Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 2

Being okay with things beyond my control

From a couple days ago, snapped by my husband, seated inside the run with the chickens. I'm gazing at Nadia Chicken, off screen, while most of the rest gather near the fenced off pomegranate bush. I think chicken #8 was sunning herself along the back of the workshop that butts up to the run.

Mis-sewing rows, diverticulitis, in general getting older, falling in love with sewing squares again, accepting life isn't in my control, the Serenity Prayer, ironing seams the wrong way, etc, etc, etc....

God, grant me the grace to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Amen.

Whew! What a few days it's been, and in that I do include my lost weekend of sorts, spent suffering from an acute attack of diverticulitis. The recovery has been about as much of a 180 that the misery was, which at the end, or rather beginning of this day, is absolutely WONDERFUL. Needless to say, but I'll type it regardless, I am happy to be feeling better, extremely grateful for prayers, love, and support, and am ready to face life with this minor-ish (when I'm not nagging my large intestine with ibuprofen, dairy products, and whatever else makes it angry) ailment always in the background.

Because after last weekend, I am fully aware that diverticulosis can't be ignored, or I end up, um, pretty damn sick.

Welp, those paragraphs cover a good chunk of what's italicized, lol. Although I could say a little more about aging in general; mind over matter matters A LOT. I don't feel, um, old, by which I don't mean to sound full of myself, but I was the third youngest cousin of twenty, and despite being the eldest in my own immediate family, I grew up surrounded by aged relatives proffering me a life-long perspective of not being the, um, eldest. My youngest told me I was the matriarch, which kinda blew my mind, in that, um, welp, huh. Fifty-nine and both parents gone and okay, matriarch me right up there. But in my brain, I'm still a kid, not in an irresponsible way, more that of humility. And I think that's a fine way to approach aging, not thinking I know everything, but being open to learning something every day, even if it pertains to diverticulitis, 'nuff said.

When I took this section off the ironing table, immediately I found my mistake. But not every unplanned occurrence is the end of the world.

Anyway.... What about all this mis-sewing and erroneous ironing huh? Basically I turned upside down the two top rows of the current quilt WIP, stitched the third row in place CORRECTLY, then found my error in two Anna Maria Parry squares aligned smack next to each other, one upside down. D-O-H!!! But I wasn't so bothered that I retrieved a seam-ripper, instead pressing open the long seam permanently attaching those rows together. And despite that ridiculous mistake, I happily continued stitching squares into long lines, unbothered to this project's eventual purpose, more enthralled by the magic that is finding fabric which makes me smile, then allowing my machine to do the heavy lifting. Which only means I sat at my sewing machine and sewed blithely as if I hadn't taken a year's break from machine piecing. And other than pressing seams to the left instead of the right, all is fine with this quilt top that truly has no distinct purpose other than to give me something to do and use pretty prints and accept the treasure of a project that wholly behooves my life at this current moment in time.

A moment when I still can't hand-sew, am healing internally, am gracefully (if I can be so bold to say so myself, humility momentarily forgotten) acknowledging that if not for all the whacked-out rubbish in my nation's capital, would I have turned so needy to my Savior, immersing myself in The Word, the Spirit, the reason for my measly being? I don't know, but if NOTHING ELSE, the current American administration rekindled my focus on Christ, and for me, welp, all is good.

Six rows done; if you're so inclined you can go to the previous post to investigate how this quilt was originally designed. I'm fine with the alteration. Now to finish this project properly!

I don't mean to belittle the immense trauma suffered by countless people affected by one person's selfishness and greed, cruelty and power-hunger. All I am saying is I am okay with things beyond my control. No one can steal my joy, which isn't placed firmly in this realm, but wafts through layers of corporeal life and a veil at times so thin, we step through unwittingly, embraced by beloveds long gone, healing through their prayers and of course renewed every moment by a loving God who cannot be shoehorned into what this world thinks God must be. Who God is and how God is portrayed are at times very different. Because God loves everyone, not solely those sanctioned as worthy by a corrupt, wicked government in Washington D.C.

