following thread

Yesterday, a spontaneous, unplanned unscheduled walk.  I was showing my sister  the location of a nest of baby black snakes in our flowers.   She wanted to show me some wild azaleas up the road–at least  we’re calling them wild azaleas–

And because it was a nice day, and because we could, we followed our noses…. followed a windy path through the woods.  A path we hadn’t noticed before.  Off to the left, down into a ravine.  Into a realm FULL of amazing patches of trillium.  Dozens and dozens of trilliums. 

Trilliums in their own little colonies, and trilliums nestled into mayapple villages.
It’s hard to explain. The wonder of it all. Their quiet, simple elegant beauty. And most of all, their color.

On our return home, we veered off into an old mountain cemetery that’s located just across the way from our house. A narrow span of woods and a blacktop road separate our house from the cemetery. Still, looking out the kitchen window in winter–pre-foilage– it’s possible to catch glimpses of red from the flags that fly there. It’s an old cemetery. Old. Personal. Down-to-it. Some of the stones are just that–stones. Some of the markers are cast from concrete and imbellished with stones and shells.

Some markers have inscriptions and tell stories. Like the fellow that died in the Gulf of Mexico in mid 1800’s.  And this one–

A colonel in the confederacy.  30 years old at his death in 1864.  And on the stone, information that it was
erected by his nephew who drowned in the Snake River in Idaho in 1890.

At the far end of the cemetery, a small platform has been erected.  A viewing platform the looks out into the woods.  To the casual observer, there are only trees here.  But beneath the trees and under the leaves are more stones.  Rocks and stones scattered everywhere.    

Last night I was tired of anything that felt like order.  Or structure.  I had wrapped rope for these two purple bowls in the Iris series 
and needed a change from deliberate intention to random happenstance.  So instead of selecting each color/cloth, I simply wrapped rope with whatever color was closest to my fingertips.  It was liberating.  No decisions involved.  Just the need to have something, anything, in order to wrap rope.  This morning while I was following spiral with this baskowl, I realized I was modelling bird behavior.  Building a solid nest from scraps in my environment.  Structure and soundness trumping everything.  

And the dye garden, coming along slowly. Seeds planted on Sunday–woad, weld, agrimony, marigold, madder and marjoram–now gently watered by these last few days of soft rain. These weld plants were in the garden at my old home–relocated last week. 

And these, black Hopi sunflower seeds, pre-sprouted inside, will go out tomorrow, surrounding the trunk of the pearless pear tree that split sometime ago and had to be removed. These seeds hinting of the color they’ll provide.

And slow cloth changing slowly.  Like winter moving into spring. Accelerating now. Energized. Responsive.

Colors for a grey day:

Yesterday I received a good lesson in perspective. Keeping things in perspective. And I wasn’t very graceful about it. For maybe two hours I took MANY MANY photos of green bask-owls–bowls. Futilely. And I initially posted about the frustration–the inability to capture “correct” greens, blues, yellows and oranges. I whined about it until I got sick of hearing myself whine. I gave explanations until I got sick of hearing those as well. Then I tried to explain why capturing “correct” was SO important. And what was a downhill trajectory totally bottomed out at that point.

I drew a line through all the text. Posted it. Came back a few minutes later and totally deleted everything except the baskets. Even though I was unable to capture the true qualities and shades of the green bowls. I had had enough. Enough already. And what I was left with was a heightened state of agitation floating on top of a series of thoughts–like “why in the world is this so important?”

I don’t know “why?” But I do know it was some form of insanity. Mild, but insane nevertheless. Simply put, I had lost perspective. Lost my focus, lost my center. So. Clearly there are lessons in every thing. Yesterday I thought I was learning how to capture correct color. Today I see I was really given an opportunity–another opportunity–to simply let go of how I wanted things to be–and accept how things really were. Enough said about that.

Still, I must be hanging onto it all, somehow, because I have the NEED to say–I didn’t get it–yesterday–I didn’t capture the true beauty of the color. What IS there, doesn’t do the bowls justice. At All. Now I’m finished.

So–it’s very narrow–the distance between the left and right row of teeth–

less than the width of two relatively small fingers, And the teeth–the lines and patterns on the teeth–beauty full.

Mo thinks “horse.” Now wondering–a little one–a colt perhaps? Still, have to say I want it to have been feral. Feral.

This is what I do most mornings–some earlier than others. I follow spirals. Follow thread. Stitch covered rope wrapped the prior evening. It’s always a surprise. An offering of sorts.

