Ornamental

and so it rains

  i wish i could capture a clearer photograph of the creatures i've taken to calling ellen's friends, the ones who stay out on the corner of the deck these days eating and talking and hopping around - they move so fast, these little ones, and were i to walk out outside with camera in hand, they'd swoop up into the branches of the nearest tree.  as it is, i sit here at my table before the wide, wide windows, camera always close, and should i happen to catch them unawares, i snap a shot straight through the open wooden blinds and screen.  it's raining this morning, raining and raining, and i wonder where birds go when it's wet like this, or when it's cold and dark and they retire for the night.  these birds are not deterred by the elements, and i can look out and watch them perched on the railing, their puffy little bodies reflecting color in the rain. 

you ought to see this house right now (it's best that you don't) - trays of jewelry components on every table top, piles of brown leather and lace and pearls and ribbon lying about like wilted seaweed and sand and pebbles that have washed up on the wet shore.  that's what this current work of mine brings to mind when i see a growing collection wrapped up in cloth, or curled up on the table here, the flotsam and jetsam of my handiwork washed up by the forces of my own imagination. 

see what i mean?  do you see my jewelry forming there, in the early morning light of puget sound?  i do, i really do.

  i see the seaweed fastened to rock like old birds' feet, i see the worn smooth shapes of opaque glass, i see the driftwood and the twigs and the pebbles roundly shaped from being tossed in stormy seas.

"I consider lace to be one of the prettiest imitations ever made of the fantasy of nature; lace always evokes for me those incomparable designs which the branches and leaves of trees embroider across the sky, and I do not think that any invention of the human spirit could have a more graceful or precise origin."                         -Coco Chanel, April 29, 1939
i'm beginning to have wayyy too much fun with this new look of mine, this fresh gathering of embellishments and trinkets that have been resting tucked and hidden away in weathered boxes for a good twenty five years.  i spent yesterday evening playing dress up with abigail in the lingering light of dusk, and as i layered the necklaces one by one, i saw a certain look emerge that caught me a tiny bit off guard.  it's always at this point that i question my work, when i'm on a fevered roll and am making new jewelry with no  preconceived regard or thought, but more with an excitement to simply keep on going, making, creating well into the night; i question it because it all begins to look the same, to look as if one thing bleeds or blurs into another.    and it is then i remember that a collection does precisely that:  it takes on its own traits, its own slant, its own character and personality.  and that is what makes a collection what it is.  i decided last night that i'm calling these tattered, wea- thered pieces the "gatherings of miss havisham"; those of you who've read dickens will understand.  this morning as i look again at photographs taken in yesterday's fading, waning light, i'm thankful for this renewed force that urges me ahead; i'm thankful for long foraging walks on treasured beaches; i'm thankful for my wooden trunkful of lace snippets and worn hankies, for the times i worked before with leather, for the beveled jars of old pearl buttons, for the lessons of my mother and my sister, for my love for all things tender, for all things connected to the achingly beautiful world of nature that surrounds me.  i am thankful; i am thankful; i am thankful, i am blessed.  xo

