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A Few Things that Made me Happy

I've been busy since last week's meditation, as has Mother Nature. Spring is continuing apace.

There are quite a few bright spots in the garden. Most plants are beginning to leaf out or set buds. It doesn't appear that I have lost much to the cold, but most of my plants are cold hardy for this planting zone, which should allow for minimum temperatures of zero or below. Of course it didn't help that nothing was dormant and that the temperature dropped from 70 to zero, but I grew up in Texas, even if my plants didn't. I tend to get far more bent out of shape over the things humans do to each other than I do over Natures upsets.

Still, how can one's heart not be lifted by new blossoms?

Last week I told you that I had bought a brisket with the intention of making corned beef. I have set two big chunks of brisket to cure, about 10 pounds total, which should last me a while. Although I did not make corned beef when I was struggling with health issues, I am happy to have another batch in process. I am running another comparison, following up on my results from the last time I made corned beef, and I will inform you of the results. I am basically using the same marinade on both, but varying the time of the cure, as a refinement of those previous results. To my taste, corned beef is all about the cure. I haven't yet found a commercially available, grocery store corned beef I find acceptable, and I have been less than impressed with cures that marinade for less than 5 days (the minimum I see recommend in recipes. Hopefully this is the beginning of a process for maintaining a household staple. I can freeze part of the beef, and use it regularly, not just in March. I've always considered corned beef a year-round thing, not a Saint Patrick's Day thing, anyway, perhaps that is the Jewish deli influence in my life, just as I find the seasonal corned beef and cabbage dinner to be the least interesting thing to do with a corned beef. (Remember it is all about the cure for me). In fact I've had more than a fair number of "corned beef and cabbage" dinners where the beef is barely cured, and could just as well be a New England Boiled Dinner, something I grew up eating. Anyway, look for results in a week or two.

The garden is behind where it was at this time in 2020 (the last time I made corned beef also) but I am not worried about that. What gets done will get done. I am happy to have increasing energy, to work on things as I can, and make the best of it. I am also happy that my energies and my mental wanderings are more forward-looking than reactive, that there is hope.

I cleaned out the freezer and the pantry this week as well, and found 4 chicken carcasses, 4 pounds of chicken backs and necks, and several gallons of leek/celery/onion/vegetable trimmings for stock. I've been out of chicken stock for a while as well, so out came the 16 quart stock pot and a batch of chicken stock was made. The stock is in the refrigerator now, where it has been chilling so I can separate off the layer of fat, which will be reserved for cooking. I will be canning the remaining stock later today. I think I have between 9 and 10 quarts to be canned. I've already used one quart to make some soup from a bit of cabbage and lettuce that had been hanging around the fridge a little too long.

In fact, leftover lettuce or vegetable soup is another one of my favorite things. My mug of soup and I are about to go sit on the deck and absorb the sunshine. Here's to glorious days filled with hope. Believe me, it is there if you look for it.

March 18, 2023
Meditation on leaves and blossoms

Suddenly, all around me the world is unfurling waves of hope in the form of leaves and blossoms. Spring is undeniable. As always. And as always we humans want to complain. "It is turning cold again". "Winter is back". "My plants still might die". But as much as some complain, we inevitably look forward to spring, to the return of light and warmth and color.

Three days ago I took this photograph:

Such a simple thing. A tree has burst into bloom. But what appeals to me the most about this picture is not just the blossoms but the contrast, the duality even, between the tree filled with blossoms and the bare trees around it, even the branch of dead leaves. It reminds me that time and life is so fluid, so short and yet at the same time so eternal. That spring, and even summer, is precious and brief, something to be celebrated. And yet I don't want to forget about winter. About rest and renewal. It is only because the trees have gone dormant and dropped their leaves that they can burst forth anew, filled with color and life. Growth takes energy, and strength requires rest.

This is what actually struck me, this idea of dawn, of awakening. What I love about early spring is this delicate balance between the bareness of winter and the budding new growth, the same kind of gradual awakening we see at dawn. Yes, eventually there is the brilliance of the full sunrise, but the moment that seems the most filled with promise to me is the early lifting of the light, the promise that the cycle will renew, that tiny new buds will come forth, each and every day, each and every year, each and every life.

I was thinking how fitting it is that the calendar year begins in Winter, when growth has stopped, when, in many parts of the northern hemisphere there is nothing green and blooming to be seen, just bare branches, and earth. Not death but sleep. I am reminded that in the Jewish Calendar the day begins at sunset, with sleep, a sleep from which we awaken. That in Genesis, God separates the light from the darkness, or the darkness exists first, and the light comes from it. Rest that fuels life, the darkness, the repose, the silence. Out of the silence comes thought and creativity and creation, life itself, and that life will eventually exhaust its resources and need to return to rest.

The human body is designed to need to spend one-third of its time in rest. Surely if this were not important, and the most efficient way for us to accomplish all that we can be and all that we can do, our bodies would have been designed differently. The only things that are guaranteed us in life is that we will need to sleep and we will die. To me, this is not something to be feared and dreaded so much as a reminder that we must bloom and flower and each be the best person we can be given whatever soil and air and time we find ourself inhabiting. We must bloom, but in order to allow our blossoms to come forth, we must embrace rest.

Perhaps we have it backwards. It is not our accomplishments that define us, but how we rest, how we allow creativity to blossom from repose.

March 11, 2023
New Shoots…

Having written one blog post my brain has been filling up with ideas and things I want to write about. And yet I don't get there, don't get the words down.

I have just collapsed into bed, propped up on pillows hoping I have enough energy to write something, anything. There is a warm mug of leek and celery soup on the nightstand by my side. I feel like I have been whomped, like I could settle into a puddle in the ground, but it isn't a bad thing. I've done a lot today. I have done a lot the last four days, so perhaps my body needs a rest.

