Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 11

How dark the shale

Wales, United Kingdom, February 2000.

Nothfrowned, then wondered why he mattered so much to Sooz. Glancing at Dardram,Noth wasn’t reassured by that man’s slight nod. Gripping the pad, Noth repliedto Squee: Any of you have a weapon in case it decides not to let me go?

How much of your life do you truly possess,Squee answered. Go on, Squee added, I doubt they’ll keep you more than a minuteor two.

How much OF our lives do we possess indeed. The writing above is from my fictional WIP, of which I read a few chapters this morning. I'm feeling better emotionally, but I slept like crap, went back to sleep and am now suffering from post-nap BLEH. Even if the nap was from five to seven a.m.

However, it's still earlier-ish in the morning, time to write something. I told my husband that writing these posts lightens my heart, my authorial heart. I miss being a writer something fierce! One of these days, I tell myself. It's just a matter of time.

Time is kinda on my brain right now. The photo at the top is twenty-five years old, DUDE! We were living in England then, and for our twelfth wedding anniversary we went to Wales. It was COLD, oh my goodness, but BEAUTIFUL, even the shale, which went on for what seemed like MILES, then we descended into a valley of green, and I'll shall endeavor to remember that as long as I can, lol.

I wrote about the shale in The Possibility of What If, it was so striking! Wales is known for shale, which I didn't know back then, but knew fully before we left. Twenty-five years ago seems like a long time in many facets; my kids were eleven, nine, and seven. I was a mere thirty-five, HAH! I assumed the free would would stay as such. Assuming can make dorks of me and....

Anyway, the past has been flitting through my head, slightly easing my heart about the present. My heart is inundated in THINGS TO DO. Like stitch on my Mr. Carter quilt but not worry if hearts are placed upside down when I distinctly basted them so the fabric's design would be right side up. Seems that ship has sailed.

The pinkish heart with lines of flowers is correct, but the blue heart with flowers upside down is...what it is. As well as the dark blue heart with upside down flowers in the top left corner. Kinda indicative of life right now, but that's okay too.

I need to write emails to pertinent elected officials. 'Nuff said about that, but if you require clarification, make your way through this slog.

I have other sewing to enjoy, machine sewing even! Yet my Kawandi-inspired quilt also requires attention. I took it downstairs last night and stitched on the sofa, what a thrill!

I'm pondering what being married for thirty-seven years is all about; that's longer than how old I was when I went to Wales, OMG! Huh, crazy! Not that I've been alive that many years SINCE I went to Wales, but when added up.... Maybe that's too much to wrap my head around.

I'm peering around for Future Me. She's been absent lately. Past Me isn't near either, maybe she doesn't want any kind of spoilers.

What might I tell Past Me, if I could pop back in time to Wales 2000. I'd have told her to bring REALLY WARM outerwear. I've had said to truly enjoy those three kids because soon enough they'd all be teenagers. I'd have entreated her to be more aware how precious is our husband, and to be patient with the writing once it began. I wouldn't start writing until 2006, nineteen years ago now. Time's weird, when you go back and forth through years, decades, eras. Time doesn't mean jack at the moment, as I feel stuck in 1962 or thereabouts. When civil rights were still being fought for, when the Cold War was still in force. When my own parents were still in high school and my existence wasn't even considered.

Yet here I am today, Valentine's Day 2025. I'm an old married, an abuela. My heart feels weary, also strangely young. I know why for the former, no idea about the latter. Not gonna question it though. I'm just going to wrap up this slice of writing, because even this is writing. It's a lifeline, a balm, a piece of my heart and soul set into words, splayed for perusal on the internet. How much of my life do I truly possess? Just enough to say: Here I am. Happy Valentine's Day to you.

I want to be somewhere else

I wanted to continue these revisions, but the entry below came first.

Heads-up: Bleak post but with strength at the end.

Ups and downs; perhaps that's what it's like living under a repressive regime. Not the most uplifting manner in which to begin a post, but at this moment in time it's how I feel. And being honest with oneself is imperative to keeping a grip on sanity, if reality is an effed up kettle of rotten fish.