nourishment

  i've decided, now that days are sunnier and the birds are here that i need to start taking more loving care of myself.  it was a long, dismal stretch this winter when i felt really horrible about so many things in my life over which i felt i had no control; i remember one sunday afternoon, a sunny one at that, when i had not the energy to simply get dressed, let alone go out and soak up some of that sun; after sitting frozen for a good thirty, forty, sixty minutes, i  finally put my head down on my rickety little yellow cafe table and cried.  i hated those times (who doesn't?), hated the feeling that a dark, wet, heavy blanket had been draped over me and i had no strengh to shrug it off.  but slowly, step by step, day by day, week by month i am seeing a little (maybe more)improvement in my general outlook on life, and even caught myself yesterday morning walking around outside in my pajamas with a spring in my step.  this morning i laid out a pretty little breakfast just for me, with orange juice i'd just squeezed, creamy vanilla yogurt from new hampshire, a perfectly ripe avocado on a toasted english muffin.  the napkin was vintage butter yellow linen, the spoon a diminutive sterling silver one with my name engraved, a childhood gift from my grandmother we all called mimi (hello carolyn ;)).  i sat here in the morning sun at my beloved little robin's egg table and watched the birds as they chased one another about, as they scratched at sunflower seed hulls and lifted their throats and sang, sang, sang.  for no reason, it seemed to me, did they sing but for the sun and the feeling that all was pleasant and good.  i've been beating myself up for a long, long time - the way i can't keep things organized, the plight of constantly trying to keep my work fresh and new, my terminal impatience, the way i let worries and nagging emotions eat me up inside.  i'm finally realizing, at this ripe old age of 52, that there are many things i need to just. let. go.  i am learning.  it is a slow and oft repeated lesson, but i'm learning, yes i am.

“Face your deficiencies and acknowledge them; but do not let them master you. Let them teach you patience, sweetness, insight... When we do the best we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another. ”

—Helen Keller (1880-1968), author, lecturer, activist

most of you know how solitary my own little life has become:  the boys have moved on to school and lives of their own, i've moved out to the country where the nearest grocery store is a good ten miles away, where i have no immediate neighbors, where i look out my window and see no houses, hear no traffic noise.  it is a delicious life, and i've embraced it mostly with ardor and success; but i also realize that there is a need to reach out for other like-minded souls from time to time, to initiate activities, to encourage "local" (being a relative term) friendships, to get out there and do creative, interesting, stimulating things outside of this house and beyond these five acres from time to time.  i find myself becoming quite reclusive, particularly during the winter months when i am content to curl up inside and not branch out beyond the four walls that protect me from the colder elements.  that isn't healthy, and i know this, but i still find it difficult to reach out, to invite, to ask, to plan.  i seem to be in a growing spell, though, because in the past five days i've had the chance to visit new and old friends, to hang out in not one, not two, but three different artist studios.  and it was wonderful. 

  last friday, the day after ellen left when i was so bereft and blue, i drove to asheville at the gracious invitation of bead and illustration artist extraordinaire, cynthia thornton, of green girl studios, and her beautiful sweetheart of a brother, andrew.  they had prepared an absolute feast in my honor, and we sat around the table eating and laughing, sharing and reflecting, for hours and hours.  i'm angry at myself for inadvertently leaving my camera in the car up at the street, and left late in the afternoon without a single photograph of her incredible studio, of her sweet little daughter azalea, of what we ate, of anything at all.  but thankfully andrew sent me the photograph above, taken just before i left, and i think you can see the depth of this new friendship in our smiles and in our eyes. 

   the day before yesterday i was invited to drive over towards the nantahala gorge to visit the house and studio of an old acquaintance and now friend, dee dee triplett; dee dee is quite an accomplished and award winning doll maker, and her beautiful house is filled to the brim with hand crafted dolls, lovely oil paintings that her grandmother created long ago, gorgeous antiques, and spectacular mountain and wood views out every single window.  a mutual friend, a sofa king, had been prodding both dee dee and me to make an effort to get together, and she finally called on sunday to invite me out to the house.    dee dee and her husband robert have constructed a gorgeous separate large studio and guest quarters (three bedrooms with twin beds, three baths, a kitchen, a huge deck looking out over mountains) where they plan to hold small artist workshop retreats, beginning hopefully sometime later this year.  

  i'm thrilled to have such a lovely venue so close to home, and will be letting you know when i'll be teaching there.  in fact, i'd love to hear from those of you who are interested; i know i've received countless requests from east coast folks asking me to teach on this side of our little world, and it will be good to have an idea of who wants to come and play.

