I sit before a spill of a thousand pieces trying to make order– edges, colors, shapes: an airplane, little man, Shrek, Swiss cheese punched with holes…
It hardly matters. The pieces are finite, and even if a few are lost the picture will declare itself in time.
But in life– I will never know the count. The shapes keep changing, colors fade as I reach for them. I turn my mind this way and that, seeking a fit, some clear design.
Still, the table remains scattered. I learn to live beside it. The clarity I seek remains elusive.
At the end of the year I unfold the paper like a map I once trusted. The old words look back at me- learn this, finish that, be better, be faster, be more.
I measure the year with a thin ruler: checkmarks, omissions, the ache of time spent wandering where I thought I should have marched. I grieve the unused hours, The bright mornings laid down carelessly, as if life were a ledger and I had failed to balance it.
But this year refuses such accounting. It rises instead like a bird startled from tall grass- sudden, radiant, alive.
How could I have predicted it? The laughter that came unannounced. The days so full they tipped over. The quiet happiness that arrived without a task list, sat beside me, and stayed.
None of it can be crossed off. None of it fits in neat verbs. and yet – how true it all was. How necessary.
So I make a different kind of list now. I write: notice everything. I write: follow that which warms the heart. I write: say yes when joy knocks softly, and listen when it calls loudly.
Let the new year be generous in ways I cannot plan. Let happiness be my work, and attention my devotion.
I fold the paper gently. Outside, something begins anew.
With needles keen, we stitch a quilt, From Grandad’s shirts, worn soft with years, The very ones you helped me choose, Each shade of blue he held so dear.
The solid hues, the stripes, the checks, Each fabric as familiar as he, For birthday, Christmas, wrapped with care, You’d place the gift upon his knee.
And oh, how he would smile so bright, Holding aloft his cherished blue, For all to see the color’s light, That whispered of his love for you.
We measured then, with careful hand, And cut the cloth in even squares, Each stitch was placed with loving thread, To weave together tender cares.
The backing soft, the lining pure, Hand-quilted, tufted with delight. This quilt now seems to you so sure, A cloak that wraps you in the night.
You say it feels like his embrace, His arms around you as you sleep, And in the warmth, you find his grace, In every seam his love runs deep.
My youngest daughter and I made the quilt shown above from my late Dad’s shirts. It was a wonderful project to do together and I am so glad that she suggested it! I know my Dad continues to be with her (and all of us) in spirit!
In my garden once peaceful, in days of late, A scoundrel returns – wrecking havoc, his trait. Not the soft squirrel of a Potter tale, But a beastly fiend with a bushy tail.
He clambers and clatters with ill-intent, O’er apples rotting, their skins now rent. Like billiard balls scattered across the green, A trickster’s delight, a demon unseen.
With acorns stuffed in each nook and crack, He piles his plunder no thought to slack. The feeder he topples with impish glee, Chasing away all the birds that flee.
A tyrant of trees, this devil’s dance, He spares no corner, no happenstance. The gutters rattle as apples roll, From rooftop heights, his heartless goal.
O cursed creature, why dost thou stay? To plague my yard both night and day? Return to your woods, you menace black, Please, or I fear, I might set a trap!
I’m afraid it is time to catch and release this squirrel to a woods far far away.
Within these walls, my heart does rest, A haven wrought with love’s own crest. The strokes of brush on canvas bare, Birds in flight and animals fair. Vermont’s wild lands in oil unfold, Sunset’s fire, winter’s cold.
Here roses bloom in vases old, Ceramic treasure finely scrolled. Their petals whisper of the past, Of father’s gifts – how time does last. And glass that gleams, my mother’s hand, In paperweights from foreign lands.
On shelves, the books of poets dwell, Their words, like spells, my soul compels. Photographs with faces dear, In every frame, I hold them near. This is my world, a soft embrace, Where every corner finds its place.
Some speak of spaces clean and bare, Of lives unbound by things they wear. Yet here, amidst this cherished cache, I find my peace and hold it fast. For in each token, vase, or frame, Life’s rich fabric, for now remains.