But I also want to find my words. Let's just consider this part of the process of new growth, or spring in East Tennessee. The sun shines, the air grows warm and gentle breezes caress the skin, then the temperature drops and we have icy frost, or torrential rains, or tree-felling winds. I go to sleep only to waken to another gentle clear day. All part of the process. Energy, tiredness, creativity, action, rest. Spring rebirth in the making.

The brain seems to require a lot of energy and I've had more ideas than I've managed actual posts. But I am hoping to manage a few words.

I am surrounded by daffodils and forsythia and spring trees bursting into bloom. These are mostly my neighbors blooms. My daffodils are later varieties, and I live on the shadier side of the street, so most of my plants bloom about a week after my sunnier neighbors, but my yard is not bare. The roses have leafed out, the hellebores have been lush with blossoms for weeks now, as have the camellias. The geraniums are blooming, and I even have my first daffodil. No complaints. No dearth of promises.

I've had my hands in the dirt, digging and clearing the planting beds in the vegetable garden. The sorrel is up, replacing the bed ripped out by an over-eager landscape worker last year. Chervil and arugula are up as well. I got the pea trellis up before the torrential rains and wind, which ripped the trellis up and tossed it across the yard. I'm glad the peas weren't yet on that trellis. I hope to plant them this afternoon. I said that yesterday as well.

I've cleared out the bramble patch (roses and blackberries), after which I needed a nap. I'm still not rushing myself. What gets done will get done in its own time. Nature has her own schedule, and apparently so does my body, independent of what my mind might will. And yet, my energy today is exponentially greater than it was at this same time last year.

I picked up a whole brisket today when I was out shopping. I am planning on curing some corned beef. It has been a couple of years. I might braise one chunk of it to eat while I wait out the brining process. I've not yet decided. The fact that I am feeling more adventurous in the kitchen is a good sign, that not only do I dream but I have the wherewithal to act. Hands in the dirt, playing with thread, playing with words, working until I am actually tired and then allowing myself to rest. These are all signs of growth, of life, of what is important. It is these little things, an hour cleaning out a flower bed, planting seeds, knitting yarn into fabric, making soup — .these are the things that are fulfilling to me, that make life feel worthwhile.

But my weariness has not abated. Time to surrender to slumber.

March 7, 2023
Two Concerts and A Book, or Slowly Finding My Way Back to Words
I hit a wall when I started thinking about what I would write about if I wasn't simply posting about knitting and sewing progress. Before I knew it six weeks had passed with no resolution to my writer's block.

Today, then, I am just going to write whatever nonsense and emotional drivel is channeled through my fingers and toss it out into the world unedited. There is no help for it, as I find I have become an expert at procrastination and can distract myself with all kinds of useless pursuits in order to avoid writing.

Granted, I began the year questioning the very notion of who I am and who I wish to be. Many of my prior assumptions seem no longer valid with many pursuits simply not paying off with either joy or satisfaction commensurate with the energy extended. How could I write when I didn't even know who I was? What I did know is that I don't want this blog to be a storage place for lists: books I have read, concerts I have attended, the things I have knitted, garments I have sewn. But I haven't known how to make the transition to whatever it is that this blog is becoming. It will continue on; I am not ready to give it up.

In order to get myself over the hump it seems I need to fall back onto hold habits. I attended many concerts in January and early February, two of which resonated deeply and continue to hand my memories. I also read five books in January, all of which I enjoyed, but one of which resonated deeply. I shall fall back on these things, concerts and books, and see where that gets me.

On one evening I attended an organ recital and the Mendelssohn Sonata, No 6 in D minor, brought me to tears. Not something that usually happens to me at organ recitals. They were not tears of sadness, perhaps simply of depth of feeling. I did not know the piece, but the first two movements seemed imbued with a sense of history and the weight of belief and culture, all wrapped in warm tones and beautiful playing; the fourth movement seemed transformative, as if that same sense of history was being brought into some sort altered present.

The other concert that surprised me was a chamber music concert which I almost did not attend. The concert opened with Ethel Smyth's Suite for Strings, which was followed by Jeff Midkiff's Mandolin Quintet #2 and Dvorak's Serenade for Strings. I didn't expect much from the Midkiff as I had been completely underwhelmed by the one work I had heard previously. I was surprised because I liked the first half of the concert far more than the second half. The Smyth was delightful and full of energy. It was a lovely romantic work that in places reminded me very much of Dvorak, and made me wonder if that was part of the reasoning behind its placement on the program. This was also a bit of conundrum because it was written too early to have been influenced by Dvorak's later works, and yet I felt (or imagined) a strong connection between this early Smyth and late Dvorak. Anyway, this had me wondering if there had been any Smyth music performed in the Dvorak and His World program at the Bard Music Festival decades ago. But I am terrible at remembering those things, terrible at saving papers, and was not blogging then, so I have no point of reference..

The Midkiff completely surprised me. The mandolin Quintet #2 "Gypsy" had a strong, even thrilling opening with a chromatic melody carried by the violins over an almost droning reverberation from the cellos. It was fully satisfying both intellectually and emotionally. A fiery and turbulent work, with alternating passages of "gypsy" and "folk" passages, this was a far more rewarding introduction to the composer. Dynamic and sophisticated, with complex harmonics, it completely changed my impressions of Midkiff's work, enough so that I would now seek this music out.

And that leaves reading matters.

2023 Booklist:
1. The Invisible Kingdom. Meghan O'Rourke
2. Everything Good will Come. Self Atta
3. The Secret Servant. Daniel Silva.
4. Pandemia. Alex Berenson
5. Where'd You Go, Bernadette. Maria Semple.
The Invisible Kingdom and Pandemia are both non-fiction and are outside my purview for reviews. That leaves three novels.

I have been working my way through Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon novels, and read this one, number 7, in January. I thoroughly enjoyed it. The books contain enough history and historical fiction to prove both thought-provoking and compelling. They are not high-literature, nor are they for the squeamish, but I thoroughly enjoy them and I find the character of Allon fascinating and all too human.