then, yesterday, i drove back to asheville and had a play day with a very dear friend of mine who goes back a good eight or nine years; kathy van kleeck lived 25 miles from me when we first met, and she reached out to initiate a friendship, based on mutual jewelry making interests, all those years ago.  we once had a ridiculous falling out, as friends so often do, but fortunately the strength of our ties held securely those bonds, and i feel that we are all the closer for it.  kathy and her husband dave moved out to port townsend 5 1/2 or so years ago, after she had travelled with me to artfest one early april; by august they were settled into a new life there on the west coast.  misty and i stayed in a beautiful little artist cottage just down the road from their house for two years, and it will seem awfully odd for kathy to be absent when i head out there next month.  they've moved back to the north carolina mountains, this time settling in asheville, and aspen and i drove over yesterday for a lovely lunch and  play time with PMC (precious metal clay).  kathy was my teacher, so many years ago, sitting beside me at the very same table in their little log cabin to show me the skills that she knew.  and there i sat again yesterday, at that very familiar table, the two of us quietly talking and laughing and creating while aspen snoozed on the hardwood floor at kathy's side.  so many years, so many miles, and still we come back to the solid place of friendship, side by side, spirit with spirit, heart to heart.  i thank her for that, and for faithfully continuing to embrace me in her orderly, art-filled, beautiful life.

finally, i wanted to mention a new retreat out on the other side of the country, up in the redwood filled forests and mountains of northern california.  lots of you are familiar with the lovely cindy o'leary, through her hard work with art and soul for many years.  cindy will now be hosting and organizing An Artful Journey, a venue to be held several times a year.  the location is spectacular, promises to be both peaceful and stimulating at once, and i love the fact that it is a smaller size, with three day workshops (my favorite!).  i'll be teaching there in february next year, but there are other wonderful line ups scheduled before then.  be sure to check it out.

many of you have inquired about art and soul/portland; i made a tough choice to decline teaching there this year, and will be spending this fall - don't hold me to this! - working on the beginnings of a book.  this will be my first time not teaching at the portland venue - how many years now has it been, all the way back to the beginning - and it was a long and studied decision;  i will certainly consider teaching there again next year.    xo

how can we capture this

i had a quiet weekend here on firefly road, one that was lovely nonetheless because i steeped myself in solitude and left the tabletops and all horizontal surfaces of this place in disheveled, tangled ruin because it didn't matter.  i told myself it didn't matter, and sat here at the blue green table by the windows drinking tea, writing and creating and watching the little birds devour whole platefuls of sunflower seed.  i saw and heard for the first time a downy grey junco turn back his head to the sun, flutter his throat and sing a plaintive song that called to spring.  i promise you this: it was earnestly calling to spring.  and i was quiet and thoughtful,  content to be in the creative flow as i watched out that window and stared at bare branches and imagined the months of march and april and may, pictured them in my open mind and let my fingers work new pieces into ornaments of sentiment and hope.  it was a beautiful time, this time of being quiet and working and sitting and watching, and i'm feeling a time of change wash over me like a gentle annointment of all things healing and new.

abigail had her first dress up session yesterday, late in the afternoon when the sun was reflecting but not coming straight in through the southwest windows of my little bedroom where she stands in the corner, washed in the glow of late afternoon, sentinel to patience and grace.  she likes this new role, i think, and has brought many a memory back to those of you who've written and expressed them to me.  i love that something as worn and humble as this frayed old mannequin has the power to summon recollections for so many of us; i love, too, that she can stand in her corner with such dignity and model new trinkets for me, for my little ornamental world.   she is a regal thing, and even the back of her peeling neck has a lesson to teach me in silent elegance and grace.    i think that all this rambling through doll trunks and faded old wicker sewing baskets has brought to the surface in me an even stronger appreciation for things once lost, now found - - for forgotten arts that were taught, long ago, to young women and girls so they could fill idle hours with practical but beautiful handiwork, so that they would be able to embellish handsewn clothing with the fruits of their eye straining efforts.  i know that i, for one, am humbled by the intricate detail of something so small and quiet as a simple strand of tatting, a remnant of ivory netted lace.  where have all the lace makers gone?  the makers of tiny pearl buttons?  the children who learned how to stitch doll clothing and embroider friendship quilts, to darn their socks, to mend frayed elbows and knees? so i sit here at my table, surrounded by overflowing piles of ecru and ivory, and i turn to the past to create new treasures that will, i hope, become the heirlooms of tomorrow.  thanks to my sister, i can now crochet, and with any luck i'll one day be able to tat.  i don't have the idle hours that victorian women did, when waking days were short and self employed females were few and far between; but i do have the desire to capture a time when things were simpler, when elegance was expressed with crochet hooks and thread, when mother of pearl was found on something as basic as a muslin shirt, a leather shoe.  and with these things, i'll make something treasured, something tender, something blue. xo 

