Category: Jeanne’s Barefoot Heart (Page 37 of 99)

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

There’s Wicking in Socks and There’s Wicking in Candles

June 1, 2013 / jeanne / 13 Comments

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.

Failure (in this case: Stopping) Is Just Not an Option

May 30, 2013 / jeanne / 0 Comments

Stitchingcase

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.:

Needlecase

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.

Just Talk Amongst Yourselves

May 30, 2013 / jeanne / 3 Comments

Phone

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.

Treasure Hunts

May 29, 2013 / jeanne / 0 Comments

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.

Quiltphoto1

Usually the quilts are backdrops for the photo,

Quiltphoto2

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.

a doorway

May 29, 2013 / jeanne / 13 Comments

Iris2

“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.

ready, set, . . . um

May 28, 2013 / jeanne / 19 Comments

Composite2

These are Nancy’s set 2 drawings – all 454 of them – stitched and ready to be amassed on the backdrop of the doilies then sandwiched in between sheer curtain panels. I should’ve started creating the doilie collage today. I meant to, really I did, but instead, I just sit here sketching new ideas for more hymns of cloth. Tomorrow. Definitely . . . well, maybe . . . probably . . .

Giving Good Phone

May 28, 2013 / jeanne / 4 Comments

Phone

Here’s the situation: a friend is going to court tomorrow morning. She’s innocent, and while I don’t know that I have anything that can be used to help her, I’m certainly willing to help in any way I can. I offer to talk to her attorney if she (the friend) wants me to. She does and calls her attorney to relay my name and number. I am on the phone when the attorney calls, but I return the call as soon as I am off the phone. It’s about 3 minutes after noon – lunchtime – so I leave a voice mail that goes like this:

“This is Jeanne Hewell-Chambers returning [insert attorney’s name]’s call. I can be reached at [insert my phone number, area code first of course]. I should be here most, if not all of the day. I look forward to talking with you soon.” All said with a smile because you can hear smiles on the phone. It’s inexplicable but true.

Three, almost four hours pass and I hear nothing. Now I know that if the attorney and I are to talk, it has to be today, so I pick up the phone and call back because she and/or her assistant (I don’t know if she has an assistant) may not have thought to check for messages after lunch. Or maybe she’s in court this afternoon. Or maybe the sticky note with my number got covered up on her desk. Or maybe she had a heart attack, God forbid. The maybe’s stretch out into oblivion, so the only sensible thing for me to do it call back, to return the call a second time.

“Law offices of [insert name(s)]” is the greeting. She also says her name, but it’s blurred because she says it so fast.

“This is Jeanne Hewell-Chambers. I’m returning [insert attorney’s name] again. Is she available?”

“She’s booked in meetings all afternoon.” A brief pause then, with a much nicer tone of voice: “Oh wait. Jeanne Hewell-Chambers. I know she wants to talk to you, but she’s in meetings all afternoon. It’ll be after 4 before she can call you.”

Notice anything?

I’m gonna’ help you out. In no particular order, here’s what would have catapulted this attorney’s assistant into the gold star realm of customer service, making both the attorney and the assistant hugely credible and desirable:

1. She could have (and should have, in my opinion, because I used to teach exceptional gold star customer service) (I am a girl raised in the South, customer service is what we do every day of our lives). Anyway, the assistant could have/should have taken the initiative to issue me a courtesy call to let me know that she got my message, that the attorney is in meetings all afternoon and will call me when the meetings end.
2. All of the above PLUS: When she tells me when the attorney will be able to call me, she asks if that time will be convenient for me. Let me rephrase: She asks if that time will be convenient FOR ME.
3. She confirms my phone number.

Little things are huge. Why is it so hard for people to think of things like this? It doesn’t increase the overhead by a penny while the return on investment of the extra minute is priceless.

hooked

May 27, 2013 / jeanne / 5 Comments

i’ve finished stitching Nancy’s 454 drawings in set 2, and now that we’re home for a while, i’ll be pulling them altogether in In Our Own Language, 2 this week.

Complete1

i’ve been amassing a collection doilies for this one, and truth be known, i’ve never really liked doilies. i crocheted a lot of afghans – in fact, my husband’s grandmother and i had such similar tension, we could pick up each other’s crochet and never tell where one started and the other left off. it’s the funniest thing though, in that way funny way that doesn’t make you laugh: as i’ve quietly acquired these doilies over the past 5 months, i’ve come to really enjoy looking at them . . . and i suspect that i’ll miss going on doilie treasure hunts.

Doilie1

some seem downright happy and carefree.

Doilie2

Doilie4

some seem to represent individuals in community, something that can sometimes be tricky.

Doilie3

some make me think of fields freshly plowed and ready to plant.

Doilie5

and some seem like optical illusions and threaten to make my head hurt.

Doilie7

Doilie8

some leave me gobsmacked with their intricacies.

Doilie6

Doilie9

and some seem quite fragile . . . but you’d be surprised.
(i am leaving the stains and discolorations of age because it makes them real somehow.)

Doilie10

i see spiderwebs in some.

Doilie11

some make me think of mandalas, and i swear just looking at them calms me.

Doilie12

some beg me to ponder negative and positive use of space.

Doilie13

some are crocheted metaphors.

shoot, maybe all are crocheted metaphors. my father-in-law always said i read too much into everything.

revealed

May 27, 2013 / jeanne / 8 Comments

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Marnie (who happens to be my son’s girlfriend) (Don’t you love when that happens?) told me about an art class she took once upon a year. The assignment was to paint a self portrait, and she just couldn’t get her nose to look on the canvas the way it looked on her face. She worked and worked and worked on it, and finally she asked for help from the instructor who did her a nose job in 3 quick strokes. Once done, Marnie began to look around and was surprised to see that the others were painting self portraits that looked like bananas or trees or flowers. She’d taken the assignment literally, others had taken it metaphorically. All painted a self portrait. All were right.

Since Marnie told me the story, I’ve seen myself in nature at least once a day. Here’s who and how I am today, in case you’re wondering:

Intherough1

sinuses obviously can’t read a calendar

May 23, 2013 / jeanne / 1 Comment

Hhi3

Hhi2

Hhi1

here i am, spending a week on the beach in hilton head when along comes a sinus infection. i’m taking my antibiotics and using the prescription nasal spray like a good little girl, but still everything tastes like cardboard or soap. so while the others order all sorts of tasty goodies, i just feast on the menus.

Hhi4