Okay, this matriarch in the making is getting off her high horse before I fall and incur worse damage than angry large intestines caused. Yet that's where I am right now, grateful for MUCH, not feeling my age or not mentally lol. Embracing what I can, leaving aside what's not mine to sort, and offering prayers for others to know healing, peace, and love. May these gifts be yours today.

Suicide Prevention Awareness Month and what else is going on this week

Top two rows are stitched together, with the third pinned and waiting.

Welp, as my eldest likes to say, it's Tuesday. The equinox has occurred, fall in place mostly in the lessening daylight, although this morning we started with clear skies and bright sun, once the sun rose, lol. I was knocked off my feet over the weekend, just starting to feel human again. Sometimes life throw curve balls, and we end up on our backsides, wondering what the hey's going on.

September is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month. Three of my beloveds have taken their lives, including my brother and niece. I wanted to write something meaningful about the subject, but now I feel like I'm just scraping the surface, yet it's imperative to tell those we love who are fighting depression that we are here for them, that they matter.

988 is the number to call or text if you need help. For veterans, call 988 and press 1 to connect with counselors who understand your experiences. Please know that so many love you!!!

After my brother died, I wondered what life would be like. We were living in the UK then, so it wasn't like I saw him all the time, but we exchanged letters and, welp, then he was gone. That was twenty-eight years ago, nearly half my life. He floats like a faint memory, becoming less of my life and yet.... He remains a part of me, no way to deny he existed. The pain of his death is like a faded scar on my hand that I notice when the light hits it just right. What caused that injury and the ensuing agony is long gone, yet never forgotten.

I'm hoping to visit the chickens today; I can see them from the living room and they look HUGE! A shower would be nice too. That we're enjoying a sunny day helps immensely, not that I lament not being outside, only that I can sit in a rocking chair this afternoon as the dipping afternoon sun spills into the room, warming my toes, then legs, then the rest of me until the sun slips behind the treeline. The sun's angle has altered considerably, but we're moving into the last week of September. My brother would have turned fifty-three this month, damn his ass. I guess that scar isn't as faded as I'd like to imagine.

988; call this number if you need help. People love you. You matter. Life is at times hard as hell; it's also beautiful, hilarious, sweet and sunny. We want to love you, not ponder a memory.

The Rescue of Owl Chicken Part Two

Hmm, I guess this is how life is now; dark, cramped, alone. Yes, imagine you are Owl Chicken; one moment you're trying to get comfortable for sleep, then next you're shoved aside, falling down a sharp drop into darkness. Utter darkness. Solitary darkness, although you can hear peeps and tiny clucks above you. The rest of the flock is above you, but now your world is altered.

Is that how those abducted by ICE feel in detention centers? Snatched from their lives, they languish in facilities where their humanity is devalued by deplorable living conditions. Or how trans veterans are being forced into retirement and denied full benefits after loyally serving this nation. Any number of situations can be listed, people being maltreated for a variety of reasons that the current administration have imposed due to cruelty, bias, and worse. The current American administration is displaying distinct hatred to segments of this nation without remorse or apology, despite what God made know through Moses. You shall not oppress a resident alien; you know the heart of an alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt. Exodus 23:9

What did Owl think as she waited, hearing familiar voices and sounds quite jarring, as my husband used a circular saw to cut into the wall. She had no notion of what could possibly next occur, she's just a pullet, ten weeks old at the time. Adults in America who are being mistreated, however, comprehend the indignities being perpetrated upon them, how humiliating and frightening their circumstances have become. Will there be Medicare for seniors so they can receive necessary medical treatments? What about life-saving vaccinations for all ages of our society? And the cost of food and other utilities, will those continue to rise?

