+ Her Barefoot Heart
today i stitched my way
through a block
on a piece i started
a while ago.
it was going well,
at first,
then i didn’t know
where to go next
so i laid it down.
but my hands
are so smart.
they pick up the cloth
and before you can say “thread,”
it is singing to me softly,
telling me
stories
of all it
represents.
stitching
slows me down,
gives me space.
it amazes
and amuses me.
“We all have within ourselves a chispa or ember, a spark of divine creativity. and because of this spark, whether we have never even produced a work, we are still in our essence artists. Clarissa Pinkola Estes suggests that even when that ember is not actively tended, it still remains glowing within us, just waiting for the breath to ignite it and bring it to a leaping, dancing blaze.”
~Christine Valters Paintner~
::~::
POP QUIZ:
Did you breathe your spark into a flame today?
Did you treat the world to the warmth from your spark?
What did you create?
What did you want to create but didn’t?
Why didn’t you?
How did it feel to create . . . or not to create?
Tell me about it.
Tell me everything.
sometimes you
blow the candle out
and watch
until the last
ember
joins the
darkness.
sometimes you
fan the flame
to keep it
burning
and
stave off
the darkness.
either way,
whether you
find the darkness
or it finds you,
darkness
is a part of
life.
without it,
we don’t know
stars
or sun
or nearly
as much about
ourselves.
///
just spied this quote
(that seems quite appropriate)
over at the e-home of my
talented and generous
and generously talented
friend
illuminary:
“Knowing your own darkness
is the best method
for dealing with
the darknesses of other people.”
~ Carl Jung
in thumbing through an old book, i find a note on the end page describing an image, and here i go, stitching it into existence.
that was last night.
tonight i thumb through an old journal and find this – how cool is that.
THE SECRET OF THE GOLDEN FLOWER
Once you turn the light around,
everything in the world is turned around.
The light rays are concentrated upward into the eyes;
this is the great key of the human body.
You should reflect on this.
If you do not sit quietly each day,
this light flows and whirls,
stopping who knows where.
If you can sit quietly for a while,
all time-ten thousand ages,
a thousand lifetimes—is penetrated from this.
All phenomena revert to stillness.
Truly inconceivable is this sublime truth.
—from The Secret of the Golden Flower: The Classic Chinese Book of Life, translated by Thomas Cleary, HarperSanFrancisco, 1991, p.19
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.
“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.
Went out to do a wee bit of yardening this morning, and that included clipping the spent roses. On a whim, I brought the petals in, ripped some small pieces of an old tablecloth, wet it, then tucked the petals inside the cloth as I wrapped the cloth around a lichen-laden branch.
When I noticed how the spent purple wave blooms stained my fingers after deadheading, I dropped some of them in another piece of cloth and wrapped it on the same lichen-laden branch.
All dressed up, the branch is now sunning on a rock beside the falls.
Why is this a big enough deal to warrant a blog post? Because for longer than I care to remember, I’ve imagined doing things like this, but I never veer far enough away from the All Mighty To Do List to allow such (seemingly) unjustifiable excursions and (seemingly) frivolous expenditures of time.
That all changes today.
When I look back at how many years I’ve delighted in doing things like this – but only on the inside – I want to sit down and cry, but that would be a frivolous waste of time, that crying over spilt milk. So I just vow to turn myself inside out more often. To do the things I’ve long done only on the inside, on the outside.
From this point forward (even past the inevitable occasional speedbumps), I will be eccentric not for the sake of being eccentric, but because I can’t help myself. I will decide for myself who I am and what I think and how I feel. And who I am and what I think and how I feel may change frequently – maybe even several times a day – but the self-determination-without-apology-or-explanation-unless-I-feel-like-offering-it will stand firm.
Will everybody like what I do, think, say, or feel? I doubt it. Will anyone think I’ve lost my mind? I sure hope so.
And, hey, I’d sure love some company . . .
sometimes you create something
and it just doesn’t feel right
even though you created
the image you saw
as your waking thought.
and you value waking thoughts
more than anything.
so you sit with it a while,
in case something
surfaces
and changes things.
but eventually you realize
that it just doesn’t work
so you cut it up
then you cut it up again
and again
and tomorrow
or the next day
you start over,
weaving the parts together,
in a new way.
bringing in new pieces
and weaving them in and out
over and under
and you don’t stop
until
it tickles
you.
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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