Where'd You Go Bernadette was a reread for a book club. It is a light, effective, satire although it didn't quite hold up to a second reading. I still love Bernadette and her daughter. The first time I read the novel, this is what I wrote: "the aspect of this novel I enjoyed the most may be the way the author portrays the tyranny of those without imagination." I think I still have nothing further to add.

But the book that really captured my imagination, and which I still find cropping up in my thoughts is Nigerian author Sefi Attar's Everything Good Will Come. I rarely write reviews of the novels I read on the websites where I catalog my library and reading lists (Goodreads) and (LibraryThing), but this time I did. Even here though, I am not interested in writing a proper review, and this too is rough and unedited. A step beyond my journal notes, perhaps, I am only interested in my own impressions, and what resonated in the book with me, not some grand analysis of the book's worth or meaning.

Mardel's (rough) review from Library Thing:

Everything Good Will Come is a novel about Enitan, a child of Nigeria, a child of privilege, a child who becomes a young woman, who through the process of fulfilling one dream, the dream of becoming a mother also fulfills another dream, one that had existed, unspoken, but constantly present in her inner unrest — the dream of becoming not just a woman, but a person who decides for herself, not just accepting the decisions others make for her — the dream of becoming a citizen.

Much of the beginnings of the book are rooted in Enitan's childhood, in her friendship with Sheri, and in the ways she is both sheltered and privileged. In some ways the book seems like two novels, the novel of the young Enitan and Sheri, which occupies the first two sections of the novel, and a second novel about Enitan's road to self-actualization. In truth the first part is just the necessary underlayment for the second, but the reader may be surprised by the shift, and it does in fact take some time for the structure to play out, and the interleaving of thoughts, memories, stories, to coalesce.

I personally found the last portion of the novel to be the strongest but I can admit that it took some time and patience for me to grow into the rhythm of the narrative. Enitan is not always likable, but she is human, and thoughtful, and kind. She is also argumentative, and she struggles with her own demons, her thoughts often sabotaging her own happiness.

Her father always told her that people have choices. He didn't say that those choices were equal, in his world-view they were not. But Enitan also realizes that choice is a "condition of the mind" and that most of the time "I was as conscious of making choices as I was of breathing." As are most of us.

Atta takes care to show us how Enitan's thoughts and actions develop and evolve, often in small steps, often repeating and circling back upon themselves. How she struggles with her own internal dialogue about separating the personal from the political, the way that life is compartmentalized in her milieu, and her gradual realization that she cannot separate the two, that the personal and the political are one and the same.

There are flaws in the narrative, spaces where the prose shimmers with light, and other places where this reader stumbles. I can see how readers may become lost in the weeds, but through it all, I do think Sefi Atta achieves something marvelous here, and the book is well worth reading.

Favorite passage:
"When people speak of turning points in their lives it makes me wonder. I can't think of one moment that me me an advocate for woman prisoners in my country. Before this, I had opportunities to take action, only to end up behaving in ways I was accustomed; courting the same old frustrations because I was sure of what I would feel: wronged, helpless, stuck in a day when I was fourteen years old. Here it is: changes came after I made them, each one small. I walked up a stair. Easy. I took off a head wrap. Very Easy. I packed a suitcase, carried it downstairs, put it in my car. When situations became trickier my tasks became smaller. My husband asked why I was leaving him. "I have to," I replied. three words; I could say them. "What kind of woman are you?" Not a word. "Wouldn't you have tried to stop me too?" he asked. Probably, but he wouldn't have had to leave me to do what he wanted.
February 23, 2023
Looking Back 2: The Knitting Front
Another glance over my shoulder perhaps, this time looking at my knitting progress in 2022.

Let's get the statistics out of the way first. In 2022 I finished 10 projects and used up 71 skeins of yarn totaling 10,909 yards. On first glance, it looks like I knitted less than the previous year in that there were two fewer finished objects, but the objects were larger and used more yarn. Technically, it is not about yarn use, although that was one of my goals, or number of finished objects, but both of methods of accounting serve a purpose.

More specifically, the project breakdown was as follows:
- two blankets
- one soft-sculpture (toy)
- four shawls
- one pair of socks
- two sweaters
Now let's look at that more thoroughly.

There were no photos taken of the two blankets or the toy. The toy and the first blanket was started in 2021 but never really photographed or blogged. This was probably because I had mixed feelings about them from the get-go, but I was too pig-headed to give up, rip out, and start something new. Instead I forced myself to finish both and promptly gave them away. The second blanket was one of those crazy ideas where I decided at the last minute to knit a baby blanket, finished it in a desperate rush, and immediately presented it to the new parents. I really liked that blanket, but I was too overwhelmed at the time to deal with record-keeping.

After that experience I decided I would never force myself to finish something again. I would admit defeat or I would rip and repurpose. Luckily, my remaining projects of the year turned out to be far more satisfying, although admittedly there were some false starts and some ripping out. Each false start then became a challenge and an opportunity. Not all of those opportunities have yet been realized as projects, but I have found a certain satisfaction in the simple act of swatching, in letting a yarn tell me what it is, even if that initial exploration does not yield immediate results.

But now that the disappointments are out of the way, what about the successes?