As Owl sat in the dark, did she wonder: Welp, this is my life now, this small, cramped space with no light. Did she recall the previous day exploring the run, nibbling on grass, pecking for feed, dipping her beak in water. Did she remember snuggling with her chicken sisters in the straw or taking a dustbath in the open air? Were her thoughts centered on those final seconds before she fell, merely trying to get comfortable to sleep, then suddenly her world changed irrevocably, what it must have felt like to a young chicken in the dark, alone and forgotten.

How millions of Americans are feeling from the ugly callousness of a government who cares nothing for people, only for profits. An administration so selfish and mean to remove all mentions of slavery from national parks. Leaders so focused on power and greed that all their intentions seek to erase those thought lesser; the poor, minorities, the vulnerable.

The poor, minorities and the vulnerable aren't worth it, these leaders believe. Only those white, rich, straight, and cisgendered matter. And especially those who are men.

Jesus Christ rebuked the teachers of the law who complained about the company Christ kept, that of tax collectors and sinners. Christ said: Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me. I have found my lost sheep.' Luke 15:1-6

Chickens on their newly improved wall

That's how my husband and I felt about finding Owl! Yes we had seven other chickens, but no way could we ignore one thought lost. That the current administration claims to be Christian makes their deplorable behaviors even more odious. And starkly defines the baseness of their actions when juxtaposed against the authentic love God has for ALL PEOPLE.

Owl in the run.

God loves everyone, chickens included. Owl continues to strut her healthy self around the coop and run. Boards were quickly laid into place so no other chickens would suffer Owl's plight. And now I have said my piece about the true meaning of living peaceably with one's neighbors, who we are called to love as much as we love ourselves. The entire law is summed up in a single command: "Love your neighbor as yourself." (Leviticus 19:18) If you keep on biting and devouring each other, watch out or you will be destroyed by each other. Galatians 5:14-15

The Rescue of Owl Chicken Part One

The wall on the other side of the chicken coop, from where Owl Chicken was rescued.

An unplanned allegory to what is happening in America via Owl Chicken's unexpected tumble between walls.

So yeah, two weeks ago today my husband and I trooped to the coop to feed the chickens. Nothing was amiss, although usually I have this task alone, but he was awake and it was lovely to have company. 

Lovely and necessary because upon opening the door and finding the chickens waiting on the wall, we only counted seven. Seven is NOT eight. Seven was a quiet siren that caused my heart to race and my feet to move, scouting the area for signs of a predator while my husband inspected the coop proper for any evidence of infiltration.

For those agonizing moments, I wanted to cry; Owl is my fave chicken. Owl was named for dots over her eyes when she was a tiny chick, but don't ask me why I chose Owl, it simply landed on her like destiny. And now, weeks later, what was her destiny? To have simply disappeared without a trace?

Returning to the coop, I heard a strange rustling behind the wall that butts up to the next stall; our coop is the last of three horse stalls, which the previous owner altered into a fine chicken coop! The noise made me shiver; it sounded like a very large rodent. Then a chirp emerged, followed by another. Somehow Owl Chicken had landed between the walls of the barn!

A little backstory; the roost my husband built butts up to a low wall, which at the top was a railing of sorts, and despite the very nice roost, the chickens decided to sleep on that railing. At the time we thought nothing of that gap, perhaps three inches wide. No chicken could fall between the railing and wall.

Before Owl fell, this was how it all appeared.

But we were wrong, as Owl Chicken continued to chirp. Now it became a matter of between which studs had she fallen, so my husband could cut a hole in the correct space. And was she injured???

For this post's sake, I'll reveal that 1) Owl was in PERFECT shape upon retrieval, other than her tail feathers were a little crooked and have since straighten out. And 2) My husband immediately screwed in boards all along that railing so no other chicken could fall. After ascertaining that Owl was indeed fine and had gotten herself a drink of water, we then ate a delayed breakfast, discussing how owning chickens was full of entertainment and excitement as well as the occasional bout of angst.

After my husband cleared crap from the wall and took his circular saw to it, I retrieved Owl from this spot, maybe four inches in depth between the walls. She was quiet and calm, as I had been crooning to her what a good chicken she was, that we loved her, and were coming for her.

