handstories

Notes From the Basement

    I want to revisit some ideas from the past.  See what they might hold now. Will they mean the same things? Will they hold more? Will I even remember why I went there in the first place?  This one started with scraps on the table from recent pieces, including cloths dyed by Deb and Tina.

    (The water cloth is antique Japanese silk from Richard that I dyed in indigo years ago.)

    This is being written in The Basement.  (More about why in a moment.) The Basement is cellar-like. Uneven cement floor, ceiling that can be touched flat-footed with pipes and beams exposed, and more cobwebs than a haunted house. Not to mention all the THINGS & STUFF. 
   All to say, it’s not a comfortable relaxing place to be.  And it's cold down here.

    Some things were thrown yesterday- me, some words, a tantrum, and a spatula.

    Fortunately, K laughed through it all, took over the dinner cooking, and brought wine up from The Basement (one of its good qualities).

    There had been disappointments, frustrations and a triangle tangle of a conversation that I felt I had to scream to extricate myself from.  None of it was a big deal, I was just having A Day.

    Well, none of it was a big deal except for The Basement.  The plumbing issues are not over. It’s not the plumbers' fault. K and I took a gamble and lost.

    The Basement, where I am vigilantly babysitting the washing machine, waiting for the moments that it drains into the utility sink.  Each time switching out the buckets that I've placed under the hose, alternating them as they fill, and running them out the back door to pour into the woods.  Repeating this activity over and over so that the water doesn’t overflow out of the new drain in the floor into a 6-foot-wide puddle across the new cement.  The drain and cement that will need to be jackhammered out again to fix the problem.

"A Place of Through"

    Today I am resigned and resolved about it all, while running buckets to and fro.

    Earlier, I thoroughly enjoyed the process of finishing this piece.  Hours and hours of stitching without direction, filling in crevices between stones, beside starlit water... switching from French knots to Jude's thread beads willy-nilly, enjoying the surprise of color changes in Deb's threads, and nothing has been thrown... yet.

    "The day's not over," as Dad would've said.

Choosing

    Putting one piece with another, more proof that everything is all part of the same story.

    Last summer a friend, an old neighbor, who I miss having across the street almost every day, dropped off this blue garden sphere.  I love it.  It shimmers in the moonlight and glows in the sunshine.

    Generally, I'm the first one to point out all of the possible problems that might happen in a situation, making me seem gloom and doom-ish to some.  (I like to think of it as being prepared.)  But really, deep down, I do think that things generally can work out with enough thought and care. 

    K's new job was a financial adjustment.  Absolutely manageable, but not the more carefree comfort that his corporate position had provided.  (Have I said what his job is?  Just in case- it's at a foodbank warehouse.  Where truckloads of donations are sent, sorted, repacked, and then local foodbanks come to gather goods to take back to their communities.  He coordinates volunteers, organizes, etc., and drives a forklift (I can't tell you how much he enjoyed learning to do this!))  Not long after he started working there, in an effort to reduce waste, they opened up an area stocked with expiring and excess goods for employees to take home.  It's been great!  Eggs, milk, organic produce, things that we've never tried (the red curry soup above for one).  You never know what might be there... anything from ricotta to the occasional bunch of roses...  

    There have been so many unexpected gifts from this life shift.

    The Christmas cactus has a bud of hope.

"She Chose Starlight"

Gifts

    One of my favorite ways of composing is to just dig around in the table chaos, grabbing a few scraps and puzzling them together.  The best part is having no idea of what is next.

    Last Saturday was my booster shot.  I expected the sore arm and the slightly carsick feeling that were experienced with the first two vaccinations.  Felt fine all-day Sunday, until the evening.  Suddenly tired and underarm lymph nodes, in the vaccinated arm, felt sore.  Weird.  Went to bed early.  Monday- exhausted, nauseous, and nodes hurt.  A three-hour nap in the afternoon, up for soup, and back to bed for twelve more.  Tossing, turning, fever, uncomfortable because of the armpit.  A gradual lessening of symptoms over the next two days, until today.  I finally feel normal again.  Just weird, but I'm grateful to have gone through it if it means not experiencing worse from whatever the virus du jour is.

    There was the tiniest ladybug on the inside of the kitchen window.

    Twinkle has recently taken to interrupting her morning snooze for a visit.  Each day she comes in where I'm working, plays hard to get just out of reach for a minute, and then lets herself be picked up.  She snuggles in my lap for a while, insisting on petting between stitches.  It's nice, although it's been added to the list of signs/worries that she's getting old (13 years).

    Some beautiful sunsets have happened on our corner lately.

    A gift from Tina, holding Jude's star, Velma's soapstone bear, and the smokey quartz that I love.

Forward...

"The Night's Blue Magic"

    Regarding taxes- I hate feeling stupid, it helped that K (an accounting major) wasn't able to figure out the problem either.  A very patient soul, on the other end of the state taxes helpline, held my hand and walked me through the issue.  Notes were taken, in hopes that next year might be the one without tax tears (a person can dream).

    The ER bill arrived yesterday.  I can't even wrap my head around how those numbers are real?  How is this ok?  Combined with the plumbing work, what an expensive month January was.  Today I am just being grateful that we have resources and am moving on...

    Maybe because of this, I'm working harder at being disciplined with my time and stitching.  Routines work for me, so I'm trying to keep to a schedule. This is mostly easy, because I love it.  Now, if only some headway on the business side of things can be made.  Not so easy, but it will be better in the long run if I can just sit down and make myself figure some things out.  I also need to make myself get up and stretch more!

"Hesper" Tree Token

    A piece of all of this is thinking of stitching as a job, which plays mind games on me, spinning me back and forth between joy and weirdness, and even some guilt (or is it old shame?).  I worry about losing my way in it all, losing the heart of it, about valuing myself, about not being who people might think I am.

    With all of the recent trips to Oregon, time with family, I finally pushed myself to talk about my stitching, to call it "My Work" out loud.  Things about it were brought to share for the first time- pieces, the Stitch-illo book, etc.  It was hard to put myself on display with faces looking back at me.  Good and bad comments undo me.  It's fascinating and feels like drowning at the same time.

    My brother (who uses the words "I'm sorry" to begin most sentences) said, "I'm sorry, but they really feel like watercolors to me."

    "That's a wonderful thing to say, thank you!" His words filled me with joy.

    Onward...

 

"Where Dreams Begin"

    With admiration and thanks for Deb, Tina and Jude for sharing their gifts of and with cloth and thread (among other things!).