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Turbulent river roils,
eurthymic chaos.
Journey with me -God spede.
- Melinda Schwakhofer, 2012
eu·ryth·mic, adjective, (esp. of architecture or art) In or relating to harmonious proportion
Like this:
Over Lent, I went on an online retreat/journey with the Desert Mothers and Fathers. Along the way, I was invited to consider the three virtues or practices in my life right now which feel essential for cultivating my connection to Self and God.
For the past several weeks, I’ve been practising the virtues of Stability, Patience and Presence. As an EdgeDancer and someone who for many years sought Home over the next horizon, these don’t come easily to me. But I am learning to trick my small self and ‘just try them for a moment’ and before I know what has happened, I am in the Eternal Now.
I’m playing with practising one or more of the three virtues, when I remember, at different times of my day. For instance, I can practise Patience if I’m working at a slow computer. Or Stability if I want change just for it’s own sake; rather than begin a new activity, I can relax into what I am already doing and really focus on the task at hand. I find that these small awarenesses give me a different perception of time and a deeper connection to everything.
The apple orchard I walk through from my bike parking spot to my bus stop is a great teacher of many things, including these virtues. It is a grounding Presence in the spiral of changing seasons, embodying them and also remaining constant. In November and December, I stop to count the diamond stars shining through the bare lichen covered branches. Now, I find constellations in the blossom laden boughs.
And I know that in the Autumn, the orchard will give us an abundance of sweet and juicy cider, cooking and eating apples, each with a star in the centre.
And again in the Winter, a beautiful lattice through which to view the deep night sky and shining stars.
So please forgive my silence (not that there aren’t hundreds of other diverting, deep, Muse-inducing blogs and things to keep you occupied!) while I’ve been finding a different point of view and new ground beneath my feet.
Each morning that I ride my bike to work, I cross a very old stone bridge. Everytime I cross the hump of the bridge, I stand up on the pedals and look downriver. And on most mornings, a heron stands right at the edge of the icy, rushing water. The first couple of times, I parked my bike and walked back, hoping to take her photograph. But she startles when she sees me and flies away.
I was disappointed at first: I wanted to capture that sight and always have it and be able to prove that I saw a heron fishing in a wild river in Devon. But I have learned to treasure the glimpse that I have when she is there. The beautiful silver and grey and slate-blue and white plumage, the yellow beak and legs, burnished with cool winter morning sunlight. That utter stillness and concentration, yet awareness of everything round about. Her beauty and elegance. The graceful silhouette of her body and neck against the rocky bank and gnarled tree roots. And always the river flowing, coming from it’s source, rushing, hurrying to meet the sea.
When I see the heron poised in the river, I hold the moment. The moment where here I am, riding through a cold winter morning with a chill wind on my face. All at once, I know all that the river has to tell, I can understand all that the trees have to say and I feel the deep, deep peace of the heron. If, as Mary Oliver says, prayer is the doorway into thanks and a silence in which another voice may speak, then this is my morning prayer.
Here’s the recalcitrant fibre artist finally getting around to writing about how I quilted Cleaved, our wedding quilt.
recalcitrant 1843, from Fr. récalcitrant, lit. “kicking back” (17c.-18c.), pp. of recalcitrare “to kick back,” from re- “back” (see re-) + L. calcitrare “to kick,” from calx (gen. calcis) “heel.” Verb recalcitrate “to kick out” is attested from 1620s; sense of “resist obstinately” is from 1759.
That’s pretty cool. I grew up saying ‘K.B.’ (to kick back – Southern California surfer slang), but that it originated in 19th c. France gives it a certain cachet and je ne sais quoi.
So, the last time I wrote about Cleaved, I had made the backing fabric and pieced the front of it. Next step – Tada . . . . quilting!
Normally when I make art, I fly a little bit by the seat of my pants, maybe get into a corner and have to figure my way out if it. Most often, this gives me a surprising, serendipitous result. However, this is my wedding quilt that I’m making, to hang first at our wedding altar and then, over our marriage bed. Serious stuff. So I thought, ‘This time, I’ll have a plan when I get started’. So I spent the best part of an afternoon researching Art Nouveau designs. In the process, I stumbled upon the brilliant Textile Blog by Cornwall based John Hopper. Some of the images that inspired me:
Zsolnay tile
Art Nouveau border from inspyretrash
I drew up this design:
and got out my (supposedly) super-washable markers.
I was very, very certain that I had used these same markers on some fabric in the past and it washed right out. Anyhow, I marked out my carefully researched Art Nouveau design, started quilting it and decided to dab away some of the ‘superwashable’ ink. Do recall that our wedding day was in about a fortnight.
