos depicting quilts in some way.
Usually the quilts are backdrops for the photo,
but sometimes there’s a photo of a woman stitching a quilt block.
The author, Janet E. Finley – former president of the Rocky Mountain Quilt Museum (a place you can bet I’ll visit on my next visit) – adds to the visual enjoyment of the book by adding 1-2 paragraphs about each photo. It’s quite satisfying to see quilts portrayed in such a major, meaningful, and historical way. Nobody would have to twist my arm to convince me to replace collecting doilies with collecting these old photos that shine the spotlight on the importance of quilts during that time in our history. and it points to the importance of quilts.
Back in the day, my grandmother made quilts for each of her children and grandchildren. I can remember my mother using our quilts to protect furniture when we moved and to provide something to sit on at the beach and to protect her backseat from our wet swimsuits. Everyday use, I suppose.
** A note that seems important: I don’t make any money from these links. Not a penny.
“There are years that ask questions and years that answer.”
Zora Neale Hurston
At long last, I’m reconciling with prayer. For so long, I’ve avoided thinking about it altogether, avoiding it like the plague, actually. Probably has something to do with the missionary telling the young teenage me about the man who came into her storefront church and how when she called on him to lead the prayer, he stood up and with his eyes kept open, spread his arms wide and said something like “Hey God, it’s me, James” then just started having a conversation. Having grown up in the world of men (and only select, special men, mind you) leading us in prayer “with every head bowed and every eye closed,” this story was a breath of fresh air. The missionary, however, was absolutely appalled and said she cut him off mid-prayer and asked him to leave. Banished.
Now, Sugar, you need to know that I love being a Southerner, but as a woman living in the proverbial Bible Belt, it’s dangerous to use words like “prayer” lest they confirm the stereotype (that in my case, is not true) and get the dreaded label attached to your forehead. It’s something that’s hard to wash off.
So yes, prayer and I became estranged a long, long time ago. But then one day recently, I sent a letter to prayer by way of my journal and asked Couldn’t walking be a prayer? Yes, came the answer. And Do we have to call on men to lead us in prayer? First there was a chuckle, then a sigh, and finally a No, absolutely not. Anybody can pray, anybody at all.
After a while, my intense dislike of prayer began to wane, and I came to decide that among other things, prayer is a way to give the brain a vacation . . . or at least a day off. Seems to me that prayer is paying such close attention to Small Things that you can’t help but feel Something Big.
We’re not completely There yet, prayer and I, but we’re working on it.
PRAYER IN MY BOOT
For the wind no one expected
For the boy who does not know the answer
For the graceful handle I found in a field
attached to nothing
pray it is universally applicable
For our tracks which disappear
the moment we leave them
For the face peering through the cafe window
as we sip our soup
For cheerful American classrooms sparkling
with crisp colored alphabets
happy cat posters
the cage of the guinea pig
the dog with division flying out of his tail
and the classrooms of our cousins
on the other side of the earth
how solemn they are
how gray or green or plain
how there is nothing dangling
nothing striped or polka-dotted or cheery
no self-portraits or visions of cupids
and in these rooms the students raise their hands
and learn the stories of the world
For library books in alphabetical order
and family businesses that failed
and the house with the boarded windows
and the gap in the middle of a sentence
and the envelope we keep mailing ourselves
For every hopeful morning given and given
and every future rough edge
and every afternoon
turning over in its sleep
says Naomi Shihab Nye
Amen
says me.
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integrity
This work by Jeanne Hewell-Chambers is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at http://www.TheBarefootHeart.com.
here ‘n there