A Contemplative Life

We are all part of this tapestry called life. Two more people have been murdered by ICE.  Lorenzo Salgado Araujo in Texas. Joan Sebastian Guerrero in Maine. Neither was the actual suspect ICE was seeking. Both were shot dead, Mr. Guerrero suffering multiple bullet wounds, his young daughter with him in the vehicle. None of the ICE agents were wearing body cameras, as allegedly they weren't issued the equipment. In both cases, ICE agents claim they and the public were in physical danger. My prayers go out to all those who love and are grieving the loss of these men. And I pray that those who killed them will one day acknowledge the wrongs of their actions, and seek forgiveness for such callous and cold-blooded acts. And that each of us will step up in our own neighborhoods, towns, and cities to better care for and love our neighbor, no matter the personal cost.    

 Contemplating what drives someone to kill another person because of racial/ethnic/sexuality-gender hatred, and what if instead of hating the murderer,  we loved them? It's probably not what they want. They might prefer to be feared. Or loathed. They might act in heinous manners to further their malicious agenda, hoping their devious actions will continue to stir chaos, which could encourage additional misdeeds. I'm stitching hearts into little sections of quilt sandwiches, pondering the murder of Lorenzo Salgado Araujo in Houston, Texas earlier this week. Slowly affixing this quilt into one coherent cozy, kind of the opposite of what the person who shot Lorenzo Salgado Araujo in the chest did. And yet, I'm trying to not project anger on that ICE agent. I'm trying to extend grace while attempting to understand why ending a person's life seemed to matter more than allowing them to live. You might say, "Well you didn't know Lorenzo Salgado Araujo, so it's...

I was fooling myself last week, assuming I could have the rainbow quilt on the living room sofa, all ready for me to hand-quilt. Conveniently I forgot about securing the perimeter, that I prefer to do in our guest room, with said quilt spread out on the bed. That imperative fact somehow slipped my mind, or I blocked it. Either way, for the next few days that precious quilt will loiter in its own space, and eventually it will meander to where I am currently seated, typing this post. One reason I didn't make the quilt sandwich until today was that yesterday I attended a protest/rally to denounce the murders taking place in Minneapolis, as well to honor Keith Porter, killed by ICE in Northridge on New Year's Eve, 2025, and others harmed and slain by ICE in the last year. This protest was announced in our local news and on Reddit late on Saturday afternoon. Less than eighteen hours later over one thousand people stood in front of the Humboldt County Courthouse seeking justice, peac...

First seven rows are done. The next two are on the work table, awaiting one from the bottom section. So, heartspace . The word came up in conversation a couple of weeks ago when I was pouring out my heart to my beloved. The issue was minor in the grand scope, yet meaningful, in that what we discussed didn't tax my intellect, but severely strained my, well, heart. Certain things we can wrap our brains around, but that inner chest muscle is a different organ entirely. When I put the above fabrics on the design wall, it was merely to decorate the space, and that stack of fabrics was within easy reach; I cut them last year when making a banner in October for probably the second No Kings protest. When I cut fabric, I tend to CUT FABRIC, because it's a process. It's gathering various prints that make me happy, then placing that stack near the ironing board, where I'll press them, cut them, and repeat until it's time to do something else. It takes a few days, in that it r...

Brollies in the green colourway; Kaffe Fassett designed this gorgeous fabric, which I am turning into a placemat. Mourning and rejoicing simultaneously, because what else is there to do? At the end of last week, I finally started writing. Kind of a Just Do It! sort of situation, and much to my thrilled relief, I have nearly twelve thousand words accumulated. That's pretty darn fine amid occurrences that feel pretty damn horrific. "Rejoice with those who rejoice, mourn with those who mourn." Romans 12.15. Because truly, that's what we're called to do. In the smuggled correspondence with his best friend Eberhard Bethge, imprisoned Lutheran pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote that most of his fellow prisoners only knew whatever emotion was most prevalent; they were frightened if circumstances were poor, greedy when opportunities arose, despairing as though no hope existed. Bonhoeffer sounds a little judgemental here, yet his complaints are valid, in that...

