+ Her Barefoot Heart

Category: Jeanne’s Barefoot Heart (Page 32 of 99)

Jeanne’s personal creative pursuits of stories stitched, written, and spoken

breadcrumbs

Evidence01feb14i

meet Evidence, the hymn of cloth that documents this year of my life – the year dedicated to building a body that works and a body of work – beginning on 11/15/13. (because every day is new year’s day, right?) it’s color coded by what elements constitute, for me, a day well spent:

red = moving (as in walking, yoga, etc.)
orange = making (stitching, mostly, but also collages and photographs)
aqua = marking (writing, as in journals and books and blog posts)
purple = laughing (as in the surprises and wonders of the day that don’t go unnoticed)

Evidence01feb14m

i was filled with excited anticipation when i started work on Evidence back in november, and decided to use my sewing machine (a christmas gift from my husband 40 years ago, bought and paid for with winnings from a radio show contest) instead of stitching it all by hand as is my standard, my preference, my love. it quickly turned unfun, though, on account of the bulk. and if all goes according to plan, the bulk will become greater and greater.

Evidence01feb14d

today i pushed up my sleeves and set about getting caught up. with the walking foot on the machine, i put an audio book on and started, telling myself that i would not abandon this project and i would make this enjoyable and worthwhile. period.

as i sewed, i noticed that i had a tendency to push and pull the fabric in an effort to speed things up. sewing was much easier and more enjoyable when i relaxed and worked with the machine instead of against it. ditto when i quit disregarding and underestimating the flexibility and forgiving nature of fabric – when i let it be what it is instead of trying to make it something else, like a glass or an egg. this may be a transferable epiphany.

///

later, along comes this David Walcott poem titled Love After Love sent by my friend tom:

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott

which is what often happens when you capture and preserve your life stories . . .

for yourself and your posterity

Stone8

when you write from life
you sometimes hit pockets of dark

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and just when you don’t think you can take any more,
you hit pockets of sparkle

Stone5

it is not linear, writing from life.
oh sure, you can start with your earliest memory,
but before you know it,
you’re writing about something that happened just yesterday.

Fragments

there are memory fragments

Cracks

and there are rifts and crevices
in the ole’ memory bank.

Stonecomplete

yet through it all,
writing your life
recording your stories
capturing your memories
is a rich and colorful experience,
just like your life.
and in the end,
you have something that will be treasured
treasured, i tell you
for generations to come.

[ :: ]

Maybe you’re ready to write your autobiography?
As a lifelong personal historian, Jeanne Hewell-Chambers
knows how to navigate through the treasure map
that is your life.
And hey,
even if you don’t become a Keepsake Writer,
(but I sure do hope you will)
promise you’ll carve out some time to capture and preserve
stories from yourself and your family.
You’re the only one who can, you know.

of legacies and living

Rinsecycle4d

The day came when she realized she was no longer just a limb . . .

Rinsecycle4dante

. . . now she was the tree

Rinsecycle4full

The Rinse Cycle 4
made from the back of a jacket that’s now finished

i get lost in the starts and stops of life. interruptions distract and derail me. i devour blog posts, magazine articles, and books that advise me to trust the process, trust the journey, just do what i love and everything will fall into perfectly minted alignment. but that’s all i do: read . . . then get lost some more. it seems to me that at this point in my life, i ought to be able to tell you what my life has been and is all about. but i can’t. is that because i was a career mother and caregiver? did my life get lost under everybody else’s?

doesn’t matter. i’m now the tree, so it’s up to me to decide how i’m going to live my life and what kind of legacy i’m going to leave.

one of the few things i know for sure: how you spend your days is how you spend your life, so i’m creating and practicing daily habits. it’s the only way, really. that’s why i keep my book of amazements to track how i spend my days, and that’s why i created the keepsake writing tribes. perhaps you’d like to join me? it’s gonna’ be three months of creative, productive, legacy-making fun. i promise.

///

my friend rhonda died this week. she had multiple sclerosis which, of course, made it difficult for her to do most anything, but she didn’t let it stop her. she went to graduate school, and she published the book that took her eons to write. she wouldn’t – she couldn’t – she didn’t – stop until it was done. she is a role model for us all.

