Stitching My Story

A Change in the Weather...

It is cold for the first time

in a long time.

I am happily bundled inside

in warm clothes

reading, drawing, baking.

Gray and chilly are

among my favorite canvases

for painting a day.

Colors are brighter

by contrast.

 

And so she is 19....

For Emmy

Our small house sits quiet and still here on this street 

tucked into place like houses on the pages of a child’s story book.

Surrounded by tidy green grass, tall evergreens

and overgrown rhodies that are nearly ready to bloom.

 

In the far bedroom, the rocking chair glides gently

back and forth, casting moving shadows

on the soft pink walls as the last of the

evening light shines in through the window.

 

I hold my baby daughter close next to my body

Like I have most nights since she was born.

By this time in the evening we share an exhaustion

that seems both astonishing and completely normal.

 

The rhythmic patting of my hand on her back and

Her gentle baby breaths are the only sounds in the room.

I try to match my breathing to hers.

This is our nightly routine. We rock and breathe in unison.

 

Our small house sits quiet and still here on this street 

tucked into place like houses on the pages of a child’s story book.

Surrounded by tidy green grass, tall evergreens

and overgrown rhodies that are nearly ready to bloom.

Stitching My Story...

(Another poetry attempt written for my writing class at the university)

_{Stitching My Story}

At regular intervals, my needle dives in and out

Of the intersecting warp and weft that make up

The brightly colored pieces of cloth lying in my lap.

Evenly spaced stitches chase one another along the edges of the fabric.

Tiny knots begin and end each length of thread decisively, but

In between these knots I am free to wander as it suits me.

There is comfort in the repetition of piecing together these fragments:

Rigid needle, meandering thread, yielding fabric.

I keep tension in check: between cloth and thread, between body and breath.

The division between my hands and the cloth no longer exists.

The passing of time stops. I am creating order out of chaos:

Hundreds upon hundreds of small stitches-- connecting successive parts into a whole.

Noises around me change, people come and go from the room,

Questions are asked and answered... I keep stitching.

For a while I sew through unwashed dishes, unmade beds, disheveled laundry.

I sew until I begin to feel the pull of other things needing my focus:

The cat begging in mews to be let outside, the incessant ring of the telephone,

A child galloping down the stairs in search of dinner.

Reality shifts and the stitches cease to be an extension of my hands.

Pausing to acknowledge the progression of my work, I fold the fabric neatly,

And put the needle in a tin for safekeeping.

Life outside of stitching has threaded it's way into this gray, drizzly afternoon,

But still, I continue piecing fragments together,

Pausing occasionally to acknowledge the progression of my work.

Hundreds upon hundreds of small moments-- connecting successive parts into a whole.

Out on a Limb....

 

I consider myself a visual person... someone who is better suited to pictures than words. But.... I have this quiet, tiny dream of being a writer. Writing for who or what, I don't know. Maybe just writing for me.

To this end, I am enrolled in a creative writing course at the university. The process of putting words to paper has been both exhilarating and terrifying. Currently I am working on poetry assignments. More often than not, I happily pull out my books to get started, but then struggle through the process because of the fear that I will not be good at it.

Today, while trying to write and re-write the words needed for my current lesson, it suddenly dawned on me: I don't have to be good at it because I am a beginner! The thought made me laugh out loud. Why have I been so hard on myself?  I don't expect to be good at a new stitching technique without tons of practice.... why would writing be any different?

Today I am going to be brave. REALLY brave. I am going to post a poem I wrote. Keep in mind that it is the poem of a BEGINNING poet. The assignment was to write a poem based on a photograph.

This is the photograph I chose...

Self Portrait

.

I am behind the camera and you can't see me,

But looking at this image will tell you exactly who I am.

It will expose my dreams and explain my vulnerabilities.

it will highlight my strengths and unveil my weaknesses.

It will tell you who I always wanted to be and who I've become.

.

Lately I find that I am stuck behind the lens in this snapshot,

Unable to clearly draw the next image into the frame.

The passage of time is asking me, rather emphatically,

To back up from these carefully cropped edges and refocus;

To take a more panoramic view.

.

If you look beyond the borders of this photograph

You will uncover the blurry image of a mom with nearly grown children

Who is struggling to find an identity outside of raising her family.

To someone who has spent the last twenty-eight years as the family photographer,

Self portraits are a bit of a stretch.