Summer

Working on a quilt a long, watching the roses bloom.

Summer begins.

I am thankful.

Watering the Roses

The roses now live on a dock like deck on the beach. As roses go, they are lucky ones, despite the fact they are bound by pots. They have been through a lot of stress, and they deserve this respite. They were neglected during pregnancy, they endured a move, rearranging, and some time without water.

Now they are nestled in, gearing up for another season. I am ashamed to say they didn't even get pruned (I was moving with a baby). The old garden roses are champs, and they have fared so well, they are up by the house, the teas and such are down on the lower level. I spent a beautiful evening watering and tending to them, saying my apologies for neglecting them. I hope they forgive me.

I'm not sure there is anything more eerie than being in an empty home on a nice day scrubbing in silence. Meditation is found in many ways, but manual labor seems the most instant for me now. I'm letting go of this house in the country. The yard has grown up and daisies speckle the field.

It is a morning for water skiing, and following that shiny black lab that wanders about on the beach all by itself, like it were just a step behind a ghost owner, or it had a mind of it's own that it couldn't make up, and it was freed to go about and snoop in seaweed filled corners and claw at the pebbles.

The beach life is much different. To me it truly feels like home. I love the privacy of space and the green of pasture; but my heart stops truly for the sea and shore. The roses were watered and they have bloomed with all this change, and I take that steadily to heart.

I'm still working on closing this chapter before I start another. It has worn me down: the cleaning, the closing up, the thinking about the "lasts". The last meal and the last . . .

I'm thankful for this time. For the sore muscles and the fatigue, and the feeling of satisfaction when a room is done and ready for someone else. I exist day to day now with just the basics, and nothing I really want to find yet packed up in a pyramid in the new place. My mere annoyance that I cannot see the sea from the kitchen because this marvel of boxes blocks the view.

I long for creative time and in the quiet moments I search for the creativity in repetitive tasks. I fear that the only creating is in the new cleanness and not making something from separate pieces. So in the now I will rise and go back to finish out the old life so I can get on with the new, I am just a crab after all leaving the old skin behind and letting my sadness go with it.

What I've Been Up To Other Than Packing

This is an earlier shot of a rose planted. It's purple tiger, a long awaited find. I just this past weekend planted two others that sat on the porch for way too long, they are doing well, and one even has color on the bloom.

I find myself in a bread making phase? There is something about kneading. I really don't eat that much bread, although my husband does, but I have been making it, cooling, wrapping, and freezing. It so meditative and it transports me back in time. Plus I can use organic flours.

The packing is continuing, and one knows there are seriously going to move when the cookbooks are packed. I saved one new local one on the Skagit Valley, and I will work my way through the recipes in spare moments when I find my moving sickness approaching. Up until the last moment when it is time to go.

One puts so much care into creating a home. And then it is dismantled and wrapped, and almost like the bread, put into the freezer to open and enjoy some other time.

Doesn't It Though?

It is a beautiful house. The kind one works their life away for. The kind that has a jet tub that looks onto a fireplace, and almost as much garage space as house. I looked at it today and the story it told has a great message.
The husband lost his wife, he fled to the palm dessert. Everything is still on the walls, all the furniture in place. His wife died of cancer. Her touches are everywhere, they were married thirty years, no children. He still hasn't been able to pack her away, there are memories hidden in these things.

She liked roses. That is clear. The guest bedroom is done up in them. And interesting finds also, things which tell a story. She was able to blend formality with comfort, modernity with the past, and she must have been a wonderful person to create such a warm home.

I came away from this experience a whole lot wiser.

1) Having the house doesn't matter
2) Having the furntiure doesn't matter
3) Having the toys doesn't matter

All that matters is being together with the one you love.

I know this lesson well.

But sometimes in this modern greedy America, we all need reminders like this one.

Grow Up, What?

You Should Be an Artist

You are incredibly creative, spontaneous, and unique.No one can guess what you're going to do next, but it's usually something amazing.You can't deal with routine, rules, or structure. You're easily bored.As long as you are able to innovate and break the rules, you are extremely successful. You do best when you: - Can work by yourself- Can express your personality in your work You would also be a good journalist or actor.

What Should You Be When You Grow Up?

Some little girls know they want to be nurses or teachers, SAHM/W's, doctors or lawyers when they grow up. They have a firm handle on where they are intended to be and what they want to do in this world. This knowledge seems gifted heartly and lavishly upon these individuals.

What about people like me that don't really grow up in a sense? Sure we are responsible individuals but lacking in that divine ordinance so to speak.

How can we possible decide on one thing when there are so many good possibilites? And if one doesn't feel "called" to a certain field, how do you go about creating another route? I think the actor option is out because I hate the idea of fame (but would like the yacht). Although, I do think the connection a performer has with the audience is powerful. I think the reclusive artist picture is much more of a romantic domain.

I was reading yesterday about the idea of creating a lot of mistakes, or uglies, en route to the really good stuff. And maybe that is what trying is all about. Producing a lot of ugliness that somehow later looks really good? Our perspectives, our views change, we have distance and see through altered eyes? Or we just improve.

