Walnut ink painted onto cloths dyed with fresh indigo and in that turquoise wash.
A moment from yesterday. Rainbow in my blue room (on a wall that could use repainting, just like the rest of the house), Story quilt, and the bedpost of the childhood bed. I should say childhoods...Moon’s, Blue’s, nephews, brother’s, mine, and Dad‘s in the foster home that he grew up in.
I’ve been thinking about the soul this week, what it is, how to stay in the space of it. I was told that it’s a place of who we are, all we are, all we might be. That all the things that we think and believe about ourselves are just thoughts, reactions, responses, and often judgements. So, I’m spending moments trying to step outside of thinking, and observe the What and Why.
During the first attempt, I remembered watching Dad at his mom's wake as he struggled to grasp timelines and his past. Suddenly, I could see the small boy of who he had been, who didn't know what had happened to his world or where his parents had gone. It was the first true understanding of the why he was the way he was, and the beginning of feeling some compassion and forgiveness for him.
I’m also trying to understand walnut ink. It was dried, ironed, wetted, and then smooshed with a couple of indigo leaves and salt.
What a beautiful green it was.
After drying and rinsing, the rings were barely visible.
And begin again. I don't know anything about this ink. It is from a workshop a few years ago. Maybe I need to make my own? Either I will figure this out or just keep the ink away from water.
A Table Story... Years ago, at a craft fair, M., a friend, bought the bear necklace. I loved it too, but there was only one. Recently, M. gave it to me. She lives on my worktable. Her occasional adventures are photographed and texted to M. Yesterday she and the "Story" doll (made by Cathy Cullis years ago) celebrated the finishing of this piece under a sunny scrap of Deb's cloth with party favors of a jay feather and a piece of a tumbleweed from a road trip with M.
It's funny how elements of stories that have been looked at over and over can suddenly take on new meanings. That memory of Dad, after all of these years, seems to have opened a door to some understanding and compassion for me too. 
"Soul Work"
I'm keeping this one.
