Tag: churnings (Page 7 of 9)

when we gather around the campfire

May 10, 2010 / jeanne / 11 Comments

i am a passionate woman

who doesn’t lie,

but is finding it hard to tell The Truth. . .

My Truth.

i’ve been a nice girl for so long

that burning my membership card

is only an initiation, not a transformation.

it’s like learning to talk again,

like visiting italy with a ragged dictionary.

sometimes i mention the wart on your chin

when all i really meant to do was ask for directions to the restroom.

sometimes i squeal and shriek like a 3-year old,

when what i really want to tell you is that i wish this moment

this very moment

would last forever.

maybe i look like a grown woman

who should know better,

but please

bear with me.

be patient.

help me learn to talk.

when i allow my flat lines to go curvy with

fury or glee or deep-seated, bottled-up feeling,

don’t tell me to calm down.

when i disagree with you,

don’t push the air between us with your palms

and tell me to wait just a minute.

when i appear agitated and my words trip and stumble on their way out,

when i look down instead of making eye contact,

when i’m obviously upset,

and you can’t believe

or don’t understand

what you’re hearing,

set aside your admonition to take a deep breath,

and instead of

asking what on earth has gotten into me . . .

just ask me what’s going on right here right now.

ask me what it is i really want to say,

then

uncross your arms,

lean a bit forward in your chair,

and maybe, if you’re feeling especially patient and caring and willing,

give me a hint of an encouraging smile

or at least bring the frown up to a non-judgmental, non-commital flat line,

and listen.

just listen.

coming to term with our grips, 2

March 9, 2010 / jeanne / 15 Comments

“The blueprint isn’t the building.”

Mary Pipher

“actions speak louder than words.” shoot, if i had a nickel for every time i’ve heard my mother say that, we’d be having this conversation in person, and i’d be picking up the tab. laboring, trusting, noticing, speaking, writing, yearning, connecting, pondering, desiring, building, standing, dancing, surviving. these are all actions that julie mentioned in her post. her post reads to me as a segue, a bridge from talking to doing.

caring is an action. so is caregiving, tending, pondering, deciding, preparing, singing, trying, loving, wiping, cooking, nurturing, hugging, listening, crying, seeking, writing, bearing witness. see, actions don’t have to be global to be valid or worthwhile.

many women who are career caregivers and family hearth keepers eventually find themselves stepping over the threshold of their front door, and all too often, it’s like leaving a darkened theatre and stepping right smackdab into the sunny parking lot. there’s an acclimation that must take place. many of these are women can tell you in the blink of a gnat’s eye what everybody around them thinks and feels, but ask them what their opinion is on something, ask them what gets their blood churning, and they draw a blank.

Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends.

~Virginia Woolf

knowing our own thoughts and passions takes a little longer. discovering, defining, and clarifying personal voice are actions. so is supporting ourselves and others as we move through this stage.

we talk, write, listen. we poke around, visiting blogs to see what resonates with us – all actions – and while there are books and plays i want to write, i’m itching to do something that involves moving more than my fingers. i’m ready to live into my word of the year, ready to do something JustBecause.

some women go spend time at the ocean. other women get a job doing something they’re interested in. others collect, paint, draw, yarden, train for marathons.

but me? right now – as of last week – my action involves finding an old piano and deconstructing it down to the keyboard. all i want is the keyboard. a full keyboard. 88 keys. and once i have the keyboard, i want to hang it on the wall in my studio. it’s a desire, and desire is an action.

when this crazy idea came to light, i smiled (a good sign) and said to myself, “okay. so where do i find a piano?” i have a piano, mind you – music is in our blood – but i don’t want to take it apart, so i did what i always do: i asked my friends. within 4 hours of posting a note on facebook, a woman i seldom see even though i’ve known her for decades, commented that she had a piano i could have. the plan is to look at it tomorrow, then find a way to get it from there to here, find some tools, and let the deconstruction begin.

will harvesting the keyboard of an old piano save the world? shoot, no. will it cure cancer or restore order to haiti or stop domestic violence and rape? don’t i wish. no, i expect this is nothing more than one woman who’s itching to do something, doing something. nothing more, nothing less.

and i’m doing it with the help of friends. some i haven’t seen in years. others i’ve never seen (in person) at all. helping, listening, giving, picking up . . . those are all actions. and every action leads somewhere.