Maybe I should have called my senators already. I could contact my rep, Jared Huffman, because aides do answer those calls. But I'm not steeled enough mentally or emotionally to delve into that arena. This day, I'm barely able to note my name.

How do repressed peoples manage during such bleak days? They've been doing it a long damn time, and if that's how my nation ends up, I'll be doing it too. Life goes on; sports and Valentine's Day and whatever else the Big Eastern Syndicate requires. Big Eastern Syndicate is not of my creation; it's a line from A Charlie Brown Christmas, when Linus speaks to Charlie Brown about something I probably used to remember, but now all that remains is the notion of Big Brother running your life from far away. Or it's far away for those of us on the West Coast, especially California's North Coast, a relatively peaceful enclave tucked amid massive Redwoods and the Pacific Ocean.

Yet even in this seemingly safe, wholly off the beaten path location I am...afraid. Not feeling brave. Feeling very compromised and uncertain. Feeling as though another powerful earthquake has shaken under my feet, knocked items from shelves, broken precious keepsakes. I feel as I did when I was thirteen years old as my biological mother told me I was a worthless piece of shite, making me question my validity as her daughter as well as a human being. My nation is currently under the thumb of one who acts as erratically as an unpredictable malicious alcoholic, with no concern to anything other than another vile short-lived fix to their destructive addiction.

Maybe this is what I need to tell my senators, who claim to be doing all they can, but I have to wonder. Of course I need to possess the necessary wherewithal first. Maybe later today, maybe.

The difference between being gaslit at thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen years old and now being fifty-eight is of course tremendous. The president isn't someone I trust in any shape or form, and I'm fully aware my self-esteem isn't tied into that MOFO A-hole. Yet the sense of betrayal remains, although why I should have expected such a turd to do a semblance of the right thing is ridiculous. Rarely do people do the right thing when the carrot of gold dangles in front of their faces. Blinded by power and money, that allure of the almighty pinnacle shields their minds and hearts from what truly matters, and that's that. That is happening not only here in America, but all over this planet, and I just want to be somewhere else.

I want to be hip-deep in writing a story. I want to be up to my armpits in fabric. I want to be far from all that is hurtful and wrong. Yet that isn't how the world works. This world we all inhabit is steeped in discord, and currently feels untouched by grace. Barely assuaged by love. Hardly calmed by those wishing to do the right thing, because there are so many fronts being attacked. That's the strategy. Hurl abuses so vigorously no one can catch their breath. We succumb, and then....

Jeez, this is a downer! Yet maybe to recapture hope, I need to purge all the darkness, all this MEH. All that seeks to destroy me must be allowed a brief acknowledgement. How did I cope as a young teen while the person I was supposed to trust most did all she could to bury me? You will either nod your head in understanding or shake it in disgust: I knew God wouldn't give me more than I could handle. Tears are falling as I write this, in part for the slight relief and in having to revisit such fear, disillusionment, anguish. It was terrifying to live under that tyranny, as my mother turned from someone I loved to someone I detested, meanwhile trying to maintain a sliver of why I mattered. Why was I there, what did my existence mean? I was looking after younger siblings, I was going to school, I was...living under a strange level of God's grace that I couldn't fathom other than it was enough to keep me going until I was out of that situation. I wouldn't be given more than I could handle.

It's been over forty years since I was under that woman's thumb. Forty-three years since being made to feel insignificant and utterly betrayed. My sense of self is on a completely different plane now, yet that notion of meaningless-ness is right at the surface, such a strange concept. I don't know how it will evolve, either empowering me to continue doing all I can do thwart what is occurring, or perhaps be buried by it. That is a possibility in my current level of hopelessness, because while I am no longer a young teen, I am fully aware how vile is the Big Eastern Syndicate. Where is my God in all this, although I am far from the first to shout that plea to the heavens. Where is my faith is the better query. If I relied upon God previously, why am I not feeling that peace now?