Keepsake Writing Tribes Forming, and You’re Cordially Invited

AuntIreneKeyhole

Okay. so the tree is down, the thank you notes written, and the wrapping paper is neatly folded for use next year. Time to dust your hands off, push up your sleeves, and get to work creating this year’s Christmas presents.

Yes, really.

If you’ve ever promised yourself that One Day you are going to write and preserve your personal and family stories, keep reading because 2/15/14 is One Day. (I’m gonna’ tell you this most important note right up front, though: it is not a quick-and-easy project to add to your already filled-to-the-brim life, so only serious contenders need apply.)

Where most of my friends wore necklaces, I wore a Brownie camera. If you don’t count all those 5-year diaries, I wrote my first personal history in 2000 when I conducted interviews, did the research, and wrote a book about my father-in-law on the occasion of his 80th birthday. That was in late July. When I woke up after sleeping for a week, a little voice whispered “Write a book about your daddy, and do it NOW.”

“You must be crazy,” I countered. It’s August, and there’s no way I can do all the work to have a book wrapped and under the tree by December.”

“Ahem,” the voice said through clenched teeth, “Write a book about your daddy, and do it NOW.”

I learned long time ago that I lose every time I argue with The Voice, so I got out of bed, brushed my teeth, and got to work. The leather-bound books arrived on Saturday, 12/2/2000 while Daddy was in the hospital, suffering from complications from a fall he took a week before. I gathered the family around his bed, and we started reading the book to Daddy  at 20 minutes till 1, finishing at 15 till 5. Daddy died at 5 minutes till 5.

After that, I penned 16 more personal histories for various family members and clients, and taught the occasional workshop for the more DIY-inclined. I know what I’m doing – I know how hard it is to add this job to an already full life. I know how deflating it can be to sit with a blank sheet of paper or a blank computer screen. I know how lonely it can be to write. I also know how exhilarating it is to hold a book of your stories in your hand, and how rewarding it is to have other people smile and thank you with tears in their eyes when they unwrap their very own copy. That’s why I’ll offer whatever support you need/want. I can be:

  • the Trellis that provides the structure for you as you grow and bloom
  • the Drill Instructor who demands more of you than you may have ever thought possible
  • the Fairy Godmother who whispers morsels of encouragement just when you need it.

I can’t do it for you, but I can make it fun and do everything I can think of to help you create this lasting legacy.

The first month, you’ll write stories from your personal history. I have a plethora of kindling should you need it.

The second month, you’ll write stories from your family history, and again: I have kindling. If you want to interview family members, I have questions and information about how to conduct a good, solid interview (complete with a checklist of what equipment and materials you’ll need).

The third month, you’ll write stories about things – family heirlooms (clothing, furniture, household items); personal memorabilia (clothing, shoes, jewelry, tools, cars); photos; documents (letters and such). You’ll be creating an inventory that can be used in a variety of ways as well as a treasure trove of information that might otherwise be lost forever.

It’s a low tech workshop that’ll go like this: every day for the 3 months, I’ll post multiple morsels of inspiration, information, ideas, and encouragement in a private, just-for-us Facebook group, and for those who aren’t on FB and don’t want to be, I’ll post the same thing on a just-for-us page on my blog that requires a secret handshake that you’ll receive upon registration. There’ll be handouts, gold stars, silver stars, badges, videos, audio clips, and more. I’ll provide information and direction for what to do once you’ve ready to move from the gathering phase to the harvesting and preserving phase (that means turning them into a book, though you should hear some of the other things you can do, too.) Shoot, we might even have refreshments sometimes. I’ll respond to comments and questions on both Facebook and the blog, and you’re welcome to read and comment on either or both. I’ll be posting inspirational quotes, writing tips, organizational techniques, book recommendations, and more. Much, much more. Though our focus is gathering, I’ll be sharing nuggets about all sorts of things that will help you when you’re ready to string the stories together to make a book.

I’ve dubbed our group the Keepsake Writing Tribe: Path Whackers, and for those who want more, I’ve crafted a Keepsake Writing Tribe called Torch Toters. Torch Toters will enjoy all the benefits of the Path Whackers Tribe plus send me up to 3000 words every other week (for a total of 6 pieces). I’ll read and respond with general reader feedback along with suggestions for light editing and polish. Torch Toters will, of course, enjoy everything the Path Whackers receive, too. There are only a limited number of spaces available in the Torch Toters Tribe, so don’t wait too long to sign up.