I knitted four shawls, the first three of which were blogged (shown above). Shawlography, (pink, purple, green wool) was started as part of Stephen West's 2021 MKAL. It was challenging, often fun, and sometimes maddening. None of the techniques were particularly difficult in and of themselves, but West did put things together in ways I would not necessarily have thought of if left to my own devices. Knitting this shawl was both fun and a constant struggle. This was partially due to the fact that my fingers, beset with lingering chemotherap-induced neuropathy, struggled to maintain tension, and partially because I was constantly fretting about my color choices. Half the time I was convinced that the resulting shawl would only be suitable for a clown show, and it was not until I knit the final border that I could admit to being happy with the result. Even so, it gets the least wear of the three, primarily because it makes the boldest statement. Still I think it was the accomplishment I was most proud of. I learned a great deal knitting it, mostly because the brioche was not kind to my hands. The brioche was ripped twice and reknit, even with the ripping and reknitting, I struggled. The sense of accomplishment I feel for this shawl is primarily due to that brioche section. Not only did I come to love brioche, I taught myself how to drop down to repair individual errors in brioche without ripping back and entire section, an accomplishment of which I am still proud even though I can honestly say that if the mistakes are many and frequent, it is still easier to simply rip back. Skill-wise, this shawl was my greatest accomplishment of 2022.

The cream striped Nantucket Summer shawl was the biggest shawl I knit in 2022, at 22 x 120 inches. It is almost a blanket and it has admittedly seen me through many cool evenings on the patio as well as early mornings watching the sun rise, coffee and hand. The yarn was originally intended for a cardigan, but as I have a long-standing aversion to heavy cotton cardigans, I feared it would be a cardigan I would never wear. The shawl is wonderful and I wrap myself up in it all the time, a perfect choice for me.

My absolute favorite knit of 2022 was the Artyarns silk wrap I named blue wave. This was an absolutely fun knit, full of short rows and changing colors. It required attention but was not particularly difficult and it was so exciting that I raced through it. This shawl was completely fun to knit and the results are absolutely gorgeous. Using 766 yards of Artyarns beaded silk and sequins light, knitting this wrap is an indulgence but well worth it. If I could justify having two versions of such a distinctive wrap, I would happily knit it again. It was that much fun.

My final finished project of 2022 was the fourth shawl, seen above. This shawl was knit in Noro Kakigori, a mostly cotton and silk yarn, using the "Stormy Sky" pattern by Ksenia Naidyon. Originally purchased for use with another yarn in a different project, it became evident upon swatching that I hated the two yarns together and felt that this yarn was completely unsuitable for its originally intended use. Upon further swatching I decided that I liked the fabric the yarn created and that it would be lovely as a relatively simple shawl. It is a not particularly large shawl, with both drape and a touch of crispness, which I think will prove very versatile in Knoxville's climate. I would happily knit with more Kakigori, because it creates a lovely fabric, although the yarn itself tends to want to twist up on itself while knitting, so it does require a bit of patience.

The one pair of socks knitted in 2022 have proven quite satisfactory. I intentionally knit them longer than my usual, perhaps a tad too long, but they still get worn. The Mominoki Finnwool, used for the body of the sock, is 100% wool without the nylon usually added for sock yarns. It was a remnant from Shawlography and put to good use here. I actually prefer socks that are pure wool without nylon, but they don't tend to wear as well, and so, as it true for so many things in life, represent a trade-off. These are holding up well, except for a bit of wear at the back of the ankle above the heel. I suppose it is a bit early to see that much wear after less than a full year's wear, and that area will be mended when the time comes. I love the socks nonetheless.

As I look in my sock drawer, I see that I need more socks, and I am loathe to purchase them. It seems that there must be sock knitting on the horizon. I have thought of exploring breed specific wool, looking for hard-wearing wools that hold up better for socks and I may well do that. In the end, however, I will probably mostly use nylon reinforced sock wool, which comes in many pretty colors. Although I may struggle with a brightly colored shawl, I have no issue with wearing carnival-colored socks. The first pair of socks I ever knit are still going strong, after 13 years, knitted with KnitPicks simple stripes, 75% wool yarn, a ringing endorsement if ever there was one. I will admit that the tutti-frutti color palette of that first pair is not one I would chose today, but those socks simply will not die. That specific yarn has been discontinued, but I would think KnitPicks' sock yarn would still be a good economical and hard-wearing option if that is a consideration. But longevity is not my primary criteria when knitting socks. I am all for knitting, and wearing, what one loves and we each make the compromises that best suit us. I am fine with balancing practicality with comfort in my sock wardrobe, but also admit that there is nothing quite as nice as cashmere socks on a cold evening, even if they are not practical for everyday wear. Perhaps my sock wardrobe needs a touch of softness, as well as an indulgence in frivolous colors.

Even though I was once almost exclusively a garment knitter, I only knot two sweaters in 2022. The first, a cardigan finished in June, was not really worn until fall, when the temperatures had cooled. Although it is not a winter cardigan, being knitted with cotton/nylon/polyester novelty yarns, this was not a sweater for hot humid summer heat. It may have been had I followed the pattern as written, which was for a cardigan with more ease and drape.. After knitting my swatches however, the hand of the resulting fabric reminded me of the kind of light drapey boucle that is often used for soft Chanel-style jackets, and I decided that a short, more fitted cardigan was required. I altered the pattern accordingly, individualizing it by taking in some of the asymmetry I was finding in my sewing pattern sloper development. There was some fudging, and some ripping and reknitting, which is not easy when three rather snaggy strands are held together while knitting. But I am absolutely enamored of the finished cardigan. This is not a hard-wearing everyday sweater but more of an occasional item. I need to take care not to catch the rather fine sequined filament that runs through the sweater on buckles, latches, or even rings and other jewelry. This cardigan wants to be the star of the show in its own understated way. It is a sweater I can imagine myself wearing for a long time.

The second sweater was for a wool shell or vest, knitted to be worn as a layering piece. The pattern was Carol Feller's Trellis top, and I used the recommended yarn, Stolen Stitches Nua Sport. Even thought I used the designer's yarn I did not quite manage to get gauge, My gauge was slightly tighter in stockinette, but the same as the recommended gauge in the pattern stitch. Since I wanted to make my sweater a bit more close-fitting than the pattern, this was easy enough to manage. Aside from size issues, I more or less knit the pattern as written with the exception of the shoulder shaping and the finishing. The original design is looser and more casual, with button bands in lieu of seamed sides. As I was seeking a more classically close-fitting silhouette that could also be worn under a jacket, I simply seamed the sides. I am very happy with the result and this sweater has already proven to be a favorite. I wore vests frequently in my 20s and early 30s, did not wear them in the intervening decades, and find I now reach for them again and again, something to consider as I contemplate future knitting.