God is not dead. The God of Love, of Hope, of Justice. The God that saves not through gold and power and oppression. The God of small kindnesses and minor miracles that appear as afterthoughts to those who wield swords of brutality cloaked as righteousness. There is nothing new in this, yet it's startling that despite how advanced we believe we are, once again the world seems to be swept away by evil. Is the world being swept away? Maybe not. Does the arc of moral history bend toward justice, as Martin Luther King noted. I suppose it must, because we still limp along this odd planet, haven't destroyed ourselves completely. God has a plan, some plan, some reason for the way things are. God won't give me more than I can hanlde, I type with eyes closed and if this sentence conatains errprs, that is why. I can't open my eyes to set down these words , because tears ar e falling and I jhave to ltake these days the same. trusting in what I cannot see, cannot prove, cannot explain, but it'sd real, my fairth tells me so. My heart aches massively, my face hurts,  from cring, from recalling such pain. But i am here. 

I am here to love. Get over it, Big Eastern Syndicate. This world isn't all about you.

Right through the hoop, hoop, hoop

Posted on my Bluesky account.

One more post before I go. When my eldest grandkids were tiny, I sang this song to them, the tune that from 'Miss Mary Mack'.

"With Stephen Curry, Curry, Curry

You never gotta worry, worry, worry

'Cause the ball goes swoop, swoop, swoop

Right through the hoop, hoop, hoop."

Steph Curry endorsed Kamala Harris. I didn't note him campaigning for her past that initial endorsement, but I don't have an X account, nor did I follow him when I was on Instagram, so perhaps I missed any further endorsement of her. As my eldest grandchild is about to turn ten, memories of that tune flit through my mind, as does the relative silence of those who could perhaps make a difference at this perilous juncture in America.

I implore those with eyes to see and ears to listen and much louder voices than mine to MAKE SOME HISTORY! Unless you condone the president and Elon Musk's heinous actions, let your opinions be known. What will your brands be worth if this nation is ruled by fascists?

My youngest siblings are black. My youngest sister told me: Unless white Americans denounce racism, nothing will change. Equally, unless Americans with economic clout and widespread platforms condemn the injustices occurring in Washington D.C., those seeking to dismantle our democracy will prevail.

Thanks for reading,

Sincerely, Anna.

Groping for a safe spot to stand

Top and bottom of Red Sky at Night. I love all that colour!

To stand, to breathe, to craft, to make my voice heard. I need to pace myself; it's going to be a long four years.

I spent an hour this afternoon sewing on Red Sky at Night. It's funny writing that, because it's not the quilt I thought it was going to be. 2025 isn't the year I assumed before the election, nor could I have conjured the cruelty, backstabbing, and hopelessness that has emerged. Yet I remain making myself heard, sewing and editing and doing dishes. Life must go on.

My eldest grandchild will be ten years old soon, where has that decade gone? What will the world be like in 2035? I couldn't have conjured the path America has taken in 2015, but maybe some things are better left unknown.

We'll be celebrating with family this weekend, perhaps a bigger deal for us adults than the one turning ten. Probably good to get away for a few days, not that my location will preclude further insults and injuries, but I can revel in the grandkids, commiserate with my children. Try to wrap my head around what has happened and what I can do in my little corner to make it less oppressive.

Have a safe and peaceful weekend everyone and I'll chat more next week.

Nothing but quilt talk

Star in a Star block from Jodi Godfrey's Red Sky at Night quilt.

The last few days since beginning another Kawandi-inspired quilt, I have been in THE ZONE. Not only with that project, but Alexandria, which has been a mild relief as well as a joy. Stitching blocks for that EPP behemoth, I wasn't sure if my colour choices were apt. I think they'll do nicely. 