even the teensy little action of clicking on the name of a woman who left a comment on julie daley’s blog. there’s one more piece to this post, but i’m about to be late to a very important writing date with a friend i met when she came to audition for a show our theatre company produced last summer, so till soon . . .

~~~~~
my great aunt rene (and i mean “great” in terms of lineage and as an adjective) was a career caregiver. she never had children, but she took care of us, her brother, her two sisters, and countless others. in her younger years, she took such good care of a sick, elderly man that when his father died, the son deeded the house to her in appreciation. she then build a small house on the back of the lot and created an apartment on one side of the house, and the rental income fed and clothed her when her youngish husband died. laughing, playing canasta, yardening, and flirting were some of aunt rene’s more noteworthy actions. she took care of people and plants, and she tended them – us – well. the azaleas in the photo are in her yard.

coming to terms with our grips

March 7, 2010 / jeanne / 27 Comments

“I’m not sure where this post is going to go, but I trust it will take us somewhere” wrote my darling julie daley. she stepped out on the digital page that day, not knowing where her fingers would take her, and oh what a journey she set in motion. earlier in the week, she wrote about voice – about finding hers, me finding mine, others finding theirs. two days later she found herself writing about connections. connecting. the digital currency of the internet, she calls it.

“As we tell each other who we really are,
we find the people with whom we really belong.”

Christina Baldwin via @creatingwings on twitter

the comments after julie’s post are filled with women tracing their digital lineage, paying tribute to women they’ve met online, women who have been and who have found breadcrumbs leading to a forest (or desert) of women ready and willing to bear witness, encourage, cajole, dance.

in our journey to voice, we gather around the digital well of blogs and comments and tweets, telling our stories and speaking our truths (perhaps tentatively at first and at times), and an entrainment takes place. we find women with whom we resonate. women who inspire us, tickle us, enkindle and excite us. we gather around the digital well, knowing that encouraging, supporting, cheering on other women does not diminish us in any way because this is a well of abundance.

as i scrolled down to leave my comment at julie’s place, i came across a comment left by a name i’d never seen before. debra notes that women finding their voice is an “old, old” theme, one that’s been “grappled with” for centuries – which is true. she goes on to point out that actions speak louder than words, and, on the topic of voice, asks the good question “how will you use yours?”

feeling a quickening, i click over to her blog, eager for a chance to learn more about her, to have a conversation. I find that she’s written a post elaborating on her comment, but alas, there is no place on her blog for comments. though i take exception to her use of the word “soppy” because it reads judgmental, i do see how if it’s your first visit to some of the blogs i call our digital well, they could be received as soppy. sometimes when i write a particular post, it feels soppy. necessary, but soppy nevertheless.

i’ve only been on twitter three months, and the first time i called someone “sugar”, it was scary. i knew there was a chance folks would recoil and unfollow me in droves, but i did it anyway because it felt right. i am fluent in english and southern – it is who i am. now several of us have sweet pet names for each other, and it works. for us, it works. for a while, my son (who’s knows his way around the digital social scene) would read the comments on my blog and call on his way to the office, offering feedback. “mom,” he said more than once, “when you tell people you love them, when you call them ‘sugar’, when you use ‘xo’, and compliment them profusely, you sound needy. cut it out.” he read a few more weeks, then one day i got a call saying, “mom, about the way you reply to people in the comment section of your blog . . . that’s not neediness, that’s caring, and they’re two different things. i see that now, and it works for you because it’s who you are. you care. you really care.”

i do care. and the way i see it, caring is action.

it’s where action starts.

it’s the ember, the kindling for action.

to be continued tomorrow . . .

gretel never had it so good

March 4, 2010 / jeanne / 18 Comments

earlier this week at unabashedly female, my darling julie says (among many other noteworthy things) “. . . this witnessing of story, of voice, of truth by one woman to another. This is where we find power.”

over at renegade conversations, ronna detrick writes about how coming out of the shadows requires two things: counsel and companions.

tonight i am going to see a rehearsal for “steel magnolias” performed by the senior apprentice company in the theatre company my daughter started back in 2005. my daughter is directing these 12 teenage girls, and oh the experiences she’s opened up to these girls. oh the opportunities. she divided the girls into two casts, and when cast a is performing, cast b is the backstage crew and vice versa, giving them hands-on experience in providing support and receiving support. each girl has also been assigned a production assignment, not only affording opportunities to learn new skills, but to see that any one production takes an entire village of people that are all too easily overlooked. without the steel magnolias willing to do production, there’s be no tickets sold, no press releases written, no web site updated, no programs, no concessions, no venue, no sound and lights.

three years ago, i played m’lynn to daughter alison’s shelby. to say it was a clarifying, once-in-a-lifetime experience rings hollow and falls way, way short. one day i will write about it and the context around that experience that made it all that it was. but today there’s something else on my mind . . .

“steel magnolias,” as you probably know, is a story of women who support and encourage and hold the space for each other, and that’s why my daughter chose this particular play for these 12 teenage girls: she wants these girls to experience (both onstage and off) the feeling of women coming together in support of one another instead of the cattiness, back-stabbing, nitpicking behavior that too often defines women’s togetherness. as i wrote in a note accompanying the holiday gift my daughter and i conjured up for the girls: Steel Magnolias are a special breed, and we need more of them. Steel Magnolias are strong women who delight and celebrate being female. They own who they are – even the polarities – without explanation or apology, and they encourage and cheer others to do the same. Steel Magnolias are not into woman’s inhumanity to woman, choosing instead to support each other without judgment or personal agenda; listen more than they talk; be available without hesitation at 3 a.m.

by exposing these girls to steel magnolias even before they have the life experiences to fully appreciate and convey it, my moxie hopes to teach them about theatre, leadership skills, communication skills, and perhaps most importantly: female friendship. she takes on big projects, my moxie, and this is one she’s willing to devote herself to because she knows it truly does take a village to make much-needed change, and she wants to do her part to change the way women relate to each other. the rest of us can do our part by supporting, encouraging, and affirming each other. by forging and forming the relationships we want to enjoy.

i am so so fortunate to have steel magnolias right here around me, women i turn to when i need help or retuning, to laugh or to vent. and today we have something the ladies of chinquapin, louisiana did not have: the internet. since rejoining twitter last december, my steel magnolia forest has grown rich and lush and bountiful. i don’t know when i’ve ever felt so supported, so encouraged, so affirmed. i grow as i find women who share my interests, and i grow as i am exposed to things i never knew existed. if i get lost in my steel magnolia forest, a trail of breadcrumbs readily appears left by women who have experienced the same or similar. if i stub my toe in this forest or if i am stung or bitten, healing ointments and remedies are generously offered. the trees in my forest rise above the little scrubs and ankle-biters, choosing fresh air and light over thorns and sticky bushes that want to draw blood and hog the sun. in the forest with these women, i grow comfortable enough to tell my stories and speak my truth, southern accent and all.

to all of you who are trees in my steel magnolia forest (and most, though not all of you, are on my traipse page), thank you.

thank you.