empty spaces, fluttering words

i've spent a lot of time this afternoon sitting at my blue green table, staring out the window into the sun, watching busy little birds flock to the deck railing because their new friend ellen had fed them so diligently for the past few weeks.  juncos, tufted titmice, chickadees, cardinals, and today whole groups of tiny goldfinches have been feasting on the seed we've scattered across the corner of the deck.  the house is too empty today for my liking - ellen finally pulled out of the driveway and down firefly road at 11:00 this morning, blowing her car horn all the way down the road, and i stood out in the cold, blustery wind and waved as big and as wide as i could until she was finally out of sight.  if our time together was so healing and good, then why did such a huge lump crop up in the base of my throat? i came back inside and pulled out some tea stained paper, then printed out some words that popped up out of nowhere as i typed them into being.  how lovely, i thought, to cut out these words in scissors shaped like a bird, then crumple them up like twigs and grass and toss them into the wind.  and that is precisely what i did, from the height of the deck, right when a particularly hearty gust of wind blew up and carried my words up, fluttering and twirling, out over the grass, into bare tree branches, out into everywhere from inside of my heart, where they were born.  it is my wish that, come first of spring, some of ellen's little birds will find these words of elements and nature and weave them into their beautiful nests to harbor their young. xo 

 

 

He would declare and could himself believe
That the birds there in all the garden round
From having heard the daylong voice of Eve
Had added to their own an oversound,
Her tone of meaning but without the words.
Admittedly an eloquence so soft
Could only have had an influence on birds
When call or laughter carried it aloft.
Be that as may be, she was in their song.
Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed
Had now persisted in the woods so long
That probably it never would be lost.
Never again would birds' song be the same.
And to do that to birds was why she came.

                                    - Robert Frost

meet abigail singer

allow me to introduce the newest member of the firefly family - miss abigail singer, so named by my sister and uncovered at the screen door in asheville by my friend kathy, who knew i'd been seeking a mannequin for jewelry photography; so last week when ellen and i were in search of the Perfect Table, i was able to purchase abby, load her into ellen's car, and tote her home to firefly road.  no ordinary mannequin is she; back long ago, actual body casts were made and painted by the singer sewing company for individual owners, and this petite little gal has obviously quite a few stories to share with those who are quiet enough to listen.  i love the way her body is a bit frayed and worn and even dented here and there, evidence of her age and of perhaps her travels.  i feel like that - nicked and worn and bumped around, bigger here, smaller there, creaky and creased and full of history.  no wonder she appealed so strongly to me. 

torsos have always held a fascination - male, female, children's and adults, i find them all evocative and beautiful, much like the way the human hand in all its shapes and guises pulls to me.  this sweet little torso of crackled porcelain, made to hold a letter, grains of sand, whatever you wish to tuck within, is from the studio of treasured scottish artist kate at charm foundry; i liked this one so much, liked the concept and true emotion behind its creation, that i ordered three more for special friends at christmas.  what does mine contain?  after much deliberation, i decided on some tufts of aspen's hair from a trimming of his fuzzy, furry paws last week.

here and there, throughout the house, are hands of wood, hands of stone, hands stitched and photographed, painted and drawn.  i've used my hands as my most important tools for my career going on some twenty six years, and with all their arthritic aches and pains, their battle wounds from bouts with wire, their reluctance to work on demand from time to time when evenings are stretched and late, i still find them beautiful and very much a treasure, these hands of mine, and will never take them for granted... or anyone else's, for that matter.  