But let's gab about my Red Sky at Night hand-sewn I don't know what else to call it quilt. It's Kawandi only in starting from the back and going inwards. It was strange, but liberating, to first make the back, not worry about a binding, then finding a mostly appropriate batting scrap to wedge under the back's pressed perimeter. A few bare spaces were filled in with less than an inch wide (but several inches long depending where I needed filler) strips of batting, some of which were displaced as my husband helped move the back and batting onto my office work table. Carefully I measured where the center Churn Dash block would fit, as squarely in the center as I could get. It was safety-pinned onto the batting/back, for which I need to find/make up a name because batting/back is kinda long, although not obnoxious. I affixed the Churn Dash block there with a quick perimeter sew-around to avoid Batting Shift Syndrome, a term I coined in the previous entry. Don't read it if you're looking for only quilt talk.

Bridal Bouquet block, bottom left of quilt.

Maybe that was two days ago. Well, three to make the back, lay down the batting, so Saturday. On Sunday I began sewing, starting with the lower right RSAN block. Stitching along the outer perimeter, I was careful to tuck under any raw edges, which I didn't do with the small Kawandi-inspired piece. This larger quilt will get put through regular quilt paces, and I want it to be hardy. I don't mind taking extra time to tuck under raw edges; time is not of the essence with this project.

Time slips away as I stitch, listening to music, not wearing earplugs or noise cancelling headphones (to ease my tinnitus) as I do when seated at my machine. That's part of the thrill, being unfettered from such sound-eliminating devices. Another is how much I LOVE using needle and thread. I feel in control as well as adrift, very liberating. Hand sewing is VITAL in my crafty realm, and I'd forgotten that aspect, as English Paper Piecing isn't as open to interpretation when it comes to the actual stitching. Small stitches keep basted papers together, although basting those papers is less futzy than stitching them together.

First large scrap sewn onto the batting/back. I truly need another term for that! Meanwhile at the bottom of the quilt are HST blocks sewn together, hehehe.

What else I love is being lost in sewing. Not needing to worry about this, that, or another method, but merely finding pretty scraps, cutting them to size, or adding another if the size was too small. Just stitching and stitching and.... Suddenly it's pushing four o'clock in the afternoon, time for stretches. To be so absorbed in something beautiful, peaceful, artsy, craftsy.... Me and the music (I LOVE MUSIC!!) and thread and needle. A total balm on my soul.

It also feels good to put the Red Sky at Night blocks to use, adapting a machine-based project into my interpretation of it by hand. To stitch random small scraps onto the batting/back (still need a term for that) to avoid Batting Shift Syndrome (BSS), to incorporate a marvelous quilt-making method into my life that fits my needs and enhances my joy. How rare is that in our world? I kept thinking that despite not writing anything, I am writing through making this quilt, pantsing a novel via cottons and slender metal needles. I'm still wanting to write something new, but this is certainly sufficing in the interim.

More random scraps. To say I'm enamored with this process is feeble. I LOVE IT!

Maybe it's the music; yesterday I listened to B artists: The B-52s, Beachbuggy, Big Star, Belle and Sebastian. Sometimes I get up and change the song, but mostly I sit and stitch. When I sew in the evenings, my husband and I are listening to sports, well, I'm listening to sports. And that's fine, I'm not grousing. Yet afternoon stitching in the office sessions are all in my wheelhouse, from what I'm doing to what softly drifts into my ears, tunes of my choice not muted by earplugs and headphones.

Perhaps that counts for more than I realized.

Today I'd like to attach the RSAN blocks that go on the top corners, again to avoid BSS, as well as, well, do something different. Kawandi begins from one edge, going around the perimeter, then moving inwards. What I'm doing now isn't that, and maybe I'll never make another quilt in this exact manner again, tacking down the corners first, securing the center and interior. I did love the circular nature of traditional Kawandi, but right now I need something else.

Something vaguely familiar yet experimental. Something grounded but aflight. Something that isn't new or old but fresh to me as well as comforting. Hand-stitching has been in my life over twenty-five years, starting with embroidery. Kawandi-inspired quilting is another extension of that, and where it will lead makes me smile in anticipation! Is it afternoon yet? Soon, I grin. I wonder what I'll listen to then.