Imagine holding a book of stories about your mother and her sewing machine, for example. Or stories about your dad and his first car. Or about that old rickety chair that has always been in the corner of the kitchen. Don’t let these stories and this information be lost forever. Sign up today and let me help you create something of lasting value, something that will be treasured for generations and generations and even more generations to come.

///

Keepsake Writers: Path Whackers Tribe

Class full. Join us next time?

That’s only a few cents/day, and remember: you can compile the stories and make as many books as you need which means you’ll be creating an affordable, invaluable present. (Book production not included in this price, but there will be information about how and where to do that along with a whole lot more information you’ll need to make book.)

Keepsake Writers: Torch Toters Tribe

This class is full, too. Maybe you’ll join us next time?

That’s less than a cup of coffee a day – still quite affordable pricing for an invaluable gift.

///

Refunds: Tribe sizes are kept small to allow ample interaction between participants and me (even though I won’t be reading and editing for Path Whackers, I still offer a lot of personal back and forth), so once you’ve paid for a spot in either Tribe, I am counting on your participation and can offer refunds only if something comes up and I have to cancel the class. Which could happen, but I sure hope it won’t cause I am passionate about this. I really am.

///

41 years ago today, Jeanne Hewell-Chambers met the man who is now her husband. He was a bar tender, Jeanne was a customer. I guess you could say she picked him up in a bar.

of rice, ducks, water buffaloes, and musical instruments

In English that’s cute and endearing (though still quite difficult to understand even after 23 years in the US) Alexander Chen (known as the Master of Hyper-Realism because of his incredible attention to detail in his paintings) told of growing up in China and how at the age of 16, the Chinese government decided he would be a professional farmer. Chen was sent to a rice paddy where he planted 1, 2, 3, 4 rice plants this way, then turned and planted 1, 2, 3, 4 plants in a different way so as to allow the wind to blow through. Every day he and his co-farmers took 2500 ducks to the farm to eat bugs, and every night they took 2500 ducks back. From watching and counting the ducks, Chen learned to tell male and female ducks apart just by their heads. There were water buffalo, too – 25 of them that had to be herded back and forth daily. The young buffaloes were bad to wander off, but they always came back to their mothers. The older buffaloes were bad to wander off and keep going as long as the food held out. The more he talked, the more it became clear where he got his incredible attention to detail.

When he settled in San Francisco, he spent $700 and bought himself a Pinto. He took the car out for a spin, and quickly learned that it was good for about 100 miles. Knowing the limits of the Pinto, he began to take car trips within those parameters, and though a teacher taught him to sing “This land is your land, this land is my land,” he, like so many 16 year olds, credits his first car with teaching him about freedom.

[ ::: ]

Iool2closeup

KrasnyanskyMusicScene

Iool2closeup2

When I left to take a walking break, I spied a painting by Anatole Krasnyansky that immediately made me think of Nancy and her drawings. Am I crazy? Maybe, but what I felt was thrilled.

[ ::: ]

Jeanne Hewell-Chambers wishes Nancy’s drawings were as revered (and sold for as much money) as Krasnyansky’s paintings.

* The Krasnyansky painting is titled Music Scene.

cross-pollination

Gockelandjeanne

After supper, Alfred Gockel walked up to a blank canvas and in less than 45 minutes, he’d filled it with bold color and rich symbols. For example, if you ever see one of his paintings that has a circle with a dot in it somewhere on the canvas, that’s your cue that he created that particular painting in front of an audience. Fish represent freedom to him because, according to Gockel, they are the only animal who can go around the world. He places mountains in many of his paintings as a tribute to Dali.

He asked if I wanted to take a picture with him. Said he loved my jacket then invited me to jump into his painting.

“That’s it,” I joked with him when we talked later. “I’m giving up stitching and taking up painting. It takes me an entire year to finish a piece, and it took you less than an hour.”