As to 2023, who knows.

My plan is to begin the year by finishing the temperature blanket I started at the beginning of 2022. This started as a whim, but I have mostly stuck with it. I put the blanket aside during the hot months and picked it up after Thanksgiving, trying desperately to catch up. When the year ended, I had knitted the blanket through the last day of September, or three-quarters through the body of the blanket.

I am determined to finish this blanket before finishing anything else this year. Since January 1 I have knitted 47 garter ridges, which finished out October and put me half-way through November. I should finish the body by early February and then I need to pick up and knit the borders, As you can see from the blanket, spread out on my bed, the borders will be long, and I am thinking now that I do not want them to be particularly narrow, although I am considering the idea that the side borders may be wider, perhaps, than the top and bottom borders. I haven't yet calculated what color the borders should be, but if I am serious about finishing this, I should figure that out and make sure I have the yarn in house before it is needed, simply to avoid further delays. I do know that should I put it aside, it will be difficult to pick back up again, so best to keep knitting until it is finished. The blanket itself is fun because I love watching the color patterns unfold. The border of course will be more tedious, but the reward will be in the joy of curling up under it on chilly evenings.

Also on the schedule for this year is to finish a modular, log-cabin style blanket I started knitting out of Plymouth's Baby Alpaca Grande, I do think I will take a short break between blankets, finishing something smaller. I have another sleeveless cotton sweater on the needles, although I am not devoting much time to it at the moment. The cotton sweater is my portable project, but the blanket remains my main focus and the center of all my crafty energies at the moment. Expect that knitting updates may be few and far between at least for the first quarter of the year.
January 18, 2023
Looking Back, Moving Forward
Below is a post I wrote for Restingmotion. I am cross-posting again because basically I am considering retiring this blog again and rolling everything back into a single space. I will still write about sewing and needlework, but under one heading. I very much think I broke everything out into separate boxes again just because I was generally struggling.

Anyway, let me know if you have thoughts, any thoughts.

—————————-

Somewhere around about the time of my last blog post my brain started working again. I felt as if a switch that had been jammed for a long time suddenly slipped back into position. It was that sudden. I was still tired, I was still recovering from my fourth cardiac procedure of the year, but suddenly it felt like a cloud had lifted and whatever remnants of my old self that were still hanging on stood up and listened,

As I was suddenly finding myself increasingly alive, increasingly doing, I also found that I stopped writing. I had no urge to write. As is evidenced by the erratic nature of this, or these, blogs over the last two years, this was part of an ongoing struggle. In many ways I write to make sense of who I am. And yet, in many ways the "me" in me was in hibernation. As that dormant part of myself began to reawaken, I found I needed time for reassessment and nesting. Writing would come in its own time.

Anyway, I am still here. I can honestly say the last 3 1/2 months have been the longest period of good, at least in terms of health, since July of 2020. I don't yet feel like I am out from under the mountain because the simple truth is that I was barely coping and there are tons of the daily stuff of life with which I was barely managing. I did what I needed to do. I tried to explore my creative instincts. I read a great deal, but I am not convinced that all the circuits in my brain were functioning. Of course they weren't functioning. My brain and my body were in siege-mode. I was doing what I needed to do to get through it all, and now I am dealing with the wreckage that surrounds me. But the wreckage is the past. All that matters is now.

I am a different person than I was on the eve of my 62nd birthday. Pain, cancer, heart issues, all these things changed me. And although we like to say that getting through these things is a journey, and when we come out on the other side we have achieved something, the truth is that for the most parts these are journeys we would really rather not take. We are changed. And parts of us are lost in the process. A part of who I was before has been erased, and a part of who I am today has yet to be discovered.

And yet, the need for an assessment prevails. Not an assessment of illness or health, nor necessarily either an accounting or an owning-up. I suppose I simply feel the urge to reflect on a few trends.

I read 83 books, fewer than in the previous few years. My reading slowed considerably in the last three months of the year and I found myself beset with an urge to reread, even books I had recently finished. I reconned this a shift in my mental landscape, perhaps an acknowledgement that something essential had been missing. This is not surprising. I have always been a collector of words and ideas, of books, not just a reader. For me reading is relationship, and a worthwhile relationship, like a good book, grows with the retelling. Primarily however, my reading slowed because my ability to do increased. In the business of resettling and rebuilding, there is peace in the slow progression of words on a page, of ideas filtering through the interstices of thought.

2022 was also a year that I managed to do more sewing, and more in the studio than I had in the entire time since George died in 2013, more than since I left Hyde Park at the end of 2011. This despite flirtations with heart failure and four cardiac procedures. This despite long weeks where I felt very much like I was living at the bottom the ocean. Small though my accomplishments were, they were very much a good thing.

The photos in this blog post are mostly gathered from various posts on my sewing blog, which is once again being retired. I will never be the world's greatest seamstress, embroiderer, weaver, any of that. I don't care and it doesn't matter. Nor do I always want to maintain a blog devoted to a single subject. You will simply have to put up with me. The original decision to retire sewdistracted was sound, its resurrection arose from my own feelings of division and loss, feelings that are best returned to the past.