Red Sky at Night reconsidered

Washed and crinkly! My first Kawandi-inspired quilt.

Meanwhile zoning from joy to despair (and not quite halfway back again)....

So yeah, a new plan for Red Sky at Night. Going to morph some of the EPP blocks into a Kawandi-inspired quilt. Yup, that's what I'm gonna do.

I gotta do SOMETHING outrageous that won't land me in jail or further emotional depths. Maybe not outrageous, but unplanned, beautiful. Crafty, but not evil, just saying....

Making the art quilt pictured above, I was truly in THE ZONE OF HAPPINESS. Arranging (and often rearranging) scraps on a fourteen-inch piece of batting underlined with most of a fat quarter, I listened to lots of S artists on my computer; Steely Dan, Stevie Nicks, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Supertramp. Most heartening was Stevie Wonder, especially songs from his 1974 LP Fulfillingness' First Finale. "You Haven't Done Nothin'", pointedly aimed at Richard Nixon, made me smirk. Learning what Elon is trying to do to the Treasury Department makes me shiver.

Anyway.... Even before I finished the art quilt, which doesn't have a name or purpose other than to totally put me in a Kawandi-style mode of making quilts, I wanted to incorporate some of the RSAN blocks. Because what else am I gonna do with them? I'm not going to make that quilt, despite how pretty it would be or how I have a scant amount of machine-sewn blocks prepped. Or in finding nearly a dozen pinned HSTs waiting to be stitched, which I did yesterday because I'll put them in a Kawandi quilt too. A Kawandi-inspired quilt, because my method will involve tacking down some scraps in the middle to hopefully avoid Batting Shift Syndrome. I don't need to wrestle more than is necessary, 'nuff said.

But is it enough? How much of America's current events (shit show) do I need to analyze here, in my head, within my heart.... Effing MOFO president and all who associate with him! Maybe effing MOFO is redundant, but wholly deserved in my opinion.

Okay, maybe that's outta my system for a few moments. Future Me shoots me a smirk. Yeah, I know, stay the friggin' course, blah blah blah. Red Sky at Night blah blah blah. Which is EXACTLY how I've felt about this project since.... Not since completing all but one of the EPP associated with it, but further back, when I first experimented with Half Square Triangles, etc. I spent much of August wrapping my head around basic quilting techniques that never before had I attempted, true story! My first flying geese, HSTs, churn dash block, which might end up in the center of my next Kawandi-inspired project. EPP blocks of a little over nine inches square in the corner, a few HSTs scattered around, or maybe placed strategically along the border. Then scraps; gorgeous vibrant scraps! Because that's what this whole dang planet is made of, a wide variety of humans, all with their hopes, dreams, and a few (or many) nefarious schemes, the MOFO's. Harsh? Maybe. Also truthful because what is happening in America and Russia and North Korea and China and too many other nations to list is EFF'ED UP! Let people be themselves, be free, be happy. Stop trying to force your ugly hatred on others. Stop trying to gain all the fucking (okay, I said it) money in the whole damn world and forfeit your soul. Even Hitler had a soul, he loved his dog Blondie, maybe even Eva Braun. But his soul was strangled by the thirst for power, the need to dominate, the aggression to deem worthless Jews and so many others, his soul had no room to flourish. What the hell is all that about anyway?

Deep breath taken. Rant over. Red Sky at Night blocks, yup, that's the point. The point is last fall I hand-stitched twelve pretty blocks, then left the edge papers in the perimeters because I wasn't sure how easily it would be to press flat the seams, then machine sew yellow sashes along the sides, hoping I kept the points intact. But that wasn't their purpose in my world. In my world, those blocks will be used as-is. Well, I'll remove the papers, lol. Then place them accordingly. Maybe I'll press inward the outer seams of the churn dash block, or leave it, I don't know. I don't know much, lemme tell ya, other than it's another day. A new day! A nice day, no matter what.

Stay the course, Future Me hollers. And yup, I sure will.

