cloth.paper.string

rolling along

I've been bumping along making crayon and pencil rolls recently.   Mixing and matching new and vintage fabrics from the stash, stitching up little pockets for keeping drawing sticks cozy.  These are for Tinderbox, who featured one of the rolls in their spot in the local downtown business council's holiday gift guide.  It's really exciting to see my little creation on a glossy page, but it makes me feel pressure to make more of the same.  I'm trying to switch it up a bit with variations for colored pencils, paintbrushes and knitting needles.

I'm finding more and more that I like thinking of things to make, selecting the materials that will bring it together.  I enjoy figuring out how to construct things, how to do so with efficiency.  I like knowing I can make something, the feeling of holding something I've finished in my hands.  I like giving something that I've made to another.  But I'm also finding that I don't really like production work. 

I wonder, do any of you find it difficult to hold on to that inspired feeling when you're bumping through the seventh, eighteenth and ninetieth run?  What gets you through?  Do you even dare venture into the making more of the almost-the-same? 

randomness

The sweet and talented Marnie tagged me to participate in a meme and share some random bits about myself.  Here goes...

I got my driver's license without ever stopping at a red light, driving over 45 MPH or navigating an on-off ramp...  I grew up and learned to drive on an island without highways, without traffic lights.  My off-island drive skills have improved dramatically, though I've been known to run red lights because all directions were clear.

I find it nearly impossible to focus my efforts in any one place, on any one thing...  even at my liberal arts college I even selected the most interdisciplinary major so that I could study a bit of this and a bit of that.  It's made for a wide range of experiences and applications, but there are times I wish I could find a focal point.

While studying in Costa Rica I received a package in the mail that contained a turkey baster and nothing else... a practical joke that spanned continents during the semester my college roommates and I studied abroad.  My Costa Rican classmates didn't quite get the humor.  I'm not sure that I really do now, but at the time, there couldn't have been a better care package.

I once won a track and field award for 'Unsung Hero'... my high school was small and we often competed against other small schools.  Invariably we had track meets where there were not enough competitors to win the top three slots in each event.  I filled in.  Running hurdles, even though I had no idea how to actually clear a hurdle.  Throwing a shotput that I could just barely lift.  You get the picture.

I wear shoes almost all the time... I do not like to go barefoot.  Not one bit.  My barefoot-loving mother thinks this is freakish, and has stated disbelief that I'm actually her daughter.  I feel the exact same way about my barefoot-loving daughter.  I'm thinking that this barefoot-loving sickness must skip a generation.

So... there you have it.  If you're interested in playing along, share five random bits about yourself.  You can tag five others to play too, but I'm leaving it optional.  I get a little chain letter angst when I think too hard about memes.

circle round

For the last six years I've made a solstice wreath for our front door.  A bit of greenery in the grayest of days; a reminder of the green days before and those ahead.  A symbol of the wheel of the year, the turning of the seasons.  A circle like that of the sun. 

Last year we gathered the pine boughs from a nearby forest, carefully snipping little wayward bits from many trees over many acres.  We set out today to do the same and instead happened upon a grove of trees that had been topped within the last few days.  Pines chopped at their midsections by some careless and greedy person.  From the branches strewn about, we picked up just enough boughs for a wreath. 

Back at the lake, I gathered a few bunches of berries from the numerous Mountain Ash trees that dot the shore.  Berries from a tree that symbolizes protection.  Protection from the cold, from the long dark days ahead. 

Weaving wreaths, I can not help but remember the winter my mother and her friend decided that they'd make wreaths for every window and door of their houses and barns.  Dozens of wreaths.  And if that wasn't enough, they vowed to hang them all as soon as the Thanksgiving dishes were washed so that when the sun rose on the first day of the Christmas holiday season, their homes would be festooned with holiday cheer.  All of this was to outdo (or at least surprise) the flamboyant neighbor who was the belle of the local holiday home tour.  In the days leading up to the unveiling, Mom and her friend trekked out to the woods to gather pine boughs -- forgetting twine to bind the branches for carrying, so that they ended up fashioning bungee cords from their bras to carry mammoth piles home to the clandestine wreath assembly line that had taken over the basement of our barn. 

I don't remember the reaction of the neighbor that Friday morning; but green florist wire, brisk air, and the scent of pine boughs mixed with leather gloves will always conjure up the image of my creative and spirited mother getting a complete kick out of making stuff with her friends.  I remember as a twelve-year-old thinking they were absolutely nuts.  But now, I completely understand.

no more...

There will be no turkey sandwiches for lunch this week.  I can not bear another. 

Instead, a kitchen sink quiche.  Chard and mushrooms and onion and that little bit of baby swiss.  All suspended in a custard made with local eggs the whipping cream and half and half leftover from Friday's feast.  All swaddled in the zillionth pie crust I've cranked out of the food processor this month. 

I'm actually looking forward to packing my lunch for work come morning.  This is not to say that I'm looking forward to the end of a long and delicious weekend.  No, no.  Not at all.

sharing gratitude

There is much to be thankful for.  So very much.  Emily has some amazing outpourings of gratitude over at her blog this week.  Prose that makes me nod and smile and want to say "what she said" and leave it at that. 

But I can't really just leave it at that, so I'll leave you with one thing that I'm ever so grateful for presently.  A traditional Gaelic blessing that I learned from a friend who closes each of her performances with a singing of this prayer.  A song that I've been singing over and over as I've rocked and swayed the little one throughout this past week of aching throats and ears, stuffy noses, rattling lungs and little sleep.  A message that calms and soothes again and again and again:

Deep peace from the rolling waves to you.
Deep peace from the silent stars.
Deep peace from the blowing air to you,
Deep peace from the quiet earth.
Let peace, let peace, let peace fill your soul.
May peace, may peace, may peace keep you whole.

Deep peace to you and yours, my friends.  Enjoy the sharing of gratitudes this day, and every day.

upstairs

I'm ever-so-slowly settling into my new room upstairs. 

A place for making.

A place for dreaming.

A place for crafty ingredients.

A place for coziness.

A place for me. 

rootedness

While out walking by the lake yesterday I happened upon a reminder.  Skunk rocks rooted in the roots of a driftwood tree.  Stacked stones nudging me to find a better sense of balance and groundedness in my day to day.

The weekend provided a good start:  resting and relaxing while visiting with nana and papa, making and eating yumminess like guinness pot pies and pumpkin creme brulee, creating in my new studio, walking and watching by the lake and knitting round and round up a sleeve.  All things that make me feel both balanced and rooted in this world, in this life. 

home :: history

Looking back on the past month of reflecting on home, I realize more and more that within these walls that make home there is history revealing itself and history in the making.  Layers of story, like layers of paint.  Plants taking root.  Meals being made.  Work being done.  Sleeping.  Playing.  Creating.  Living.

Much of the last few weeks has been spent transforming a large room in the attic into a work-play-creating space for me.  I had been using this space since we moved into the house, but the stories of the room's past seemed to speak louder than my story.  Lavender paint.  Water damaged ceiling and wall.  A hook in the ceiling from which the previous owner's punching bag swung.  Now these have all been refinished, repaired and refreshed.

Tonight I'll put the last coat of paint on the floor.  Tomorrow there will be some touch up painting, cleaning of windows.  Then I will unpack my tools and ingredients for making and get back to creating a history of my own.  In a room of my own.