Here also is an accounting of sorts.
1. I did a lot of alterations. I needed things to wear and I was stubbornly resistant to going out and buying things simply because I could. Some things were bought, it is true, but many things were taken in and a few were completely reconfigured. I only posted two of the many items I altered, (a linen tank/tunic that surprisingly is still in my closet, and a pair of slacks).
2. There was a steady stream of church related sewing, both in terms of mending and making new items.
3. A friend and I made a plastic-wrap sloper/muslin and I worked with that somewhat, although not enough, both modifying knitting patterns and working on sewing muslins.
4. I sewed three simple summer dresses.
5. I fitted five muslins for future dresses, all basic styles that I will be made and worn, perhaps in multiple iterations. This was done during a fabulous seminar at PaperMaple Studio in New Orleans, another experience that did wonders for my state of mind and improved skills.
6. I organized my pattern stash.
7. I organized three corners of my studio. There is more organizing and sorting to be done. Yarn remains only partially unpacked and there is an entire closet to design and put to use.
8. I went to the boro stitch workshop at Arrowmont.
9. I went on a sewing retreat with friends and I thread traced a dress.
10. I finished said dress only to decide I didn't like it. I proceeded to take it apart, and redesign it in a way that I think works better. I have not yet completely put it back together.
11. I made gifts, mostly quilted, mostly small projects, but not all.
12. I started to refresh my embroidery and hand-sewing skills. At first I despaired that my fingers would ever work again, but eventually my fingers began to cooperate, stitches became more even, the feel of a needle and thread became calming rather than stressful.
All in all I sewed 39.6 yards of fabric in 2022. It is not much, and yet it is more than I have sewn in many years. For the most part I was happy with the projects I completed. I sewed more fabric than I bought, also for the first time in years.
January 12, 2023
Hello New Year, A Brief Look Back
Somewhere around about the time of my last blog post my brain started working again. I felt as if a switch that had been jammed for a long time suddenly slipped back into position. It was that sudden. I was still tired, I was still recovering from my fourth cardiac procedure of the year, but suddenly it felt like a cloud had lifted and whatever remnants of my old self that were still hanging on stood up and listened,

As I was suddenly finding myself increasingly alive, increasingly doing, I also found that I stopped writing. I had no urge to write. As is evidenced by the erratic nature of this, or these, blogs over the last two years, this was part of an ongoing struggle. In many ways I write to make sense of who I am. And yet, in many ways the "me" in me was in hibernation. As that dormant part of myself began to reawaken, I found I needed time for reassessment and nesting. Writing would come in its own time.

Anyway, I am still here. I can honestly say the last 3 1/2 months have been the longest period of good, at least in terms of health, since July of 2020. I don't yet feel like I am out from under the mountain because the simple truth is that I was barely coping and there are tons of the daily stuff of life with which I was barely managing. I did what I needed to do. I tried to explore my creative instincts. I read a great deal, but I am not convinced that all the circuits in my brain were functioning. Of course they weren't functioning. My brain and my body were in siege-mode. I was doing what I needed to do to get through it all, and now I am dealing with the wreckage that surrounds me. But the wreckage is the past. All that matters is now.

I am a different person than I was on the eve of my 62nd birthday. Pain, cancer, heart issues, all these things changed me. And although we like to say that getting through these things is a journey, and when we come out on the other side we have achieved something, the truth is that for the most parts these are journeys we would really rather not take. We are changed. And parts of us are lost in the process. A part of who I was before has been erased, and a part of who I am today has yet to be discovered.

And yet, the need for an assessment prevails. Not an assessment of illness or health, nor necessarily either an accounting or an owning-up. I suppose I simply feel the urge to reflect on a few trends.

I read 83 books, fewer than in the previous few years. My reading slowed considerably in the last three months of the year and I found myself beset with an urge to reread, even books I had recently finished. I reconned this a shift in my mental landscape, perhaps an acknowledgement that something essential had been missing. This is not surprising. I have always been a collector of words and ideas, of books, not just a reader. For me reading is relationship, and a worthwhile relationship, like a good book, grows with the retelling. Primarily however, my reading slowed because my ability to do increased. In the business of resettling and rebuilding, there is peace in the slow progression of words on a page, of ideas filtering through the interstices of thought.

2022 was also a year that I managed to do more sewing, and more in the studio than I had in the entire time since George died in 2013, more than since I left Hyde Park at the end of 2011. This despite flirtations with heart failure and four cardiac procedures. This despite long weeks where I felt very much like I was living at the bottom the ocean. Small though my accomplishments were, they were very much a good thing.

The photos in this blog post are mostly gathered from various posts on my sewing blog, which is once again being retired. I will never be the world's greatest seamstress, embroiderer, weaver, any of that. I don't care and it doesn't matter. Nor do I always want to maintain a blog devoted to a single subject. You will simply have to put up with me. The original decision to retire sewdistracted was sound, its resurrection arose from my own feelings of division and loss, feelings that are best returned to the past.

Here also is an accounting of sorts.
1. I did a lot of alterations. I needed things to wear and I was stubbornly resistant to going out and buying things simply because I could. Some things were bought, it is true, but many things were taken in and a few were completely reconfigured. I only posted two of the many items I altered, (a linen tank/tunic that surprisingly is still in my closet, and a pair of slacks).
2. There was a steady stream of church related sewing, both in terms of mending and making new items.
3. A friend and I made a plastic-wrap sloper/muslin and I worked with that somewhat, although not enough, both modifying knitting patterns and working on sewing muslins.
4. I sewed three simple summer dresses.
5. I fitted five muslins for future dresses, all basic styles that I will be made and worn, perhaps in multiple iterations. This was done during a fabulous seminar at PaperMaple Studio in New Orleans, another experience that did wonders for my state of mind and improved skills.
6. I organized my pattern stash.
7. I organized three corners of my studio. There is more organizing and sorting to be done. Yarn remains only partially unpacked and there is an entire closet to design and put to use.
8. I went to the boro stitch workshop at Arrowmont.
9. I went on a sewing retreat with friends and I thread traced a dress.
10. I finished said dress only to decide I didn't like it. I proceeded to take it apart, and redesign it in a way that I think works better. I have not yet completely put it back together.
11. I made gifts, mostly quilted, mostly small projects, but not all.
12. I started to refresh my embroidery and hand-sewing skills. At first I despaired that my fingers would ever work again, but eventually my fingers began to cooperate, stitches became more even, the feel of a needle and thread became calming rather than stressful.
All in all I sewed 39.6 yards of fabric in 2022. It is not much, and yet it is more than I have sewn in many years. For the most part I was happy with the projects I completed. I sewed more fabric than I bought, also for the first time in years.
January 12, 2023
Cross-Posting

The following was posted to restingmotion yesterday. Because it is about stitching, I have decided to double post it here.