I've been meaning to tell this story for two weeks, but publishing a novel intruded, then a niggly shoulder. And all I was going to say was that one of our chickens fell between walls, was rescued, and is fine. But yesterday afternoon I realized a deeper meaning. All those chickens having gone to the highest possible place for safety, a normal instinct for them, had inadvertently jostled one of their own down a dark, cloistered shaft. Then promptly forgot about her, for that morning not a single one of those chickens exhibited any sign that one of their flock was missing. We won't tell Owl, but I shall tell you, dear readers, how is that any different than what is happening not only here in America, but all over the planet, when people feeling under threat dismiss the responsibility of care toward one another, and push away or ignore the needs of those less fortunate.

Owl in the run, happy to be back with her sisters!

Again for brevity's sake, I'll wrap up Part One with that statement. My chickens are merely birds who cozy up to each other when the mood strikes, then puff out their feathers and attempt to cluck at one another when another mood emerges. Not a mood of thoughtfulness but of anger. Of wanting to bully. Of nothing that resembles the lovingkindness we humans have the great capacity to show each other. More about that in the next post....

The rescue of Owl Chicken Part One

The wall on the other side of the chicken coop, from where Owl Chicken was rescued.

An unplanned allegory to what is happening in America via Owl Chicken's unexpected tumble between walls.

So yeah, two weeks ago today my husband and I trooped to the coop to feed the chickens. Nothing was amiss, although usually I have this task alone, but he was awake and it was lovely to have company. 

Lovely and necessary because upon opening the door and finding the chickens waiting on the wall, we only counted seven. Seven is NOT eight. Seven was a quiet siren that caused my heart to race and my feet to move, scouting the area for signs of a predator while my husband inspected the coop proper for any evidence of infiltration.

For those agonizing moments, I wanted to cry; Owl is my fave chicken. Owl was named for dots over her eyes when she was a tiny chick, but don't ask me why I chose Owl, it simply landed on her like destiny. And now, weeks later, what was her destiny? To have simply disappeared without a trace?

Returning to the coop, I heard a strange rustling behind the wall that butts up to the next stall; our coop is the last of three horse stalls, which the previous owner altered into a fine chicken coop! The noise made me shiver; it sounded like a very large rodent. Then a chirp emerged, followed by another. Somehow Owl Chicken had landed between the walls of the barn!

A little backstory; the roost my husband built butts up to a low wall, which at the top was a railing of sorts, and despite the very nice roost, the chickens decided to sleep on that railing. At the time we thought nothing of that gap, perhaps three inches wide. No chicken could fall between the railing and wall.

Before Owl fell, this was how it all appeared.

But we were wrong, as Owl Chicken continued to chirp. Now it became a matter of between which studs had she fallen, so my husband could cut a hole in the correct space. And was she injured???

For this post's sake, I'll reveal that 1) Owl was in PERFECT shape upon retrieval, other than her tail feathers were a little crooked and have since straighten out. And 2) My husband immediately screwed in boards all along that railing so no other chicken could fall. After ascertaining that Owl was indeed fine and had gotten herself a drink of water, we then ate a delayed breakfast, discussing how owning chickens was full of entertainment and excitement as well as the occasional bout of angst.

After my husband cleared crap from the wall and took his circular saw to it, I retrieved Owl from this spot, maybe four inches in depth between the walls. She was quiet and calm, as I had been crooning to her what a good chicken she was, that we loved her, and were coming for her.

I've been meaning to tell this story for two weeks, but publishing a novel intruded, then a niggly shoulder. And all I was going to say was that one of our chickens fell between walls, was rescued, and is fine. But yesterday afternoon I realized a deeper meaning. All those chickens having gone to the highest possible place for safety, a normal instinct for them, had inadvertently jostled one of their own down a dark, cloistered shaft. Then promptly forgot about her, for that morning not a single one of those chickens exhibited any sign that one of their flock was missing. We won't tell Owl, but I shall tell you, dear readers, how is that any different than what is happening not only here in America, but all over the planet, when people feeling under threat dismiss the responsibility of care toward one another, and push away or ignore the needs of those less fortunate.

