A Contemplative Life

New mug rug. Fabrics are those I'm considering for the quilt explained below.... At times, this life feels, seems, looks UNFATHOMABLE. Regardless of how faithful we are to a creed, how at peace hearts remain in abject misery, how unshakeable love dwells within us, and despite the FULL SUN we're seeing here on the North Coast, the tyranny and horror and anguish and death suffered by others hits our chest muscles like we are right in the thick of all that darkness. I'm not merely thinking of what's happening in America, or the oncoming winter storm that will cause severe distress for millions in my home nation. There's Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, Iran.... Massacres in Iran have quelled the protests for now. Yet thousands, perhaps upwards of thirty-three thousand, have died in one government's attempt to throttle democracy. Scores more have perished in other places, I don't wish to diminish those atrocities. But this uprising in Iran is a month old, or it was. And ot...

Dark starry sky from 5.21 a.m. PST today. The act of publishing a book. Then actually letting it go.... After the first death (or goodbye of whatever sorts), others accumulate. It's the nature of life, which is consoled by new shinies that distract or ease or heal said losses. Maybe that Splitting the Sky is a standalone, rare in my noveling wheelhouse, makes it harder for me to simply walk away. And yes, it's only been one friggin' day, but somehow yesterday felt.... Bereft. Perhaps the new administration added to that sense of WTF, well, of course it did. LOL not LOL, yet that wasn't the only reason I kept feeling like my heart was empty. Well, not empty. Depleted. Askew. Changed. How you feel after one much loved passes. Or something similarly disturbing. Or altering. Or whatever. Whatever dude, what the eff ever. Okay, this is definitely related to yesterday's hoo haa. Did I predict that sense of WTF-ever when I decided to release a book on Inauguration Day, ob...

Yours truly from summer of 2001. I still have the shirt and canvas bag behind the purse. If I write about calamities, am I hoping to ward them off within my personal life? I'm in a wonky headspace right now. This post was going to be about the sentence above, but I don't feel like analyzing that. I'm.... Meh. Sometimes one just feels meh. A dear friend became a grandmother again this morning, a little girl entering this world that at the time of her conception didn't seem as crappy as it now feels. I'm trying to keep that stiff upper lip, but all my years of living in the UK feel like a dream as this year begins, as so many unknowns linger. I feel like when my mom died in 2018, lost and bewildered with a major case of WHAT THE MUCK! I didn't write for a couple of years, trying to sort out my brain and heart. Therapy helped, time's passage did too, making quilts up the friggin' wazoo because the whole noveling gig was mired in grieving. Maybe that's w...

  The hourly forecast for Saturday; indicative of my mood are the clouds, but if no rain falls, I'll be SO GRATEFUL (also indicative of my hope for the future). Recently a dear friend sent an email about being patient, trusting, and celebrating exactly where I am right now. I was grateful for her grace, that peace, and the accompanying anecdote about happy pigeons proffering a glimpse between where I currently stand and a world just beyond the veil. Where I am right now feels like thin ice, although Future Me is holding my hand, reminding that she just told me things were gonna suck. She squeezes my fingers as if to confirm that notion, the pressure not harsh but healing. She and I have been in some VERY DEEP VALLEYS, Past Me too, and yet here I am (or we are), breathing without difficulty on this bright, Thursday Humboldt County morning. Family arrived on Tuesday, my sister-in-law and her partner. The birthday celebrations begin tomorrow, so today will entail grocery shopping and ...

March 2012; no idea which book I had just finished, but The Hook is looking fine.   Years ago after completing a novel, I would drive to the beach, to The Hook in Capitola to be exact. The trip was a good forty-five minutes over Highway 17, a little treacherous back then, worse now in that most traffic in the San Francisco Bay Area is more hazardous than before, or maybe I think that way because I'm older and possess less patience. Or maybe that's because now a trip to the beach is far more relaxing regardless of how goes the writing. But the writing, for now, is DONE! This morning I began, then finished the final chapter, and oh my goodness, the sense of relief is PALPABLE! So many emotions attached to both the initial draft and this version, so much hand-wringing, and SO MUCH TO PLAN FOR, lol. The first draft was merely a way to decompress after an awful death in our family. This story is like a rebirth, although I'm still mewling about, trying to decide what goes where a...