I don't yet know if this will be a regular occurrence, or in fact what direction my blog entries will be following as I am finding myself on new ground and am settling in. Still sewing, still playing with thread, just evolving.

Thank you for your patience.

———————–

A week ago today I came home from a workshop at Arrowmont School of Arts and Crafts in nearby Gatlinburg. This is what I took: The Boro Stitch as a Brush Stroke, taught by Deborah Fell.

I had been looking forward to the class all year, and although I had ended up missing other classes due to annoying health issues, I was determined not to miss this one. I didn't really know what to expect. I didn't think I would learn a lot, technique wise, but I hoped this would ignite a creative spark. I was right and wrong. Oh so very wrong. And yet completely on point.

In fact I found the workshop overwhelming. I was tired. One week post my third ablation and fourth surgery since March, I was very tired. But sometimes it seems that exhaustion allows cracks to appear that otherwise might have been remained firmly shut.

I had been wanting to play for a long time. I had dreams and ideas and I would sketch them out in my crude fashion, dump my fabrics and yarns in a pile and stare at them in frustration only to pack them up again and go back to something tried and true and familiar.

Our studio space was filled with inspiration. Deborah brought many samples. I took many many photos, most of which seemed to have disappeared, although I am certain I took them. That doesn't really matter. It seems to me, and I do not think my brain is the only brain wired this way, that inspiration files both inspire and limit. Perhaps better that ideas become fleeting memories.

Some photos remained though, and I made a collage of some of Deborah's work that she brought to share. For me, perhaps the collage itself, both in the act of combining the images and as a reference piece for my own folder, is greater generator of ideas than the individual works were, as much as I admired them.

That first day, I was very overwhelmed. I was tired. I was dehydrated. My pulse was erratic. I perhaps had too much to drink the night before following a very stressful drive. I was too literal in my intent and that is quite a statement from a woman who believes life itself is a metaphor.

We were supposed to let grow of rules but I struggled with that idea. I wanted to make neat orderly controlled embroidery stitches, exactly the kind of stitching I used to make, but at the same time the kind of stitching I have been struggling with lately. My hands do not work they way my younger hands worked. But eventually something snapped in place and I realized that it is not just my hands that do not want to do what they used to do; my psyche also wander in new fields, fields of random stitches and overlapped collages of life.

Things started to loosen up on the second day. I had always been happy to be there, in this workshop with my fellow students, but something started to become easier. At some point on Wednesday I was bubbling with excitement. An idea had cropped into my head, and as I pursued it, sparks started firing and one little patchwork sampler took on a life of its own. Black canvas, various upholstery fabrics, thread, bronzed wire, sisal twine. This was the first piece that I felt was really finished, was itself, and came from some place outside my conscious control. It is still perhaps my favorite piece of the workshop, although I did not say that at the end, when we were supposed to evaluate our own work. It was all too emotional for me then, too connected to what I wanted it to be, too connected intention and desire, struggle and hope. Even a day later my perspective changed.

Honestly, I think everything I did was a success, even those pieces that are not successful in and of themselves, not successful as something I want to save. I suspect that some are simply unfinished. Some might be cut up again and take on new lives. Who knows. But the success is in the play, in taking those first steps and sometimes in learning that forcing the issue is the wrong path to take. There are one or two pieces I want to love, that started off with promise, and which I initially was quite satisfied with, but which now I see took a hard turn in the wrong direction, where I forced the issue, letting my conscious mind determine the direction the work should. Somewhere, subconsciously, it knew what it wanted to be. But I lacked trust.

Looking at the photo above, at my own body of work, I see things differently than I did at the time. Distance. Perspective. I see connectivity that I had not noticed; potential as well.

That one week at Arrowmont was probably the best thing I did this year, even at the risk of exhaustion, or as mentioned above perhaps because of that very same exhaustion. It wasn't just me. It wasn't being inspired by Deborah Fell's work, but by the entire class, by the people I met, the work I saw around me both in the studio I was working in, in artist's presentations, in odd corners here and there. I had misplaced something and I found it again. My hold is still tenuous. But that is part of the journey.

My other favorite piece is not in the photo above. I finished it the last morning. It started out as a stitch sampler, an attempt to solve a problem in another one of the sampler squares (which is on that wall), but it suddenly took on a life of its own, becoming its own thing. It doesn't matter what kind of thing it is, or in a sense if it is "art" or not, if it is "good" or not, simply that it is what it needs to be.

I see a lot of playing in my future. Everything is a new spark. Everyday is a new ignition point.

October 23, 2022
Opening Doors

A week ago today I came home from a workshop at Arrowmont School of Arts and Crafts in nearby Gatlinburg. This is what I took: The Boro Stitch as a Brush Stroke, taught by Deborah Fell.

I had been looking forward to the class all year, and although I had ended up missing other classes due to annoying health issues, I was determined not to miss this one. I didn't really know what to expect. I didn't think I would learn a lot, technique wise, but I hoped this would ignite a creative spark. I was right and wrong. Oh so very wrong. And yet completely on point.

In fact I found the workshop overwhelming. I was tired. One week post my third ablation and fourth surgery since March, I was very tired. But sometimes it seems that exhaustion allows cracks to appear that otherwise might have been remained firmly shut.

