handstories

Beauty in a bit of storm

    I've been off the last few days.  Wandering aimless through the house, putzing, unfocussed, trying to stitch, but not liking anything that came out of my needle.  One piece was even thrown across the room with a "There's no hope for you!"

    Today was so dark- windy and raining.  Stormy weather often shakes things up for me.  I forced myself to sit down and try, "Make a boat."  It almost always works to help me find my way back home.

    In the middle of working on it, the old windows were rattling from the wind.  The blanket over my lap wasn't enough.  My feet fumbled around under the table in search of slippers.  There's been no need for them in the mostly nice weather we've had over the last weeks.  In fact, the last time I used them was while visiting my ferry-ride-away friend's house.  The visit when my wallet went missing.  I finally gave up on finding it two days ago... after several calls to the ferry lost & found, going there in person, searching the shrubs around the dock, and asking my friend to search between the cushions and in her long gravel driveway... On Monday I ordered a replacement driver's license, saying to K., "You know it will turn up now."

    Anyhow, one slipper was way under the table.  Reaching for it with my toe, I pulled it closer and slipped a foot in.  There was something in it.  My beloved $10 glittery designer wallet.  When I dropped it into the tote bag it must have fallen into the slipper.  Upon arriving home the slippers were tossed under the table, and the next day when I realized the wallet was missing, the fact that the slippers had been in the bag was completely forgotten.

    "She Needed Some Stars" with an indigo silk sail dyed by Deb G., and rainbow stars & deep sea by Deb L.

pink skies and silver rain

    Out our window, a week ago at sunset.

    At the same time, across town, K. saw a double rainbow.

    It was a very nice Christmas day.  One of our (my) traditions, is that I go into the living room first, and take a photo of Blue and Moon as they come into the room and see the tree with the filled stockings and gifts below.  Not to be undone by distance, with Blue zooming on the computer, Moon carried Blue on screen in, and I got my photo.  For the next hour, he "sat" next to the tree and we opened gifts, made jokes, and took a group selfie with one of us holding the computer facing the camera.  Technology was the very best gift this year.

    These are the Wise Guys, my favorite childhood ornaments (except for the beautiful glittery glass balls that my brother has).  If you look closely, there is a single silvery strand draped above and over the top right guy.  I took it off of Mom's tree one year.  She called it "rain" and our childhood trees were dripping with it.

    You see what I mean.  My brother and me, 1967. 

    K. was quite concerned when he first saw my family's tree style.  Lucky for him, this single strand of tinsel is enough for me.

    Mom doesn't do a tree anymore, and passed the angel topper on to me.  I remember shopping for it with Mom and Aunt J.  Mom pointed it out on the top shelf, Aunt J., being taller, reached for it and I held it in front of me as I sat in the shopping cart, asking if I thought it was pretty?  I did.  Mom doesn't believe I remember this, because I was only two, but I do.

    This is Christmas Night, after the photo above.  I'm four.  I remember what led to this, too. 

    I had brought my new doll, dollhouse and their boxes into my bedroom.  Crawling into bed with the new doll and the old one (so that she wouldn't feel replaced), I looked at the dollhouse on the floor...  (Here's where I'm going to tell you one of the strange things about me... I have always personified things.  I don't know what this means or says about me, but there it is.)  So, on that night, looking at the dollhouse on the floor, I worried that I was hurting its feelings by not bringing it to bed with me, too.  So, I got up and brought it into the bed, and then returned for the boxes, because how sad for them to be empty and alone on the floor...

At the root of things

    It was a dark and stormy morning... and very cozy.

    I think I will make a few more of these.

    The idea for this, and the one started below, came in that space between awake and dreams last night.  I was thinking about all of these trees, their roots, and an old thought of wondering how we can make our own roots. 

    I thought about the first time I met with a good therapist. (There were two visits with a really bad one a few months before, but I don't count him.)  She asked me to come back with a drawing of my family tree that included colors or symbols marking various disfunctions- alcoholism, mental illnesses, abusive, gamblers, etc...  It took a couple of tries to make it big enough to include everything.   At the next appointment, I handed over a large, very marked up, and very colorful piece of paper to her, saying, "No wonder I'm here!"  It was eye opening to see it all at once!

    There's still a ways to go with this one, in stitch and thoughts.

once upon a time...

    I thought this one was going to tell a dark fairy tale, but it turns out it's about story.  That's happening a lot these days.

