handstories

One hill leads to another...

    Saturday afternoon I just needed something bigger to stitch on.  These cloths were at hand.  A comforting hill.

    With Jude's beasts in mind (I love them so).  Thinking about most of my self-portraits either have no mouth at all, or are wide open, screaming things from the deep.

    Hills.  Folks see portals.  Maybe they are the same thing?  A way through.  Or over.  Or a place to rest and make daisy chains.

 

    We are waiting to hear some news.  Which way it will go, we don't know.  Which answer will be good or hard, we don't know.  So, just hoping for how it might be.

    Layers are cut away, making new shapes to work with.  They are shifted and rearranged as they accumulate.  There are no rules, just going.

    In the middle of it all, I wonder what we want?  What we need?  How to want what we will have?  Mostly I do.

    Hills, portals, places of in-between...brinks of stories.

Far & Near

    (Apologies for yet another marathon post.  Someday I'll get back to posting regularly and briefly.)

    Thinking about hills, again.  A lifetime of thoughts and memories of them.  Using Deb's threads to wind a story through... The front hill is from her dye pot, too.  The sky is from a class a long while back.

    This week I've been missing people, groups of people, faces.  I try to smile at people with my eyes, hoping that they know that it's an effort towards connection.

    Continuing on Cameron's block using Susan Fletcher Conway's tutorial here for stars.  They're not easy for me, requiring really good light and focus, but I wanted larger filled-in stars.  They're kind of wonky, but hopefully, with a few steps back, they will shine together.  There will be 26 of them, one for each year of his life.  

    Hands representing his, holding the names of his three young boys.  Grateful for Tina's gift of a rainbow of cloth to choose from for the hearts, and wishing that I had Liz's writing-with-thread skills.

    Another day trip with and to my friend's sweet house.  She's received both of her vaccinations, which added even more ease to our time together.

    The views from the ferry were amazing that morning.  The mountains seemed so big and close.  About fifteen minutes after this photo was taken, we were crossing this bridge.

    I gave her my most recently knitted socks and she put them on straight away.  Happily they fit.

    It was a beautiful day, including a stop at a nursery.  She studied various plants, knowing exactly what she wanted to look at (and the scientific names of everything).  I pointed out the fritillaria, "You had some in your yard when you lived across the street."  She was surprised that I remembered the name.  The word fritillaria is a fun one, making it easy to recall, not to mention that the checkerboard flowers are unforgettable and magical.

    It's a marvel how a four inch container can hold a whole complex beautiful world.  This is just the feeling I want to stitch into my little story squares.

    Sitting in the sunlight stitching moonlight and starlight was delightful.

    It was approaching dusk, so the lights were lit this time.  Still want to come back at night to see them really glow.

Moon medicine

    Filling out a partial ThreadCrumbs moon.  A moon mend.  Once again turning to the gift of threads from Tina for a just right aqua blue.

    There was a dream of being gifted crystals, and another of only having moments to decide what was needed as I left my house forever.

    The ideas of moon- roundness, filling, holding close, silvery, buttery, cool and glowing... fills, mends.

    The tear in K's coat was stitched up and laundry is going.  Small things, as Deb and Liz say.  Manageable.  This moon didn't get very far.  I was distracted by a book that's been read before.  She saves herself, and the others.  A fairy tale.  Another kind of mending for me.

stories for selves

   There's been a bad case of start-itis going on around here, but finally some pieces were finished. 

    Trees, moons, ships, and a still life in pink.  Stories of celebration, wonder, connection, and being there for yourself- the tales I tell myself over and over to carry me through.

    If you're in search of a story too, they're in the shop here, thanks for taking a peek.

spooning stories

    This is a Twin Star pierced spoon.  Isn't that lovely to say?  Isn't it a beautiful spoon?  As a child I imagined stardust and fairytales pouring off of it.  I have loved this spoon most of my life.

 

 

    It is part of the silverware I grew up using.  The first place settings were slowly collected during a crime spree carried out by my mom and her mother (Grandma got a kick out of the scheme).  During Mom's last years in high school, about once a month, they would go to a local diner for a cup of coffee.  The restaurant served up orders with a mishmash collection of utensils.  If there was a piece of Twin Star at their table (or on one within reach), a single piece would be taken to add to Mom's hope chest. 

    By the time she and Dad got married there were a couple of place settings worth.  The set was filled out over time with Betty Crocker box-top coupon points that Mom collected and mailed in for the missing pieces, including the magical serving spoon.

