handstories

“The big Mystery of Healing”

 (photo by Wendy Golden-Levitt)

    The very best thing I received on my birthday was an email from Wendy Golden-Levitt (The therapist I sent this cloth to for use in her work with children. Do read more about her textile therapy work here, here, & here). Wendy shared that a girl had taken it for a ride in the sand tray, and had included the poem the she had created as part of her healing process.

        Wendy also wrote, "When I work in the studio, with children and textiles….it is truly a community effort. The therapy facilitated by me, the child, and the cloth…a group of three really.  Without all three working together it is a very different story . . . And when all is working together, the big Mystery of Healing presents itself…and there is movement from conscious suffering to a  life filled with meaning. The experience of V working with your cloth was the beginning of creating a new vital personal myth, challenging the energy of the orphan and wounded child archetypes. V’s relationship to your cloth, allowed for her expression of loss and abandonment to flow through her sand tray, movement and poetry. Thus having the possibility of not identifying with those archetypes, but allowing for new energy to be experienced and valued." 

    The poem and Wendy's thoughts speak to everything I had hoped for while stitching the cloth.  I am still working to hold the ALL of it . . . how this young girl, in another part of the world-saw, felt, knew what was in the cloth, and was able to give out so much of herself in her words and expressions. And there is also the awe and pain from the recognition of feelings that come from sharing like-experiences.

    With permission from Wendy and V., who said it would be “good” to share it, here is V.'s poem:

"it don’t matter

where i dive

from the boat

she made for us kids who come here needing

heart transplants and brain transplants in a therapy way.

that boat already got some shiny things that made me smile.

i love the birds free and happy on the sails.

and the sparkle button treasures in the boat. i love that!!!!!!

put another ten!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!

it’s like a secret that is a good secret

that just makes you so happy and feel so safe.

i'm glad she made a moon , i need this cloth in my mind day and night.

see those swooshes coming out into the sky. that would be my wishes to feel good again.

i think she made this cloth

to make me not so alone.

i get alone feelings like a boat bouncing around in the ocean.

but this boat is so beautiful. i could be this boat instead of a row boat in the dark.

i love her. i feel i love her.

not marry her. but love her, right?

don’t you feel it? love? in her whole cloth?

is she married to the lady who made the magic feather cloth?

they love me don’t they?

the end.

until i go in that boat again.

don’t let any one spit on it please.

the end.

again."

-V.

    I have a heart full of love and gladness . . . for V., for Wendy and this work she does, for being able to play a small part in it, for the surprising gift of some personal healing the making and sharing of this cloth has brought, for Jude, who introduced us to Wendy, and created such a meaningful community that I'm very happy to be a part of.  ox

setting sail

    The last stitches were three tiny star wishes on the backside.

    Originally, the word "drifting" was in the title of this post, but this little boat is not wandering aimlessly, it has intent.  It will soon be making its way to Wendy Golden-Levitt, a therapist who uses textiles in her work with children (beautiful articles about her process here and here).  I wrote to her last summer, asking if I could make a sea and sky cloth for her, wanting to share some of how, when I was growing up, the deep wide ocean and star-filled night sky gave hope that there was something bigger out there.  

    In trying to imagine what might touch a child, there were journeys into self and spirit, and a few small course corrections in thought.  I am so very grateful to Wendy.  The stitching of this cloth has been a gift to myself, with some healing in the making and memories.  

    In our exchange of emails today, she wrote many insightful, spot-on things.  Here are a few . . .

    "The children working through trauma, often have their faith in something bigger than themselves dismantled…as often our parents play the first role in trusting the ineffable , the unseen world of what is larger than us…" . . . "This cloth will become a part of that deep river that the kids work in to regain trust. trust that they have access to that larger than I, world of hope and imagination…of faith…"

    I could not hope for anything more.

treasures in her hold

(Please click here, and then come back to continue reading . . .) 

    "Out of my window looking in the night,
    I can see the barges' flickering light.
    Silently flows the river to the sea,
    As the barges too go silently.
        Barges, I would like to go with you, 
        I would like to sail the ocean blue.
        Barges, have you treasures in your hold?
        Do you fight with pirates brave and bold?…"

     (These are a few of the lyrics from  "Barges," one of my favorite songs from Campfire Girl days.)

    At camp we would make small boats of bark and twigs, with leaves for sails.  On the last evening, we would light a little candle on each of them, and set the boats into the water at one end of the creek, while making a wish.  Running around the bend and along the bank, to the other end of the stream, we would sing this song while waiting for our vessel to appear.  If it made it, with its flame still flickering, our wish would come true.

    Filling this little boat with treasure made for a lot of happy thoughts.

        "One of these days and it will not be long
     You will look for me and I’ll be gone
     Face to the wind far out upon the sea
     Where the whales and dolphins sing to me…"

hatches battened

    Tacked down the sail ties on the "Sea & Sky" cloth.  

    It's intended for children to handle, so it seems the more secure, the better.

    The back cloth is a pretty pale indigo silk, but still, all of those loose stitches and thread ends might catch or be caught by little fingers.

    A nine-patch of Maiwa squares was running stitched over it.

    And then the running stitches were unstitched.  They stood out too much on part of the sky.  Restitching that area, using Jude's "glue" stitch, was a big improvement.  (You can see the difference between the top and bottom parts of the photo above.)

    There's one more thing I've been saving to do at the end . . .

two halves trying to make some wholes

    A  small space can hold a lot.  Applique, running, and Jude's glue stitches, cloth from Maiwa's bought on a weekend away with a friend, and a tea dipped patch of the soft sheet from childhood, woven with memories of grandmas and comfort.

    It was in wonderful Mrs. Rypsinski's third grade class that I first wanted to become a teacher, just like her. This held true until the end of high school when theater and writing were calling. Mid-college, being practical seemed the way to go, so I switched back to Plan A. Until the Math For Elementary Teachers class…it was while trying to explain number lines, that I realized, "I CANNOT be responsible for children learning this!" and graduated with Theater and English majors after all. One thing led to another, and I have been teaching in some form or other for most of the last 25 years.

    And now, as I try to help with math each morning (but still trying to avoid number lines), I am glad for all of it- the stories, theater, even that wretched math class.  When they come to my rotation, spreading themselves around the area, those on the edge of giving up plant themselves away from me.  But once in a while, when I whisper dramatically, "Fractions can seem hard, but remember it's all about the size of the pizza slices," or "Let me show you a secret trick!" . . . sometimes, they come closer.

    I still don't want to be responsible, but I'd like to help make things seem possible.