Gockel2

Gockel3

Gockel1

“Did you see me painting with two hands?” he asked. “It’s like playing the drums. I taught myself to paint with two hands because I needed to be faster, and I needed to be faster because my first wife had expensive tastes.”

Gockelfinished

Painting is my husband’s thing, something he and our children share an interest in and bond over.

Clothsign2

This – this right here – is what revs my engine. I love that the husband and children share a hobby, I love listening to them talk about art and artists, and I love that they let me tag along and stitch in the background.

I hatched four good ideas as I watched and listened to Gockel. It seems cross-pollination is a good thing.

Hotchocolate

We’re spending an art weekend at The Grove Park Inn in Asheville. They have fantastic hot chocolate here.

Sunset1

And the sunsets aren’t bad either.

Apocrypha1b

Apocrypha1

After taking Lisa Call’s Design Elements class, I am reworking the quilt that went to Ireland last year, making it horizontal instead of vertical, and letting the teardrop fall off the edge. Now that I have a look at the photo, though, the teardrop looks a little too large. I’ll check on that tomorrow and hope that it’s a camera thing. Oh, and this quilt has a new name, too: Apocrypha 1.

[ ::: ]

Jeanne Hewell-Chambers apologizes for the fuzzy, poorly-lit photos and explains that it’s dark here at The Grove Park Inn. I mean, REALLY dark.

Remember Rhonda Patzia?

Some of you may remember the words penned by my friend Rhonda about her life with multiple sclerosis and life in hospice that I shared on my blog a few years ago. I met Rhonda in graduate school where she routinely shed her crutches and the clutches of multiple sclerosis when she picked up her camera. It was a sight to behold watching her climb picnic tables to get better shots.

For her thesis, this former professional photographer named Rhonda asked women to allow her to take nude portraits of them. Though I cheered her on and even recruited for her, I admit to feeling a wee little bit left out that she didn’t ask me . . . but then, on the last night of her last residency, she flopped down in one of those hideous metal folding chairs and asked, “So, are you going to pose for me?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” I told her.

We met the next morning in the meditation house, one of the two locations she chose for my portrait, and she casually mentioned that she was also going to take some shots of me sitting on some moss in the woods because she had more than 36 exposures to spend and I was her last model. As I stripped completely naked in front of those beautiful walls with their layers and layers of peeling paint, I chattered with nervous excitement. When i neatly folded the last article of clothing, Rhonda looked at me and said, “I was only going to photograph you from the waist up.”

The portraits became a part of her thesis and went on to become a traveling exhibit that moved the country around with and without her accompanying workshop. Rumor has it that they are being compiled into a book. I’ll keep you posted.

Rhonda also asked me to read the Vagina Monologue she wrote as part of her thesis, and I tell you what: I don’t know when I’ve had so much fun or been so honored. That woman is just full of surprises.

Rhonda’s courage, her determination to live even while dying, her deep dedication to writing the unblinking, undiluted truth about her life with multiple sclerosis and her life in hospice has been a constant source of inspiration. I love her.

I’ve just received notice that Rhonda is in the final days of her earthly life, and I thought maybe you’d like to take a few minutes to send her on her way by reading her story then leaving her a note in her journal over at Caring Bridge. Her family is reading all notes left in her journal to her as she transitions. Whether your read her writings or not, thank you for giving her a fine send-off with your thoughts and wishes, and thank you Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg for letting us know.

crossing the finish line (it only took a year)

Falls1

(view out the north window)

Falls2

(view from the south window)

A disclaimer before we begin: We live in what was once a fishing shack build on a waterfall on top of a mountain. While the scenery is hugely gorgeous, the house is small with ceilings that are unbelievably low – unbelievably, I tell you – which makes taking photos incredibly difficult. But today, I pushed everything to one side of my studio, folded down the top of each panel and let the bottom pool up on the floor, and hung each panel from the curtain rod in my studio. Despite the less than perfect situation, it was incredible being able to stand and see them hanging. It really is so different seeing the work this way as opposed to spreading it out on the floor and standing in a chair to look at it. The main thing I want you to know is that this lovely space does not offer ideal picture-taking opportunities. I trust you will take that into account and use your imagination as you look at the photos.

