Wednesday, April 02, 2014

Finish five and six

Keeping track of every little finish. These are both things that I started in the past and finalized this week.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Finished a top

This one has been a BoB for a long time. I finally mustered the wherewithal to pull it together. I will do a pieced backing and it will be a nice twin bed cover. I won't call it a finish until it is quilted.

Saturday, March 15, 2014

I am starting a new project and a journal is required. We live in a world where this conjures a maze of choices. Does one use a looseleaf binder? A scrap book with lovely ten inch square pages ? Watercolor paper? Moleskin? Lines or unlined? Small or big? Digital?(God forbid- but anything in a pinch)(auto correct can be a plus)(although it did just change the word auto to soot).
To the uninitiated this question may smack of self absorption. It may be thought that the author must have bigger problems. Surely there are more important subjects upon which to ponder. And surely right now there are, but I am choosing to indulge in this most enjoyable persuit.
For those of us who do know the benefits of hot pressed v. Cold pressed, flax v. linen, hand made or mass produced, it is serous business. For we know that paper can indeed inform the process.
Legal pad or drawing pad, sturdy enough for water media and collage? or sufficiently elegant for the delicate scratch of a glass pen dipped in brown ink? These are the questions that are occupying my mind this morning as I am hurtling through space on a Saturday morning in car number #### on the Long Island Railroad.
As I write this I am reminded that we are indeed blessed with multitudinous abundance. Jane Austin wrote her manuscripts first from left to right and then from top to bottom in between the horizontal letters to preserve precious paper. Solzhenitsyn memorized thousands of pages in his head while in a Russian prison camp before being able to commit them to paper upon his release.
And so it is with gratitude and with those writers and others in my thoughts that I embark on this most luxuriant and yet not frivolous journey- to find the next blank book in which to collect my thoughts and perhaps to capture some poetry on the fly.
Or maybe I can just look on my desk ( those who know me are snickering by now )and find that it is already there.

Thursday, March 06, 2014


Suzy sent a hundred dollars
with which to buy the items on the list they sent from the school where I was sent to escape her sister.

To be plucked from the ever increasing velocity of her maelstrom to land on the solid granite of Vermont's most ancient guardian mountains was the gift of salvation, a chance for sanity.
Until it wasn't.

Betsy, the youngest of the three sisters only six years my senior and also my other aunt,
who lived in Boston in 1969 with her lover Tim - their apartment
so close to Fenway that they could hear the fans cheering wildly
if the wind was blowing in the right direction-
took me to Filene's Basement where we swept through the bins of
seconds and thirds and bought me my first ever set of sheets.
They were avocado green and floral and polyester. My father and his wife had the same pattern on the bed in their guest room. I reckon they are there still.
We bought a lime green cardboard footlocker to carry my new belongings- and I kept that footlocker through that school and the next and through college. For many years to follow everything that I owned could be stuffed into that ugly green thing.

I never did have all of the things in that long list. I also never had the lace up boots that I coveted or warm mittens-until the ones that Rebecca knit for me (and thus instilling in me a life long love of knitting ) - or new underwear from elitist department stores, like the other denizens of the boarding schools where I more or less attended, but I was damn proud of that set of new sheets, and the purple towels that I would hang on my cement dorm room walls just to have a splash of color.
And I will always recall fondly that day in Filene's Basement when Betsy and I pawed through the bins in Filene's basement gleefully spending Suzy's hundred dollars.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

stairway at eustis st.
Recurring dream:

I am with Mike
or someone else
or alone 
and I need to get back to my home

I am aware that it has changed that it is unrecognizable and 
I want to find it anyway in spite of being lost and

unable to convince anyone else of the need that I have to find this place 

And even when I find it I am not there.

Saturday, February 01, 2014

Talking to myself

Happy February to all
     I wish you all a month of self love and positive inner monologue. May all of the things you think and say to yourself in your thoughts and actions, your voice and the whispers in your head, be loving and gentle and kind.
     That is what I would chose as a superpower. Kindness, so that every one I meet could soften into a state of self acceptance and self love. 
Nineteen. I am a rider of Bikes.

     I wish you all, powerful gentleness and gentle power. And I invite you to say one good thing about yourself, to yourself, each day. I did this during the month of January and it has been a continuous source of connection, inspiration and an anchor of positivity during the long days of winter. Whether you write each day in a journal, or do as I did and write them in the notes app on my phone, does not matter as long as you do it. 
     It is a powerfully simple and effective idea. This is not an idea that originated with me. I read it somewhere that someone did this each day on a piece of paper and put it in a jar and as it accumulated it became a wonderful resource and inspiration and at the end of a year they had a powerful pile of affirmations.  
     I took the suggestion and I am in turn offering it to you. It does not have to be a brilliant thought, just something nice that you might say to a friend to support them. 
One day I wrote that I had a clementine for a snack instead of a snickers bar.
(Eight. Had an orange with lunch today. Making good choices.)
 As simple as that and yet it stayed with me for a month and it was a gift to myself that did not cost a thing, one I could share with a friend at work and now I am sharing with you. 
     Other times it has connected me to things that I had completely forgotten about and I am grateful to remember. 
(Nine. I show up. David Reed  gave me a worry stone when I was 13. Since then I have collected stones from here and there. You will find them in my house, the big and the small. Some from India, from Captain Nair, a co worker t the airline where I worked.  Some from Lenox Massachusetts,  Windsor Mountain School-the stone wall in the driveway. Some from the Housatonic River when Mike and I went hiking on the Appalachian trail. Some I have kept from way back when, maybe even the one from David Reed (who lived on Mass Ave in Cambridge. I passed his house when we were there a few months ago-or at least where it had been.  When I see the stones in our house I recall the context of he time when I received them and it reminds me of who I have been and who I am.)

Some times they are a response to something I have been told and I need to correct it so that I can correct my course and steer where I want to go.
Twenty Five. persevere. I finish things. This is Number 4 for 2014.
Twenty Three. Organized. Miss Dempsey, My eighth grade home room teacher was a fossil who wrung her hands and scratched them constantly. Washed them all day long. Spinster virgin Irish catholic teacher obsessive compulsive. She taught me how to parse sentences on the blackboard, teaching me the organization of language. I have always remembered that was this first thing I liked doing in school.

Today on this first day of February, a month wherein Hallmark and the advertising industry has declared us all lovers and chocolate eaters, I am declaring it a personal month of love for ourselves. We do not need a lover to be beloved. We love ourselves.
(Twenty two. I was born on Sunday, November 4, 1956. I am a cloud in the morning sky overlooking the Gulf of Mexico at 7 am. I am a wispy cloud spirit artist. I am a Healer ) 
Twenty Eight. Today, as I make french onion soup for later, and care for Mike during his recovery and prepare the dough for the non pecan pecan rolls my daughter has requested, I am a nurturer.  
What will you tell yourself today?