    Dad was a pretty good storyteller, usually with a deadpan tone and face, ending with a "gotcha!" kind of a punchline.

    So, back to this piece...  While adding details to it this morning, thinking about how each stitch is a continuing of, or in, the story.  That every story comes from another, and reaches toward the next.  

    Of course, that led to my story, and the family of tales that I come from.  Like most, I suppose, it's a weaving of crazy, funny, hard, good, sad, and weary tellings.  (Although, ours may have a few more tangles and knots than most.)

    There was one particularly full piece of time around when I turned twenty, and mom was nearing forty.  The family was going through all kinds of drama.  I'd come home from college on the weekends when I could, and try to help piece things back together.

    Arriving home late one Friday night, I found my mom on the floor, her feet up on the built in desk.  She'd been crying.  "What's happened now?" I asked.  She said.  We sighed.  "It'll be ok... Somehow." I told her us.  Sitting down nearby, my back leaning against our childhood game cupboard, I asked, "Why don't you watch soap operas anymore?"

    "They're too boring now... compared to us."  And we laughed.

    At the time, I had imagined writing a book about it all titled 20/40 Vision, but was sure that none of them would ever talk to me again.

    All the stories, they go on and on... and how the moon was always there.

sides of the moon

    Time lost all meaning last night.  Cold and then hot, a wrong number phone call at 1am (it was all I could do not to call this person back at 7am and ask how he slept?). three nightmares- of assaults, murders and suicide pacts, and a cat on my feet, who would not be moved.

    I woke up delirious, and then, first thing, Moon said, "I want to be like                         ."   (That blank is a member of my family, someone we had stopped to see on our way to the ocean last week.  A person who, being around, or even talking to requires a whole lot of self-talk and self-armoring on my part.)  

    I think I looked at Moon as if he had just announced that he wanted to bite the head off of a chicken.  After regrouping, I asked him why?

    "I like his attitude, and he's got good hair."  (Both sides of Moon's family tree make the fear of baldness a justifiable worry.)

    Hmmm.  How different things can look from another angle.  A bend in time, age, roles.  A tilt of the head can move the darkness, or at least allow some light in.

    In spite of all of this, or maybe because of, it's been a peaceful day of being lost in stars and moon.

    Wishing us all some sweet dreams.

(This is the next addition to Mo's pennant.  A golden moon pieced out of scraps from Jude and Deb.) 

Who's the grown-up?

    (Evidence of bad behavior, top left corner.  K says he almost doesn't want to use it, it makes him laugh.)

    During college, intra-mural soccer, our coach was a very sweet and earnest young man, and we were an unruly bunch.  During time outs we would yell our thoughts at and over him.  Then one game I noticed his frustrated discouraged face.   I tried to make "Who's the coach?" my new mantra.  

    Some years later, watching my siblings parent, sometimes just like our parents did, as we do, there was a day when one of them had a plan to knock over their four-year-old's sandcastle.  

    "What are you doing?!"

        "Well, he did it to mine!"

    "But You're the grown-up!"

    It was one of those light bulb moments for both of us, realizing this was something we hadn't learned by example in our own childhoods.  And now, my boys get to experience my on-the-job learning.  At least this generation's go-around sometimes includes some self-and-re-evaluation.  I'll hope that that counts for something during the review process.

        Some stitches pulled out, replaced, added, mended . . . moving on.

pink gingham recovery

    Blue and Moon need new curtains, so off to the fabric store we went.  Blue wanted Boston Red Sox red.  Moon wanted that top striped fabric.  I wanted to scream.

    But then I saw some pink gingham . . .  and bought them exactly what they wanted.

    When I was twelve, I was moving into a new bedroom.  I was promised that I could choose how it would look- paint, curtains, etc.  I  begged for a blue bedroom.   I was told, "That's not very girly, how about a nice pink?"  Still, I wanted blue.   I left for camp saying, "Anything but pink, but please can it be blue?"

    I came home to pink walls and pink gingham curtains.  There were excuses given, and guilt trips about how I should be grateful.  

    Blue's red curtains are done.  Moon changed his mind about wanting striped curtains, he wants pillowcases instead.   I don't know what he's going to end up choosing for his curtains, but I'll be glad to stitch anything, so long as it's not pink gingham!

    P.S.  I have a blue bedroom now, but that's another story . . .

from the book of crazy

Sometimes things are said...

that are so baffling...

that all you can do is write it down...

and stitch.