handstories

Translations & transformations

    My first memory of beautiful stones is seventh grade science class.  The geology study.  Mr. T. passing out pieces of cardboard with rows of rocks glued and labeled onto them.  Rose quartz is the one I remember, I appreciated that it was easily identified by its soft pinkness.

    Ten years later, I met a woman with an unusual name who was to be my trainer at a new job.  She shared the how and why she had she had chosen this name for herself and given up her birth name.  I couldn't even imagine such a thing (Ha!).  We talked for a long while, and when we finished sharing stories, she pulled out a pouch of stones and crystals.  She placed pieces of rose quartz and tiger's eye in my hand saying, "You need these."  I thought that she was very kind and quite "woo-woo," but I carried them in my pocket, just in case there was magic to be had.

    Thirty years later, I still don't know what I believe about the powers of stones and crystals, aside from thinking that they're beautiful and I love getting lost looking into the light, lines, cuts and colors of them.  There is a piece of smoky quartz sitting here next to me.  Spotted at a booth in an art fair one day, it called to me.

    I don't know, maybe, I hope so. 

    Jude nudged me into trying to stitch a crystal.  First attempt.  Eh.  I suppose I should finish it and see, but there are already things that I know I should have done differently.

    It's been ten or more years since I last saw that woman.  At the time, she had changed her name to Ruby.  I wonder who she is now?

the glow of things

    These are quiet days.  Blue and Moon are both usually working, or hanging out with friends.  For me, there has been lots of time for stitching and catching up with friends, too.  

    Yesterday's walk was with an old friend I hadn't talked to in six months.  We've known each other for almost twenty years, taught together, our boys went to school and played together when they were small.  She's one of the smartest coolest people I know, almost always calm and takes things in stride.  

    As we rounded the park, I shared some of the experiences of the last months, trying to tone down my stories, so as not to seem too overly dramatic compared to her collected self.  Surprisingly big bold expressions came out of her mouth!  I loved every one of them, and was so grateful for the validation.

    Sitting on a bench at the end, we went on about the now, and what's next for each of us.  I went on about my studio, how it has changed things.  "You've needed this for years," she said, and asked if I was finally going to let myself just be in this piece of time, without self-judgement and worry?

    "I think so."

        "I'm so happy for you."

    "Me, too... Who am I?!?"

    We laughed, and I felt warm from the inside out.

singing to myself

    This is turning into a wild ride.  Pushing through the unknown, creating connections, intersections, and responding along the way.  A bunch of unstitching happened, and I loved the flashes that led to them.  When the ways through showed themselves- light bulb moments.  There has been lots of "what if-ing"...in how the moon garden might grow, and where that wandering black line might go.  And many sudden knowings- the jar, a rainbow star, and today the name..."Soul Song".

    Days are flying by.  This year I'm especially loving the kindergarten and first graders.  There is a child or two in each of the classes that usually does better with extra attention.  I sit with them, we draw, paint, talk about Frida Kahlo, owls, rainbows, etc.  There is encouraging, managing, and a grabbing of wayward paint brushes as needed.  Some days it feels like a three-ring circus, it always feels like a whirlwind, often with lots to laugh about afterwards.

    It's all connected- why I work with children, this and other cloths, the past, now, and the going...  It's all part of the same story.  I can't quite sort it all out yet, but it feels like it's coming.

illumination

    A moonlit garden and a jar of memories of hope are in the works.  (The roots of the garden is a pretty patch gift from Jude.)

    This piece is filling up, and happily not with the darkness that was expected, instead a whole lot of light is pouring in.

(And last night's dream...visiting a friend's house (that I've never met), going to a baseball game with her, where I caught ball after ball, until I was balancing an armload of baseballs, while still catching ball after ball...)

places between here and there

    Working my way around the cloth,

    basting on a rainbow of scraps,  

    using the leftover basting threads to stitch the hair.

    A kind of connection between cloth and child,  

    a way of holding things that are and might be.