A difficult but relieving decision

Over two hundred hearts awaiting their rightful homes within a stitching WIP.

Just want to note that despite all my wishing to write something new soon, I just can't commit to it. Too much is going on, both in prepping books for release as well as life, to assume I can pull a completed draft outta my backside.

Last night I started stitching my Mr. Carter quilt. Not that evening stitching interferes with morning writing. But I got a little maudlin, almost teary, in sorting the hearts on the sofa by relative colour. The photo above doesn't begin to tell their stories, wondering what the future would hold. I assumed I'd be writing as I cut fabrics, basted shapes, stitched together jewels. Maybe even last night I thought, "Yup, gonna start a new book soon!"

At some point this morning, reality kicked in. The reality of, "If I plan to publish two novels by the end of April, where in the world am I supposed to find time to write one?" That's a pretty sobering reality, both for the joy of two books heading into the wild blue yonder and just when in the hell am I gonna pen something new???

The relief I felt upon making that choice was palpable. Honest. Disappointing but heartfelt, which solidified my decision, as well as confirming that yes, I am creeping up in age and I don't have the seemingly endless energies of even a few years ago. A few years ago, well.... A few years ago I was barely scratching out the first written work since Mom died. And that was like pulling teeth, making me wonder if I could write. The Enran Chronicles blew me away for how freely those stories emerged, which made me think, "Oh boy, I am BACK!" That was two years ago, well, eighteen months thereabouts in the middle of the noveling free-for-all. A good whirlwind, which makes this pull-back even more bittersweet, in that just because I went whole-hog in 2023, 2025 is another animal entirely.

It's the year of the snake, in more than the Chinese zodiac. But my dearth of writing has little to do with more than what's in my head, heart, and soul. It's not the time to write, for whatever reason. It's time to stitch hearts into a quilt. It's time to read books to prep for other novels' releases. It's time to breathe deeply and accept what I can't change but endeavor to alter all that's in my wheelhouse, which starts with my own expectations for myself. Huh. That's...fascinating.

That's the nature of creeping toward fifty-nine. Wrestling with personal truths. Acquiescing to what I can truly accomplish and not grousing (too loudly). Maybe a little grimace, then I move on. Story ideas rarely slip from my gray matter, part of my problem. That novel isn't going anywhere. Patience, I hear Future Me whisper. Have patience and stay the course. Stay the course, I mumble under my breath, nodding reluctantly. Stay the course and....

Be grateful. 'Nuff said.

Work table (and life) nonsense

Clockwise from bottom left corner: jewel stars for Alexandria, hexagon blogs for Alexandria, hearts for Mr. Carter quilt.

Um, hard to pin down on all aspects of the corporeal plane....

Coming home, whether from a brief holiday or lengthy vacation, means reassessing. And laundry, but that's already underway. While I did the unpacking yesterday, much remains to sort, like all that English paper piecing pictured above, ahem. And books.... Oh my goodness frickin' gracious! I have about as many book notions stirring as EPP projects, oh and don't forget the quilt WIP on the design wall or Kawandi stitching I want to dive into as soon as one single free moment emerges.

But, what do I turn to first? This blog, lol. Why? Because I'm waiting to start another load of clothes. And this is singular and easy to complete. And I love blogging, been doing it for nearly twenty years, although not at this site, hehehe. Blogging helps me think. Or I think it does, hah. It certainly helps my PMA, which is required in the TRUCKLOADS right now, 'nuff said. Or I could say more, like if you are an American, please consider calling your senators and congressfolk to give them your feelings about the recent attempt at a Federal funding freeze. Effing SOB president.

Anyway.... Just a few tidbits I want to highlight, one being I gave the granddaughters haircuts last weekend, and both were THRILLED with the results. Eldest wanted her long tresses altered, now she has a just above the shoulder bob that angles toward her face. Youngest requested a fringe (bangs), and looks so dang adorable! She also had a necessary trim to just past her shoulder blades. Yes, a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, I was a hair stylist.

