+ Her Barefoot Heart
view from the north
view from the south
view from the studio (a.k.a. The Dissenter’s Chapel) window
“The sun will shine after every storm.” ~ Emerson
above the sink in our room at the Grove Park Inn
and while we wait on the sun to make an appearance,
it’s the perfect time to finish a project
i started many years ago
and prepare to lead a tribe of Keepsake Writers.
The day came when she realized she was no longer just a limb . . .
. . . now she was the tree
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.
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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.
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:
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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.
[ ::: ]
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.
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.”
“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.”
Painting is my husband’s thing, something he and our children share an interest in and bond over.
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.
We’re spending an art weekend at The Grove Park Inn in Asheville. They have fantastic hot chocolate here.
And the sunsets aren’t bad either.
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.
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.
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 . . .
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.
when my children were tots, we’d bundle them up and drive around looking at the christmas lights, refining our aesthetic senses, you know, each of us awarding our own best display award that grew more competitive every year under our increasingly trained and discerning eyes. just when i’d definitively declare that i preferred the white lights over the colored lights, we’d come upon a house that was obviously festooned by someone with a knack for design and a love for color. we all panted at the sight of trees (not christmas trees but plain ole’ yard trees) decked out in strands of white lights – initially because even with the gentlest breeze, they look like they’re twinkling and because they were ordinary yard trees pulled into the holiday celebration and what’s not to love about that), but it didn’t take all that long for us to pity the trees given a single, solitary strand of lights, poorly and thoughtlessly placed, preferring the trees lavished in white lights – so many it looked like they were an organic part of the tree, like they were well-lit lichen. (we developed a new degree of respect for the more miserly, haphazardly lit trees though, when we began to imagine them being dressed by a well-meaning but blind mother.)
when the children got too old for such things, andy and i weren’t nearly ready to bring this tradition to a close, so we bundled up my 90-something great aunts, put them in the backseat, and drove them around to look at christmas lights. one year, as we passed through the center of this town in south north central georgia (i’ll wait while you figure that out) (that’ll take too long, so a hint: it’s my clever way of saying “landlocked”) on the way to deliver them home, aunt lucy looked out the window at fayetteville’s main street awashed in well-lit snowflakes and said, “Irene, don’t the people who live on the water have the purtiest view?”
we had one or two trees in our own yard that we festooned with white lights annually, andy and i, and with the repeated effort, we learned how to apply them so that they didn’t look like what it were: trees dressed by a well-meaning but blind mother. as we struggled with ladders and branches and never enough lights, i remembered the year daddy outlined the roof of our house in blue lights. (using a single color instead of every hue in the crayon box simply wasn’t done in those days.) (mother was always cutting edge when it came to design.) daddy put those lights up and didn’t take them back down for something like 949 days.
an aside: that particular story remembered at that particular moment in that particular context is when i learned about what my friend jane cunningham calls reframing – a most helpful tool when dealing with family memories, if you catch my drift.
my christmas decorations this year include the red candle that kicked off this post (a free gift with purchase at a local antique store.) (using my highly trained and discerning eye, i chose the one that hadn’t been burned yet.) (the buckeyes were free, too.) (at lest i think they were.) and these two adorables created by my friend tom smith. i LOVE them, don’t you? there’s such a playful spirit about them. they’re just downright fun. the small santa with the black eye and the blue beard (reference to folktales or temperature, tom?) and the larger santa hobbled together from an assortment of tender scraps and bits. (just imagine this larger santa at the office christmas party. he’s probably the guy hanging out by the copy machine the entire time.) it’s the definition of art for me: taking something out of its intended use and giving it fresh life in a new context. now that i think about it, being friends with tom is like having christmas every day. he’s a treasured friend who challenges me with his thoughtful, well-placed questions that are always asked (or at least received) as gentle nudges and window openings (often windows that have long since been painted shut); delights me with our conversations (which often come together like his artwork – a gregarious pulling together of all sorts of odd things that initially seem unrelated); and encourages me with his keen insightfulness (that always makes me feel like he finds me intelligent and capable and maybe like he sees more in me than i present). (if you find yourself wondering if his mother was also a formidable teacher, you’d be right.)
you know, now that i think about it, what i’m really doing is decorating my studio with self portraits of and by tom. no lights required.
earlier tonight i was listening to some special christmas music, and because you don’t exactly need x-ray vision to know what’s going on in my life, i posted on facebook: “Listening to recordings of my daughter Alison Chambers singing Christmas carols and marveling at the beautiful voice that never fails to wrench tears from my heart.”
i’ve never done this before, so bear with me as i try to treat you to what i was listening to. if all goes according to plan, you just click (because i’m learning new marketable skills here, you’ll need to click on the song, be transported to another screen, then click on the song again. i have no idea why.) (and the strike-thru’s? i have no idea. just ignore them.), listen, enjoy. (tears optional.)
Alison sings Away in a Manager
and my all time favorite, the one that brings me to the brink every time, the one we all joined in to sing together as the recessional at daddy’s funeral . . .
they (her children) say she went through a spell when she cried a lot. day in, day out, she cried, my grandmother ballard did. one of her children posits that she cried over the possibility that granddaddy had a girlfriend on the side, to which another reminds us that granddaddy was the town’s sheriff and it was his responsibility to make frequent trips to the . . . i don’t remember what they called it, this bawdy, rowdy house out on hwy 54. another child imagines the tears were brought on by the never-to-be-fulfilled life dreams. (grandmother had what we now call a full-ride scholarship to The Piano Conservatory, but after the first year, her daddy snatched her out of school saying girls didn’t need an education – especially one in music – they only needed a husband.) the third living child doesn’t remember her crying and has no earthly idea why she would.
this morning as i interrupt application of my daily facial moisturizer to allow my retired husband access to the bathroom for the fourth time since i started this activity (usually) of short duration, i imagine grandmother crying because she had no alone time and no personal space. no quiet time to just sit and ponder. i wonder if that’s why she made so many quilts – did the constant whirr of the old singer treadle machine provide walls of sound that served to keep everybody out and her in?
it’s what we do, you know: answer the unanswerable questions through our own filters of knowledge acquired through books and life experiences. sometimes it’s as though we gain permission to be ourselves, other times it gives us insights that explain us to ourselves. now would be a mighty good time to ask those questions as you gather round the tree to celebrate the holiday with your family. and hey, don’t forget to take a tape recorder. you can thank me later.
[ ::: ]
While others wore necklaces, Jeanne Hewell-Chambers had a Brownie camera hanging around her neck. Always a personal historian, she’s considering dusting off her old workshops on such things and converting them to online classes. Stay tuned.
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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