i adopted it this weekend
it was the stains that convinced me
Category: stitchings (Page 32 of 37)
The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze distance.
A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.
You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
~Wallace Stevens, 1954~
Thank you, Karen Sharp.
I couldn’t find words to thank you for the gift you sent,
so I stitched an altar cloth for it,
and today it is my altar . . .
that feather you sent wrapped in your note.
so much more than a feather and a note.
divine energy.
alchemy, i’d call it.
alchemy through the experience of seeing.
///
he picked them up in the woods on the mountain,
this rock museum volunteer.
teensy tiny sapphires,
no bigger than the seed pearls
in the photo above.
this morning
we met a man who
uses tweezers to mix
pollen particles
to create new dahlias.
who am i?
i am the woman
who is
slowing down
and making time
and paying close attention
to see
to create
to live in
beauty.
today’s post is part of the scintilla project.
///
///
maybe you want to visit the women’s history month series my friend angela is hosting.
there’s a whole lotta’ women letting their colors seep out over there, and it is quite beautiful.
sometimes
they wrap
themselves up
into small packages
so small
that they
blend right
into the background
becoming invisible
but . . .
if you pause a beat
and use the time to
look very closely
you’ll see
their bright colors
seeping out,
unable to be
contained
despite
the swaddling.
///
maybe you want to visit the women’s history month series my friend angela is hosting.
there’s a whole lotta’ women letting their colors seep out over there, and it is quite beautiful.
(true: they look more like birds, these jacks scattered around the red rubber ball, but squint your eyes and remember that i never, ever professed to be good at drawing.)
~ a ~
play. it’s so very important, so vital to health and well-being, so essential to creativity. my childhood years were spent in a culture that looked down its nose on play. play was synonymous with laziness. only sorry, no good fools played. fine, good, upright people worked, and let me tell you: they worked hard. that was the prevailing attitude.
~ b ~
my grandmother worked – not outside the home, but make no mistake: she worked. in addition to babysitting the grandkids, cleaning, keeping the lines of communication open with family, planning menus, grocery shopping, cooking, and doing the laundry (washing the clothes, hanging them on the line to dry, ironing them, mending them, putting them up), every spring she planted a big garden, and every summer she harvested the crops, cooked daily meals, and preserved food for the winter.
yes, my grandmother worked long, and she worked hard, but my grandmother also played. she developed new recipes and entered cake contests. she made quilts as meditation. on more than one occasion, i saw her sit on the floor with my brother and cousins staging battles and beating the snot out of their plastic army men. and she played the piano – boy howdy did she ever play the piano.
~ c ~
“Deep play is an absence of mental noise — liberating, soothing, and exciting. . . .We spend our lives in pursuit of those moments of feeling whole, or being in the moment of deep play,” says Diane Ackerman.
~ d ~
“we need to structure our weeks so that we have a weekend,” i recently told my husband who joined me in working from home full time last november. doesn’t have to be a saturday on the calendar, but we need to build in some play – whether that’s having a reading day, going to the library, going to the nearby arts center to view the exhibits, joining the local hiking club, fingerpainting, shopping architectural salvage stores for recyclable materials to use in the construction of what will one day be jeannedom (my studio). doesn’t matter what it looks like or what day of the week it falls on, we just need to escape, and we need to escape regularly.
~ e ~
karen caterson shares an epiphany with us today: “Play is where ideas live.”
~ f ~
“There is evidence that suggests the forces that initiate play lie in the ancient survival centers of the brain–the brain stem–where other anciently preserved survival capacities also reside. In other words, play is a basic biological necessity that has survived through the evolution of the brain,” says stuart brown, m.d.
dr. brown goes on to explain why this “nonproductive activity can make one enormously more productive and invigorated in other aspects of life.
dr. brown goes on to explains why this “nonproductive activity can make one enormously more productive and invigorated in other aspects of life” with scientific evidence and full of interesting anecdotes. it will persuade you not to feel guilty pursuing your dream or enjoying your life because it will make you and your kids more successful and happier.
~ g ~
i wholeheartedly believe in the power of play, don’t you? do you have a steady diet of play, and when you play, what does it look like/sound like/taste like/feel like?