~~~
about the photos:
i tend to commemorate things in cloth, as i did when i took to the stage as m’lynn back in 2007. woven strips of blue sky torn to find the true grain. images of tears born of both laughter and crying – often at the same time. enough raw edges and stray threads to make it real. sparkling beads laid down in the shape of a heart in shades of shelby’s pink. on the back side, we have an earthy fabric, fertile, a place for love to take root, and we see the seemingly randomly-placed stitches that hold it all together. all bound at the edges with soft pink shibori dyed by talented friend, a digital steel magnolia called glennis.

rightful sound

March 1, 2010 / jeanne / 25 Comments

in her memoir, grand obsession, perri knize writes of her year-long search for The Perfect Piano. she eventually finds The Piano, refinances and remodels her house to accommodate it, but alas: when it arrives, the magical sound is gone. but the memory of that sound and the way she felt when she played that particular piano fuels her as she embarks on a journey that takes more than three years years, fills her with a plethora of knowledge about things she’d never heard of, and enlists an impressive cast of characters to “fix” her piano, to restore it to its rightful sound.

its rightful sound.

last friday, i started writing a post about the arts, and as so often happens when writing, i wound up writing something totally different. instead of a little ditty extolling some of the oft-overlooked benefits of participation in the performing arts, i crafted what i can only call a flapdoodle on what, exactly, constitutes power. is it letters after a name? a title? a hat? the number of people you have on staff? your appearance and how you carry your pocketbook?

