handstories

into the rabbit hole

    A while ago I created an Instagram account, and then proceeded to do nothing with it.  You have to have a "smart" phone to participate, and I don't, and don't want to, have the phone that is.  

    Family and friends have harassed me and my flip phone for years now.  They make fun and threaten to buy one for a gift.  Once I pulled it out at a baseball game and someone gasped, "Wow, an antique!"  Children at school laugh at it (But when the power went out at camp last year, WHO had the only phone that worked?  Ha.). 

    I love my phone.  It's small, simple and easy to use.  A girlfriend taught me how to text.  She also taught me where the punctuation button is (after receiving messages where I had spelled out exclamation point).  It does take more time than the new fangled ones (the number "1" requires thirteen presses of a button, so I usually just spell it out).  

    There are only three reasons I have ever wished for something different:

        1.  For directions.  I get lost easily, especially when driving.  So, I don't drive much, or ride with friends who either have the phone and/or want to drive, 

        2.  To have a camera handy in the pocket, but the digital one can squeeze in there in a pinch, and

        3.  Instagram- to be able to join in where everyone seems to be hanging out these days.

    And then, the other night, I realized, "I live with three smart phones, and people who know how to use them!"  So, I sent a photo to K.'s phone, and easy-peasy I could post!  

    I won't be diving in, it's still very overwhelming.  It took a big chunk of time just to decide on what name to use, and find one that wasn't taken, or too long, "hazelcmonte" it is, at least for now.  I will slowly wade into the waters and figure this new thing out.

    P.S.  While typing this a neighbor came by, apologizing for not responding to an email.  "No worries," I told him, "I have no technical expectations.  I have a flip phone." 

    And do you know what he said?  "So, do I!"  We stood on the sidewalk going on and on about how much we love them, and all of our issues with those other ones, parting with a fist-bump of united spirits.

the Who of We

    Continuing around the "Child Cloth" with a rainbow of stitching.

    Working to stitch with intentions.  Taking notes about ideas, textures, etc., channeling thoughts from long ago, right now, and tomorrows.

   "soft... silky... ridges... ancient spots... speckles of dreams... continuing dots... forests of growth..."

    I hope there's room for it all.  There seems to be.  

    And the other poem my summer neighbor shared with me . . . 

We Never Know Who We Are

We never know who we are
(this is strange, isn’t it?)

or what vows we made
or who we knew

or what we hoped for
or where we were

when the world’s dreams
were seeded.

Until the day just one of us

sighs a ­gentle longing
and we all feel the change

one of us calls a name
and we all know to be there

one of us tells a dream
and we all breathe life into it

one of us asks “why?”
and we all know the answer.

It is very strange.

We never know who we are.

By Margaret Wheatley

beginnings

    A four inch square holds a pretty big playground.

    Figuring out a way to make rounded petals with open lazy-daisy stitches made me very happy.  It's surely been done before, but it felt like a new discovery.

    There was even a space for some teeny-tiny weaving . . .

    . . . and ways to catch scraps of cloth and thoughts.

    Thoughts of how, more and more, I'm able to see that everything is connected.  

    Yesterday's story . . . Waking to a lovely generous comment from Peggy, with the words "celebrated" and "birth" describing these little squares.  Later, the neighbor's mom came over, a wonderful woman, who is an intuitive counselor.  She visits every summer and I look forward to seeing her and soaking in her wisdom.  We sat on the porch steps, catching up on the past year, sharing our stories.  As we were finishing, she said there was a poem that she kept thinking of as we talked:

    You must give birth to your images.

    They are the future waiting to be born.

    Fear not the strangeness you feel.

    The future must enter you

                                 long before it happens.

    Just wait for the birth,

    For the hour of new clarity.

                -Rainer Maria Rilke

    This stuff of connections carries and lightens my spirit.

learning curve

    Well, I managed not to come home covered in paint this week.  It's fascinating to watch myself learn something new and hard.   My classmate reminded me that I was frustrated at the beginning of the Watercolor class, too.  Maybe, but these goopy thick paints don't feel like me.  Learning is good!  Trying new things expands the mind!  We'll see.  

P.S.  A few new cloths in the shop today.

later . . . some cobwebs cleared

    Oh, gosh, you're all so sweet.  I'm sorry if I sounded like I was putting myself down.  It was more of a thinking, or rethinking of how this all happens and works together.  And gratitude for being part of such a talented circle.  (Well, maybe there were a few self-doubt/worth issues going on, they come and go.  Happily, much less often and move on more quickly than they used to.) 

