+ Her Barefoot Heart
News of The 70273 Project with a side of Jeanne’s Barefoot Heart
today is not the day to
point fingers
at world leaders.
today is not the day to
vilify countries
because of the
differences in
cultural norms
or
religious beliefs
or even
crimes against humanity.
today is not the day to
debate
the pros and cons
of war.
today is the day
when we simply
say
“thank you.”
and to all the veterans
i know
and to all the veterans
i’ve never had
and will never have
the honor of meeting,
i do thank you.
deeply,
thoroughly,
sincerely.
sometimes
maybe we can make
a silk purse from a sow’s ear.
sometimes we have to at least
try
because the alternative is
unfathomable,
unbearable.
it’s
resourcefulness
and
resiliency,
this spirit of
making do
of
mending
of
carrying on.
it’s creativity.
it’s mettle.
and in the end
it may not be
silk,
but it’s still
a little pocket
into which we
slip
the important
things,
nuggets
we
need to carry around
and keep close
for at least
a little while.
When we moved last spring, merging the contents of a 5,000 square foot house into an already-furnished 3,000 square foot second home, a lot of things went up for adoption.
A lot.
But there were several things that simply have too much emotional and sentimental value for me to let go of completely. when it came to certain treasures, I just couldn’t do it. I know they’re just things. I know I’m supposed to be unattached. I know it’s just more to dust – but let’s face it: I’m just not that evolved as a woman.
I’m just not.
In no particular order, let me introduce you to some of my treasures:
The basket I purchased at the animal shelter fundraiser. It was made by a local woman, and it was love at first sight. Right now it holds shards to a pot gone bad, but soon enough it will go back to being the prayer vessel – where I put the daily prayers once I’ve written them on pretty paper.
The pottery piece turned candle dish that Andy and Kipp bought me while on a father/son bonding trip.
The little ceramic piece that captured my heart last year at the Storytelling Festival, the piece that rather represented the theme of a year past.
There’s the Christmas Cactus that my brother-in-law gave me when my Daddy died in December 2000. It had gotten so big, and when we moved up here, I put it out on the deck so it could enjoy some fresh air and sunshine which I tried to find a place to put it – it had gotten so big then one day along came a stiff wind and blew it into the falls. I wasn’t home, but my loving husband ventured out and picked up the few little pieces that didn’t make it into the water, and now we start again . . . with the plant, not the memories.
There’s this little doll-size party dress in a chipped frame that just makes my heart smile. I haven’t slowed down long enough to figure out why that is.
There’s this fairy cuddling a dragon whilst sitting atop a glass ball. My daughter and I saw these in a convenience store when we stopped for fuel on a trip to Hilton Head several years ago. Oh my goodness, how we laughed.
There’s the egg painting I saw when spending a delightful day in Fairhope, Alabama with my mother last year. Even though my bones told me to snag it that day, I didn’t – didn’t even get the name of the gallery. But when I couldn’t get it out of my mind after coming home, I tracked it down, whipped out the ole’ credit card, and within 10 days, it was hanging in my studio.
There’s the glass nib, a surprise gift from my son when we were visiting Hawaii several years ago. Oh how I enjoy using it.
This basket made from okra and cotton and such sat on the floor under a display in the gallery. It was marked half price, this beauty named Mother and Child, but I would’ve paid full price.
I call this an oddity, and it reminds me to wonder.
This piece, another gift from my son, is – like so many people I run into – prickly on the outside and filled with the sweetness of candy on the inside.
When my son brought his girlfriend home last July, we bopped into one of my favorite shops in Asheville but not before saying “Keep your eyes peeled for a red phone with a curly cord.” I had one in my hands within 7 minutes, and one day, I’m gonna’ show you why I wanted it so badly.
And when I do show you, I’ll also be using what’s inside here:
This:
makes me smile.
There are my stones
and the impractical pot my nephew Drew made for me – pure, unadulterated fun:
and the print I call Blue Girl Reading that I found on a trip I took with my daughter:
to name a few.
But here’s the problem . . . right now, they are just lined up atop the two cabinets I pulled into service when I surrendered my downstairs studio to hubs when we moved here full time lsat spring, sprinkling myself into every nook and cranny upstairs.
I’m a minimalist – I like space. And I like my treasures because they inspire and delight me, but right now, they are just clutter. Seeing clear horizontal surfaces and visible baseboards calms me, representing space for possibilities and creativity. Breathing space. The clutter coupled with the brown cabinets – brown is a color that for reasons I can’t explain, deflates me, well, something must be done. So my daughter (who’s so blazingly creative) and I put our heads together this afternoon and hatched some possible remedies. Stay tuned . . . we’ll be done by the time company comes for Thanksgiving.