    

ellen leaves tomorrow, and already we are both growing a little quiet and sad.  these three weeks of time together have been glorious and healing, the truest essence of sisterly love, and although i'll be aching from the absence of her in this little house, i'll also be eternally grateful for the sweet and simple fact that we are sisters, that we unconditionally love one another, that we've managed in these last few years to grow as close as sisters ever humanly could.  xo

sky, bird, patience, hope

  it is always, always around this time of year, just after valentine's day comes and goes, that i begin my annual pining for the hopeful time of spring.  i want trees that are beginning to shoot out tiny buds then frothy pink apple or pear blossoms, i want birds that are flitting about in nearly bare branches and singing their hearts out because the warmer days are just ahead; i want daffodils blowing and bending in the late winter breeze, i want the smell of freshly turned dirt to waft up through open bedroom windows well after dark.  i do love winter, i do love the sparseness of it, but i also love a change in scenery and a promise of new life, new things, new routines. it is always in the second half of february that i begin pining, too, for beloved port townsend, where i've travelled every march/april for the past ten years to teach at the gathering of artfest; i love it there for so many, many reasons, but perhaps most of all because spring comes there first, full tilt, in spite of blustery, lingering winter winds, in spite of bone chilling rain, in spite of winter coats and gloves and scarves, in spite of everything.  spring comes there, in bright grass greens, in bursting pinks, in crocus and tulip yellows and purples and reds.  spring comes there first, and i walk the beach there and sing.  my heart sings there; my heart stops and starts, and i sing.  i wish that you would come and sing with me. here, then, is a little tribute to the hope i hold for spring - for bluer skies, for bird filled trees, for anything that makes me think of hope and flight, for days that sing to me.