perhaps it was the spring fever of writing that had me feeling near ready to explode, to break out, to lose the lid. in person, i’m, well, not to jinx it into dried-up dust, but i’m funny.* and a bit on the irreverent side. the things that other people are too nice to say have a way of parachuting right out of me. that’s when i’m audible. when i write, i’m ever cognizant of who might be reading this and how it might be received, so when i turn funny in writing, it kinda’ goes flat on account of over explaining every teensy little ole’ thing.

i like making people laugh, and i happen to believe there can be much important stuff like perspective and philosophy cloaked by humor. anyway, there i was, writing seriously serious about the often unseen value of performing arts when my fingers turned flapdoodle on me, and i have to tell you we had ourselves a big time, my fingers and me. then i up and mashed the “publish” button before i could talk myself out of it, and i smiled my way through the rest of the day.

see, usually i’m a little too tentative, too scared of smackdown to post anything i feel like isn’t going to be well received. but since being on twitter, i’ve met women who make me feel comfortable enough, safe enough to mash “send” because i know they’ll be patient and accepting . . . even though they might actually wonder if i’m in dire and immediate need of an exorcist.

still smiling and riding that wave of powerful confidence, i read julie daley’s post and cut loose with my heartfelt comment before i could stop myself from sharing a story that has chapped my butt since it happened. julie sure nailed it when she said it sounded like i was having a fireball day. fireball friday: yes, yes it was.

i rode the night out feeling this surge, wondering if it was really power i was enjoying, not caring what it’s called, just delighted to have it trespass. friday night i happened upon an upcoming writing workshop that required participants to submit some 20 pages of a memoir for discussion, and i – the one who consistently says “pass” when it’s my time to read, to share – i printed out the registration form, determined.

but then came saturday morning. oh lord.

i had to make a decision, and i made the wrong decision. wrong because i didn’t listen to myself. i heard that songbird of confidence – i even stopped the guy’s hand as he was going to note my selection – but i talked myself out of it, and let me tell you: i crashed and crashed hard. for 24 hours i replayed the scene over and over and over, knowing i could not undo it. it was nothing short of agony.

the good news is: it’s an inconsequential decision. totally, absolutely inconsequential as far as end results go.

the bad news is: that sweet surge of confidence is questioned, diminished, and bruised. the full-body smile is gone, dissolved into a vague memory. i listened to myself on friday and soared. didn’t listen to myself 24 hours later, and splat.

what went wrong? did i cross the line from confidence into cocky? i don’t think so. did i over-rate friday’s post? well, maybe it wasn’t my best writing – it reads a bit on the manufactured side in spots – but no. was it just the full moon? i certainly am positively affected by the full moon, but no, this was clear: i took a risk. i did something i wouldn’t normally do, and i was absolutely okay if it wasn’t well received. for the first time since becoming a word traveler, it was enough that i wrote and published it.

what do i do, i asked my manchild last night. the first paper i wrote in grad school cracked the faculty up – shoot, they asked me to submit it to literary journals for publication. (i didn’t.) do i forget funny and stick to serious, reflective tones? do i keep trying the funny, knowing that writing humor is different from doing humor? do i do both ’cause i am both?

can both humor and reflection be my rightful sound, or do i have to choose cause it’s now freshly documented: choosing is not something i’m ‘specially good at.

* now that i’ve called myself funny, we both know i’ll never again get so much as a smile. sigh.

but you can call me “Her Highest Petticoat Potentate”

February 26, 2010 / jeanne / 16 Comments

or (and you might want to take a deep breath first) “ArchSupremest Of The Very Supreme And Sovereign pFemale Pharaoh Till The Cows Fly Home” for short.* the “Arch” is a nod to religion. the “Supremest” and “Supreme” – well, what’s a good title without accessories? and “Pharaoh” because everybody knows that’s a ruler with a bite. (among other things.)

i might make it “ArchSupremest Of The Supreme And Sovereign pFemale Pharaoh, TTCFH”. i haven’t decided yet. i mean, it’d make sense from a power position because it looks like a degree that was painful and took forever to obtain.**

this started out to be a post on something really important, but damned if i can remember what it was now. whatever it was, though, it was important, i know that much. something i felt i felt so strongly about i knew i needed a little title to give me credibility and power and to get some seriously serious attention. so i started poking around google, and, well, here we are.

i asked for suggestions on facebook***, and i got “queen” and “beloved leader”, and while i know you’re not supposed to torpedo ideas right out of the gate*^x4, honestly, i don’t think i could make the “beloved” part stick after people heard what i was planning on proposing. (and still will once i remember it) (i’ll probably remember once i get this little title thing worked out).

