handstories

sunshine & stitches

    Seattle is beautiful right now.  My eyes are very grateful for the bright sunshining days to stitch in.  On the way to school, the lake sparkles in the morning light with Mt. Rainier majestic in the distance.  Walking in the arboretum, I keep stopping to admire the pretty Magnolia blossoms and cherry trees that line the paths.  There were also two ravens calling and flying in the tree tops the other day, the first time I've seen them here.
         Some pieces are getting ready for a shop update tomorrow.  The finishing process has become a ritual that I really love.  A quick loose sketch is made of each cloth with a few words or thoughts about it.  One by one, I hold them, feeling and listening for story, until it all comes together...

what is

    A strip of golden floral cloth was added, and blooms growing out from it.  Also, rows and dots of stitches in the background, and lines reaching out from the single blue check square.

    Last night we heard Anne Lamott speak.  She was smart, funny, quirky and a little wacky.  It felt like we were sitting in her living room, late at night, listening to an old friend rambling wise observations and considerations.  She talked about being aware, accepting what is, and taking action where we can.  Doing what we can do.  And that hope can come from not getting caught up in worry, the "What if _______ happens?!," but rather in noticing "What Is".  To see all of the wonder that is in front of us.

    Yesterday a murder of crows filled the old black walnut across the street.  Calling and cawing warnings to each other.  They came, one by one, adding to the ruckus.  What was troubling them, I don't know, but it was powerful to watch.

    The day before, winds blew.  In the front yard, the cherry and Japanese maple branches swished, bending and bouncing into each other, white blossoms touching the rusty buds of new spring leaves.

    I keep finding myself lost in thoughts.  Much of it is trying to reconcile the paradoxes of things I believe about myself, and it's seeming an impossible task.  Hopefully, acceptance and action are just around the corner, or at least in a nearby neighborhood.

    We're off to Chicago in the morning.  

    Sending out thoughts for peace and wonder to all, ox.

dark sides of the moon

    My favorite spot in Vancouver, BC, is the scrap bin of Maiwa's.  For $5.00 you can fill a picture book sized paper bag with leftover pieces of their beautiful fabrics.  

    A few pieces of this was a really swell find. The "wrong" side is full of blue moons!

    And stories in the making...

shop & Spring

        There has been some thinking about these story cloths over the last week.  Sitting down to write about it this morning, the feelings that surround the selling of them welled up my eyes, throat and thoughts.  Mostly for wonderful reasons.  People have been so kind and generous in sharing how these makings connect with their own stories.  I'm very grateful for these gifts.

    These cloths have changed over the last three years, with more detailed stitching ("practice, practice, practice" does hone skills!) and the pieces have become more personal.  I think this comes from a deeper connection with my own story and self.  I was going to say that it feels I'm on the edge of really, truly, finally grasping something about Self, but it seems that's been thought and said here before.  Maybe that's the thing to be understood- that there's always more, something deeper that can be touched with the fingertips if we stretch just a little further?

    The other side of all of this is the business piece.  Recently there was a glitch with a sale (two people bought the same piece at almost the exact same moment, and the shop let them).  Trying to learn how to keep this from happening again has led me down a dark rabbit hole of information, and realizations that some things do need to be addressed.  It involves a whole lot of things that I don't know enough about, and/or want to, and/or are hard for me- money, technology, taxes, postage, and valuing work and self.   Heavy Sighs.  

    For today, my inner Scarlett is being channeled, "I can't think about it now.  I'll go crazy if I do.  I'll think about it tomorrow... After all, tomorrow is another day."  All to say, the shop has been updated in the same old way, with fingers crossed and hopes for no hitches. 

    And just a moment ago a hummingbird flew up to the window and perched on a branch for a few seconds, as if to make sure Spring's arrival is noticed.  Maybe I'll think about it all in summer?

home building

    Home has been on my mind a lot.  What it is, what makes one, what stays with us.

    This roller coaster called parenting... it's exhausting.  We want babies, imagine toddlers and grade schoolers, but why is little consideration given for the teen years when deciding to get on this ride?  

    This was one of those weeks.  The kind that leaves you feeling completely out of control, with your hands in the air, saying, "I have no idea, and may not even care anymore."  (He'd probably say the same.)