    And trying to get a feel of how to add magic and imagination,

    things that can help to see the possibilities-

    of pathways and transformation,

    and allow for doorways of dreaming and wanting.

sometimes things create themselves

    It was started on that day last week (here), feeling a bit melancholy about the end of the year and those children who need so much care, but are often left without it during the summer months, and wondering about that very sad girl. (I've since found out that there are people who know her story and are giving her help and support.) 

    It started out as another mat.  Thinking about how much I loved the stitching and result of the first one.  The plan was to stitch scraps around the edge, colorful pieces- a simple colorful cloth . . . and maybe to put it in the shop?

 

    It wasn't until making that first post, while adding the photos in, that I saw the figure at the side.   Those random scraps that had been tacked down just became a child on their own.  What a surprise, but not.  A manifestation . . . a material-ization (ha!).  It was then that it was clear what and where this cloth was meant for.  Wendy's work.  (Read about it here, here & here).  Not meant for self, or shop . . . but for comfort, connection and hope.  I'm excited to see where it might go . . . 

waving and wanting

 

    I could use a bottle of sea in my pocket.  One that if I put my eye or ear to the opening, waves could be seen, and the sound of their crashing and easing into the sand would be caught.  I'm tired, mostly because it's that time of year, and I'm ready for a break (as are the children!)  Some of it's because next year is unknown, which is nothing new in this position, but I've asked for a change, which is not how I do things.  

    Lines from a Stevie Smith poem keep running through my head,     

            "…I was much too far out all my life   

                And not waving but drowning."

 

     Over the last few years I have learned to trust more.  Trust that things will work out, go as they should, be ok . . . in cloth, work, life.

    Now I'm working on the idea of wanting.  I'm not one for making plans for myself.  Daydreams and wishing now and then, but nothing clear or focused.  I'm very good at wanting for others and fighting to make it happen for them, but not for me.

    Some of it is from the trusting, because things do generally work out, one way or another, so, no need to worry, but a piece of it is from not feeling deserving.  Who am I to ask for something?  There are years of therapy and explorations of self and childhood that help it all to make sense, but still, how do you learn to think in different ways?

    So, all to say, I'm very uncomfortable and quite jammed up, but I'm not drowning.  I am learning how to wave- to the universe and myself.

defining space

    Blue is home for the summer.  He was ready to come home and rest, and we are all so glad to have him here with us, but there is a need for some wiggling around and re-learning how to work and fit together again in this small house.

    He's also grown some new wings of freedom while at college this year.  Trying not to clip them, but really I just want to tie him to a chair and make him tell me everything about his new world.

    Instead, I'm watching and waiting for sightings of him, being grateful for whatever scraps of stories he offers up on his way out to see friends (and trying not to scream every time I go into the bathroom and am reminded that he has spent the last year living with other teenage boys).

    Sometimes I wonder if I'm looking in at my life, or out from it.

    Started here with another one of Jude's moons.

what time & space held

    What a full weekend- A dinner date with a friend, that was just the right thing to ease some of the stress that has been building over the last couple of weeks.  A long caring, moving phone call with someone whose gifts let her see and share so much (and best of all, of her words, "When you are moved, you are believing, and it's true.  Trust what moves you.").  A  day with a dearest friend, traveling to visit another beloved soul.  Hours of talking and talking and laughing (followed by a lovely dream that magnified her quiet steady comfort).  And some stitching.  The guys have been missed, but having these days has been good.  Time and space with Self.  

    These squares are from the muslin dipped in the indigo bucket last summer.   I started stitching them Friday night, thinking about how things can be rearranged into something new.  Cloth and Self.  How things can look quite different without really changing.  

    And how to build on that.  

    I don't really have the words yet for it all, but there is bubbling.  Maybe there aren't words?  

    And remembering a painting I made a couple of years ago,  titled, "What if things were different than she thought?" (here).  And I began a new piece with thoughts of, "What if things were everything she hoped?"

    I am paying attention, and it is hard to let myself focus, but I am owning that I am moved in this process of trying.  Moved by self & Self.  I feel it.  So, it must be true.

    There is a lot more stitching to do.

continuing my mid-life metamorphosis . . .

    "What kind of blue do you want?"

    I told her, "Deep dark blue, and twilight, mermaids, and the sea . . ."