In A Bookish, Quilty Mood

Seven of eight chicks on a perch my husband fashioned. Their baby chick perch remains a fave spot too, lol. Nearly a week has passed since we moved the chicks into the coop. Their first few days in a new to them home was steeped in their adjustment to plenteous room, no feed overnight, and us attempting to coax them from said coop to the attached run. They seem to love more space, haven't minded waiting for breakfast (although they cried the first night when we turned off the light, and on subsequent evenings when not under the heat plate when that light was again shut off), and finally braved the strange opening to the outside world that of course is far more exciting than their spacious coop. Getting them back into the coop was a chore, and not for worms or scratch would they head up the ramp. We're still searching for an appropriate treat in which to lure them hither and yon; today I'll try some grated carrot (Update: they couldn't care less about grated carrot, sigh...

In reading Straight to the Heart: The Hawk Book Three , I'm astonished at how timely is the message, despite being set in autumn of 1962. Below is a section from Chapter 76, when the Cuban Missile Crisis was in full swing. When he reached the studio, stars twinkled in the sky. Eric could make out the storage building, and turning back, the house blazed with light. Yet, he needed to set something to canvas, although he didn’t wish to work in the sunroom. He wasn’t sure what bubbled inside him, other than a sense of purpose. Perhaps this was how President Kennedy felt, his hands just as tied. Yet Lynne had been right, it was too dark to work. Again gazing upwards, Eric admired the night sky, chuckling at himself. Then he walked around the studio, standing in front of the storage building. Something tugged at him from within, so he pulled the key from his pocket, opened the door, then flipped on the light. There on an easel was the portrait of Marek and Jane. Stepping into the sma...

The Kaffe Fassett collection side. Recently I gratefully accepted that all my ongoing projects, both in writing and quilting, aren't a burden; right now I couldn't wrap my head around sorting out something new. I preface this post with that realization because it's good to embrace one's limits and other extraneous forces wafting nearby. Now, to the placemats. I began sewing them in a rather impromptu manner a couple of months ago, having blithely purchased some gorgeous Kaffe Fassett prints. Incorporating my love for Kawandi-style stitching, as well as wanting to use up scraps for the backs, I whipped through four or five, then made my way through three or four more, employing fewer scraps for the backs because that quickly lost its shine, lol. Then I bought a wee bit more fabric (LOL) because my husband actually said he really liked one of the prints, and I found it in three other colourways! And then I found myself with only a few of the original choices left, so I pr...

Sporting my Pride Flag, here I am after my walk. Waving that beautiful (if I say so myself) flag aloft always feels SO HEALING! Joining hundreds of others locally (and perhaps up to a million Americans nationwide), I marched along the recently opened Humboldt Bay Trail South late yesterday afternoon. The breeze was pleasant, scattered sunshine a plus, but best of all were those who gathered in the spirit of Congressman John Lewis to protest the inhumane administration leading our nation. Westernish view from the pedestrian bridge. It's important to denote these rallies because they are happening! It's vital to denounce a corrupt government and lame-ass congress who won't do their jobs. It's meaningful to continue making noise, stirring good trouble. My right knee wasn't thrilled, a slow pace due to a dodgy meniscus, but every step felt liberating, honorable, and correct.  A few of us were getting an early start. I wasn't certain if I would make it out there, but...

A sample from yesterday's work.... Reading through Book Three of The Hawk and being in the writing/revising zone.... Before I begin today's reading, I need to note how comforting it was yesterday to dive into a manuscript well known and steep myself not only in its realm, but the steadying manner of doing something related to writing. And how I didn't realize it would be so cathartic until dwelling there. There is a place I've enjoyed for nearly twenty years, the haunts of authorhood, of piecing prose, of writing. Revisions are a part of it, prepping manuscripts, crafting the first dang draft itself; all those elements are necessary if one chooses (or is chosen, lol) to follow the muse as far as it wishes to take us. Dragging us at times, yes, but only because writers are fearful of being shot down, of not being able to write, of bad reviews, of losing the plot, of whatever dark clouds that mar our vision. This of course can apply to artists spanning a wide range of ta...

I cannot be a channel of peace unless first I own it. Sometimes I forget I'm semi-retired. Books to write, quilts to make, chickens to feed.... Chickens, at my age? I'm in my sixtieth year for crying out loud. What were we thinking when deciding to get baby chicks? I'm tired, but not too weary to write a post. Just finished the dishes, not many, but our oatmeal bowls, my teapot, the stuff we need for the morning. Our kitchen is...old. Lol. No dishwasher, but a decent disposal. Big sinks. Lots of room to handwash all the dirty dishes we make. And thankfully we have an ancient concrete double sink in the equally aged laundry room to wash chick feeders and waterers. Hot water only, as the other two taps are hooked to the washer. For which I am also VERY GRATEFUL. Despite feeling exhausted, peace has been flowing through me in healing waves. Despite needy chickens, a despotic president, and other world traumas (like what's happening to women in Afghanistan for instance) , I...