Or bust.
the images appear
and i birth
them in cloth.
though i seldom
know what
at the outset,
the cloth>
always
has something
to tell me.
i thought this one
indicated
a type of
dual existence,
an inside/outside
life.
i thought
the straight
light green lines
along each edge,
indicated
putting one foot
in front of the other,
appearing
to the world
as normal,
sane,
all right.
the colorful
scattered stitches
represented
inner
chaos.
i thought it
was a
self portrait,
if you want to
know the truth.
but today,
as i sorted
and sifted
and began
to ready
myself
and our home
for
thanksgiving upcoming,
today
when my brain
thought it was
okay to
doze off,
my eyes
fell upon
this photo
i took months ago
while on a
walk.
and i wonder.
no,
actually i don’t
wonder
at all.
once again
i am reminded
that there is
no one
single
way.
this year
i discovered
dahlias.
discovered,
more specifically,
that i can grow them.
i also discovered
instagr.am
and fell flat out
in love
with photography,
realizing
what a visual
person i am.
and how i take
pictures
the way i present
myself in life:
only a wee little
bit at a time.
perceived safety and all.
we’ll talk more about that
later.
i discovered
sunflowers this year, too.
oh, i knew sunflowers
from way back.
in graduate school,
i’d trek up to stowe
for some good wine,
good chocolate,
and roadside
sunflowers,
sold on the
honor system.
but this year,
thanks to the
help of my
camera
(iphone 4, no less)
i came to
know both
dahlias and sunflowers
in a different,
more intimate way,
much as jane kenyon
came to know
peonies . . .
In the darkening June evening
I draw a blossom near, and bending close
search it as a woman searches
a loved one’s face.
sunflowers,
like so many people i’ve been honored to know,
age
and eventually die
with grace.
something you’re
bound to see
if you don’t just gaze
or look
or glimpse
but see,
deeply,
lovingly
see.
at first glance,
it’s obvious she belongs to
the Sunflower family.
the family resemblance is obvious.
those yellow petals
shining brightly
from the dark center
of seeds.
future generations of Sunflowers.
but sit with her,
take a while to get to know her,
and you’ll see that
while yes,
she is a Sunflower,
she is more
than who she’s related to,
more than the
geography
from which she
comes.
so much more.
and maybe
not at all
what you
thought she was
when you knew her
only as a Sunflower.
“The muse is the muse in our life. It’s the very creative spirit that we ourselves are. As if our soul came here for a purpose, in order to manifest something on this earth. The muse is that thing wanting to be manifest. The muse is that creative spirit, that voice that’s eager to be spoken through us. The sound that’s eager to be heard through our creations. That’s the muse. Often what we get as a gift from the muse is the little seed to the bigger thing. The muse will not present us with the whole piece. The muse gives us the beginning – a phrase, a line, a title, a chord. So to be open to the gifts of the muse is to be open to the creative voice that’s trying to speak itself through us. Once we open ourselves to that creative voice, we open ourselves to vast amounts of light. To vast and profound reflections, to amazing healing because that’s us making contact with our own soul. With universal mind. With the oneness we’re all part of.” ~ Jan Phillips
cloth is my muse.
thread
needle
knots
softly raveled
unfinished edges.
i love them each.
i love them all.
maybe it’s inherited, my love for cloth.
my great grandmother took in sewing to put food on her table. and when she wasn’t sewing for money, she sewed for love, making me a dress for my baby doll.
my grandmother made quilts, piecing together any scraps of fabric she could save, swap, or barter for.
my mother sewed, too. her patterns are some of my most treasured possessions. i remember her wooden thread box filled with colorful tangles. i remember her sitting at the sewing machine on october 30, frantically finishing up our halloween costumes. i remember the green wrap-around dress with big pockets, big buttons, and white trim.
i’ve sewn and quilted and smocked for my daughter and yes, for my son, too. i’ve embroidered and embellished, done needlepoint and cross stitch and a host of other things involving needle and thread. i’ve marked special occasions with cloth, turned milestones with cloth, committed special events to memory with cloth.
when i stitch, i entertain a host of visitors: thoughts, ideas, conjurings i wish would become permanent residents. several years ago, i hatched this idea for a book as i stitched, then like the cloth i was working on at the time, i set the idea aside, thinking i’d get back to it one day.
well, one day has arrived.
i’ve started a new blog. it’s called Writing Cloth and there, with the help of my cloth, i’m writing that story. i see these images – sometimes they just appear in a whoosh, a flash – then i stitch them into being. and as i stitch (or sometimes after they’re completed) they tell me about the story, about the people who live in the story, about where to go next with the story.