    Friday afternoon, with K. out of town, Moon came home from school only to head out as fast as possible to spend the evening with his girlfriend.  

    "Sit down for a minute, I haven't seen you all day..."  He wouldn't, said he couldn't, she was waiting, and he couldn't wait to get to her.

    "Be home by ten," I sighed.

        "I will...give or take," he said while sticking in his earphones and closing the door.

    Conversations have become tug-o-wars.    But then, he came home at 9:58!  Sat down, and began asking questions about love...  We talked for an hour.  I said some really smart things that I didn't even know I knew.  

    Over his shoulder, heading out of the room on his way to bed, I got an "I love you, too."

    I'm thinking that it's these lovely little scraps that hold it all together.

more stories...

    A few new cloths are in the shop waiting for their stories to mix with the daydreamings of others... 

once upon a time...

    I thought this one was going to tell a dark fairy tale, but it turns out it's about story.  That's happening a lot these days.

    Dad was a pretty good storyteller, usually with a deadpan tone and face, ending with a "gotcha!" kind of a punchline.

    So, back to this piece...  While adding details to it this morning, thinking about how each stitch is a continuing of, or in, the story.  That every story comes from another, and reaches toward the next.  

    Of course, that led to my story, and the family of tales that I come from.  Like most, I suppose, it's a weaving of crazy, funny, hard, good, sad, and weary tellings.  (Although, ours may have a few more tangles and knots than most.)

    There was one particularly full piece of time around when I turned twenty, and mom was nearing forty.  The family was going through all kinds of drama.  I'd come home from college on the weekends when I could, and try to help piece things back together.

    Arriving home late one Friday night, I found my mom on the floor, her feet up on the built in desk.  She'd been crying.  "What's happened now?" I asked.  She said.  We sighed.  "It'll be ok... Somehow." I told her us.  Sitting down nearby, my back leaning against our childhood game cupboard, I asked, "Why don't you watch soap operas anymore?"

    "They're too boring now... compared to us."  And we laughed.

    At the time, I had imagined writing a book about it all titled 20/40 Vision, but was sure that none of them would ever talk to me again.

    All the stories, they go on and on... and how the moon was always there.

making home

    Thinking about...

    Home and community.  How we make them, how they shape us.  

    Grace's comment on the last post, "Back. To the Home You created."  (A very good centering reminder.)

    Talking with a friend last night about the trip, the place, the feelings there.  She asked, "How did you get out?"  I heard myself saying, "I was going to, or die trying."  Which made me laugh, because that was one of Dad's sayings.

    And talking with my sister today about our hometown, and how glad we are to be back in our now homes.

    There are some good memories, too.  Scraps of stories came back while walking down our old street, naming the families that used to live in the houses... Paula's grandma's where I saw my first bleeding heart flower and learned that yogurt was made from live bacteria, and couldn't believe either things were true.  Maxine's, where we watched "The Wizard of Oz" and ate too much salty popcorn one night.  Coach Cook's, who saw me running one day and said I would be joining the cross-country team.  Charlie's with the empty lot next door that we all called "The Field".  Once a year he'd mow it down, in-between we would run, hide and play in the tall tall Queen Anne's lace, grass and weeds that covered it.

    I just keep stirring this pot of self and the past, waiting for it all to come together into something.  I was going to apologize for that, but I'm not.  I'm tired of being sorry.  So, if folks don't mind, I'll just keep whisking and folding the thoughts, and hoping that nothing curdles.

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.

piece & peace (& lack of)

    Yesterday was a pretty and peaceful day.  Our hill was quiet and calm.

    We got about seven inches.  The day was spent stitching and not thinking about Tuesday's trip.  

    Last night anxiety attacked.  Nightmares of Dad and guns, me trying to keep others safe, and another of fragile wombats and premature babies that I was responsible for keeping alive, and failing.  Today there is a headache and stress for the weather, the drive, some of the people to be with there, the task to do, and for the work left to do inside of myself.  

    It's looking like I should leave tomorrow, a day early, between storms.  I don't like driving in good weather.  I don't want to leave home.

    Time to start packing, and searching for some inner peace...