“queen” comes with way too much baggage, and besides i checked, and out of all my pocketbooks, i don’t have a single one that looks all that queenly. no patent leathers. don’t have one without a shoulder strap, for that matter, and i ask you: how queenly would it look for a short gal like me to be dragging her pocketbook around on the ground behind her. (yes, i thought about kicking it out in front of me as i go but that’s not all that becoming to an all-powerful monarch either.) (and honestly, i haven’t been doing yoga nearly long enough to trust myself standing on one foot while the other one moves.)

pfunny that nobody suggested “president”. not that i’d even audition that one, anyway.

i played phoebe reece in the “farndale avenue housing estate’s townswomen’s guild’s dramatic society’s production of a christmas carol” not once but twice, and let me tell you, there’s a woman with p.o.w.e.r. but i plan to cower over more than the 7 people who saw me on stage, so how would everybody (besides those 7*^{x 5}, of course) know to quake appropriately? it could be embarrassing and quite honestly, deadly.

then there’s my dog, named phoebe because the kids gave her to us as a christmas present during my first farndale gig.*^{x 6} and while it’s true that pfour-legged phoebe has the power-like-none-other to pull me out of the coveted writing zone to go fetch her and the tagalong cats a treat, i’m still just not convinced “phoebe” would be instantly recognizable as power to the untrained eye.

not too long ago, i was called to the amphitheater stage on the night “oliver!” closed on account of the cast wanted to give me The Most Beautiful Roses Ever. and when nancy admitted she didn’t know what to call me, fagin chirped in with “goddess” which i have to admit has a pretty nice ring to it, especially over the loud speakers and in front of all those people. but it sounds like i’d have to behave and look on the beautiful side of things, so maybe not.

now “mama” is a title that can pack a punch, but football just represents one segment of my intended subjects.

i want a kickass title. something that’ll size me up at a Woman To Be Reckoned With And Listened To Right Off The Bat. a title that’ll have people standing in line ~~hours~~ months ahead to purchase one of the pens i’ll use to sign my orders into, well, orders.*^{x 7} (and yes, i know the trick about using a different pen for each letter. i’m all over that cause “ka ching, ka ching” is sure to be one of my ~~silent~~ mottos.)

the blogess has already taken “czar” (i’d give her credit, but i don’t know how to reference a tweet*^{x 8 & 9}) (even a funny one). and speaking of the bloggess, do y’all think she’d mind very much if i just copied her post and pasted it in over here at my place? i think i can photoshop out her face from under that cat (which i’m thinking would make a flattering informal crown when i’m out working in the royal yard or bagging up the royal trash or walking to the royal mailbox) and insert mine easy enough. i’ll keep her shoulders and the towel, of course. only seems fair.

plus i’d like to prove that i can be benevolent.

on occasion.

well, loyal subjects-in-the-making, since i’m not yet fully staffed, i am not only writing this little ole’ post all by my little ole’ self (Sovereign though i may be), i must go tend to some Very Important And Sometimes Onerous Things That Petticoat Potentates Must Do Whether They Want To Or Not.

so carry on.

and write if you get work.

* you know i’m such a sucker (a sovereign one, it goes without saying) for alliteration, i almost put a “p” in front of every word, but then i figured all those people who got hooked on phonics would sue me in hopes of paying for their rehab.

** the way i figure it, once i’m launched, at least one institute of higher learning (probably more) is gonna’ bestow some honorary letters after my name free of charge. might even throw me a little party with free food and open bar afterwards, too.

*** for now, i’m “injeanneious” there. or “jeanne hewell-chambers”. just in case you’re interested.

*^{x 4} even though i can, you know.

*^{x 5} okay, make that 6 because i forgot to mention the stay awake requirement when i paid my mother to come.

