handstories

Stories with a Stranger

    With an eyelet from Deb's dyeing under a blue moon by Tina, I started a new home cloth.

    I had a fun phone conversation yesterday.  There is a credit card that I never use, that K. wants us to start using.  The problem is that because I never use it, I had never changed the incorrect name on it.  I told K. that I would need to go to the store it was issued through.  A store that we rarely go to now. 

    "No you don't, just call the 800 number on the back of it."

So, yesterday I finally called.  After a couple of tries to choose the right number, to get to the right department, a pleasant southern woman answered, "Hello, my name is S.  How are you doing today?"

    "Good.  How are you?"

    "Fine.  Thank you for asking!  Let me verify some information...  What is the name as it appears on the card?"

    Answered.

    "Here's a security question... What is your favorite pet?"

    "My favorite pet?  I've only had cats..."

    No.

    A specific cat?  "Twinkle? Jenny?  Jake?  Mittens?  Midnight?..."

    No.  No.  No.  No.  "It starts with a B..."

    "A 'B'?!?"  Bird?  Bat?  Buffalo???

 

    "Oh, wait a minute!  I clicked on the wrong name..."

    "Was it my husband's?  K....?"

    "Yes, sorry about that..."

    "Did he say Buffy?!?"

    "Yes."

    "Oh, Buffy...poor old thing!  She's dead."

    "Oh, I'm sorry!"

    "No, she's long gone and was a crazy dog that he had back in high school.  A few weeks after K. left for college, his mother called me up in hysterics, saying that K's dad had accidently backed the car up over Buffy.  When he went to try to help her, she bit him and died.  His mom called me because she was afraid that she would start laughing if she called K.  She couldn't stand Buffy.  That was fall of 1980..."

    "Oh, my!" said S. and then had a revelation of her own, "1980, that was the year that my dad came out..."

    "We have some stories to share!" I said.  She agreed.  We went on for a minute, and then she remembered she had a job to do... 

    Clearly, I had verified who both K and I were, so she moved on to another kind of question, but still one that I wasn't sure of the answer to.  "Is it ______?"  Clearly it wasn't.  "Maybe I should just tell you what my question is?  Maybe none of this matters?  How do I change the name on my card?"

    "You need to go to the store where it was issued."

    "I knew it!  I was right!  K. said I needed to call you, but I was right!"

    "Of course, you were!"

    The whole conversation was very fast, only a few minutes, but we were both laughing hard by the end. 

    This piece was fun, too.

"She Remembered Her Song"

truth making

    The garden grows, abstractly.  That seems to be the way things go around here.  Woke up to sprinkling rain.  It's been 39 days.  I went outside and just stood in it this morning.  It was "beach" rain, that misty feel good kind.  It seems to have stopped now.

    At writing class last night, we wrote and wrote.  Each exercise taking off in a new direction from the last one.  My pencil was worn down and my hand hurt.  It was great.  Near the end, she had us talk about it all with the person next to us.  My partner and I both said how surprised we were that we had ended up writing about our parents.  Which led to sharing a little of our backstories, their stories.  

    And then, there was a quick back and forth of something else.  Starting with the information that her writing is generally cheerful, and my stitchings tend to be peaceful daydreams.  Which led to the thing that had been pecking at for both of us for a while now... People have questioned why she doesn't write about the truth of her life, and I have been asked why I don't stitch out what happened to me.  

    Recognizing we both carry feelings of being a fraud and a liar, we stared into each others' wide-open eyes for a second.  The next few moments were so quick, I couldn't even tell you who said what between us . . . the gist of it was . . . that we've already been there, to those stories, lived them, mostly worked through them, and that while they are always going to be true and present (and not that we don't ever write or stitch the ugly stories out, or that we don't appreciate and admire those works of art that tell it All), we realize, that when there is a choice to spend time creating, we usually lean towards making things wished for, wanted, needed.  

    I am not a toucher, but as things spilled out of both of us, I reached over to her hand, and said, regarding the stories we write and stitch, "This is the truth we've been waiting for."  "Yes, that's it."  We both scribbled that sentence down, and then turned to rejoin the class.

holding stories

    Hearing how these little cloths hold moments in other people's  journeys and daydreams is one of the very best parts of sending them out into the world.  Realizing that when stories and imaginings go back and forth, unseen windows open, and something shared becomes more . . . I just love that.

    There are a few new wanderings in the shop.

pink clouds with some scattered thoughts

    The new year began with a dip into Blandina's rainbow of cloths.  Another beginning was with Carla Sonheim's new class, 365: Activate Your Art Brain.  In taking that watercolor class over the last few months, it's become clear how good it is to stretch in new ways.  This will be a just the thing, a quick daily art practice to warm-up each day. 

    Day One:  Pink clouds 

    Yesterday there was a new flickering of understanding of how drawing, painting and stitching might inform each other.  I know Jude has talked about this, as has my therapist, who is also an artist (a very swell bonus), but yesterday, while going back and forth between the clouds and stitching, there were some moments of getting it.

    I found an abandoned sketch book to use.  There are a few markings and notes in it, including that quote in the top corner, "find me unafraid".  I have no idea where it's from, or why it's on this page, but I'm guessing it struck a chord, because it does now.      

    I really am going to try to do some deeper thinking about sharing, the possible ways, hows and whys, including the idea of sharing with myself.

about that sail . . .

    One of my issues is being afraid to use special things . . . for fear of wasting them, thinking a better opportunity for use might come along in the future, and mostly of the sadness of not having the treasures to hold anymore.  All a part of my own kind of crazy.

      It's happened again with this lovely stack of cloths.  They are from Blandina's explorations in a monoprinting class last summer.  Since then they have sat at the side of the table, being unrolled and admired now and then.  Each time a reminder of the wonderful afternoon we spent in London last winter.  

    But it is time to stop holding on, and start sharing them . . . with myself, and with the cloths they might become a part of, adding another layer to their stories.

    Last year I wrote, "I'm thinking a lot about the word "share," what all it means, and how it could build deeper connections."  There were a lot of feelings and ideas around it, but I didn't get very far in the process of trying to sort it out into tangible thoughts.  Maybe this year it will sail into focus?

in the midst . . .

    . . . of holiday bustling, band concert, piano recital, last minute knitting for gifts, the crazy days of school before it breaks for vacation, and everyone in the family catching some bug or other . . . I have been spinning this wool . . . and loving it.   

    Its gray-brown oatmeal like color is soothing, as is the squashy softness of the finished yarn.  It's a mix Targhee and Clun Forest wool (doesn't that bring up thoughts of ancient woodland creatures wandering through the woods?), bought at some local fiber gathering a while back.  Even the need to pick out bits of vegetation along the way is making me happy, connections to the real sheep who wore this coat in some nearby meadow.

    I've said this before, that spinning feels like coming home.  

    I'm grateful that there are so many ways to make- spinning, knitting, stitching, etc.  I couldn't pick a favorite, they all fill some need for expression and/or self-care.

    I'm thinking a lot about the word "share", what all it means, and how it could build deeper connections.   

    The conversation around it is just beginning in my head, still quite blurry and fuzzy.  Hopefully, it can be twisted and plied for strength, knit or woven into shape, and used to take care of some things, to keep them safe and warm.