I had been wanting to play for a long time. I had dreams and ideas and I would sketch them out in my crude fashion, dump my fabrics and yarns in a pile and stare at them in frustration only to pack them up again and go back to something tried and true and familiar.

Our studio space was filled with inspiration. Deborah brought many samples. I took many many photos, most of which seemed to have disappeared, although I am certain I took them. That doesn't really matter. It seems to me, and I do not think my brain is the only brain wired this way, that inspiration files both inspire and limit. Perhaps better that ideas become fleeting memories.

Some photos remained though, and I made a collage of some of Deborah's work that she brought to share. For me, perhaps the collage itself, both in the act of combining the images and as a reference piece for my own folder, is greater generator of ideas than the individual works were, as much as I admired them.

That first day, I was very overwhelmed. I was tired. I was dehydrated. My pulse was erratic. I perhaps had too much to drink the night before following a very stressful drive. I was too literal in my intent and that is quite a statement from a woman who believes life itself is a metaphor.

We were supposed to let grow of rules but I struggled with that idea. I wanted to make neat orderly controlled embroidery stitches, exactly the kind of stitching I used to make, but at the same time the kind of stitching I have been struggling with lately. My hands do not work they way my younger hands worked. But eventually something snapped in place and I realized that it is not just my hands that do not want to do what they used to do; my psyche also wander in new fields, fields of random stitches and overlapped collages of life.

Things started to loosen up on the second day. I had always been happy to be there, in this workshop with my fellow students, but something started to become easier. At some point on Wednesday I was bubbling with excitement. An idea had cropped into my head, and as I pursued it, sparks started firing and one little patchwork sampler took on a life of its own. Black canvas, various upholstery fabrics, thread, bronzed wire, sisal twine. This was the first piece that I felt was really finished, was itself, and came from some place outside my conscious control. It is still perhaps my favorite piece of the workshop, although I did not say that at the end, when we were supposed to evaluate our own work. It was all too emotional for me then, too connected to what I wanted it to be, too connected intention and desire, struggle and hope. Even a day later my perspective changed.

Honestly, I think everything I did was a success, even those pieces that are not successful in and of themselves, not successful as something I want to save. I suspect that some are simply unfinished. Some might be cut up again and take on new lives. Who knows. But the success is in the play, in taking those first steps and sometimes in learning that forcing the issue is the wrong path to take. There are one or two pieces I want to love, that started off with promise, and which I initially was quite satisfied with, but which now I see took a hard turn in the wrong direction, where I forced the issue, letting my conscious mind determine the direction the work should. Somewhere, subconsciously, it knew what it wanted to be. But I lacked trust.

Looking at the photo above, at my own body of work, I see things differently than I did at the time. Distance. Perspective. I see connectivity that I had not noticed; potential as well.

That one week at Arrowmont was probably the best thing I did this year, even at the risk of exhaustion, or as mentioned above perhaps because of that very same exhaustion. It wasn't just me. It wasn't being inspired by Deborah Fell's work, but by the entire class, by the people I met, the work I saw around me both in the studio I was working in, in artist's presentations, in odd corners here and there. I had misplaced something and I found it again. My hold is still tenuous. But that is part of the journey.

My other favorite piece is not in the photo above. I finished it the last morning. It started out as a stitch sampler, an attempt to solve a problem in another one of the sampler squares (which is on that wall), but it suddenly took on a life of its own, becoming its own thing. It doesn't matter what kind of thing it is, or in a sense if it is "art" or not, if it is "good" or not, simply that it is what it needs to be.

I see a lot of playing in my future. Everything is a new spark. Everyday is a new ignition point.

October 22, 2022
Hello Blog

Well, geesch. I feel like I have been on a journey even though I haven't been anywhere at all.

I feel like this blog has lost its way. Or perhaps I have lost my way and I have nothing more to say. I am not sure how completely I believe that, but I also must admit I don't completely disbelieve it either. I am tired of how constrained and deeply inside my head my life seems to have gotten over the past few years. I'm sick of it and sometimes sick of myself.

But hey, let's just shake out the cobwebs and see where we are.

A couple of weeks ago now. Garbo and I went to dinner and a jazz concert on Market Square in downtown Knoxville with a friend and her pup. It was a lovely cool evening, perhaps bordering on crisp. The jazz was fabulous. This was really the third or fourth musical performance I had heard this fall, as the Symphony and Opera seasons had also begin and I admit that I have just been revelling in the ability to go out and be enchanted and inspired by live music. I just sat back and enjoyed the flow of music and the happy atmosphere.

In the photo above I am waring one of the three summer dresses I made in May using the same pattern but different fabrics, and it may be my favorite of the three. This one is the least crisp and polished of the three dresses and also the one made of what is, to. my mind, the nicest fabric, a drapes, almost slouchy 90% linen, 10% tightly spun mohair blend. I always thought it might transition well into fall due to its muted color. It was deliciously cool all summer long and it was deliciously comfortable on this chilly evening with boots and a light turtleneck. I might not have done much sewing over the summer, but those dresses have served me well and made me happy.

I am back to snapping odd photos of bits and bobs of things that are meaningless to anyone but myself. Arches.

Bits of roof lines perhaps.

New clothes. (finally) A soft new blue sweatshirt for chilly morning walks with Garbo.

Playing with fabric.

Sunsets.

This isn't a normal blog post. But frankly I am not sure what normal is right now, or even if normalcy is a desirable goal. I just know that I am changing and simultaneously staying the same. Maybe insisting that there is a difference is the illusion. Maybe I didn't know it but this is where I've been heading all along. Does it matter where the path forward leads? What if the familiar has been the radically new all along and we just haven't opened our eyes to it.

All photos by me except the second one, on me and Garbo on Market Square. That photo courtesy of Cynthia Moxley, here

October 13, 2022