+ Her Barefoot Heart
Communion 3
12.5″ x 10.5″
Communion 3 with an admirer (who happens to be my grandcat)
Thank you for loving Nancy, Andy says to me. It’s easy to love Nancy, I tell him. (Because it is.) Not for everybody, he says. And all I can do is shake my head in dismay.
About three weeks ago, I picked up 503 new drawings by Nancy. I am thrilled because for the first time, she’s using multiple colors
making deliberate choices
filling the page with what might look like frenzy and chaos to some, looks more like joy and freedom to me.
Because I can’t begin to imagine how long it would take me to stitch all that joy and freedom, I’ve decided to create a response to each piece, stitching a visual representation of what a conversation with Nancy looks like. (When it happens, that is, cause she’s pretty much non-verbal.) (But when she does engage, let me tell you: it’s a riot of color and a romp of fun and a caper down a path you’d love to go down again and again and again.)
Communion. That’s that I’m calling this new series.
Communion.
Putting things off is part of my process.
When I write, I transcribe the voices. When i stitch, I spend time deconstructing the image pinned to my imaginary design wall to see how it’s done and where to start. I’m not talking about that – that’s part of the process. But I’ll tell you the flat-out truth: I do procrastinate when it comes time to do something I don’t want to do.
Like, oh I don’t know, maybe CREATING BIAS STRIPS. I put that off as long as I could, but we have company coming for supper tonight, so I need to move forward and clear the table so we have a place to eat.
Don’t think I didn’t consider using tv trays, though.
For two nights I read about how to create bias binding. I did my (dreaded) calculations, but today when I took a deep breath and started, I never could get the square cut. It’s a spatial concept, you see, and I don’t do those well.
Just like I can’t do a lot of things in yoga on account of I have short arms.
I have only a finite amount of fabric (that was purchased in another state, mind you), so it really didn’t take me all that long to hit the Pffffft Point and just started cutting. Oh sure, I cut at a 45-degree angle and all that, but the instructions from Those Who Know About This Kind Of Thing say I should have little bitty points where I join 2 strips together.
Well, I didn’t. I had big points. Big, I tell you. If I covered the tip end of those points with a little bit of wadded up tin foil and sat the whole thing on top of the tv, I’d probably get much better reception. And you know what? I’m fine with that because while I may never make an A in bias, and while my bias points may be larger than your bias points (which may or may not be a metaphor.) (I’m from The South, so I’m used to being told that I have big biases.) (Mostly from folks who’ve never even driven through here.) (But we’ll talk about that later.), I still got the job done.
And I only have to do it two more times. (Hint: this is not a cause for celebration.)
I tell you one thing, thought: if I never have to deal with bias again, I’ll die happy . . . which may or may not be another metaphor.
i’ve been down the mountain for a few days, helping my mother and daughter with a few things and tending to some business. there’s never much time for editing or stitching when i’m down there, (not much time for journaling or even thinking either, for that matter), but i did manage to sneak in a quick – and i do mean quick – trip to the fabric store where i found a few pieces that will be just what i need (at least i think i need at this point) to finish out In Our Own Language, set 2. i’m counting that short-lived shopping spree as forward motion.
Doctor says she still thinks this second round of sinus infection, complete with ear infection, stems from that knock up side the head I got in Denver about a month ago. I don’t know, just hope this antibiotic works and works fast. Takes 1.5 hours each way to get to/from the doctor’s office now that we live on top of the mountain. Curvy, mountainous roads, you know. That’s almost half day just in travel time.
Spent the afternoon baking a cake and cooking The Birthday Boy Andy’s favorite foods for supper. The cake doesn’t look like much, but you know these that fall out of the pan in clumps taste the best.
All that left precious little time to hold a needle and thread, and as usual, I bump into things I hadn’t thought about. This time it’s wanting what is now the top side of the work-in-progress to be the backside of the finished piece. So I treated it like I take pound cakes out of the pan: put another piece of fabric on top, then basted the doilies down. Will turn it over, clip basting threads, stitch doilies in place, then add Nancy’s set 2 drawings on top. There’s got to be a less time-consuming way, but it hasn’t come to me yet, and I don’t have time to wait.
It’s times like this I wonder why I can’t be content to just sit and read books.
Today is Nancy’s birthday. We called her, but Nancy never has quite mastered (or bothered) with telephones. She does, however, like postcards, so perhaps you’d like to send her one every now ‘n then? I probably should mention that it’s an exercise in letting go to send her a postcard because somebody has to deliver it to her, read it to her, and tuck it away somewhere, and that’s a lot of hands that might get busy or distracted or just never get around to it. When I go visit, I seldom see any of my cards, but who knows why, so I just say Whatever and hope that somehow in the inexplicable magic that connects us, Nancy knows I’m thinking about her when I select, write, and mail the postcard.
If you feel like it, send postcards to Nancy Chambers/Gatlin Cottage/Duvall Presbyterian Home/POB 220036/Glenwood, FL 32722-0036. And hey, thank you.
Tonight my niece Betsey, along with her mom, dad, sister, and brother-in-law, will participate in the Out of Darkness Walk, an event sponsored by American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Beginning at sunset, they will walk 18 miles or so through the streets of Washington, D. C., crossing the finish line about the time the sun rises tomorrow.
. . . The sun rises tomorrow. If I had a magic wand, I’d make sure every single soul has at least that much hope . . .