So let the world of minimal claim, Their rooms untouched by love’s sweet flame. For in my charming abode, I see, The beauty that belongs to me.
I have just started giving my special treasures to my daughters for their own homes. I love seeing how my belongings look surrounded by completely different color and decorating schemes, and, my daughters’ own art and objects of affection.
The White Ram by Gilbert Keith Chesterton (an excerpt)
Once a white ram, with curly horns and deep brown eyes, Roamed the verdant hills beneath the azure skies, In fields of green, he wandered wide and free, A noble beast, grand as one could see.
His coat was pure, a snowy, gleaming white, That shone like stars on a crisp, clear night. With horns that curled in a majestic sweep, He stood as proud as ancient lore runs deep.
I saw this charming sculpture of a White Ram by Federico Uribe yesterday. It was created using electrical wire, conduit, and keyboard keys. Check out his latest work (2023): lion, moose, turtle, and black lion, on his website. I started looking around my house for old ethernet cables to see what I might create, as well. Stay tuned!
Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you imagined. Henry David Thoreau
I am in the process of creating a wish list for this summer. At the top of it – to canoe on a northern lake. In recent years, I have substituted a kayak for a canoe. But, my heart still longs to paddle a canoe at dawn with a quiet j-stroke – on the upstroke, instead of lifting the paddle blade out of the water, it stays in the water. Magical!
In fields of gold where daffodils dance, Their beauty shines in a fleeting glance. But beneath the soil, where roots entwine, Lurks a truth that’s less than divine.
For hidden from view, in the earth’s embrace, Lie roots that tell of a different fate. Though petals gleam in the sun’s warm light. The roots betray a darker sight.
So too, do some, in the world’s gaze, Appear as beauty in myriad ways. But beneath the surface, unseen to most, Lies a truth that’s harder to boast.
This morning, I noticed that the squirrels had uprooted my daffodil plants. As I gently pressed them back into the soil, I was struck by the contrast between the lovely, sunny blooms on top and the fine, twisted roots emerging from the bulb at the bottom.
I thought about how some people, too, present themselves as the picture of perfect beauty and loveliness but deep inside may lie a darker story – be it of heartache, grief, illness, or even a darkness of the soul.
In a tapestry of threads once left astray, Lies the beauty of a wreath in shades arrayed. With remnants of wool, a canvas they adorn, A masterpiece born from what others scorned.
Each stitch a story of resilience and grace, From discarded strands, a new life takes place. In every cross and turn, a tale is spun, Of transformation from what was undone.
What once lay idle, now blooms with delight, A wreath of colors, a symphony of light. So, the joy of creating from what’s been cast away, Turning leftovers into art, day by day.
I wanted to stitch a needlepoint project using leftover tapestry wool from past efforts. This wreath was worked using a combination of Appleton, Paternayan (two strands only), and Elizabeth Bradley yarns. I did not have all the color matches for the pattern so I had to create my own colorway. I plan to sew it into a pillow with rose velvet ribbon piping and a black velvet backing.
I really like creating something beautiful from scraps, be it a needlepoint canvas or a quilt. These end up being my favorite pieces!
In Reykjavik’s streets, where legends roam, Anita, like a star, found her home. With fur of black and white, a beauty rare, A brown circle ’round her eye, beyond compare.
Energetic and alert, she caught my eye, A playful spirit, reaching for the sky. In her gaze, a spark, like twinkling stars, I wished to take her home, to be mine.
Though now a pet, her spirit’s still free, Anita, the Icelandic dog, with glee. With every wag of her tail, a tale unfurled, In my heart, she’ll forever be cherished, this world.
I admired this Icelandic Sheepdog in Reykjavik’s city center. Her name is Anita, after the Icelandic actress, Anita Briem. Oddly, she was only one of two pet dogs I saw in Iceland during my eight-day stay there. This breed dates back to the 800s when humans first came to Iceland. Anita seemed very eager and lively – I am sure she would have been a good sheep herder.
Satin & Sand 