My daily walks have gotten more dangerous lately, as I find myself constantly craning my neck back, not looking in the direction I’m traveling, but rather up at the winter branches. What is it in the fine curved and jagged lines of branches on sky that pulls at me? Perhaps that chaos of line and shape is the Mother Tongue, the first written language. Imagine an ancient, laying on their back in a field of some now extinct dry grass, looking up and finding forms, patterns, the beginnings of messages, imagine that aha moment, them gouging those shapes in the earth with a stick. What can YOU read in the trees?
a homecoming
Today I ironed and sewed for the first time in a week. I felt that same release and satisfaction I get from a hot bath or a long hike.
expectations
Last night my youngest put a spoon under her pillow, wore her jammies inside out, and flushed an ice cube down the toilet. In short, she did everything within her power to conjure snow during the night. This morning, oh miracle, she woke to snow. Sadly, it was not enough to close schools. There was great wailing and gnashing of teeth, which the school district either ignored or did not hear (though I doubt that). The great snow makers in the sky were also apparently oblivious to her pleas. I pointed this out to her, that all her efforts of crying would not bring snow or cancel school but she was on a trajectory, one she’s been on often recently, a tearful, moaning, pitiful storm that can only be waited out.
I’ve been reliving it all day, asking myself if there was another way to handle the situation, if there are hidden aspects I should confront, where it comes from... Then it dawned on me. My daughter is an exaggerated reflection of me. I am generating my own storm these days, reacting to events beyond my control with that stomping stubborn determination that so baffles me in my daughter. We are the same.
feeling stuck
Maybe its the mounting holiday frenzy, or the recent tragedies, or the distraction of teaching, or my own peculiar mood swings, but I find myself in a creative quagmire, shoveling at a constantly sluffing muck of mediocre unformed ideas, hoping to find a bright jewel. I keep beginning projects only to dismantle them in a state of agitated dissatisfaction. The ideas that come to me in the night, as I lay churning and tossing in un-sleep, reveal themselves as they are in the light of day. Like the spork or the snuggy, these ideas feel frivolous, irrelevant. I want to make something that rocks me, that sends ripples out into the world around it. I suppose the only thing to do is keep digging.
Fantasy C
In this fantasy I have a special time piece (I likely found it while digging at the beach or possibly it appeared under my pillow on a camping trip. I most certainly did not get it at Target) it ticks and turns as most clocks do but the speed of the passage of time is determined by the quality of time spent. For instance if I am sitting and playing mastermind with my daughter, or cooking a meal from scratch, or walking with a dear friend the clock will slow. If I am mad at my partner, or fretting over my cluttered livingroom, or commuting the clock will speed up.
my first quilt
I dreamed a journey through my body
I dreamed a trip inside my mind
I dreamed I packed an empty suitcase
and left my worries all behind.
on crossing bridges
This is an unstitched work a friend is commissioning from me as a gift to her parents. I just finished the layout and I’m about to begin sewing. I am considering words to stitch into the sky, thoughts on crossing bridges together, making changes and weathering transitions together. Myself, I am typically ungraceful in the midst of profound change, but when I look back across the expanding vista of my marriage and personal life, the bridges are the shiny landmarks, the remarkable memories.