In November 2010, Betsey got home from work to find that her boyfriend Nick had committed suicide. Mourning for Nick was woven in with concern for Betsey, of course, and how she would go forward. Of course she’ll never be the same – survivors never are. But you’ll be happy to hear that she’s good and getting on with her own life. She continues to accept the support of her family and friends, practice good and unapologetic self care, and now gives support by sharing her experience and knowledge with other survivors. She is amazing, my niece, absolutely amazing, and I love her more than I can count.
I am with them in spirit tonight, members of the Chambers, D’Angelo, Okuliar Team (I’ve already volunteered to come up with next year’s team name) and all the other (perhaps more creatively named) teams. I won’t be walking through the (hopefully well lit) streets of D. C. tonight, but I’m here, with my journal and my needle and thread, lighting a candle in memory of those who could conceive of no other way to deal with the situations, problems, demons, thoughts, people that tormented them relentlessly.
And in honor of the loved ones who are left wondering and wounded by a grief that never goes completely away. Those who curl into fetal positions and weep, sometimes raising fists to the sky, and always, always, always wondering what they could have done to assure their loved ones that nothing is ever that awful or that insurmountable, to convince the loved ones that there’s nothing they can’t get through together. For survivors, the “how” is often immediately obvious, it’s the “why” that plagues them without end. Even if there’s a note, even if there have been indications, even if, even if, even if . . . they never find The Answer that makes sense, that would leave them incredibly sad but understanding. I honor those whose lives are forever changed.
My candle also burns in honor of someone I deeply, hugely, gloriously love who once saw only darkness, who took steps to end that darkness, and who didn’t “succeed”. I honor my loved one and all the others, for that matter, who are brave enough – and hear me on this: it takes a tremendous amount of stamina, determination, and flat-out courage to ask for an ear or a shoulder or whatever else they need to get through any given day. If you’re reading this, I want to thank you for staying, even though I know it’s not an easy thing some days. I know it’s not about me, and I admit my selfishness when I say that despite the fact that you still have the power to drive me crazy with frustration and concern, you also have the power to delight and tickle me . . . and creative as I am, I can’t imagine stepping out into a single day that didn’t have you in it. Thank you for for reaching out when you need to, for making the effort, and for allowing yourself to feel laughter and lightness on occasion, even when the darkness is more familiar.
While others lace their shoes and walk, I sit here in my bare feet beside the candle that’s already burning in memory of those who saw no other way, in support of those who love and survive them, and in honor of those who continue to find just enough light to hold onto.
As we find our way around this big rock called Earth, as we ride on the magic carpet ride called Life, may we all be more gentle with each other than fussy; may we replace the arrogance and condescension with acceptance and (at least an attempt at) understanding. When we find ourselves feeling scared or lost or confused or desperately sad or hopelessly depressed, may we dig deep and find enough strength (a.k.a. dregs of self love) in our vulnerability to ask for help, and if we’re the ones asked, may we check judgment and disgust and to do list at the door and respond with tenderness and patience. May we listen more than we speak, hold hands when the words won’t come, and may our loving concern seep and shine through every pore. Amen.
There are so many things I want to do, create. I have a sketchbook with designs for more than 52 more cloths, a number that is probably low by comparison to others who’ve been doing this longer. It’s easy to take the small pieces with me, Nancy’s drawings pinned to pieces of cloth that I can whip out and stitch wherever I find myself. I have a little bag – my American Express, I call it – that goes with me everywhere I go – I even stitch in the car as we scoot around. But I feel perpetually behind, almost breathless in my desire to get cloths done – a feeling I don’t like one little bit. As I see it, I have 2 options: keep stitching or stop. And stopping is just not an option. Getting up earlier might be, though.
p.s.:
Did I show you my needle case? It’s a felt doll jacket I found in an antique store a while back, and it makes me smile every time.
These are Nancy’s set 2 drawings – all 454 of them – stitched and ready to be amassed on the backdrop of the doilies then sandwiched in between sheer curtain panels. I should’ve started creating the doilie collage today. I meant to, really I did, but instead, I just sit here sketching new ideas for more hymns of cloth. Tomorrow. Definitely . . . well, maybe . . . probably . . .
i’ve finished stitching Nancy’s 454 drawings in set 2, and now that we’re home for a while, i’ll be pulling them altogether in In Our Own Language, 2 this week.
i’ve been amassing a collection doilies for this one, and truth be known, i’ve never really liked doilies. i crocheted a lot of afghans – in fact, my husband’s grandmother and i had such similar tension, we could pick up each other’s crochet and never tell where one started and the other left off. it’s the funniest thing though, in that way funny way that doesn’t make you laugh: as i’ve quietly acquired these doilies over the past 5 months, i’ve come to really enjoy looking at them . . . and i suspect that i’ll miss going on doilie treasure hunts.
some seem downright happy and carefree.
some seem to represent individuals in community, something that can sometimes be tricky.
some make me think of fields freshly plowed and ready to plant.
and some seem like optical illusions and threaten to make my head hurt.
some leave me gobsmacked with their intricacies.
and some seem quite fragile . . . but you’d be surprised.
(i am leaving the stains and discolorations of age because it makes them real somehow.)
i see spiderwebs in some.
some make me think of mandalas, and i swear just looking at them calms me.
some beg me to ponder negative and positive use of space.
some are crocheted metaphors.
shoot, maybe all are crocheted metaphors. my father-in-law always said i read too much into everything.
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
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
here ‘n there