available in my little etsy shop.  xo

show and tell - pull up your chair and cup of tea

  show and tell usually involves a finished product, a purchased object, a favorite view, a treasure found in the middle of the woods.  today i thought i'd share with you some photographs that were taken yesterday and last night in the middle of this living room turned romper room and studio.  ellen and i had big plans - huge ones - for her to bring me up to date on sewing skills, something i'd abandoned back in the mid 1990's when child rearing and jewelry making overcrowded the need to stitch by machine.  i had inherited my grandmother mimi's machine and cabinet back in 1983, when i was living in chapel hill, north carolina while the boys' dad worked on his master's degree.  i began that summer working as a secretary for the journalism department at the university, a miserable time for me of working in an office where the other women talked only of food recipes and lack of sex and each other when one was absent.  i'd get out of there whenever i could, taking long walks down charming main street at lunch and window shopping to clear my head.  there was a little antique shop called lavender's that specialized in antique furniture, jewelry, and exquisite antique linens and lace.  what motivated me to do this, i'll never know, for i am not one to push my work on anyone, anytime, to market my own wares; but i walked inside that fancy little shop one day and showed the owner a lavender sachet in the shape of a heart that i'd constructed by hand from netting and mundane lace.  bless him, he ordered four right on the spot, and i realized i'd never be able to get them to him on time if i sewed them by hand.  i already had mimi's sewing machine, tucked away in its cabinet and standing in as a bedside table (remember, this was 1983, and i'd been married just over a year).  out came the machine, the thread, the lace, and mr. lavender began ordering pillows made with his antique linen sheets and cutwork lace; from there we commenced to sweaters collaged with patchwork lace, crazy quilt style, and taffeta sash belts embellished with random bits of old lace and cut glass beads.  that is my history, that is from whence sprang the jewelry, just another year down the road.  why did i stop sewing?  i don't know.  life took turns, the machine grew cranky and old, and was sadly left in the moldy old basement of the first house we lived in on songbird lane here in north carolina.  when i think back to the creations i fashioned in those times - sweaters, sashes, even picture frames covered in handsewn lace - i'm a little sad that i neglected to keep anything from that creative time period.  my mother did; she saves most things i make and give to her, as mothers are naturally wont to do; on her bedroom dresser rests a little taffeta frame, embellished in intricate lace, that holds a photograph of big old robin, when he was only three months old.  a tender memory, that one, framed in intricate things.  i can smell my mother's perfume and picture the beautiful floral paper on the bedroom walls, just by summoning up that one single thing.  i've gathered crocheted hankies and doilies for as long as i remember, and even now i still have the little blue doll trunk that was my mother's as a child, and it still holds all the lace remnants and yardage from which i pulled and sorted and worked, back in 1983.  a mouse once made a grand home in there, chewing at some cotton things and moving kernels of rice into a bottom corner; i didn't mind.  i would have done the same thing, had i been that furry mouse.  now i feel i've come full circle again here in february of 2009, where my sister has come to visit for a lovely length of time and has it in her determined mind to teach me how to sew again.  i'm hoping it is a little like riding a bike, that i'll hop back in front of my new machine and tackle it like i knew just what i was doing all these years i did without a machine.  ellen and i decided that the perfect project to start me off would be a crochet hook roll, something that would hold the various hooks in place while tucked away in a basket with yarns by a comfortable chair.  as plans often go, something that started out a simple job, to be made with lovely sea green vintage barkcloth that i'd found while tinkering around in port townsend one cold and blustery day last april, turned into a complicated task involving vintage linen from tea towels, half of a vintage pillowcase, and two lovely crocheted doilies that a friend had given me a couple of years ago.  i didn't feel well to begin with, and ellen - bless her heart - got nonstop stitching fever and spent all of yesterday afternoon and into the night sewing not one but two of these lovely little rolls. while she cut fabric, worked out pattern logistics, pinned, and ironed and stitched, i sat quietly nearby, wrapped in a cashmere shawl, and crocheted what will soon become one of my favored head wraps.  the sewing lesson never happened, but it was a lovely day of the two of us happily working on separate projects side by side. 

so much is going on, in a quiet and sweet and peaceful way, here in my sunny little house on firefly road.  i'm spending much time laughing and chatting, crocheting and hopefully stitching, threading and wrapping and incorporating new ideas from olden nina times into my current work.  i like that - the wrapping 'round from then to now, the twisting of old notions into modern ideas, the borrowing from my past to add to my present and future. and the cool thing is that ellen is adding to her own work as well, and even has a beautiful woven tag to attach when the time comes for her to place these lovelies in her shop. remember my "nascent" word that popped into my life in early january?  i've embraced it with much acceptance and honor.  it is a very good word, this nascent, and seems to be quite fitting for this time of growth and transition. the lovely banner above was commissioned by my dear dear new zealand friend wendy, who knows me well and knew also of the word's importance; she had an artist make and cut the letters from old storybook pages for me, for me, for me.  i've hung it above the doorway between my expansive, vaulted ceilinged living room and the small foyer that - as you can see - catches all sorts of flotsam and clutter.  you can see the doorway to my little studio, there to the left, with its own "studio" banner lovingly crafted by another dear friend, tracie lyn huskamp, a year or so ago.  thank you both for creating such lovely art to grace this little home!   and below?  a gorgeous, original pendant made for me by treasured friend and student cindy dean - someone who has been a loyal reader, student, fan and friend for quite a while, who has stuck by me through thick and thin. i'm not one to show photos of things that readers and friends send - it seems a little, well - showy somehow, but these gifts of nascence seemed fitting to be shown side by side.  and finally?  a gift i purchased for myself - a ring made by jewelry artist and sweetheart of a gal, christina bjenning of esmeralda designs.  i fell in love with the eyelet wrap design, the way she incorporates soft textiles with sterling silver, and i love that she went with my request to include the word nascent on the ring's underside.  christina worked with me and worked with me to get the ring to fit my plumply indexed middle finger, and it feels and fits like a glove, this ring of nascence, this ring of beginning to be. well, goodness.  i've gone on too long, i think, and need to wish you all a happy valentine's, spent with the ones that you love - and the ones i love who are far away, you know i love you too.  you know i do.  xo  

