Continuation of my long game. For the love of blocking.
#scarletkumquat #tibetanpanelcoat #folkwear118 #memade
Day 81
It was Wednesday afternoon. Tennis class was at 4pm. It was an important event of my week. Adam S. had a tennis coach and took lessons in the court next to me while I worked with a small group of other students that I didn’t know. I had a hefty crush on Adam, and admittedly signed up for the class to be closer to him and watch him play. It was also a welcome reprieve from my home life. I had spent many summer days in 100+ degree F in tennis camp in Vegas. I was proficient at this sport. However I could have cared less about getting better at the game. I cared a lot about having the chance to sit next to Adam after my lesson, maybe even exchange a few niceties.
I returned the tennis balls from my pockets to the square metal basket at the corner of the court. Coach was talking with one of the parents of another student, a slick, tall dark-haired dad who twirled the keys of his BMW on his index finger. I knew Mom would be late, as she always was. So I busied myself picking up stray balls so coach might not notice me alone and waiting. I was embarrassed. Mom was always late, and I hated that.
I looked over to the next court and saw Adam hitting balls back across the net from an automatic ball machine. His coach was getting some water from the orange Igloo cooler between the courts. Adam looked focused, slamming the balls with steady effort. He had black stringy hair that was slightly overgrown and hung heavily around his face. Every time he hit a ball his bangs would bounce off his sweaty forehead. He had thin red lips and flushed cheeks that make him look as though he wore rouge.
My husband and I have been reading aloud together lately. Have you read with your partner in this way? Listening to one another speak, tell a story, recite a poem… it’s an act of love that we don’t frequently encounter in our daily lives. When I listen to him read a few pages, I am forced to quiet the chatter, to breathe deeper, and give my full attention. Because he is my husband, and I want to show him respect and love. Through this we can also have a shared experience, gain insight and knowledge together. For what is love but recurrent, shared experiences cultivating a bond over time. I miss him when he’s away at work, when time preoccupies us with chores, the kids’ routines, paying bills. But if I sit next to him and help open envelopes, separate the mail, make the piles neat and tidy for him to approach, we are doing it together, and sharing yet another experience.
We are currently reading the The Tao of Inner Peace. I read this book in my early twenties, and took away very little from it’s core philosophies. At that age my ego was steering the ship. It wasn’t applicable to my frame of mind. It’s a welcome refreshment 20 years later when I can see the value of its messages, and share the learning with my closest human. .
Those who know they do not know, gain wisdom. Those who pretend they know, remain ignorant. Those who acknowledge their weakness, become strong. Those who flaunt their power, will lose it. (Tao Te Ching 71)
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In progress. Continuing the long game with this Tibetan panel coat by @folkwearsewing.patterns . A fabulous feature of this garment is it’s completely reversible. I dove deep into my oldie and goodie prints to cobble together an interesting lining. Looks like it will be worn inside out just as frequently.
#scarletkumquat #taoteching #readingtogether #sewingisselfcare #sew #folkwear118 #memade #memadeeveryday #imakemyownclothes #sustainablesewing #sewyourstash #instasew
A progress shot of my slow and special next garment. This one feels elegant, mighty, timeless. ⚔️ #scarletkumquat
Day 75
A small, frail elderly lady approached the seat. She had short wavy gray hair and wore a light blue cardigan over a white t shirt. She had no jewelry, except for a small gold watch on her left wrist. She carried a gray leather purse similar to one my grandmother owned. She turned toward me and smiled. Sister looked up at her as she removed her headphones, then whispered to me “She’d be good.” A smile came over me. I was relieved that possibly, maybe, this little old lady would sit next to me so the fat, bald man wouldn’t. She turned toward me and leaned over slightly. “Is this seat occupied?” she spoke quietly in a British accent. My eyes widened and I nudged sister in the side to pay attention. Sister fumbled with her Walkman. I hesitated, then blurted out unexpectedly “Please sit here!” The woman smiled, and in a smooth, calm motion lifted her purse and sat down gently into the vacant aisle seat. She smelled of Nivea cold cream and jasmine. She put her purse in her lap and steadily buckled her seatbelt. I watched her from the corner of my eye as she settled in, folding her hands over her purse and resting her head against the seat.
#the100dayproject #100daysofwriting
@folkwearsewing.patterns #tibetanpanelcoat #folkwear118 #memade #memadeeveryday #imakemyownclothes #instasew #instasewist #sew #indiepatterns #indiesew #sewingisselfcare #sustainablesewing #sewyourstash #sustainablesewing #zerowaste #wastenot
The power of process.
Our classroom has quieted this last week as spring activities drive the kids outdoors for the majority of the day. The light is brighter, longer, ever present from the time we rise until well past bedtime. I am reminded of the power of process, and how much time is spent behind the scenes of our little showcase picture boxes. What we share with the world in the 2x2 inch frame is but a fleck of the hours spent molding an idea, contemplating color and design, documenting and editing photography. It’s all so much fun, so fulfilling, so necessary. Much of my process time involves reflecting on my home and work week. The biggest highlight of this week was a request for hugs from not one, but two patients on the same day. Yes, hugs. Moving through physical and emotional conflict with patients is often a shared experience, with shared decision making. I find that at the end of many visits, patients crave an emotional conclusion of sorts, and that can involve displays of affection. When I’m asked for a hug, I think somehow I’ve done something right, made some difference. And my answer is usually “I’d love a hug!” Did you have any hugs this week?
Working on a decidedly slow, special project. Rich thrifted, striped woven from @whogivesascrapfoco.
#scarletkumquat #sewingisselfcare #isntasew #sewwhatyouhave #recycleyourfabric #sustainablesewing #hugs #process
Day 55
I left my room and headed down the hall to Mona's office. I wanted to tell her what I’d seen in the TV room, the gay porno that a hotel guest had left. I wanted her to tell me it was all fake, made up, like Pink Flamingoes and other John Waters films she had educated me on over the years. Those were funny. This was not. I was sick to my stomach. I was confused and scared. I needed her to explain.
The office door was closed, but I could see the light shining through the threshold on the ground and knew she was there. I knocked softly. “Mona, Mona are you in there?” I called out quietly. “Come in,” she sang from behind the door.
I opened the door into her dimly-lit office. Her desk lamp was the only source of light, giving off a calm yellow glow onto the desk below. The finches were out, flitting about the room from the lawyer’s case, to the lampshade, the window sill, then back to the case. There were little rice grain sized mounds of white and green bird shit wherever they had perched. Mona sat behind her desk looking down at a big light-green ledger, the ones with large, lined rectangular pages with more width than length, similar to a notary log. She was keenly focused on her writing, her heavy eyes behind thin turquoise plastic readers, her large upper eyelids facing me. She was entering values in a long log of numbers with her fine blue BIC pen in perfect cursive. Her coarse straight blonde hair was in a loose bun held up with bobby pins, several small locks had been purposefully released around her heart shaped face. I surveyed the other objects on her desk. More papers, hotel stationary, her ornately carved metal stamp box. A hotel telephone with 12 lines, none of them blinking. Her mobile phone charging on the carriage. The cameo pin she normally wore rested on the lamp base. To the side of her desk was a pile of mail on the floor, mostly bills, some open, some unopened, maybe 30 of them. “Hi Mona, “ I quietly spoke. “Hi honey,” she replied, not looking up from her focused work. “What’s up?”