The question becomes are these bowls or baskets? And the reason I wonder is because the images don’t indicate scale. A huge basket can look the same size as a small bowl. And for some reason I’m not inclined to place a quarter or a banana next to the bowls. Because I love way they look straight on, into the center. A mandala effect. So these particular bowls vary in size from 7.5 to 6 inches in diameter and 1.5 to 2 inches in height. Could be that a bowl isn’t as tall as a basket. Could be that it doesn’t matter at all.

Yesterday Mo suggested adding color to the rim of the vegetable dyed bowls. So I tried it and agree that the results are better. I love her feedback, love suggestions for making things better –but this morning I’m feeling that hand dyeing rope is just way too labor intensive. And I find myself wondering “why bowls?” So I’m thinking other things to dye. Yardage maybe. Scraps more likely.

Or maybe scarves. Silk scarves from Dharma. So if it comes about that these bowls find homes elsewhere, I’ll get silk. From Dharma.

And yesterday I didn’t delve into my dy(e)ing thoughts but this morning I found that Grace did it for me, in her wonderfully inimitable style. And the point here, for me, is that living and dying are not exclusive. But concurrent. And I need to remind self that how I do one is how I do the other.

This new shower. What can I say? The water is now HOT and the patterns of the tile are totally transporting. I rub them in the morning. Run my hand over each one that I can read. Notice the texture. The coolness. And most of all, become immersed in their visual message. This one must be placed just so because it is where my eye finally lands. Always. And it speaks to me of universe beyond universe. The energy of creation.

And this morning, gazing here, it came to me to do this. To use black walnut. To dye AFTER the basket is complete. And then another idea. A variation. Because I sensed a need for the unexpected. A way to allow light into the center.

Thinking they may really be the same–these arbitrary points I’m calling “beginnings and endings.” And noticing how they are each different on their own accord. Practice is helping but I really don’t need to judge if one is better than the other. In fact, all I need to do is get out of the way of my opinions–get out of the way of thinking I can control how it will be.

So, here’s to getting out of the way….

Signs are important to me. Sometimes I ask for them. Sometimes they present themselves–almost out of the blue. Sometimes they’re a gift and sometimes they might feel very, very random.

This morning a post presented itself. Unsolicited. Random even. John Trudell. Conveyor of “coyote logics”. And bingo. LIGHT. Understanding of certain things I had been considering this past week. And near the bottom of this article, an interview with a man-child. An awesome being. Worthy of a cosmic high-five. Skip the article if the ideas put you off–but the interview–well, I recommend it.

http://www.spiritscienceandmetaphysics.com/4-signs-that-this-isnt-your-first-life-on-earth

We will have our own boy-child this evening. And hopefully a bonfire. And tomorrow, black-eyed peas and collards. And these gifts:

the gift of a real Hope

and this–a gift from Christmas…

Holding each of you in my heart today…tomorrow…and on…as we continue this journey of, as Jude Hill often says”just going.”

On December 15 we surfaced from our subterranean basement home to “upstairs.” To windows. To light. To freshly sanded floors and open spaces. To a kitchen. And bedrooms. To trees and sunlight. Deer.

Turkeys. And birds. Lots of birds. We surfaced to sky and openness. To shadows and reflections on walls.

A lamp my mother made more than 50 years ago–

And now 12 days later most of the moving boxes are unloaded. Broken down and stacked against a wall outside. An ad is running in Craigslist, and soon they will be moving on. Ready to participate in someone else’s move.

I’m surprising myself right now. Mentioning boxes. Because initially I thought I’d just post a few images–make an effort to get back to the land of blog–I miss it–the conversation–and the longer I’m away, the harder it’s becoming to return. So to even mention boxes– I thought I was fed up with them–with their clunkiness, mass, heaviness. Fed up with their smell and the noise packing tape makes when pulled off their surface. Still–I’m sensing a germ of an idea here that needs to be explored. A metaphor that feels important. Boxes? What do they mean? When do they lose their value? When are they a tool and when are they a trap? How do we use them for compartmentalizing? For discriminating? For separating self from others? When do we open them? Air out the contents? Examine them to see if they still hold value? Or have simply become weights we lug around from habit? I could go on . . . .

But not now–later perhaps, or not. Because right now I need to look at a few images from the past weeks. The child’s sock–lost then found on the pavement outside of a home supply store–on a cold wet day in December….