    I swept the floor (with the beloved broom) and my mind, and finally had a very good piece of time stitching.

    Words about glowing and singing went round and round in the making of this one, along with many daydreams, with no idea where it was going, until it did.

    (And add the light blue strip on the moon piece to the grateful list, it's from dear Blandina's monoprinted cloths.)

the gifts of others

    Working with a soft moon of Jude's.  The outer glowing is some of Deb's twinkling thread.

    Here the stars shine with more of that thread, the sail and boat are also from her dye pot, the background cloth was dyed by a woman in Washington (bought so long ago I can't remember her name).

    My makings are full of others' talents.  Maybe I'm more of a curator than an artist?

a day in this life

    Yesterday was going to be a relaxing day, full of no plans and plenty of stitching.  Ha.

    It started with looking into buying airplane tickets to visit my sister this fall.  Which always causes anxiety- so much money, too many choices and worries (is 45 minutes between flights enough?), and the prices start going up the longer you look.  

    Meanwhile Moon was pacing and sighing in summer boredom (like teenagers do), I threw out chore ideas (like parents do), and begged him to let me concentrate.  I managed to buy the ticket to get there, and began working on the return flight home . . .  

    And then, Blue came home, after being away overnight, after having spent the afternoon floating on a raft in the lake, after not using the sunscreen his mother had suggested for his pale white Irish skin.   He was in so much pain, walking around moaning, yelling, and crying. After putting him into a cold bath with baking soda, and calling the nurse line, I went to the store for more remedies.  While asking the pharmacist what to do for a foolish 19 yr. old, aside from saying, "I told you so!", he warned me that I'd chosen the sleepy ibuprofen.  "Good!" I said.  Took it all home, sprayed, lotioned, wrapped him in a cool sheet, and put him to bed. 

    Funny, in the middle of all of it, there were thoughts about what a frustrating, stupid, etc. day it had turned out to be, but later, when Blue was more comfortable, and still letting me tend to him (a rare occasion these days), there was some sweet nostalgia in getting to take care of my baby boy again, all 6' 4" of him.

    And this one little boat did manage to get stitched.

    And a friend, who may have received an S.O.S. in the middle of it all, came and took me out for cake and wine.

    And today should be a relaxing day, full of no plans and plenty of stitching.

    There's still that return ticket to buy, we'll see . . . 

    

making Shifu with Velma

    Such a good workshop.  The kind where time flies by, you're exhausted in the best of ways, are surrounded by a very good company of kindred makers, and filled with information and inspiration.  These photos only graze the surface of what the experience held.

    Velma Bolyard

    My wonky "wobble-sabi" (a Velma-ism) Shifu.  

    Thank you, Velma!

Velma!

 

    A few images of Velma's beautiful makings that she had out for us to explore at her talk Thursday eve.  What a delight to meet her in real life!  Artist, storyteller, funny, part-of-the-earth soul, and one of the very best huggers.  

    Off to her workshop!

a whole lot of thoughts, links & excitement

    Kind of how things felt this morning.  

    Everyone is home for a few days, which is swell, but crowded in our little blue house.  And the neighbor practicing his drumming, and the garbage, recycling, and then compost trucks coming through, and neighbor children knocking, wanting the big boys of our world to join them, and the phone ringing . . . you get the idea.

    And my mind is bouncing, looking forward to listening to Velma talk about Shifu tonight, and then being a part of her workshop this weekend.  There is also the second painting class tomorrow, so curious to see if that painting really did look like the photo from that post last week (because I swear it didn't), and too many new ideas for cloth, there just aren't enough hours.  

    In the midst of all of the noise and thoughts, there was a lovely email, sharing a beautiful poem by John O'Donohue (again, thank you, Dianne).  Listening to him reading it, over and over again here, and then to his interview here, and things settled down, found a way, and are going.  (Star by Jude, sail and sea from Heike.)

    

    Beannacht/Blessing by John O'Donohue

    On the day when
    the weight deadens
    on your shoulders
    and you stumble,
    may the clay dance
    to balance you.
    And when your eyes
    freeze behind
    the grey window
    and the ghost of loss
    gets in to you,
    may a flock of colours,
    indigo, red, green,
    and azure blue
    come to awaken in you
    a meadow of delight.

    When the canvas frays
    in the currach of thought
    and a stain of ocean
    blackens beneath you,
    may there come across the waters
    a path of yellow moonlight
    to bring you safely home.

    May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
    may the clarity of light be yours,
    may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
    may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
    And so may a slow
    wind work these words
    of love around you,
    an invisible cloak
    to mind your life.