The other exciting bit to feature is now that Splitting the Sky has been released into various online retailers, I have added it to my Books To Read page, which now includes a link to my Bluesky account! Previously only the heavy hitters on social media were available to link to, but D2D has expanded that list, so now I can proudly sport two sites on my page. Yes, it's subtle. That's my way. Lol.

Not so silent are all the sewing projects I want to dabble in, or the books.... I had assumed that in coming home, I'd dive into writing. Uh-huh. Maybe not today. Or tomorrow. Or this weekend. Like wishing to inundate myself with Kawandi, a new-to-me form of hand-quilting an entire quilt. I was twitching inwardly all weekend after coming across a sample of it, but it's nearly ten thirty a.m. now, and there are jewel papers basted with dark fabrics I need to stitch together while the natural light is good, laundry to check, the bed to make.... Stuff interrupts the creative work flow, and while I am INDEED GRATEFUL for the crafty impetus, there's nothing I do to circumvent what needs to happen first. Um, like this post.

This is writing, maybe not the writing I long to achieve, yet for years I have blogged here, there, and way over yonder. A few are gone, hopefully tucked onto a hard or flash drive. One remains for family. This site emerged nearly three years ago when I decided I was going to again kinda-sorta take seriously this writing gig. Mom's death derailed the previous WordPress address, so back to Blogger I went, and here I remain. It's free, easy enough for me to navigate, and scratches whatever makes me want to blah blah blah whenever the mood strikes. It's become slightly more political, which probably won't alter until America's leader does. Or maybe for the rest of my blogging life I'll interject bits of my take on society's governmental schemes. Yet it will focus on books and quilts, sidebars to Future and Past Me, nuggets about the family, some about my faith. Right now my faith is holding me aright when so much seems absolutely screwed. I've called my congressman, both senators, speaking with one's aide, not getting through to the other's office, his mailbox full. I'll try again when I'm done here, just for grins. I'm thankful to be in a blue state, although my mood would be better served within a red state to let those politicians know that helping people is FAR BETTER than hurting them.

Okay, off my high horse before I tumble and break a hip. I'm inching toward fifty-nine, or I'm entering the last quarter of fifty-eight. Two times twenty-nine has been one hell of a year, what with finding myself releasing a slew of stories, happily engaging in brief quips upon Bluesky, more EPP than I know what to do with, as well as Kawandi, which I really hope to enjoy. Because in sewing three rows with my machine, my ears are crying UNCLE, and perhaps my days with a beloved sewing machine will dwindle. As long as my right arm holds out, that is.

With all that, I just heard the washer's chime. Or the dryer. Either way, time to investigate. Which I hope you'll feel inclined to do with some other level of my crafty life. And if you continue enjoying this blog, thanks from the bottom of my authorial blah blah blah heart!

When 4.50 is really 3.50 in the morning

A star for Alexandria that is now completed and tucked in the hexie tote

Sometimes our eyes play tricks. Like when I checked the phone at my bedside and I would have sworn it read 4.50 a.m. Instead it was an hour earlier. But by the time I realized that, twenty-five minutes had past, by which time I was awake. At four fifteen in the morning.

Okay! Um, I guess. Lol. Right now I'm visiting my eldest daughter. We're having a lovely time, those grandgirls taller than when I last saw them five weeks ago. I'm so grateful that despite the distance, I can travel to see all of them with relative ease, and while I miss my spouse, such is the life of a long distance grandparent.

Even when you wake at 3.50 in the morning.

But I've done my daily stretches, read some about Kawandi quilting which I am SUPER EXCITED to try when I get home. That was a marvelous rabbit hole down which to tumble and might possibly answer my unmentioned but authentic issue with using my sewing machine to make quilts. I wear earplugs and noise cancelling headphones anytime I sit at my beloved machine, my tinnitus unable to deal with even basic sewing, much less machine quilting. That's a big fat drag, but maybe Kawandi quilting will permit large-ish quilts without the noise, albeit as slowly sewn as English paper pieced comforters.

