handstories

wandering on uncertainty

    meandering

    1.  to proceed by or take a winding or indirect course.

    2.  to wander aimlessly; ramble.

much better

    My hands are much happier using this yarn from a local farmer's market.  It's from Local Color Fiber Studio, two women creating yarn with local wool and plant dyes.  It's so squishy and soft . . . Rambouillet and silk . . . a huge relief after the hemp.

    There is some experimenting with short rows going on.  I have a pattern sitting right here that tells how to do such things, but I can't be bothered with reading directions right now, I just want to knit.  So, I'm winging it.  We'll see if anything wearable comes of it . . . if not, at least it's been a spa treat for my hands.

knitting blanche

    I saw this dishcloth pattern named "Blanche" and couldn't resist knitting it up in memory of Grandma Blanche.  I even used purple, her favorite, not mine.

    This yarn is made of hemp.  It was hard and crunchy to work with, requiring breaks for aching hands.  Grandma had arthritis that made crocheting (her favorite pastime) difficult near the end, frustrating her, but she could still embroider.

    When I think of Grandma in the kitchen, aside from the fear of what she might have been serving, a blur of hustling and bustling comes to mind, with steaming pots and whisking forks (she did make great gravy).

     After washing, the hemp softens right up, ready to get the job done, just like she always was.

rest

    There were a couple of hours, with tea, the rain, the window wide open, and stitching on this old friend.

    Sidewalk finds . . .

in the presence of absence

       On Saturday, I came across something from my grandfather.  He's not someone who was a part of our lives, other than the wake of baggage that he passed along.  The last time I saw him was about twenty-five years ago.  I cornered him, asking questions, trying to get to the truth of some of the stories.  He waved me off in his growly way.  

    On Sunday, I learned that he had died the day before.

    That afternoon I went looking for fabric to cover the last corner of "uncertainty".  I landed on this, loud and obnoxious, named "Journey".  I think it was meant to be joyful, I latched onto the map aspect of it, then as I looked closer, began seeing things in it- storms, sea monsters, sea-sickness.

    There was this moment, and I can't find the right words for it, but an overwhelming moment, of beginning to let it all in, when I put my hands on it all, and began to shake- from all of the broken and lost pieces of the story, from sadness of not feeling sad, for this man that is gone.

     Some manipulation is taking place, making it part of my odyssey for truth and understanding.

    Rex, he was a fisherman who lived to be ninety-eight.  I wonder what his story was?  How did he get from there to here?

blurred

     I am having a hard time putting together clear thoughts, not just here, but I am moving forward, though it is very slow and quiet, except for the noise in my head.

    "Uncertainty" is almost full.  Lately, there are days that its clashing of parts hurts my eyes and brain.  On others, it seems to hold all the answers.

mooning

    I see them everywhere.

    Or want to.

mom's day highlights

 

    Blue's very sweet drawing, especially in light of the fact that I have been anything but "Super" lately, but that's another story.

    From Moon, he thought it was so cool, and knew I would, too.  Well, . . . I love that he loved it.  I can't even imagine how this poor rose got this way, or why?!?

at sea

    It seems to be the same story, over and over.

    Each time hoping to make a bit more sense of it.

    Or not.    

overload

    Trying to blend together and make sense of all of the unexpected pieces that seem to be from Crazyland.