Rainbow quilt top done! I don't know exactly how many fat quarters I cut a few weeks ago, but it was A LOT. Plus I threw in a couple of fat quarter-ish pieces from my solids' stash, which made for a plethora of three, six, and eight-inch squares, when excising the seam allowances. Yesterday I finished the rainbow quilt, taking some nice shots of it on our laundry line that really only gets used for photo ops. The sun has been shining lately, perfect weather for displaying quilts, two others you can see on my Instagram account. The bright weather also lends itself to vibrantly hued quilts, and I'm thinking as soon as I make the back for the one above I'll design another with the spare squares. One more baby quilt remains on my current list of quilting To Do's, but we'll see how long the rainbow squares will hold out; I'm also in mood to use up various cut fabrics that are cluttering what little surface area exists in my office/sewing room. I'm in a mood ...

This morning's sky. Well my novel is done. Done is a relative term, in that I reached a conclusion, although perhaps not The End. Or one possible end as to what might eventually be The End. There is a difference, although usually my novels don't conclude with so much ambiguity. Regardless of what happens to it, I can walk away with a semblance of relief that no one was left hanging for dear life, especially not myself. But I wanted to explain a little of why I wrote this book, in case it never travels further than my computer and flash drives. At the end of my published novels, I include a short section called Liner Notes, complements of Silverchimes, a long-lost Last FM buddy who in my very early publishing days suggested such a title for what some authors call an afterwords or similar wrapping up of a story, not that it's related to the actual tale, but more to do with how the yarn went from one small skein to an entire comforter, to which a good book should truly aspire....

Fabrics in front have returned to my stash. The rest remain in the tote for now. I've been breaking down a story as well as sorting through a tote with fabrics meant for the Alexandria quilt. To certain prints I had pinned pencil-written notes about where to use colour combinations, but yesterday I felt it was time to put away many of those fabrics, saving some for a future project. Of the twelve hexagon blocks I had prepped, three remain to be stitched together, and if I add a half-dozen yellow blocks, plus a couple more, I can make a quilt reminiscent of what I made last summer for my brother-in-law. No idea when or for whom such a comforter will be needed, but it's nice to have stashed away the basics of something pleasing. As for the tunes.... In the old days I used to base a novel upon a playlist, each song representing a chapter. When I wrote The Hawk , that rule never materialized, the story so out of the blue I merely began writing and.... Five years later I was done, a...

Alterations afoot. Think of it as HEAVY DUTY EDITS. Or maybe what someone experiences when the rug is pulled out from under them. Or Risks Take Rake Omg.... Whatever it is, it's not in-the-moment fun. But ultimately it hurts less than beating one's head against a wall. Or maybe it doesn't; I can't assume or presume anything right now. All I can do is accept that hand-stitching an Alexandria quilt isn't for me. Realizing that late last night, then fully grasping the concept (and my seam ripper) today mid morning has been a huge decision; this EPP project had barged in like an overbearing character, muscling their rather expansive quilty self onto an already crowded fabric docket. I acquiesced because 1) I always wanted to make this pattern and 2) Why not? When writing, I don't shy away from those pushy, unexpected characters who always seem just what my story requires. I'm thinking Ronan from That Which Can Be Remembered or Seth in The Hawk , folks necessary...

Hexie basted earlier today. Today's title isn't a typo, but how my eldest responded on a family text thread this morning. You could also say it's apropos of how all in my clan are grappling with last week's disturbance in the force. Heads-up: this post may be littered with random well known and intimate familial sayings. Risks take rake omg could well become shorthand for various WTF acronyms. Feel free to adopt any and all that fit your situation. Today's forecast is for continued shivers and the occasional tremble, especially when photos of the recently deceased pop up on one's screensaver. There aren't enough words or pregnant pauses to adequately describe what my crew is attempting to digest, and that doesn't include my sister-in-law, suddenly a widow. I can't fathom her heartache, she can't really either. Says she's not thinking about it much, except when it steals over her. Or I assume that's a drop in the bucket, the writer in me. ...

Made for my mom when she entered hospice, this quilt graces our sofa. Our beloved has passed, a beautiful moment of affection, grace, and letting go. I was privileged to be among those seeing off this man to a new plane, my heart aching for the tears of his widow yet grateful for his presence in all the lives so blessed to have known him. This title was from a week ago when I was going to write about having visited my youngest daughter and her crew, but there was no time as I then caught a flight east to be with another branch of my family. The quilt pictured above was from when my mom died. A different one was made for my brother-in-law last summer, and it was in use all week to keep him warm. Roads home take us from east to west, back east and beyond. They flow over mountain ranges and vast swathes of our nation. They amble alongside rushing rivers muddy brown from violent storms or soar high over quiet snow-laden acreage. They are pleasant and pensive, poignant and painful. Sometime...