handstories

Gathering light

"How it Would Be"

    A thin moon layer of Heike's dyed silk allows Deb's wonder cloth to shine through.

"Unexpected Rainbows"

    Bigger than usual, 9" x 7".  More of Deb's cloth sailing in the breeze.

    My favorite spot.

    Life is in a tunnel right now, but there are a couple of lights twinkling at the end of it. 

    Spectrums.

    I have the hardest time photographing paintings.  The light is rarely right.

    Two friends, by two favorite artists.  "Story" made by Cathy Cullis many years ago (resting in a bluebird tea cup that matches one belonging to a dear friend.  She gave it to me so that we could imagine having tea together anytime), and a painting by Amanda Blake, "She Kept Herself Safe".  It was a rare spontaneous instantaneous purchase a few years ago.  I named her "Lucinda," and just looked up the meaning- light, of course.  They are across the table directly in front of me as I stitch.  Keeping company and an eye on things.  There are a few more friends here, but these two are giving me meaningful looks today

    The teacup friend texted today, "Are you ok?" 

        "Nope.  But trying to be."

"Gathering Light"

   Or "Audrey the Third" if you're Dee (ha, inside joke).  A Threadcrumb moon, deep purple wave by Tina and the sky, and reverse-side patch in the bottom corner, are a Maiwa cloth.

falling

    I am out of words and thoughts.

    Just going.

    One slow stitch at a time.

    Grateful for moments of light.

    And for remembering that they are there.

    There is a corner downtown, enclosed, when you step inside... waterfalls, trees, flowers, ferns, chairs and small tables to rest among.  A lovely world away from everything in the middle of it all. (Here)

    A token of love, thoughts and prayers was put into the mail yesterday.  I hope it gets there.  Because I don't know what else to do.

moving through and on

    Yesterday was such a bad day, for all kinds of reasons.  At school- too many stories to tell, and they aren't mine, but if I were to share just the ones from yesterday, you would join me, with your mouth open, eyes tearing, soul full of feeling helpless and hopeless.  

    In the middle of it all, there was a personal thing to get through, what yesterday's post was about.  Something from the past and present that I usually have a grip on, but a piece had jumped out of the box that keeps things manageable.  While my story is not a secret, at least not mine, I'm not sure this is the place for it, at least not now.

    There was a self-proud moment, in the hallway at school, searching for a boy who went missing, feeling completely on the edge with my own stuff, when I stopped and said to myself, "You can get through this," and came up with a doable plan for Self, and it worked well enough.  (And the boy was found.)   

    A new moon was started last night.  The shape of it was traced off my school tea mug, which is a comfort for me (which I forgot yesterday).  The backing is flannel, another comfort to touch with each stitch.  It's a new day, with absolutely no plans, there are stars and story to add to this piece, and there is plenty of tea.  

growing, or at least going

    Some days a soul gets tired of digging and stretching, but you keep on, because that's what you can do.  Hoping for things to take shape, and for a glimmer of what might be.

a lot of photos, not much sense

    There were a few days of noticing.  At Moon's baseball game, a nest atop of the light pole, with baby birds yelling for food.  A swooping parent came and went.  We think it was a condor.  Spotted three rabbits that day, too.

    And the day before found a jay feather in the yard, and a little plastic number three off someone's uniform at the field of Blue's game.

    The three year old next door brought flowers, and later the six year old across the street came with chives.  Then yesterday, just as I was taking the feather photo, a neighbor yelled out, "Don't look at the news!"

    Followed by phone calls with family.  There are things going on.  Which drums up things from the past, and how they layer with the now.

    Went looking for the thinnest of thin**.

    It's not done, probably it never will be. 

    Sanity is a very thin thread.

(**most of these cloths are from Heike- love her gentle colors)

through and through

        This piece is a gift for a young woman who has found her way through some rough seas.  I hope her future will be weighed down with joy.

    "Her gifts and the stars carried her through."

all there is today

    The other night, out of sorts, too tired to make, but wanting to hold something . . . I wrapped and unwrapped this old felted rock with a scrap of cloth, over and over.

    Things at school are hard.  There is struggling, for teachers and students.  It is a tough group, for all kinds of reasons, some unknown.  No one has answers.  I am trying to learn new skills, to be better, but did think about calling in sick yesterday.  I went.  First thing, there was success in math, especially for one boy, who often doesn't try, because he doesn't think he can, he got it.  He beamed, we high-fived, I even cried a little from happiness.  Three hours later, leaving, I saw him sitting in the office.  He was mad.  He was in big trouble, again.  I sat with him until the principal came, saying, "So sorry this happened…you had such a great morning, I know you can turn things around . . . blah, blah, blah."  Wanting to say, of course you're mad, I'm so sorry for how your life has gone so far, I wish you had enough . . . of everything.  I cried most of the way home, because some things seem too big to fix.

    The cloth was stitched on, without glasses.

    This morning thread beads were added to touch.  It's not pretty, it's not really anything, and is not any of the things I should have been doing today.  It's been named "tears".

ugly is in the eye of the beholder

    This afghan has been buried in the closet for years, recently I pulled it out to cover the worn couch.  A friend asked, "What's the story with this thing?"

    "Years ago I set out to make the ugliest afghan I could."

    "You succeeded."

     It holds all kinds of thoughts from thirty years ago- Grandma Blanche, family and friends, survival, and a great big smile every time I look at its ugly self.  

    When Grandma taught me to crochet during her last years, I took to it with intensity.  It was during my twenties, what I often refer to as the "dark decade".  I would sit in our apartment crocheting all day, not going out, day after day.  I made a blanket for everyone in my life at that time- mom, dad, siblings, friends, in-laws, etc.  My sister asked for a black one.  After one blurry solid skein of black, I added a single row of dark green, just to break it up.  That black one just about did me in.  I thought it would be the last one.

    I looked at all of the small balls of leftover yarn and decided to make one more, for myself.  The odds and ends went into it, some of Grandma's bits, too. It wasn't pretty.  I began going to the store and choosing which ever colors looked the ugliest to me.  It grew.  It was huge.  It was so awful, it made me laugh, and I loved it.  I never made another zig-zag afghan again.

    Over the years it's been chewed on by kids, cats and washing machines, used for picnics, forts, plays, etc.  The yarn ends have poked themselves out and its holes have been badly patched up.  Twinkle likes its built in cat toys.

    The Ugly Afghan goes on, seemingly indestructible.  The "dark decade" ended soon after its creation.  I would like to think that one thing had something to do with the other.

cracking

    Yesterday, I became obsessed with this gape in "2013".  It probably would have gone unnoticed, but just in case, I carefully finagled a tiny scrap of matching fabric into the space.  Invisible basting stitches held it, making it disappear all together.  I don't know why I didn't stop?

    Maybe my old comfort zone is knocking at my new friend, serenity's door?

    Some other things are beginning to crack, too.  

done.

"holding on" with thoughts for Japan's struggles and spirit.  

    Finishing is hard for me.  Either I lose my way, or interest, or some new idea comes along.  Another hinderance is not knowing when to stop, going too far, wanting to try everything, or being so into the process that I don't want to leave it.  I don't remember the last time that the last stitch was taken and I knew it.  It happened here.  Start to finish, without a plan, it just grew, and became, and is done.