Owl in the run, happy to be back with her sisters!

Again for brevity's sake, I'll wrap up Part One with that statement. My chickens are merely birds who cozy up to each other when the mood strikes, then puff out their feathers and attempt to cluck at one another when another mood emerges. Not a mood of thoughtfulness but of anger. Of wanting to bully. Of nothing that resembles the lovingkindness we humans have the great capacity to show each other. More about that in the next post....

Another excerpt about peace, love, and understanding

We went to France in 1999, but I can't find any pictures from the trip. Instead here's a 1999 shot from our British backyard.

Okay so spoiler alert, but I think this scene from Home and Far Away is worth it.

Meanwhile my right arm has been tingling for over twenty minutes; maybe the pinched nerve is better?

Enjoy and happy Monday!

 

Thatmorning it was only the women in the house, French spoken by two, butunderstood by all three. Chella also asked Sooz a few questions silently, butSooz didn’t reveal much, other than yes she loved Richard, and no, she wasn’tsure how, when, or what they would tell Gilly.

Soozwasn’t even certain if she would sleep with Richard that night, though she thensmirked inwardly, not wanting to be apart from him. She missed him greatly, butalso feared how this new element of their relationship would develop. Then shesighed, seated in the front room, a fire crackling. Chella had gone to theporch, talking in their native language to Max as though it being aware of thesituation was just as vital as Squee’s knowledge. Then Dominique cleared herthroat, entering the room with a basket of laundry. “Where’s Chella?” she askedin French.

Soozgestured to the window and Dominique laughed. “She is unique. Dardram oftenspoke of her as though she was his beloved little sister.”

Soozdidn’t wonder how she might have been considered, certainly not as a formerpartner, then she smiled. “I am so glad you met him. I, I….”

“Hetold me about Melor. Losing her nearly caused him to….” Dumping the basket’scontents onto the sofa, Dominique began folding clothes. “Your past with himwas long ago, yes?”

Sooznodded. “It was a brief relationship.”

Dominique smiled. “But now you have entered one far more lasting.”

Soozwanted to shrug, then she nodded. “We’ll see.”

“Icould tell from when I first met Richard that he loves you. Gilly does too. Shewill be very happy for you both.”

“I,I hope so,” Sooz stammered.

“Shewill. I hope you won’t….”

“Wewon’t what?”

Dominique sighed, then sat next to a stack of folded apparel. “That you won’t suffer fromothers' perceptions of what love enables.”

Soozblinked, then wished Richard had an actual multix. She wanted to ask if he hadgone to Ukiah for the condoms so no one here would know the alteration oftheir…. “I haven’t thought about it to be honest.”

“Youstrike me as a most unusual colored woman, in that you don’t see yourself thatway. In France colored women, men too, possess much of that essence, not likecolored people here.”

Soozsat on the other side of the unfolded clothes. “How are people of color viewedin France?”

“Mostlywith equality, though there are always those with biases, and those biasesrange from all possible manners of prejudice; ethnicity, religion, classdifferences.”

“Isthere a caste system in France?”

“Hardly.But there will always exist the divide between rich and poor.”

Sooznodded, she saw that here with nearly all her clients. “I don’t think of myselfas a…. A colored person,” she said stiffly. “I am a human being.”

Dominique smiled. “Yes, that was the first aspect of your character I noticed. Rare it isamong any person to fully embrace that, but especially one of your race.”

“Whatis my race?”

“Thatof a colored person.”

“Really?”

Dominiquetrembled, then folded a shirt. “Yes,” she said softly. “That is not adeclaration you make, but one made on your behalf.”

“Oh,”Sooz said, picking up a pair of trousers, folding them.