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
This morning over on Facebook, Sunny Howe posted a plea for positive, fortifying, anti-bullying (a.k.a. playing nicely together) energy, so to conjure that energy, focus, and direct it, I created an altar. I may be showing my ignorance here – maybe it’s a huge faux pas to invite others to create an altar dedicated to a particular theme – but I’m asking anyway: Perhaps you’d like to create an anti-bullying altar and share it with us on the 365 Altars Facebook page? We’d sure love to see them if you are so inclined. That’s where I met Sunny, you know. She creates beautiful altars and posts them there regularly.
even in the chaos of
disappointment
anger
turmoil
dismay
embarrassment
uncertainty
hurt
hunger
fear
and
pain,
they always manage
to find room
for love.
things stack up,
get piled on top of her.
culture
education
religion
family
friends
advertising,
they add layers
and layers
and layers
of who she
should be
and how she
should act
and how she
should think
and feel
and look
and write
and speak
and walk
and dance
(or not dance, depending).
layer upon layer
upon layer
until one day
she just pops,
taking up much
more room than
she ever did before
and shouts
loud enough
for the folks
on pluto to hear
because she
simply can’t
hold it in
one nanosecond
longer:
~~~~~~~~~~~~
inspired by my soul mate and writing partner, julie daley.
hey, have you ordered a copy of her brand, new collection of essays, stories, and more?
if so, yay! if not, scoot.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
last week, my mother.
this week, my daughter.
both weeks are time well spent.
things stack up
as we play,
of course,
but i don’t care.
and as long as
he has a
sparkly red purse,
apparently my
grandcat
feels precisely
the same way.
i don’t remember my grandmother ever sweeping. i’m sure she did, i just don’t remember ever seeing her doing it. my granddaddy, on the other hand, loved nothing better than cutting branches off a bush and stringing them together to make a broom then putting that broom in my hands and telling me to sweep the front yard.
yes, the front yard.
they had grass – a lot of grass – and matching lawnmowers to cut it because my grandmother loved cutting grass. but the front yard was bare, hard red dirt. and we swept it.
i’d sweep pretty designs into the dirt while granddaddy sat in the glider on the front porch and watched me. he never criticized or made me do it over, which makes me think he was just wanting a break and couldn’t think of a better way to take one than to sit and watch me work.
only now, as these words fall out of my fingertips do i think of zen gardens and, depending on how imaginative you want to go, similarities. that kind of “well, shoot” moment and the “well, shoot” realization that i never saw grandmother sweeping are precisely why i encourage people to commit their personal histories to paper, digital or otherwise.
still pondering women’s work, for reasons i can’t explain, and to tell you the truth: i’ve not even asked myself that particular why even once. but if i did venture out and ask “why on earth are you thinking about so-called women’s work?” i know what the answer would be: “just because.”
///
i’m sure you’ve picked up on the fact that today i’ve got brooms on my mind, which brings to mind this poem that my beloved friend and writing partner, julie daley, sent me on my birthday. speaking of julie, have you signed up for her newsletter (see the box in the right sidebar)? for her Leap Day Call to Discover? read the poem, then scoot on over and get yourself all signed up.
Broom
by Lisa Citore
Every woman keeps a secret broom in her closet.
Not the broom she sweeps the kitchen floor with,
the one handed to her by her husband
to keep her from thinking too much.
But the broom made by the first mother,
passed down to the first daughter,
who rode off into the night against her father’s wishes
and became the moon.
The broom that delivered Lilith from the Garden of Eden
when there wasn’t room for more than one god,
that has been a symbol of woman’s power and will,
her ability to fly in between the worlds
as messenger, midwife, mystic, priestess,
manifesting thought into physical form.
Every woman keeps a secret broom in her closet.
Not the one she pulls out when company is coming over,
the one that makes her look good in front of the in-laws.
But the broom that shakes her
from the shackles of her pretending,
that whispers “Now!” when the moon is full,
that calls her deeper into the forest,
that still smells like trees in Avalon.
The broom once held sacred,
long since kept out of sight…
like the signs of menstrual blood,
the questions we were told never to ask,
the places on our bodies
we were punished for touching too much,
the screams we swallowed as little girls
when our mothers warned us, “That’s enough.”
I remember before being able to speak,
desperate to get my mother’s attention,
peeing my bed, burning with 105 degree temperatures,
crying, “This is your pain too!“
“Come hold me and we will heal together.”
Instead she drove us from one doctor to another,
trying to outrun, numb truth with stronger antibiotics,
hoping she could save me
from the dis-ease of being born a woman
by removing the tonsils.
