we are the makers

I once wrote a post about identity. Who I am in singular words. Words like goer and picker and vanilla and snoozer. Yesterday it struck me, again, that I am a maker.

There's something to say about a soul bruise. Something to say about it, even though the words have lately failed me. It feels like they are stuck inside a hose, building up but not powerful enough to push through the blockage. The bruise continues to heal as I leave it open to the air, as I give it light and space and time. I am wary of pushing the tender area too far, too quick.

And then there's the studio. A haven from the word drought. A place where I feel useful, where I feel competent, where I feel free. These days I dream of patterns and color. When I wake in the 2am darkness, I imagine skirts and dresses I'm going to make. I draw plans in my mind's eye for Alice's summer wardrobe. And even when Chip reminds me of her full closet, how she doesn't need another pair of summer shorts, I smile and tell him, "She may not need them, but I do."

Because I'm a maker. While I can't change the tilt of the planet or take another's pain, what I can do, is make. Use my hands. Craft fabric or fiber or paper or food into something else, into something to love. I can make. I can offer comfort through my efforts. I can clothe and decorate and beautify and succor. I can make. I can express these feelings and desires that seem trapped here inside. I can make. I can do. I can be busy with thread while my mind untangles itself. I can make.

So I do.

A very dear friend of mine is suffering. Grieving and worried for her brother, who is struggling through advanced cancer. I talked to her yesterday at church. It was the first time I'd seen her since she told me the news, since she'd stumbled through explaining the vast abyss of pain she is navigating. We stood there in a crowded hallway as Alice pulled hard on my hand, urging me forward even as I pulled back, even as I reached forward to hug my friend. In those moments, there are no words than the small few we've heard a thousand times; sorry being the main one, I'm so sorry. She stood there against the wall with people pushing past us in a rushing hurry. She blinked tears and then said, "I'm making him a quilt."

Because my dear friend, too, is a maker. And this is what we makers do. We make.

When I heard her say those words, "I'm making him a quilt", I knew she'd be okay, she will pull through. Because making isn't really about the things we make or even about the people we make them for. It's an act of creation in the face of loss, nothing short of an expression of hope, the transformation of one thing into another. We refuse to let raw materials defeat us. We take what we're given and we make it into something better. We spin gold from the straw, our faces reflecting the luster. We make. And we shine.

(Yes, I made this. Reversible orange playday smock and dark rinsed summer shortie pants with sailor stripes around the cuffs.)

attention minions: gmboa time

Hello to the Minions! The GMBOA is available and up for grabs over at Chocolate on a Rainy Day. Act FAST, because I am late in alerting you and I'm hoping that Miss Rainyday won't hold it against you if you enter late.

Go here to get your grubby mitts on that fabulous golden box of gifties.

on bruises

This was Chip's gift to me: an away place, a place detatched from memory, a place to think, a place to be quiet.

I don't know why exactly, but there is something bruised deep inside of me. It's like those mystery bruises that show up on my shins from time to time: unbidden and unremembered, I'm only aware of them later when I go to kneel down in front of Alice --- to tie her shoes or straighten a hair ribbon --- and as my knees hit the floor there is a sharp stab of pain, the blossom of purple staring quietly from my skin.

A soul bruise of unknown origin. Invisible, but felt at odd times - most especially when I'm reaching into that place to share something of meaning here. The aching pain, the stab of tenderness. It's why I shy off, time and again, from writing anything real.

I talk about our days, skirting the abyss with photos of Bean. Her face is a star, the winking silver drawing my mind away from anything that stings.

And Chip: my confidant, my best friend, my protector and husband. He brought me to this place as a gift. Even when I couldn't find words to tell him about the bruise, he noticed my shift in demeanor, how a smile doesn't stay long on my face, how I spend extended moments in the studio, how I say that I keep hoping for peace.

It wasn't long after I told him that I was glad I couldn't hurt a sewing machine - that I couldn't say the wrong thing or misunderstand a piece of fabric; it wasn't much later that he told me he was going to Lake Chelan and wanted us to come with him. A short trip, he said, but a beautiful one. A little vacation, he offered, for quiet thinking.

So that's what it is. And that's what I've done.

There's a bruised and painful place inside of me. It's tender near my heart; so tender I can't quite face it, can't put my fingers on that place for fear that I will pass out from the pain.

When Alice hit her head a few weeks ago, the bump rose on her forehead: angry red and deep purple. In the days that followed, she watched the geography of her face change and kept asking me about it. I gave her the name for it: bruise, just a bruise, honey. And I promised she could watch it go away if she gave it enough time. The purple mark turned dusky gray and yellow: so ugly she worried that it was mad at her. But in another week, and then two, and then three--- it faded. The rise of skin, the smudge of injury: gone. Only her perfect ivory skin in its place. I caught her touching the place just yesterday. She put her fingers over the spot and made faces at me in the bathroom mirror. Look Mommy! It's gone! It was just a bruise- and now it's gone.

Which is what I tell myself now: just a bruise. I will give it time, some space, an occasional viewing in the mirror. Just a bruise. In no time, I'll be just fine.

polandroid to the rescue

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Yesterday in pictures, driving to Eastern Washington with Chip for a brief visit to Lake Chelan.

Apple orchards and rolling green hills.

A hotel right on the lake.

We've been promised 65+ degree days.

I'm thinking we're in for a nice time.

I'll let you be the judge.

our next big milestone

Life these days, viewed through a cracked kaleidoscope lens. If you move too fast the scene shifts into an exploding sunburst of colors.

Look--- here's Alice helping me organize our very own behind-the-coats, beyond-the-extra-pantry-space, under-the-stairs hidey hole storage we've dubbed The Harry Potter Closet.

And the time a few days ago when she grabbed my glasses off my face and ran around the room wearing them herself. She looked (even more) like a miniature version of me, and she laughed until she couldn't stand straight.

Then here's us setting up Alice's big girl bed. Her face is an array of excitement, of wonder, of anticipation.

And later that night, the darkened glow of lamplight in her eyes as we tucked her into that bed. Everything smelled like baby soap, and I thought to try to will myself to memorize every fiber of that moment, how small she seemed in that vast twin bed.