*^{x 6} don’t get used to so much personal information cause i’m gonna’ have to start keeping the monarchey lid on things for the protection of my peeps. not that my edicts and decrees will be unpopular, mind you, it’s just that i’ll be so wildly, fantastically popular, everybody will want a piece of me.

*^{x 7} for those of you who like to plan ahead, kissing up is not only allowed, it’s downright encouraged.

*^{x 8 & 9} which reminds me: one of the first things i’ll have to do it give myself more twitterwidth because my title alone eats up more than 140 characters and what with retweets and all. note to Sovereign Supremest Of The Supreme Self: slap a crown on that fail whale (but first: it’s not a killer whale, is it?). and the little birdies, too, while you’re at it. and for all you inquiring minds out there, @whollyjeanne is my twitter name. for now, anyway.

p.s. and for the record, no, i have not had a royaltini.

yet.

diving in, at last

February 22, 2010 / jeanne / 14 Comments

my thesis semester found me managing my daughter’s campaign for state legislature. she was one of 4 candidates, and she wound up in a runoff with the older male career politician, an election she lost by the barest of margins. and by the time the last runoff votes were counted, i had 10 days to write my thesis. because it felt right, i worked from the table located in the center of our home – the chrome and glass table that was the first piece of furniture we bought as a married couple. every morning i’d light a candle, push everything and everyone else aside, and get to work. i had no time for angst or indecision. no time to argue with myself or let anything come between me and those notecards.

it was wonderful. you know what i’m talking about – being in that place that defies description where time and doubt don’t exist. that place i never wanted to leave.

but all too soon the thesis was turned in . . . and the first draft approved with only a note from faculty saying they were staying out of my way, leaving it up to me to massage if and as desired.

i wish that’s how i worked all the time – and lord knows, i wish i could get there without all the stress of having to fit it in, but alas. though i come up with more ideas than i can say grace over, and though questions are my native language (next to southern, of course), i have this annoying tendency to think them right out of existence before ever letting them fully hatch. or to run right over them with a ridiculously overloaded to do list.

that’s probably why i collect these stories about people who plunge right into something, making it up and deciphering it as they go. (there are at least 2 more right now begging me to give them some post time.) it’s how i want to be – just follow an interest without having to define, justify, or explain why it’s a good idea, why it will not be a waste of my time. i long to be a story in my own collection.

for more years than i care to count, i’ve carried around ideas for several books and plays, working on them and entertaining myself . . . but only on the inside. now let me be real clear here: nobody’s telling me i shouldn’t be working on these projects. nobody is telling me my ideas are ridiculous or that i’m wasting my time or who do i think i am. i am my biggest wall.

this morning, though, i leapt.

i wasn’t sure which project i’d work on when i got to the studio, i was only sure that it’s time. and without slowing down enough to even begin a thought, i started transcribing newspaper articles about the bank robbery. my maternal granddaddy was the county sheriff, you see, and my paternal granddaddy was the town’s banker, (yep, i couldn’t do a damn thing.) when my daddy was 5 years old, armed bandits came to town. because the vault couldn’t be opened on their schedule, the highwaymen (as the newspapers called them) brought out the whiskey, kept out the guns, and held my daddy and his family prisoners in their own home for more than 10 hours. it’s something that doesn’t happen to just every family, and yet it’s a story that was told surprisingly little around our dinner table. i don’t know that i’ll uncover reasons for the reluctance to talk about it, but i already know that it’s time to tell this story.

and i can’t – i won’t – wait.

p.s. that picture? it’s my granddaddy’s banker’s chair – in its original green leather – and it will be my constant companion as i discover this story.

diving in: 2

February 21, 2010 / jeanne / 8 Comments

fast forward several years . . .

daughter moxie and i are visiting the antique extravaganza that comes once a month. i spy this blue thing that i find intriguing, captivating.

i have to have it.

the woman who selling it is cute in that cute-as-a-button sort of way, and french, so i ask if i can call her frenchie, explaining that anything other than english and southern eludes me. flatout eludes me.

“it’s glass,” she tells me, and as as i stand mesmerized, she continues . . . “years ago i was visiting the new england states when i came upon this big blue blob on the ground. my entire body told me i had to have it.”

“i want that,” she told the man as she pointed to the blue blob on the ground.

“that? do you even know what it is?” the man asked in reply.