Not unlike the circumcism of young girls in Asia and Africa,
whose clitorises are considered to be
as dangerous as a woman’s voice.
I remember my mother feeding me ice cream,
coating the wound with milk
until it fell asleep inside of me,
sticking a pad in my underwear years later
when it started to bleed again,
diminishing those first drops of reclaimed wisdom
to a stain on the back of my dress.
I remember throwing the soiled garments into the garbage,
wanting to bury myself along with them,
wanting to push the blood back up inside of me.
Frightened of its loud, red color,
singing of young girls running in fields smelling flowers,
of greedy gods, lost children and weeping mothers,
of eating one too many pomegranate seeds
to ever be innocent again…
Every woman keeps a secret broom in her closet.
Not the one that’s been domesticated,
that discreetly sweeps things under the rug.
But the broom that knocks at the door of her soul
every time she smiles to avoid feeling what she knows.
The broom that throws the dirt up in our faces
until we choke on the dust of our unliving,
that remembers the temples we used to dance in,
the stars and galaxies we used to spin
from our joy.
isn’t that a beaut? now scoot on over to julie’s place cause i sure wouldn’t want you to miss out on something this good.
As they left the church, the preacher shook their hands and surprised them by announcing his decision to join them at their house for lunch. Said he’d change clothes and be right over. The mother hadn’t prepared enough food for an extra hungry mouth, and of course there was no time to increase the quantities, so when the preacher arrived, threw back his shoulders, patted his paunch, and announced how very hungry he was, the three girls did the only thing they knew to do. They passed the platter of fried chicken to him, and when he asked “Aren’t you having some?” as he heaped three pieces on his own plate, they said “We don’t eat chicken on Sunday.” And when they passed the peas without taking any for themselves, they said “We don’t eat peas on Sunday.” And there was enough for him to have three refills of sweet tea because – you guessed it – they professed to not drinking tea on Sunday.
These were my great aunts, and my heart cries a little bit every time I think about this true story, and whether it’s slaving over a hot stove then heaping the food onto the plates of men waiting at the table with napkins tied around their necks or insisting that men ride in the front seat of the car they bought and paid for, or any number of other things that my tired brain can’t think of right now, I realize how many women have taught me well when it comes to handing over my power.
Why beat a dead horse, you might ask. This is old news. Can’t we move on?
Where’s the line between good manners and handing over your power, anyway? How can you tell the difference between the two?
Then comes my personal favorite, always asked with eyes closed to the point of slits: Are you trying to make all these women be like you instead of allowing them to be themselves?
Good questions that I ask myself (frequently) along with a side of these:
Where did this come from, this handing over of our female power? Was it after World War II when the women stepped aside from the jobs they did so well to let the resume working? Was when the men returned after the Revolutionary War and the War Between the States when woman after woman not only increased the income from the farms but found new crops and markets for those new crops?
More than anything (except for world peace, of course) I want to move past this, but obviously it’s something that remains stuck in my craw. For the record, no, I absolutely am not trying to change women who defer to men. That’s their choice to do or stop doing as they see fit. I recognize the deep and constant conditioning and imprinting on me, and I know that I’m an adult woman, perfectly capable of making my own decisions, cognitively aware of what’s going on. But regardless of years gone under my bridge, regardless of what my brain knows, I still feel the imprinting, and I feel it strongly . . . usually in the form of guilt for refusing to give my food to any man who is rude enough and pompous enough to expect me to; shame that I can’t be as nice and as generous as the women who preceded me in this family; and concern that I embarrass them with my repeated outbursts about handing over our power in ways large and small.
Two days ago, Angela Kelsey wrote about provenance – such a lovely word referring to the chain of ownership of a work of art. She notes her own provenance (because let’s face it: life is art) and closes with her hope that the final entry of her provenance will be herself. Her own name. Her post is the spark that got me pondering this . . . again . . . but this time by stitching the two plates of peas, I stayed with this agitation long enough to realize that at the heart of my continued agitation is the aforementioned guilt and shame and embarrassment. I, too, want to add my name to my life’s provenance, and I want to do it resolutely without a trace of doubt or sticky residue. Now I know what to work on, that I’m certain that I’m really not continuing to flog a dead horse, I’ll set about plucking out the guilt, embarrassment, and shame – and I will do it, too, then I’ll complete my provenance by adding my own name: Wholly Jeanne.
And frame it. The whole damn thing.
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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