handstories

obsession

         For the last couple of days, this.  Squares into pairs.
        Pairs into quartets- square and rectangular.

    Late into last night, and up before the light this morning.  Wanting it to be together.  Using the scraps of leftover thread in the tangled basket.  Knowing the stitching isn't very tidy or careful, but just needing it to hold together, that will be enough.  Life is like that sometimes.

    While working this morning, there was a thirty-year-old memory of  a young adult novel about a girl named Nell...

    Pressured to marry by her family, reluctantly she began a wedding quilt.  At first it was beautiful.  A crazy-quilt?  She began embroidering it, flowers gave way for beetles and spiders, dark lurking things, as she stopped eating and sank into depression.  After the last stitches, she took the whole thing and dropped it into a vat of black dye.  At the end, Nell was in bed, under the heavy shadow of a blanket, fading into nothingness, and on the last page, she made a decision to get up and go on...

    It's long, because I am, and I want to be able to wrap my feet up in it.  Narrow, because I wanted to make 3-inch squares, and have it be thirteen wide.  Hmmm...  There are some things to figure out- widening it with borders, the binding... I'm not quite sure what's next?  But it won't be a black dye pot.

another pin photo & a few thought scraps

    I was trying to think of something interesting to say here today, and instead found myself taking photos of pins.  We're all three at the tail-end of colds, which has involved a whole lot of boxes of tissues, and not a lot of thinking.

    A lot of simple squares were made and are being added to the story quilt.  It's been great to revisit old fabrics (the ones in the dusty tubs under the bed) and remember some of their stories.

    Some pieces are almost finished.  There has been lots of wishing for the ocean lately.  

    And today, some thoughts about healing- all kinds, the layers of it, and the wonder and unexpectedness of parts of it.

pieces of "Story"

    The last two days have been spent making more squares for the "Story" blanket, while sifting through some thoughts.

    The department showed up for Dad's gathering, parking one of the rigs out front.  He was a volunteer fire fighter with them for 31 years.  Assistant Chief in the last years.  He said he was too ornery and opinionated to ever get elected chief.  

    Folks shared stories about him, fondly calling him "cantankerous", "genuine old western character", "honest", "asshole", "a good friend", "a bear of a man".  They were all true.

    His hunting hat, with a notch for each deer or elk that he brought home.

    His last words were, "It was what it was."

    Wondering when this will all ease... had no idea how big this place called "through" would be.

making story

    This long vacation, Blue being on the other side of the world, Dad's death... time seems to have slipped into a forever feeling.  Things are so strange right now, and I feel really ok in it, which adds to the strange.  

    I am working at breathing.  Last week I was told that I don't breathe out deeply, or enough.  There was a discussion of how people "fight, flight or freeze" in the face of trauma.  All three have been useful in my story.  Chapters of it are bubbling up, which I suppose is to be expected.  So, I'm noticing how often my breath is held, and how old the air of it is.  What I should or want to say here, I don't know.  Truthful is always important to me, but so is useful, and safe.

    And story.

    Story has always held connections, possibilities and escape.  Today squares were added to this slowly growing quilt.  Looking at these patches- holding thoughts of friends, travels, and other makings...  And there are places where imagination takes me away to the sea, moon gazing, snowy nights, space travel, and flying with bluebirds.  I'm going to call this blanket-to-be "Story".  Everything is.

    Exhaling.........

an uncertainty of ships

    While doing a search for "collective noun for ships", I found and loved the following…   

    "The collective noun for the group of ships that one is waiting for is ‘an uncertainty’…The uncertainty isn’t any fault of the ship . . .  No. This is the very nature of ships and why the actual noun for their collection is fleet: transient. Fleeting: floating, shifting, fickle."

    -Laura Jean McKay

    I do love a little uncertainty (it took a lot of years and therapy to learn to say that!)

    

working

    During these last busy days of the school year, I am finding myself stitching more than usual-  sometimes obsessively.

    I wonder what the math equation of that is?

volume

    The fifth graders are studying volume in math.  I was talking one boy through the steps.  His eyes, and attention, were everywhere but on the paper.  I think this boy defined himself a long time ago, and not in a good way.  He doesn't see himself as able- so he slides through the cracks when he can.  

    "You can do this, I know that.  Do you want help?  Or do you want to just copy your neighbor's answers?"

    He reluctantly chose help.  I drug him through the problem.  I poked and pushed him through the lesson.  He could do it, he just didn't believe it.

    "Repeat after me, 'I am brilliant."

        He mumbled, "I'm brilliant."

    "I know it.  Don't let me be the only one who does.  What are you?"

        "Brilliant."

    "Like a star."

 

and three

    I had no idea where this one was going until it was finished.

    A "Touchstar", for centering and searching.

    I think I need to begin again . . . continue on.

    There is something in this daily exercise that is doing me good.

two

    "I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail my ship"

    - Louisa May Alcott 

    "With Some Sky for a Sail"

one

    Even in a four-inch square there are places to get lost in.