And this–an old door…a very old door…long and heavy and perfect I thought for becoming a headboard. But because it was old and cracked it fell apart when I ripped it to the needed length. So a short project became a labor of determination–but after lots of glue, braces and wooden splints–here it is. Recycled. Sturdy. Functional.

part of the new living space–

And my work space? It overwhelms me.

This morning I realized my dousing crystal hasn’t surfaced. And because there was a question, I made one out of wooden beads. It has its own space now. With hawk wing. Hanging over the soon-to-be-consecrated work table.

Box update: the old ones are gone. Just picked up by a young woman moving to a horse farm in Madison County. And so it goes . . . .

A photo trail. Of the hours. And days. And the little moments in between–that “gap” place that’s free of thought, emotion, “charge.” The space in between breaths where nothing and everything abides. So here. To remember the basement time. The basement time and the tasks that don’t change, regardless of externals. Like picking up boy-child from school– and gently monitoring the things that get done after school.  The snacks.  The homework.  The shared-events-of-the-day time. Precious, priceless grounding time.

And there have been cloths. Three actually, but two I forgot to document. They are downtown at Woolworth Walk. One was new–part of the Super Moon and Critter series. A panda eating bamboo. The image came at night, after I shut the light off, and I fell asleep saying “super moon with panda.” Was it that night or the next? I’m not sure. But I woke in the night and saw, plain as day, a black bear cub peering in the window. Looking with animated curiosity at me. At my sister. As we slept. Looking through this window which is 5 feet off the floor. One of four that provides minimal but essential light to our living space:

Bear cub looking through this window where during the light of day the underside of rhododendron provides more magic and support than I can explain. I feel that I’m underground–I am underground–but looking at this tree-shurb from such a novel vantage point, I become part of it–part of its root system. Nurturing and receiving sustenance simultaneously. I think about the Hopis. Their mythology. Coming out of the earth.

Fewer images of this journey than I thought–and the awareness that I need to keep my camera closer. But I still have time to rectify that. So here:

Thanksgiving’s pumpkin pie. Shared with daughter and her family…a pie that received kudos galore. And did I share that it was a 3 ingredient pie? Condensed milk, 2 eggs and Libby’s pie mix? Nope. But I laughed when I heard the compliments. Because, while I was making the pie, daughter called to say how much she was enjoying preparing the feast-that-followed. And as we spoke, I shared that, as she knew, cooking was just not my thing. I wish it was. I told her that. I told her that part of me would love to be the very rotund granny with a bun, ample bosom and tummy wrapped in a white apron, humming in the kitchen as I prepared one delightful dish after another. But that isn’t who I am. I eat out of necessity. Eat to live rather than the other way around. But still that romanticized “provider of sustenance” exists.

The pie:

And here’s what I forgot to say–that while we were talking–daughter and I–I poured the entire contents of a 12 oz condensed milk can into the batter. Yes, I wondered why there was quite a bit of batter left over that wouldn’t fit into the pie shell. And later, after the “why of it all” plagued me enough, I pulled the pumpkin pie can out of the garbage and read the directions. 5 oz. of milk. Not 12. But I cooked it anyway and am here to attest that it was just as good, if not better perhaps, than any pumpkin pie I even made from scratch.

The dogs are having a period of adjustment.  Underfoot.  Confined more than usual.  They are both males and there are territorial issues developing.  Moments of low, serious guttural growling that needs to be diffused immediately.

BOB

BAILEY

And Hope, seemingly oblivious to the changes around here– happy to eat and sleep and explore.
Hope. Esperanza.

Sky this morning, sweet pink underbelly

and a cloth–Midnight Sun with Polar Bear–this is what’s showing up now. Somehow these animal cloths are easier. Require much less mental activity, and that feels just oh so good.

So it will be twelve days from now when the upstairs will be ready enough. And we will emerge from this kiva-of-sorts.

My sister was just reading this blog, on her computer. There was a weird video at the end of it. I asked her what it was. She said, “These ads always pop up and sometimes they’re really bizarre.” I had no idea. Trying to figure out how to get rid of them. Anyone have suggestions?

Shadows and light from a few days ago.

And this morning I walked around the house …early. Documenting the progress of this process. Noticing what gave me pleasure and what still presented challenge. Noticing the one hundred and one decisions still to be made. Decisions that perhaps the contractor would have made–or not. Decisions like “exactly at what height do you want the bathroom light to be hung…?”