the cloth tells the story.
and sometimes when i get stuck, i ask for help, turning parts of the journey into collaborative creativity for those interested in participating. prefer to just watch and read along? that’s fine – no pressure, just an invitation you’re free to accept or decline.
because i do so adore tales of women’s creative process – it’s magic, isn’t it. no other word will do – i’m including a backstage pass to my creative process. i’m profiling the cloth pieces, their progress and their revelations. i’m documenting the difficulties encountered, the roadblocks and stumbling blocks as well as the moments of glory when the words flow like warm syrup. when i know it, i’ll tell you where the inspiration comes from, the meaning and symbolism behind certain names, the layers of metaphor (most of which just appear, becoming obvious only as i look over my shoulder.) i’m telling – oh yes, i’m telling all about how the story is coming to life. i am blogumenting my creative journey, i guess you could say, sharing with you the product and the process behind the product. if, like me, you’re the kind of person who likes watching the machines pour sugar onto hot krispy kreme doughnuts that you’ll soon devour or standing close enough to feel the heat as the glassblower twirls melted goo into a glass piece that will eventually grace your walls or watching the potters spin the wheel and shape the clay into a bowl you will eventually eat cereal from, you might wanna’ snag yourself a seat. consider it an ongoing studio tour where the light is always on. or maybe you’d just like to stop by nightly for a bedtime story.
i hope you’ll join me over at my new playground. because it makes me feel safer, i’ve made it a membership site with various bundles of membership goodies to suit your mood. maybe you want to become an affiliate and generate funds to support your own creative habit. and if you want to help some lovely, talented, deserving women in their creative pursuits, join via one of my existing affiliates: my writing partner and friend, julie daley or my friend and lunchmate, angela kelsey.
scoot on over and poke around. and if you have any questions, you know where to find me.
i am honored to have been the entertainment for my high school class reunion last saturday night. now, almost a week later, i’m still enjoying the afterglow. there’s something downright magical about standing before your true peers, leading them on a trek down memory lane – a trek you know from the outset won’t be finished that night. i’ve got enough stuff and enough stories to last at least two more treks, a.k.a. reunions. there’s simply never enough time, is there?
my mother had her class reunion that same day – class of 1945. they get together every october – every single october. their love and support for each other is strong. maybe they cleared the path for us. maybe they set the stage, the example.
a surprisingly large number of us went through all 12 years of school together – that’s really something, isn’t it? we knew each other’s parents and fought with each other’s siblings like they were our own. though we knew there was a mother round every corner making it downright impossible to get away with anything, we still tried. occasionally. the entire village raised us, and i don’t remember one parent ever turning on another with that how-dare-you attitude. they simply thanked each other for caring enough, then resumed the badminton game.
such a satisfying sense of groundedness to be with people you bore witness to and who bore witness to you throughout years of major evolutionary and developmental changes. people who you spent 6-7 hours a day with in class, then several more hours in after school activities, then church and other community events. spending the nights together, partying, talking on the phone. learning, knowing, realizing, grappling, struggling, celebrating together. it was fun to reconnect. to remember. to leave the years and any unpleasant memories far, far away from this gathering. to laugh nostalgically. to note countless times we’ve amazed and astounded ourselves and each other.
only one person asked me the dreaded question “what do you do?” maybe it’s cause nobody’s interested, but i prefer to attribute it to a deeper level of togetherness and acceptance that connects us. a knowing that what we do isn’t who we are, and who we are is what’s most important. there is space in our togetherness. there is love in our togetherness. the kind of space that just happens. the kind of love you can’t buy.
Thank you all for continuing to embrace Rhonda. I haven’t spoken with her since I posted her journal pieces, but finally this comes in. This entire experience of being in different states (and I mean “states” in oh so many ways) is a proving ground for trust, faith, and love. I will continue to post updates as I receive them, and I continue to thank you for continuing to hold a space for Rhonda . . .
FROM RHONDA:
S.O.S.
(Slinking out of Silence)
I alarm an emergency call because I am silenced. This is an unnatural, even painful state.
I am getting hit by multiple UTIs. My Urologist does not want me to take antibiotics, fearing my later immunity to the large doses. I am now only treating UTIs with large amounts of liquid.
My inability to write is also due to the voice to text new software that I have still not learned to use adequately. And also my voice when I have infections is not loud enough to register type.
The third whammy against me was my recent “oops” of dropping my drinking water on to the keyboard. Needless to say, it was dead.
I am not directly composing this journal entry. Dorothy, Mike’s mom, is typing it for me. “I’m glad to do it” she says.
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.
© 2026 Jeanne Hewell-Chambers
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