“WhatI mean is even though France is far ahead of America in treating peopleequally, I knew in coming here how colored people were considered. Seeing it inperson has been…hard.” Dominique sighed. “But educational, if only for myself.In meeting you, I wondered, ‘How did this woman defy the biases that havealways defined those of her race?’ What about you, Suze Noth, is so different?You do not see yourself as anything but human. You are not black, not Indian,nothing other than a woman, a doctor no less, deserving of joys and merits allpeople seek. I can see why Dardram married you, also why the relationship didnot last.”

“Andwhy is that,” Sooz asked, genuinely curious.

“Becausedespite Dardram’s permissive mood, he is hedged by pessimism. Perhaps that waswhy he chose Melor after you, needing to be with someone that didn’t threatenhim. What I mean is you are exceptional, unique, like Chella. You do not limityourself by others’ perceptions. Dardram, well, he does. He would like to shedthat aspect of his character, but I doubt he ever will.”

InwardlySooz trembled from the weights of these considerations. Then she spoke. “But heloves you, he’s changed so much!”

“Yes,and for that I am glad. But we are who we are, no matter how enlightened orloved we become. I will always be the daughter of France, of a father who ishaughty but compassionate, the child of his mistress who died when I was toolittle to know her, but raised by my Maman, Father’s wife, who loves me almostas much as she does her own. That in itself is a miracle, and I love her, andnever fault her for slights I’m sure she doesn’t realize she insinuates.Dardram will always, in some small way, seek the lesser side of life, even ifhe is happy and carefree. That is why I will not have a child with him, notthat he wants one, but if he ever did, I would not subject my offspring to aman who could not fully love them.”

Soozdidn’t respond, but suddenly much about this woman made sense, in her fondnessfor Gilly, how she had never spoken of her mother, and her love for a man soaltered, but inwardly perhaps Dardram would always be…. “Do you view Richardsimilarly, he too has lost much.”

“Richardis very different,” Dominique said. “Despite monumental losses, his heart wasnever damaged beyond repair. Like mine, perhaps,” she smiled. “I learned earlythat Maman wasn’t my real mother, but she wasmy mother, and as I said, I never regret the slights. She forgave Father’sindiscretions, allowing me to join the only family I have. Richard lost hisparents when he was young, yes?”

Sooznodded.

“AndGilly is the same. Yet you are her mother, and I don’t say that to harm you orfoist upon you more than is due. But Suze, I believe you too lost one dearlybeloved. And now all of you, Chella too, can regain wholeness. And I lookforward to becoming a part of that family, if you feel so willing to includeme.”

Tears poured down Sooz’s face, and she grabbed ashirt from the pile, wiping her cheeks. Dominique leaned over the clothes,grabbing Sooz, pulling her close. They wept hard while Chella continued tospeak to Max, telling the dog that the men would be back soon.

An uncomplicated afternoon of machine sewing

I've had this in mind for a while. Didn't anticipate making it quite yet, but....

So my shoulder remains fiddly. Har-rumph! Yesterday I eked out a truncated evening of handsewing, feeling a *wee bit guilty* about it, because if I was smart, I would do NO handsewing, but last night that notion made me feel twitchy. So I sewed. And I ached. And I went to bed, sleeping on my left side to coddle my right shoulder, but instead the odd position made my right knee twitchy, oi! Thankfully I slept in this morning, but have done no hand-stitching, nor will I this evening. Instead I'm gonna blather all about it, as well as remark on making a quilt top in an afternoon as if hand-sewing meant nothing to me.

(WAH WAH WAH!!! Insert crying face emoji HERE!)

What I noticed right off the sewing machine bat was how easily it was to slip back into machine sewing. With my earplugs firm in my ears. And noise cancelling headphones over my earplug-protected ears. Lol. I've used earplugs and headphones for several years, but I don't think I could machine-QUILT anymore, too dang loud even with all the accoutrements. Yet I can still sew with a machine, and as though it hadn't been nearly a year since making a quilt in that manner, I pressed open seams, nesting seams so corners would play nicely. I didn't use pins except in securing one row to another, I didn't use any steam while ironing. I merely laid squares print-sides together, sewed lots of straight lines, and about two and a half hours later, there's a quilt top.