And how does one express personality through their work? Well with an artist, I suppose that is natural. In the written word, presumable - doing the dishses? Well, I guess there are ways to spice that up as well, soft music or techno and a few drops of grapefruit essential oil.

I like the idea of the impressionist that I just read about - Degas. He was a recluse in Paris. He lived in a quarter where all the art supply stores were located and a lot of the other painters lived. However that is not his genius. His genius was that he hired a housekeeper (He was a bachelor). My favorite work of his is Woman Ironing. I think about what keeps me from my own art and writing, and generally it is housework and homekeeping. So I put it out to the universe that in time, I will be like Degas, an employ a housekeeper so I can focus on art. Also that I should write about it as some textile art journalist extroadinare.

Some mornings I really like my hands warmed by the hot dishwater. Once I get into them anway. And the view of my roses from the kitchen window, still and bear in winter - formed alive in my imagination, is the only peace in the world I'd want to know.

"If it isn't a ROSE it's a weed"

And I thought I had an odd affection for roses. The characters in:
Otherwise Normal People - Inside The Thorny World of Competitive Rose Gardening (Aurelia C. Scott)
are on the level to which I aspire. These are people who have pursued their passion to the point of excellence.

My favorite character in the book is Clarence. With his pots, and his garage full of roses and rose paraphernalia, he clearly wins the affection of every rose buff. His ingenuity concerning the gadgets he creates for the the care of his roses is amazing. I admire how he keeps trying new ideas out, and I vow to remember that this trait is a hallmark of excellence.

The only thing is, that for myself, instead of showing roses competitively, I have always wanted to use my roses to bless other people, so I give them away to surprise people. Maybe this book will make me want to show my roses at a later date - who knows?
For now the roses are dormant, enriched by melted snow, and what is a rose gardener to do in the winter beside wrinkle the nose smelling the new varieties that do not exist yet in their collection - well read about them, of course.

These were rescued, that last of Love. The winds have come, and only the strong remain not wilted and shattered. Autumn, yes, it looks like a go for some studio time. I have been doing a little hand quilting in my chair, pondering as usual the purpose of life.

I was thinking about all these stitches, and how each has it's meaning, responsible somewhat for those maverick thoughts on random subjects that are sewn into layers.

When It's Too Hot To Iron - Embroider

Inspiration
Into Stitches


This embroidery was inspired by my bouquet of Golden Zest and I think Teasing Georgia. You know that you are blessed when you reach the point where the roses are almost out of your memorization field. This piece is going to be a wristlet, the cute ones I have seen all over have really inspired me, although I do think this would make a pretty pillow or sachet.


The house smells like Grapefruit, and the floors are clean
wash hung out on the line since it dries fast in 90+ heat.




I am thankful that I live not far from the sea, and so even in the extreme heat, there is that wild breeze. I organized my cross-stitch stuff into a neat bag, and so this summer hopefully I will have nice relaxing places to take it with me when I get away.
I ironed all my pieces that I fabric painted/dyed/sun resisted, and I am very pleased with how they have come out. I have one all safety pinned ready for thread play, and I will get that posted soon I hope.
Machine embroidery is such a good thing to do when you have clothes to put away or a closet to organize, because you can multi-task. Now I know that detracts from the art process, but sometimes it is nice to have some embroideries ready and stitched for when you sit down to sew.
I have been listening to this ambient music all day, different, but nice because it allows you a lot more thoughts than when you listen to music with words.
I am pondering what it means to make art. Why is there this thread of needing to make stuff ourselves nowadays? People are so tired of the cookie cutter same (can't find what they want), longing for distractions and de-stressing, and wondering how they fit into a world already arranged for them by manufacturers and big box stores.
Sewing can open up a world to people. If they are willing to make mistakes and move on down the line, sewing can showcase their dreams, and manifest visions into a product that is useful in daily life. And when you sew something yourself, you have a valid right to claim this is mine and at least for now exclusively.

Almost There!

The midway point. I will do this.
Clip Lamps! So cool.
Sombreuil, a beauty that smells even better.
Blue Girl, inspiring.

So the process is underway, and I think I'm midway through the studio reorganization. I added some great clip lights atop my design wall, and also on my cutting table. This is a vast improvement (did you notice my pictures were dark) it makes a huge difference in the mood, and I'm thrilled. I found them at Wally world, and got the last few left on the shelf. A little extension cord magic, and poof!


The roses are doing well and I am particularly impressed with Varigated di Bolgona (sp?). I do love the old roses. Love scattering them about...





Well, its been awhile since I've had the time to sew when I'm not too tired, so I'm hoping to get some studio time in tonight. I got Creative Drawings the new embroidery software which kicks it, and I want to do some stitch outs. Three thousand designs come with it, how can you go wrong?





Last night I took a walk through the neighborhood. I was noticing all the color. The softly white roses, the nectarine color poison berries, the slowly browning grass in the fields. These colors made me think about working at more unexpected color choices. Nature has these unexpected choices, brown with orange and fuchsia, and greens with yellow and the white of new blossoms. Somehow it is easy to loose this flow of color when we step into the sewing room. Why? We try to hard to match fabrics I suppose.





Well, I'm off to put in another hour and hopefully finish up most of the rest of the putting things away that there is left to do. Art is messy, and really why not make one?