I didn't learn of this until mid-afternoon. The tragic scope of unbridled hatred that stems from our current governmental administration is directly responsible for these heinous crimes. This morning I read a brief devotional that noted how conditions won't alter unless our hearts do. Until violent rhetoric and mean-spirited actions stop, tragedies like this will continue. I don't know what to do other than pray for those mourning their beloveds, those fighting for their lives and their loved ones. Stay safe everyone.  

I've been struggling with the term fascism; it's somewhat esoteric, not glamorous or eye-catching.  Domestic terrorism leaves nothing to the imagination. All that the current administration is doing/threatening/stopped from accomplishing because of lawsuits is just that: Domestic Terrorism. In my previous post , I lauded the need for JOY. Terrorism's main aim is to rob one of said JOY. To reduce one to such fear and powerlessness that one becomes inactive, feeble, incapable of existence. That is what the president is trying to do. This is short post, merely to spread the word. Movements have been fraught with what to call the revolution. The administration has made its aims CLEAR. Let us do the same. REJECT DOMESTIC TERRORISM! Especially when it emerges from the highest position in our nation.

Nearly finished with another small block for Alexandria. Fashioning another bit for that EEP behemoth is somewhat akin to keeping alive the flame of JOY right now. While this blog remains about writing and quilting, something has altered. I have changed and no matter what emerges from the current political situation, my nation will never be as it was before. I didn't wish to become a revolutionary. I'm fifty-eight years old, never wanted to be this damn strong again. But revolutionaries come in all ages, from all walks of life, performing tasks previously unconsidered. No one, or very damn few, take Revolutionary 101 in elementary, middle, or high school. And those who study such topics in college rarely have the opportunity to use all that learning in the real world. The definition of revolutionary as an adjective is twofold: 1) Involving or causing a complete or dramatic change, and 2) Engaged in or promoting political revolution. Using it as a noun in this post feels odd, sl...

On this first day in Lent, I continue to pray for common sense in accordance to American guns laws. I pray for those injured, for the family and loved ones of the person that has died. I pray for peace in hearts and minds, and for human beings to matter more than weapons of mass destruction.

Over an hour ago I snapped the photo above. I was going to write a post about completing the binding on this quilt, all to remain being the rest of the hand-stitching, both for the binding and quilting. I tacked on that binding, then did some laundry, made a cup of lemon tea, then sat down to write this post. But first I felt compelled to check Wikipedia, which never happens when I'm ready to write an entry. I merely sit, type, clean up.... I had already read my Wiki for the morning, hours ago. Hours ago Wikipedia had yet to put on their In the news column the latest mass shooting, this time in Lewiston, Maine. But now I know what happened there last night, and writing about quilt bindings seems rather useless, pointless, irrelevant. Once again many people are dead because someone had an assault rifle and employed it not only as a wide-scale murder device, but as a weapon of terrorism. Some of the dead weren't shot, but killed in the stampede that followed the shooting. I have...

My heart aches for what has happened in Colorado Springs; another attack on LGBTQ Americans, another mass shooting. Another example of extremism within this nation that seems unable to wrench itself from gun violence and intolerance. The question of why is complicated, also in my opinion frighteningly simple; people are fearful and at times they choose to assume a mantle of power to combat their insecurities. Weapons of instantaneous destruction are readily available. And another community is shattered. Slogans are rife, social media full of condolences and some backbiting. But what doesn't change is how fragile are human beings, ripped apart by bullets and loathing. Murdered by rifles and prejudice. In a week where we as citizens of the United States are to give thanks, a dark cloud hovers, and perhaps the most important element regarding our gratitude is our lives. Freedom and liberty are bandied about but not all experience that sensation. This is one nation, allegedly under God...

For days I've been trying to write a post-vacation entry. Part of my hesitance has been trying to clear the backlog of things to do ; laundry and gardening have taken precedence, a little housecleaning, some editing and sewing which have been necessary for my mental well-being. Because much of my silence here is related to how relevant is this blog to what is happening in America concerning mass shootings. It seemed inappropriate to start a post about writing fiction when again people have been murdered. What does it matter how hopeful are my novels when guns are so easily accessible and politicians so unwilling to enact the proper safeguards regarding that accessibility. I grew up on a ranch, my dad hunted deer. Some of those deer heads adorned our living room walls and I never gave that aspect of life a second thought. When I was sixteen my dad's girlfriend took her life with a gun. I don't know what kind, a handgun I assume, but the deer heads remained although my father...