To my horror, this ‘superwashable’ ink didn’t. . . . . superwash. I went into a downward spiral of doom and panic for about 5 minutes. I thought about re-printing and re-appliqueing all of the rose petals. Or having to postpone our wedding (remember, this quilt was going to hang at our altar). Then I pulled myself together and took my still safety-pinned quilt to the bathtub, got out the Fairy Liquid and a nail brush and managed to scrub 99.3% of the ‘superwashable’ ink out. OK. Probem solved. I hung my quilt up to dry, but was back to square one with my quilting design.
The next morning, I went for a walk with my friend Nicky and her little terrier Wilf on Dartmoor. I said a little prayer for quilting inspiration. Towards the end of the walk, I found a crow feather near a stream and realised that my motif needed to be about the river and feathers. After all, the river is where the slate came from and feathers have been an important motif in our courtship.
I went into my album of photos that I took of the river where I found the pieces of slate.
And I redid my sketch with some of the Art Nouveau shapes and textures, transformed into river ripples, stones and feathers.
I had to work the following day and Steve went into Exeter and got me a proper water erasable quilt marking pen. So I was able to mark out the basics of my design worry-free. And the quilting just flowed. When I quilted the feathers, I was so happy with how well they came out in stitch, that I was floating myself for about a day.
By the way, these two fish arrived unannounced, but very welcome, during the quilting.
I often dialogue with my artwork to see where it would like to go. As I said above, I don’t plan ahead very much and sometimes this ‘letting go’ can get a bit scary as I become immersed in a piece of work and lose myself in the journey. It takes a big leap of faith in my talents and problem solving abilities. And a big trust in the creative process. That it is going where it needs to go and a remembrance that I, the artist, am the vehicle that it passes through. This realisation humbles me every time. Because ultimately, it’s the reminder and the realisation of the Divine presence who moves and flows through all of Creation and all that I create.
So I think that my quilt wanted to be of the river and forced me to baptise it and start anew in a different place than from my carefully researched and planned out design.
Sources:
Several weeks ago I was invited to participate in a piece of public sculpture called ‘The Nest of Lost Hopes’ as part of Heathercombe’s annual sculpture trail. The nest will contain unfired clay eggs. Over the autumn and winter, and even during the three weeks of the show, depending on rainfall, the eggs and nest will dissolve into the ground. Within each egg will be a personal statement: a few words, an image, of something an individual would like to let go of: perhaps a person, an event, an old grief, an unhelpful ambition, a restricting belief . . . . . . A good rule of thumb is anything that repeatedly drags you out of the present and into the past or into an unrealistic future. Working creatively with loss and change often shows that embracing ‘giving up’ and letting go is when change becomes possible, and hope is reborn.
At the time, I was busy with summer stuff – meeting quilting deadlines, socialising with Steve, planning our wedding celebrations and wasn’t really in a place to give the time and attention that I would like to this project.
But it has stayed with me and I’ve decided to make my own nest of lost hopes. Around the same time, on my twice weekly run, I had found an abandoned bird’s nest on the bridle path.
I put it up in a tree and felt that it was being held there for me over the past several weeks. I went back to fetch it yesterday and it had fallen from it’s perch and started to unravel. I gathered it up and brought it home.
I made a vessel from clay to contain and reshape it. While it was sitting on the radiator to dry, I spontaneously sculpted this bird goddess from clay.
I have named her the Goddess of Lost Hopes and this poem practically wrote itself while I was making her:
“Give her your lost hopes.
The dreams which died,
the paths not taken,
all of the journeys that ended before begun.
The forgotten passions.
This fierce protectress of grief and loss
enfolds them in her wings,
gathers them to her breast,
croons a last, night lullaby
and gently lays them to rest.
All of the broken dreams, cradled,
then laid away forever.”
For we can do and do know about letting go of . . . . . . the outgrown friends, the ex-lover, the wrong job or place to be. But it is as important to let go of the lost and never-fulfilled hopes and dreams. Even though we may have never given them material form or ‘real world’ energy, these ghost dreams can drain us and seep away our Life force. I know that I have some, perhaps many, of these. And somehow knowing that I can give them unto the care of a tender, yet fierce, Mother Goddess makes it easier to let them go.
I will write down my lost hopes, put them into clay eggs, place the clay eggs into the nest and put it outside in a special place. Protected, yet exposed, where they can be taken back to the keeping of the earth.
But this goddess will have a special place on my altar, as a keeper of the paths not taken and a daily reminder for me to let go of the dreams and goals which do not serve my deepest Self.
I invite you to ask yourself what your lost hopes may be and to find a gentle way to release them, to make way for your truest hopes.
Congratulations to Hilly Stevens in Delaware USA who has won the accordion book I raffled off . . . . . and a big ‘Thank You’ to everyone who took part. Thanks to everyone’s donations, I’ve raised £187.00 towards the Society of Mary and Martha’s Long Barn Appeal. The money raised will certainly help to provide a place for others to find their way through a dark time.