 

 

    Sometime during my high school years, Mom had saved up more points and ordered a whole new set of silverware.  It was not Twin Star.  I was not happy.  The Twin Star set was moved out to the motorhome to be used for camping trips.  A few years later, when Dad left, he took the motorhome, cast iron skillet (that's another story), and the Twin Star with him.

 

 

    While over at Dad's house a couple of years later, I spied the serving spoon, and began plotting how to get it (I am my mother's daughter).   While I didn't have to resort to thievery, it did require spending time alone with him (in a post-bar state), listening to unwanted advice and comments about me and my life, but I left with the spoon.

    I love this spoon.

holding time

    These are pages in progress from my book created in the workshop.  (This pretty wave is an indigo gift from Deb.)

    I loved how Christine's prompts gently brought focus and honing to our stories.  There was an exercise that I thought would be a few quick words that turned into a rough fairy tale that helped to make a bit more sense of myself.

    Another assignment, that I thought would be a short story, became a long list, and later lines in stitch, of memories in rivers, pools, lakes and the sea.

    And yesterday, I took the book completely apart, and started this new page, not wanting the lessons and feelings of the gifts of this time to end.

trying to think in pictures and words

    This is the third attempt at a post.  First I wrote a gruesome memory involving twins, a bicycle and a big toe.  And then a sappy meandering through hill thoughts.  Try, try, again...

    My friend's recovery from surgery has been slow and bunny-hopping with setbacks.  I drive across the bridge every few days (which has been its own adventure), and stay with her for some hours while her partner tends to other parts of their lives.  Each time I pack a bag- stitching, notebook, novel, magazine (in case I can't concentrate at all).  Rarely does any of it come out of the bag.  We talk and talk, as she rests in bed- about selves, family, people we know, my parenting, her upcoming wedding, Maya Angelou, memories of first grade reading groups... anything and everything.

    Another pink hill.  I still don't know why they are in my head and heart.  Fairytale like and full of childhood memories, maybe?  Why the "and..."?  The lines in the fabric invited a word to be written.  There was an "and" discussion this week, how it's much kinder than "but...".  It's true, and it will take some practice.  And it makes me think of storytelling... "and then...".

    And now I'm going to go pack up my bag again, and head over the bridge, to tell some more stories about who knows what...

snow & sense

    Two snow days with no school...what a treat!  Self-indulgence abounded, including hot chocolate.  Yesterday there was knitting, and today one of Jude's moons is becoming a personal talisman.

    Twice I had to go out and deal with foolish drivers.  We live on a steep hill.  If it's snowy and icy, and there are no tracks in the snow, do not try driving up or down it.  It's not rocket science, people.  But, if you do, I will come out with a shovel, roll my car backwards down the hill so you won't hit it, offer guidance to help you get down, and be kind (but I will raise my eyebrows at you).

sanctuaries of self

    I've been thinking of shrines, temples, altars.   The idea of "holy" is in it, but it's more about the spirit, rather than the spiritual, a way of marking what's held dear.  A cobbled indigo arch was the start, wanting there to be something roughly hewn about it. 

    Or maybe it's a window?

    Remembering the beautiful starred ceilings in Italy (the purple painted background was made by the lovely Italian Blandina).

    Also recalling the gathering that was made when a baby was wanted, after that first loss, when every breath felt like a wish.  Figures and photos of blue birds, leaves, blossoms, blue sea glass, crystals...anything that felt like hope was put on a small table top.  The gathering was touched every day until Blue came.

    A window to memories?

    I'm feeling the need for some of that kind of quiet magic again, but am unsure what's wished for?  Maybe it's just a way to hold onto myself?  I'll be making more of these...

listening to trees

    Having finished the blankets, I had meant to "Christmas" the house yesterday, or today, but the only thing that has happened is that the Christmas tree is standing here, naked, with a pile of lights on the floor next to it.  I stitched a story cloth instead.

    "I need a map," is a frequent thought these days.  I thought this piece would be about that, even pulled out fabrics with maps printed on them, and a book with map drawings... but it quickly fell together into this tree and roots.  With hardly a thought, there it was.

    Maybe it's an attempt to tell myself it's not a map that's needed,  but instead, to believe that I'm not lost.

    Time to put the lights up... 

    "She grew her own roots" in the shop.