And why do I need to determine exactly where? Because if it’s too low it will interfere with the medicine cabinet door. And so I measure…height of pedestal sink–36″, add in the height of sink faucet 5″, add in height of medicine cabinet–30″. Add in the light shade that extends down from the mount itself, 6″. Oh. And add in the thickness of the cement board that goes on the floor plus the thickness of the tile. Another inch? So there. All of that and we arrive at about 82″. Wiggle room.

But what I am REALLY struck with during this process is the kindness of people…and in this case, because they are all male, I have to say the kindness of men. We replaced old very drafty windows–not because we can’t live with drafts, but because we cannot abide the thought of heating the outside during our long winters. And the window installer stepped up when we let the contractor go…stepped up and said he would help us out–at least give us information as to what needed to be done, and when. Stepped up and days later mentioned that divine intervention happens in many ways. I love that. And we have painters, father and son, Bruce an Cory, who although initially part of Contractor’s crew, stuck with us. Will see the job through. Lowered their price. Determined to see the job through. Because they said they would, and their word means everything to them.

And then Alvaro. Young Latino. Here for 12 years. Hardest worker I have ever seen. Twelve hour days are nothing to him. He has a wife–a Portuguese wife. Her name is Patricia, too, and the way he says that word, well it makes the English version sound harsh and crude. Pah-treee-seeee-ah, he calls me to come see–to come help with a decision– A graphic artist from Mexico who now hangs tile, sheetrock, a bit of this and that. Anything. Because, as he told me one night as we waited in Lowe’s to get sheet rock loaded, he wants to buy a “brick house” for his family. This is just beyond beyond. And here, his work, …a 1950’s pink ceramic tile bathroom slowly becoming earthy…

I’ve laid a bit of ceramic tile myself…with just a “get-er-done” mentality. So when questions arose yesterday, and I offered my version of a solution, Alvaro just smiled and shook his head “no.” No, we will not do it that way. We will do it the right way. Ha.

We keep adjusting our move-in date. Becoming more realistic as we accept that the progress is only minimally subject to our control. It doesn’t really matter what we think we want…because the project has taken on a life and momentum of its own.

Kitchen with cabinets maybe installed on November 28

Reclaiming of floors to begin November 19. And we will have to stay off of them, then, until the 28th. I would rather have waited and had floors reclaimed at the end…but there is a logical sequence to why things are done when they are. I am learning this as we go. Floors before baseboards and cabinets. That is the sequence we’re told. So. OK.

Only one cloth box opened. And Blue Person emerged first. Leaped out. I don’t remember cutting this denim shape. But met its appearance with joy. So here…a jaunty sprite, surrounded by pieces of a process. Patiently holding space. We knew we were going to have the place painted. We knew the windows needed to be replaced. We knew some things. But we really didn’t know what it would be like. So now we know, as we own our decisions, and we cultivate patience as we wait. Grateful I have to add, for the kindness of helful people.

First of all…and maybe the most important… we have a moonscape here. A view of it…rising. Rising. This moon has been huge and it looks full now. And it was clearly rising in the east. And I wondered…I guess for the first time…”Does the moon always rise in the east?”

Often, in mountains especially, I have no idea which way I’m pointed. I know things like “up or down the road.” That’s what’s important. “Towards town or away from town.” That’s how I explain locations. But here, on this spot of earth, a bit elevated, I know exactly where the compass points are. So I knew I was looking due east. And for some reason that seems important. To know…to know where to look.

So I googled “moon rise” and learned that the moon pretty much always rises from an easterly point. I’m wondering now why I never asked that before. Maybe it doesn’t matter but it seems important now. Because it speaks of some kind of orientation that I can really feel. The spin and movement of the universe. The sense of standing on the back of this planet as it spins its way through the universe. And knowing where to look for the moon.

We are in the basement of the house where we will be living. The upstairs living space is uninhabitable at the moment. A construction zone.

It’s been like this for a while now. No progress. But lots of excuses. And so yesterday we–my sister and I–we fired our contractor. It was amazingly liberating. To take the process into our own hands. To step up and know that we can arrange for plumbing, tile, electrical and carpentry just as well–and perhaps better than–a busy contractor who really showed our home little respect. Wood floors have been ruined. They were oiled floors. Recycled oak from an old barn. Planed, cut, installed and then simply oiled. And though we stressed many multiple times that the floors had to be covered, they were not. And now sheetrock dust is captured in the grain and the oil, and although I’ve scrubbed and scrubbed, it does not come out. So…Sanding will have to happen. Sanding and sealing and days more added to our basement sojourn…which looks like this…

and yesterday, straight from the Land of Enchantment…a copper pot for dyeing

and a cloth…really my favorite of all favorite colors…

In probably a month or so we will be upstairs. And right now, that is just fine. Dogs are becoming acclimated to space and to each other. And we are all learning what it means to live in community again. But I found myself yesterday wondering when I would feel the movement of needing to speak with cloth. I don’t have a work spot yet that feels conducive. I don’t have the window to sit in front of that provides the old inspiration. I haven’t found my spot just yet. The knowing-where-to-look spot. So I’m biding my time. Watching this.

