::: all the love you have :::
Category: Jeanne’s Barefoot Heart (Page 66 of 99)
Jeanne’s personal creative pursuits of stories stitched, written, and spoken
~~~ an altar to friendships ~~~
today’s my birthday,
and i don’t think
i’ve ever felt
so seen,
so loved
as when i
opened the gifts
from angela
and julie,
when i read
the post penned
by angela.
when my husband
and daughter
spent the entire day
doing just what i wanted
to do,
and doing it
without complaint.
when my brother
and sister
gathered with us
to enjoy my favorite foods
cooked by my mother
and to eat the cake
made by the
recipe my
grandmother used
to bake my cakes.
when my son
called at both
ends of the day,
just to talk.
and oh my goodness,
all the birthday wishes
awaiting me on facebook
– some of the most beautiful sentiments
and wishes that sent tears making
a run for my chin –
and twitter
and email
and voicemail.
thank you all
for taking time
for me
in this, a day
dedicated to love.
though i don’t want to
age accordingly,
i am thinking we need
to proclaim the 14th of
every month
a type of valentine’s day,
a day to pause and say
“i love you” to
those special people
in our lives.
or then again,
maybe we just tell
at least 14 people
every single day.
yes, maybe so.
they treated us to a trip on saturday, my son and his girlfriend, the gondola dropping us off at the tiptop of keystone in colorado right as the sun retired for the day. it was magnificent – the togetherness, the thoughtfulness, the planning that went into it, the fondue dinner we enjoyed there, singing edelweiss, doing the chicken dance (timed perfectly to occur between the main course fondue and chocolate fondue dessert), and the ride back down the mountain in darkness.
magical
magnificent
moving
moments in time,
certainly worthy of
a block in my ongoing altar cloth
(not that i’ll ever forget it, mind you.)
because this kind of day
is nothing short of
sacred.
~~~ and underneath it all was love ~~~
tonight, another of my mother’s altars.
i mean centerpieces.
blooms come early this year
from bulbs transplanted from my great aunt’s yard.
good soil
sunshine
mild temperatures
and love
(or, in my case, benign neglect).
that’s what it takes
for blooms
to grace
the yards
and tables
generation after
generation
after generation.
after spending a day (a day that seemed more like a decade) of paperwork (thus the decade) (and i’m not finished yet, i have hours to go before i sleep), i crave the life of a simple 9-square, though i can’t help but wonder if less paperwork really does equal simple or if it just seems that way because i hate paperwork more and more every month. wait . . . does living the simple life mean doing less of things i despise and more of things i enjoy? could it really be that simple or is that kinda’ like thinking living life on the prairie in a dugout was simple? either way, today’s altar cloth is a simple 9-square. (a.k.a. wishful thinking.)
Talk about living in the realm of unknowing, that’s where I seemed to have pitched my tent today. This piece of my altar cloth started out as the image that appeared as a response to Pablo Nerusda’s poem called An Ode to Ironing:
Poetry is white
it comes dripping out of the water,
it gets wrinkled and piles up.
We have to stretch out the skin of this planet.
We have to iron the sea in its whiteness.
The hands go on and on
and so things are made
the hands make the world every day,
fire units with steel
linen, canvas and calico come back
from combat in the laundry
and from the light a dove is born
purity comes back from the soap suds.
I saw a sky filled with clothes (probably dirty) falling to earth, forming a dove. But somehow in the stitching, my hands created this, and because I have no idea what my hands are trying to tell me, what they wish to convey, I will leave you with this:
Creating art is like dreaming; there are a multitude of layers that can’t be exhausted with just one sitting.
and this:
In creating altars, we fill a personal space with the power of our own intentions and longings. We take seriously the deep desires of our hearts.
both from the pen of Christine Valters Paintner.
Wise Women gathering at the well by the light of Mother Moon.
Another piece for my altar cloth.
every drop
is an individual.
and oh my goodness gracious,
just look
at the power
they generate
when they
comes together
without forfeiting,
without giving up,
without yielding,
their own unique
well, dropedness.
tonight, as every night,
and every day,
i celebrate
individuality.
to all who
gather
around common interests
but refuse
to flock.
to all who
travel the
same path,
but refuse
to be herded.
to all
who think
for themselves,
ask questions
(sometimes pointedly),
who aren’t afraid
to sense
and feel . . .
i bow to you
and whisper
“please don’t
ever stop.”
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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