Iool2fullfrontall3a

In Our Own Language
3 panels, each measuring 60″ x 90″
hand stitched

In June 2012* my developmentally disabled my sister-in-law Nancy surprised and delighted me when she started drawing. I started right then stitching each drawing, eventually pulling the individual stitched renderings into a 3-panel piece I call In Our Own Language 1. It quickly became a series.

In Our Own Language 1 consists of 154 drawings. I finished those 3 panels (each measuring 59″ x 90″) just in time for them to be part of a museum exhibit in January 2012. The very weekend we delivered IOOL 1 to the museum, I began stitching In Our Own Language 2. It’s 457 drawings, and I just finished stitching this week.

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In Our Own Language 2.1

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In Our Own Language 2.2

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In Our Own Language 2.3

The stitched drawings are arranged in the shape of a church window because with every fiber of my being, I believe creativity is sacred.

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Each panel is a sandwich of, starting at the bottom, a sheer window curtain, a collage of crocheted doilies,

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Nancy’s drawings that I stitched (457 total in this set spread out among the 3 panels), and topped off with another sheer window curtain. The top curtain is from my Aunt Rene’s house. She loved Nancy, Aunt Rene did, and Nancy loved her right back. There are stains in those top sheers, and I didn’t even try to get them out.

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You know how it goes: I had this vision, then set about gathering materials needed to create it, figuring out the meaning of the vision as I stitched. For me, In Our Own Language 2 speaks to individual perspectives and interpretations and how some people tut-tut at anything that’s not considered “fine art”. “Doilies? How commonplace and frivolous,” they might say. And “You call what Nancy did ‘drawings’? Harumph.” I can just hear them – I have heard them – and that’s probably why I made these 3 church windows far too large to ignore and dismiss.

* When I merged blogs, I lost all the comments in this and other posts which is a shame because there were some good conversations that – poof – disappeared, and after a good cry and a lot of time, I just had to sigh and move on. But hey, you’ll at least get to see the post and photos.

I’m including this post as part of Nina-Marie’s Off the Wall Friday, and soon enough (hopefully before this time next year), I’ll be telling you all about In Our Own Language 3.

[ ::: ]

Now listen: If you’ve ever said you were going to get around to writing your personal and family stories, stay tuned cause I’ve got just the ticket, and I’ll be telling you about it tomorrow or the next day (though it might turn out to be Monday. You know how that goes.)

featuring phone pranks that don’t involve prince albert in a can

P GenerationsOfBallards11 1979

at the backdoor in grandmother’s kitchen, L to R: Grandmother Ballard, me (Jeanne Hewell-Chambers) holding my daughter Alison Chambers, Kipp Chambers (my son) being held by my mother/his grandmother Ada B Hewell

she was known for many things, but humor was not one of them. to my knowledge, nobody ever used the word “funny” and my grandmother’s name in the same sentence. she did not abide nicknames, was not a prankster, and never told a joke, but there was something about new year’s day that turned my grandmother downright hilarious . . .

HandwrittenAddressBk3

with breakfast out of the way, she settled her short, wiry frame onto the yellow pine telephone chair that was positioned under the wall-mounted telephone, pulled out the baby blue notebook from the cubby, unzipped it, and turned the pages in her handwritten telephone directory until she found the list she was looking for. she cleared her throat then dialed the black rotary phone, the clear plate making its familiar soft clicking sound as it registered the numbers in the order she dialed.

“hello?” answered the (often sleepy) (grandmother was an early riser) (and it was new year’s day, after all. think about that.) voice at the other end of the line.

grandmother sat up straighter. this was serious business, this call.

“is this 2-0-1-4?” she asked, not a hint of a smile in her voice.

“no.”

“oh yes it is,” she said, barely hanging up the phone before erupting in laughter.

(and to think, she’s the one who delivered an emphatic and flat-out NO when i told her i wanted to be an actress. huh.)

[ ::: ]

where cousins wore necklaces, jeanne hewell-chambers wore a brownie camera. her grandmother spent summers preserving food to feed the family, and in her own way, jeanne carries on the tradition by preserving stories to feed and nourish the souls of generations now and later. if you’re ready to do the most important job of preserving stories from your life and your family, stay tuned ’cause jeanne is cooking up a little something special that just might help . . . and she hopes it will be ready by 2/14.

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