A New Venture

Over the past ten days, I have committed to try learn to write in a more conscious manner.  This new desire has been spurred on by meeting eight women who write in a manner that makes me think in different directions, expanding my spirit, exercising my mind in styles that I embrace.  I want to do that, too!  This new venture came about from participating in the women's writing retreat held in Redstone, Colorado last weekend, directed by Sandy Dorr.  Then I signed up for her writing class "Path to Writing," eight sessions extending through April.

Homework for the pathway to writing has consisted of reading and discussing other writers and their work.  So far, we have read from Ursala Le Guin, Jane Hirshfield, Sara Teasdale, Rebecca Lee, Claire Keegan, Jamaica Kincaid, Robert Pinsky, Sharon Doubaski and Ellen Bass.  Many more authors were discussed but I was so full of words and pages of writing that I cannot hold them all together in one hand right now.

If you are interested in my pathway to writing, hop on over to my new blog, Path of Writing.  Please comment and give constructive criticism.  I value your thoughts.

I leave you with this image and verse shared by Katie who also attended the women's writing retreat.

Needlepoint: A First

Sitting on the floor by my mother back in the early 50's, I remember her separating strands from a skein of dark grey wool yarn into single threads.  The single thread was then slipped through a large needle for her project.  It was a rose she stitched around, and I recall that I did not think it was very "pretty" in my child's eye, but neither was it ever questioned that it would not be beautiful simply because she needle pointed it.  The back was full of threads and tangles, and I have since learned that a true needlepoint artist does not leave a thread unattached on the back of a piece.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago when I started needle pointing my first piece, simple, small, but I knew I had to accomplish this task of a 5" x 5" piece to place on an address book.  Yes, while working on it, I was reminded of my mother doing this same type of needle art while living in that simple dry land farming ranch house all those years before. It also pulled me back to consciousness that I was also performing the same craft, now more than twice my mother's age when I was on that wooden floor at her feet.

Needle point has certainly changed over the years.  Mother performed one stitch, endlessly, the continental stitch.  Now my current book shows over 250 different stitches that can be used to create beautiful canvases.  If you are so inclined, go here to see some of my favorites that others have stitched.

My first finished piece from a simple kit provided by Dimensions. This was the kit picture.

The koi piece was worked and then attached to an address book, embellished with findings, gold cording and magnetic poetry words.  All objects were adhered to the address book with a hot glue gun and only a few fingers were burned in the process.

It was fun to sew this little piece and now I am starting a more ambitious project, a Klimt painting, The Serpent, on canvas 15" x 20", that will be sewn onto the front of a shoulder bag when completed.

SEG de Paris Needlepoint - Medium Needlepoint Canvases - Le Serpent (d'apres Klimt) Canvas

Have you tried needle pointing?  Where do you find your materials?  What is your inspiration?

Our Dog Mercy

She has a need to be alone. It is her primal nature, for she was bred in the north, Calgary, where the cold wind blows. She was meant to stay in solitude for hours in small spaces and to keep quiet, the perfect condominium animal, bred over twenty generations for solitude and minimal barking. Keeping still and silent is necessary for some animals, the owl, the snake, the wolf. Now it is in her genetic makeup as well.

In her essence: a she-wolf. She observes, focuses, and is a watchful waiter when human food is being consumed. Patient, patiently watching and waiting until that last bite, knowing it is saved for her,  is gratefully taken with intense poise into her gentle mouth. It is almost a kiss she gives when taking her small treat. Her mustache is smoothed down with a light human touch, and she is told she is loved.

This is her day: a short walk led by the man of the house, a bit of play time, kibble and water, and then sleep. For sleep consumes the majority of her day. Snuggling down into the pillows on the bed, uncovering the bolster if necessary in order to reach her master's down pillow, her favorite, she takes time to make her day nest. Here she will stay for hours, only nature's call for elimination of fluid urging her out of this nest that only she inhabits. The others in the house, her sister animal friend and the humans, do not inhabit this space of hers called the peoples' bedroom. Those others stay in their own dens doing whatever it is they do during the daytime hours...reading, knitting, cooking, talking. But here, on this bed and on the once forbidden pillow, she stays.

Occasionally, when dreaming, a slight whimper will come from deep within her throat. It is not unlikely that she yelps. Perhaps a play date with her sister dog is in her dreams, or maybe it is one of those pesky UPS men ringing the doorbell and making her jump to attention, shaking her from that sleepy lethargy. Whatever the cause, those yips and slight low growls sometimes can be heard from farther rooms when she is deep in slumber. Her distant presence is made known.

Now the night comes. The people in the house retire to this, her place, at night. At first she welcomes them, and snuggles down, this time at the foot of the bed, into the old down comforter throw that is kept just for her, although the feathers are slowing disengaging from the seams, and little white fluffs can be found on the bedspread beneath her silky throne. With the lights off, now surrounded by these human masters of her universe, she again settles and sleeps.

After two or three hours of this nighttime darkness, she awakens and feels the presence of the humans and realizes she is, indeed, not alone. She jumps from her downy nest on to the wooden floor, her toenails making a soft, padded sound. She yips, awakening her masters. They interpret the yipping noise to mean that she wants out to pee, and the one called Gene cooperates, reaching for his flashlight at the headboard of the bed, pulling himself up and out of slumber, releasing her out into the cold night air. Upon command, she performs her duty, and both the human and she return into the room.

Circling round just the right number of times, she replaces herself on the nest. She again sleeps. But I often wonder if what this canine really craves is to be alone, again, on the bed she calls her own. Sometimes, when the owners correctly interpret throaty call, her name is sternly called out in the darkness to return to bed. Reluctantly, she comes back to her rumpled place at my feet. Perhaps she woke to realize she has others in her space. Her primal need was again calling her to solitude.  All she really craved was to be alone.