Major transitions happening. M A J O R. Now. This very moment.Truck coming in a few hours. A month ago this date, November 2, was just a block on the calendar. Now, everything in boxes–approximately 70 boxes which is stunning in itself. And the other stunning piece is that I actually bought the boxes. Did not succumb to my passion for dumpster diving behind big box stores. And they–the boxes–in about a month–will be listed on craigslist–“free moving boxes”–

And it all feels so surreal. Meaningless is some big way. And silly. I have to say this–that having all of this stuff just seems silly.

Hope has monitored the entire process. She’s anxious. Confused. All of her nesting spots have disappeared. Except me. My lap.
Watching. Wondering.

And because this blog is a record of my days–a reminder to self of what was–I’m recording this now to remember…to remember a life that is no longer here. Somewhere, for sure. Just not here. The grandfather of boy child. A fine fine man. Suddenly, Thursday night, in his sleep, moved on…out…into….It was a shock. The suddenness of it. I remind self that this is how I’ve always said I would choose to pass. But now I’m revisiting that idea. And wondering. Looking at a belief I’ve parroted for ever. The notion that we do, in fact, choose the path of our exit. Is that so? Now I’m not sure.

And this morning, lifting up computer to put in a moving box, this doodle slipped out. Made recently, obviously. A doodle because cloth is in a box. But we don’t have to be.

Not sure when I’ll have internet again.

Boy child asked me what this was. A doodle. It surprised me. No recollection of doing it–or where I was–or even when–except it’s been in the last few days–hmmmm.

Grace over at windthread has been talking about Plant Intelligence and the Imaginal Realm by Stephen Harrod Buhner.  I ordered a copy and it arrived Saturday evening.  Right now I’m essentially camping out in my house, surrounded by packed up moving boxes and a variety of things that will probably be moved by hand.  Unboxed.  Or Not.  As soon as I think I have a plan, either it changes or I change my mind–so I’m not taking any one thing too seriously.  But what I wanted to say was that I started reading the book and on page 19 came across the clearest expression of–of –I don’t know what to call it.  So I’ll simply quote Buhner here–he’s talking about art.  And everything else.

For if we should recapture the response of the heart to what is presented to the senses, go below the surface of sensory inputs to what is held inside them, touch again the “metaphysical background” that expresses them, we would begin to experience, once more, the world as it really is:  alive, aware, interactive, communicative, filled with soul, and very, very intelligent–and we, only one tiny part of that vast scenario.

But it’s the phrase “metaphysical background” — two words I’ve never strung together–but I’m in love with them now. These words–a physical handle, a tool, a tangible concept–recapturing the response of the heart…manifesting the metaphysical background.  And somehow communicating that.  If possible. A wonderful thing to attempt.

Just  reread this.  It feels like I’m circling the wagons–getting close but still not there with the idea–but again, I blog to remind self of certain things and will revisit it.  Later.  Now these are the images I want to remember–not for their surface message, but for that other thing–that thing Buhner calls “metaphysical background.” And remembering that first time they made my heart sing:

A block print and leathery leaf–from 1969–

A wool sweater my mother knit for herself. The original color a very pale light blue. Now after a recent Indigo dip.

Starfish Cactus ready to bloom

and This–yesterday, a flock of wild turkey in the back yard where we’ll be going.

Eighth birthday yesterday. And of course, the b-day song. My favorite part?–the addition at the end of “and maaaaaaaaany moooooooooooooooooore.” Love it because I sing off-key anyway, so can belt that out with certainty. A party in the park right next to their house. Weather was kind–clear sky, sliver of a moon, inflatable movie screen projecting “The Lego Movie.”

and in lieu of presents, a request for FOOD. Food for the animals.

Before this soft ending to a soft day, Super Moon with Penguin–finished. Backed. Hanging. Small.