“no,” she said, “i only know that i want it.”

“what on earth are you planning to do with that, that whatever it is?” asked her husband.

“i don’t know yet,” she said, “i only know that i have to have it.”

“don’t you even want to know what it is?” the man persisted.

“okay, fine,” she said. “tell me what it is.”

“it’s glass. it was supposed to be windows for a big office building, but there were bubbles so they poured it on the ground and went back to make more.”

“so this is flawed glass?” she asked, now even more sure she had to have it. “how much?”

the day came when it arrived on her doorstep. for the briefest moment after the shippers unloaded it, she wondered what on earth she had done, why she hadn’t thought this through a bit more – especially given that, as it turned out, she’d only seen the tiptop of the blue glassberg that clear summer day in new england. this chunk of glass was ginormous, and now it was hers, so without spending another minute thinking about it, she found her biggest hammer and set to work. she had no plan – not even a skeleton of an idea. she just hammered away, and eventually she’d busted the huge chunk of glass into smaller glass chunklets. somewhere along the way she pursued another wild idea and got a blacksmith to build her some stands. then, not knowing that else to do, she rented a booth at the once-a-month antique market, and, well, in less than a year i am buying her last 2 pieces – one for me, one for my boy, slug.

now i promise we’ll tie this all together tomorrow.

or the day after . . .

(p.s. in the picture, that “whiteness” at the bottom of the top glass chunklet is where the molten glass met the earth.)

knots

February 8, 2010 / jeanne / 80 Comments

today i worked more on the scrying cloth, and as the needle moved steadily, rhythmically – quieting my brain chatter to the point i could hear myself feel – i pondered knots. like most fluent needleworkers, i was taught that the best and finest pieces don’t have knots, that the most skilled and talented needleworkers don’t even knot the end of their thread.

but most of the time now,
i knot the end of my thread,
simply covering my knots from view
with another piece of cloth
when the piece is finished
because the way i see it: knots are inevitable,
and sometimes necessary.

there was a time when
i did macrame,
tying knots to create
pocketbooks,
and plant holders,
and even a headboard.

there are knots we create as anchors
to grab onto when we feel
about to slip over the edge of the cliff.

there are knots that
hold skin pieces of skin together
so they can merge and heal.
and there are knots that indicate
the desired swelling after a spill or a fall,
letting us know that the body is healing itself.

there are knots that create fishing nets,
attach ski ropes to boats,
and the proverbial knots
that indicate two people’s commitment to each other.

scouts learn to tie knots to pass certain proficiencies,
and i’m here to tell you that
knowing how to tie those knots
is something you never forget
and one of the most valuable things to remember.

then there are the knots felt in the stomach
indicating there’s something needs attention,
that something that needs to be righted and resolved
to untie the knots.

and there are the seemingly inevitable knots
that form in relationships.
knots that aren’t as easy to untangle
as knots in necklaces
because these knots require
two people working together
to remove the knot,
and sometimes one person
yanks hard on their end of the rope,
making the knot tight and firm,
wanting the knot to provide separation
– at least for a while.
and until both people are ready,
the knot remains.

costume jewelry

February 1, 2010 / jeanne / 43 Comments

she flew all the way across country
to see her son star in a show.
on the way to the theatre, they stopped for a pre-show dinner
in the famous los angeles eating establishment called
subway.

she ordered a 6” turkey on white.

~~~

the man who wheeled everything he owned
in the grocery store cart
came just inside the door
and called out
“hey,” flailing his arm in her direction
ambling towards her table.

~~~

the boy had gone to get some tea
at the self-serve drink machine
in the back of the restaurant.

~~~

the scraggly stranger
beckoned louder as he approached.
and when she could no longer make him invisible,
she looked up
to find her boy standing between
her and the stranger.
“you want something?” the boy asked,
making himself as large as possible.

~~~

“i just wanted to tell her something,”
the man said
looking around the boy
and speaking to her as though nobody else existed.
“i like your necklace,” he said.
“what?” she asked, stunned.
“i think that’s a very pretty necklace – I like it – and I just wanted you to know.”
then he was gone,
pushing his world
through parking lots and along sidewalks,
near large plate glass windows,
lingering on small, seemingly inconsequential things,
taking the time to let a stranger know
she’d been seen.