I'll see how that goes when I get home.

As for waking up at a seemingly stupid hour of the morning.... I'd like to grouse about it, and maybe later I will. Or I'll take a nap, hah! But I wouldn't have had time to read in minor depth about Kawandi quilting, plus the stretches are done, and soon the rest of the family will be alert. I've been managing on less than seven hours of sleep since I started revising Splitting the Sky and I haven't lost my cognitive abilities yet, lol. Not going to ponder it deeply, just going to keep on.... Being a grandmother not currently far away, being a quilter in whatever manner the ears and hands will permit. Being grateful despite so much I cannot comprehend because it beats feeling defeated.

Because even if 4.50 is really 3.50 a.m., eventually it's 6.25 a.m., and life goes on.

(Written on my phone so forgive book titles not being italicized, no labels, and any other random grammar/punctuation errors. And I've been awake A LONG TIME ALREADY.)

Breathing space

Upsized, non-diagonal crazy quilt. Uh, sure....

After a book release, some necessary non-writing days are required.

So yeah. I haven't done more with the novel-gig than read a few chapters of A Love Story, which actually does need to happen, as I'm planning to publish Book 3 of The Enran Chronicles in March. Have to remind myself of the plot, lol, although losing the plot seems to be America's current theme, however Bishop Mariann Budde is a Christian ROCK STAR, not meaning to belittle her bravery. Sometimes rock stars don't wield guitars or drum sticks you know. Sometimes it's all about the heart.

My heart has required non-noveling pastimes, like throwing an obnoxious quilt onto the wall, pictured above. A bunch of smallish cuts I recently acquired hashed/clashed out with solids from my scraps stash, to be embellished with HEARTS! Dangit, why can't anyone in the new administration think with their heart right now?

Ahem, Future Me huffs, giving me a slightly understanding smirk. 

What, I ask, a little more than righteously indignant.

This isn't the last crappy thing that's gonna happen, you do realize that right?

I shudder, roll my eyes, then give her a sharp stare. You can't be serious, I say in the most courageously snotty tone I possess.

She shrugs, then clears her throat. I'm just saying that shit happens all the damn time. Don't let this totally screw you up.

How the hell am I not supposed to.....

She glares at me for seconds, then her face changes to one of immense compassion. Stay the course, she says softly.

What course?

Rarely does Future Me approach Present Me, maybe there's some space-time-corporeal plane continuum she can't breach. She looks like me, weathered certainly, her hair gray; from how far in the future has she traveled so I can see her this clearly? She stretches out her hand as if to grasp my shoulder, yet refrains from making contact. Heaps of queries race through my mind; can she touch me, what does she know? How bad will the next four years be....

It may be that the day of judgment will dawn tomorrow; in that case, we shall gladly stop working for a better future. But not before.

Tears well in my eyes; that's a Dietrich Bonhoeffer quote. Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a German theologian who spent the last years of his life in German prisons for subversive activities and was ultimately hung weeks before the end of WWII for his participation in the plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler. His bravery, wisdom, and of course faith are well known, but do we take for granted how terrible was that war, those years, that time? Are we so far removed from that horror that we look upon what is now occurring, fearing the worst? Yes it's ABOMINABLE that once again fascism is prevalent, no amount of facepalms to denote the massive, the massive.... Here I lose the words because Future Me does squeeze my shoulder, so briefly, and yet now I know. I know in a minute sense the courage necessary, not to merely wade through the utter shite that's coming, but to remain hopeful. Bonhoeffer did it, I can do it too.

Then as quickly as all that occurred, Future Me is gone. I'm alone in my office, wondering how real was that, but I guess it's as real as WWII, as America today, as the tears rolling down my face. This life is very real, at times too fucking real to be believed. Yet we are not alone, in that we have each other, we have saints from the past reminding us to stay the course. Stay the course. Stay the course.

Stay the course in whatever manner we can rightfully, safely, and sanely achieve. It's truly all we can do