Wondering about a lot of things–and lately wondering about September’s super moon.  About super moon and animals.  Wondering if it felt different to them.  Wondering where they were.  What they were doing.  And before I  even had a plan, this cloth popped into being.  Super Moon with Penguins.  It’s small.  I’m going to work small for a while, as I imagine critters, worldwide, soaking up moon beams.

then wondering about kaleidoscope filter–what that would do…so, this:

Again this morning. Awake. Wide awake at 3:15 knowing I had to locate the feather. The feather that greeted me on my back stoop, several days ago. It’s tiny. A bit over an inch. Tiny. And power full. And there it was, safely nestled in scraps of cloth. Holding its own. Asking for recognition. Asking to be seen. To be seen for some thing … some thing other than what I first thought. So here…all of this a miracle today. September 22, 2014.

First the feather–it’s the middle one–the other two are jays but I don’t know what bird gifted this one. Peach/golden undertones:

Nice, right? Sweet. Enough just to study the feathers. Their amazing design. The engineering of it all. That in itself…well, miraculous. Then I noticed something in my photo editor–a category I hadn’t opened before. Filters. And under Filters, this–Kaleidoscope. Now a confession. I love kaleidoscopes. And I love mandalas. And I love love love what happened. Early this morning…night sounds providing background music through my open window.

I didn’t see the moon last night. Wanted to. Tried. But the cloud cover was too dense. I felt it though. Again. Early morning pull. So…Harvest Moon with Crow is finished. Crow came about, as happens, on its own. Woven figure morphing a bit and then outside…loud, insistent, continuous–CROWS. I was deep into the cloth and it took a bit for me to surface, for me to hear–for Crows to get my attention. And when I stopped to really listen…to listen and acknowledge their presence…I found myself following thread again as 8 crows formed on the cloth. Eight little crows and one originator. And so cloth, as it does, changed quickly from focus on moon to moon and crow. The dance.

Hi Grace.  Here’s the artist’s statement you asked to see.  It’s posted at  my booth space.  I’m open to suggestions if you see changes that could be made–and I’m not sure it’s a statement so much as an explanation–but an answer to the often-asked question–“what IS this?” 

Artist’s Statement:

Story Cloth is an old…very old…traditional form of communication.  A way to preserve and honor life.  Events.  Emotions.  Births and yes, deaths.  A way to preserve memory.  Recording on  cloth.   Story Cloth–a blend of collage, quilting, painting and story-telling.  All stitching and embroidery is executed by hand—totally unplugged so to speak–without the use of machine.

There are other names associated with this type of art– slow cloth being one.  Slow– because the process is contemplative, unhurried, thought full. Slow–because cloth is not in a hurry–cannot be hurried in fact.  But mostly slow because the cloth has something important to convey –- a message that has its roots deep below the surface.  And the message  cannot be rushed, any more than the growing forth of a plant can be rushed.  So Story Cloth/Slow Cloth describes my work, for now.

I work exclusively with repurposed, recycled natural fabrics including cotton, linen, silk and other natural fibers.  I hand dye/over-dye most of the recycled cloth used in my assemblages using natural sources found in nature—such as leaves, black walnuts, flowers, and bark.  I also grow the dye plant indigo and use it for dyeing my blue fabrics.

Each piece of cloth that forms the story, from start to finish, also has its own intention–its own way of blending and becoming one with the whole.  My challenge is to remain open to what wants to come forth.  Often I find myself watching.  Waiting.  Arranging, rearranging.  Waiting for “yes” or “no” as the cloth’s story reveals itself.   The whole process–an exercise in “getting out of the way”–can take a long time.  The stitching itself is contemplative and time-consuming– and often I borrow the expression needle-chanting to refer to this stitching.  But time is not the consideration here.  The challenge is learning to listen,  and in the listening to honor the voice of the cloth and the story it reveals.

Story Cloth combines for me the need to express, the need to delve deeply into self and the need to understand the larger world in which we live.  It satisfies many of my passions–working with materials from nature, communication, repurposing existing materials–and most of all, it provides an outlet for the creative energies that exist in all of us.

Patricia Spangler

patriciaspangler47@gmail.com

followingthread.wordpress.com

Yesterday morning I noticed the bubbles on the inside of my water jar. Bubbles that had formed overnight. Something about them begged a picture. And that “something” quickly became more–became an idea illustrating for me the importance of really seeing how things are. The difference between simply looking and really seeing. How things are in relationship to themselves, in relationship to environment–in relationship to global systems. And even the relationship of various dimensions. How things fit together in this world, in this life.