 

a view of wind and rain and sun

  behold my "new" window desk, an antique english pine farm table that has been painted a soft robin's egg blue with a tint of green.  it is a glorious place to sit and write, to gaze out the window and watch the change of weather as it rushes past, from dark to light and then to dark again.  i've looked long and hard for such a wonderful desk, was precise with my need for sturdiness, foot and knee room, and especially for character.  there are nicks and scratches, worm holes, paint worn on the edges from years of loving use.  two can sit here comfortably to eat, and tomorrow ellen and i will have a sewing session with the machine i got for christmas.  but for now, i wanted to share with you the photographs i took from a five minute span when the storm clouds and rain cleared in one tiny spot, then opened up to reveal golden light that deepened with each passing moment, and finally turned fiery orange and purple and red before fading to velvet darkness. 

 

 

 

 

 

HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. 
                                                    - W.B. Yeats

Art Bead Scene Interview

  february is upon us, and here on firefly road, it is cold.  we were supposed to get covered with four inches of snow last night, and i was childishly very disappointed when i woke this morning, looked out the window and saw only sunshine and bare mountains.   "only" - even that sounds petulant and spoiled, doesn't it?   what did delight me, as soon as i turned on the computer, was the announcement that an interview with me by bead artist and ornamental reader lynn davis is being featured on Art Bead Scene's blog in three parts, beginning today.  (The first post is spotlighting the regular Art Bead Scene Jewelry Designer questions; the second post is about process, inspirations and materials; and the third post is the question about imitation, copyright, teacher-student relationships and honoring designs created by others.) lynn asked some very provocative and insightful questions, and i am honored to be featured on a blog that celebrates the lovely varied talents of a creative group of artists.  thank you, lynn, for this, and for including the beautiful beadwork of my sweet sister ellen, who is so tickled to see mention of her eggs in the interview that she's forgotten all about the no show snow. lynn is running the interview in three sections, the first beginning today and the next two on thursday and friday, and you can find it here.  thank you, lynn! xo

lessons and quiet moments

the birthday weekend with my sister ellen was quiet, beautiful, comforting.  i thought i'd share a few snapshots of our time we spent languishing in the moments, feet stretched out before us as we silently wrapped our yarn around the crochet hooks.  sun streamed in through the wooden blinders, the clock ticked and the house spoke with creaks every now and again, as we sat side by side for an entire day and worked on samplers, talked and didn't, loved on aspen, loved the day that turned silently into night.

i've discovered the absolute zen of wrapping yarn into the same stitch over and over and over again, allowing my mind to turn into a blank slate as my hands work in automatic mode - one stitch, two stitch, three stitch, four. the birthday celebration was exactly that:  a celebration for a sister who is present in my life, who has the patience to teach me a new skill, who loves me for all my sunny quirks and cloudy ways, who drives six hours to spend a couple of weeks with me in a month when spring seems impossibly far from now.  i thank you, sweet readers, for all the happy birthday cards that came this way, for the emails as well that waited for her to open on her day.  she was elated, surprised, thrilled for the sweet sentiments and artwork that waited for her in a toppled pile in the blue chair, come saturday morning.  may all of you have sisters like i do - tender and funny, feisty and direct.  loving and true.  xo

a note to you, from ellen:

"Thank you so very much to each of you who helped me celebrate my birthday!!!  It made my day delightfully special that you would send such wonderful wishes my way. I love you all!!!   Sister Ellen"