Fabrics from bottom left: a random Aboriginal fabric that was in the 8.5" squares stack, Moda Grunge, Ruby Star Society poppies, a random Moda print, Art Gallery by Sharon Holland, and finally Alison Glass. The other mustard batiks are also by Glass, the other poppy prints RSS.

(I cut the fabric yesterday, throwing squares onto the design wall last night. Seems using the rotary cutter doesn't bother my shoulder as much as hand sewing, WHEW!)

The dark navy print is Speckled by Rashida Coleman-Hale. I was so glad to find the gray and copper poppy prints in the 8.5" squares stack. This could have used more of the raspberry Grunge, but I only had a smidge left. Still, I'm happy with it, if not curious what will be its eventual usage. Mysteries are for Future Me to ruminate upon, lol.

As I fashioned this quilt top (which at some point will be for yours truly, once I can do some hand sewing, because I have discovered my fave part of Kawandi is NOT NEEDING A BINDING STRIP. Huh, who knew?), I wondered why I was making it, because while I'd LOVE to ignore conventional wisdom and dive right into turning it into a cozy for myself, ahem, I truly need to figure out what's up with my shoulder. And finish projects WAY AHEAD of this quilt top in the quilt queue. So....why spend the afternoon making something with no immediate discernible purpose, other than to do something that doesn't hurt my shoulder, keeping me busy while my husband took a nap, lol. I wasn't sure about it as I photographed the quilt top, or as I answered my now conscious husband that I'd like cranberries in my gluten free scones. He's been on a baking tear lately, and has mastered using gluten free flour, WOO HOO!

Some pretty perfect looking scones, and yes they are GLUTEN FREE! Delicious too, hehehe.

I still wasn't certain about this quilt top's fate until after walking back from the chicken coop, having changed out the coop water and the run water. Or maybe it was even later, after eating a scone warm from the oven sans butter or jam, merely reveling in the perfection my husband has achieved with alternate flour. It could have been when I once again trooped to the coop, collecting the feeder for the night. I pondered all the fabric I've recently cut, and found in a tote already cut. I could make a heap of quilt tops for future Kawandi projects (as in the back of Kawandi-inspired quilts) and whatever else comes along in dire need of a quilt top.

Husband's scones on the right didn't come out as pretty as he wanted; his dough (regular flour) was too wet, and he added more flour, over which he fretted that by overworking the dough, they would be tough. While they didn't rise to his satisfaction, they were quite fluffy inside, and he's happy with them. And he'll use less milk next time.

I think it was after retrieving the feeder. Because I returned to the house, snagged a small piece of chocolate, started a cup of fruit tea, feeling very pleased with myself. Feeling like if I take a probable sabbatical from hand-sewing, machine sewing won't be the worst thing to fill my time.

Lol.

So yeah, I'm using my machine again. I really should oil it, maybe give it a proper cleaning. Maybe give my work table a proper tidying too, what with EPP stuff all over it, stacks of cut fabrics in 6.5 and 8.5 inch sizes. Do something with all the scraps I'd been collecting while cutting fabrics for various EPP projects, LOL! Today I hastily made a stack of them, placing them alongside my machine like this was a mere blip in my usual handsewing routine. But half an hour out of taking ibuprofen, my shoulder aches. Usually it only hurts once I've been sewing for an hour or more. Something's amiss, maybe a pinched nerve or.... Whatever is askew, a handsewing sabbatical is most likely in the cards. And, deep breath taken, that will be OKAY. I've done it before, the first time I had shingles in 2019. I didn't do any EPP for a month due to nerve pain and I survived FINE. I'll just read in the evenings. Or write blog posts, HAHAHAH! Or pray for peace, that would be a good thing.

Gratuitous shot of former houseplants that now live near the laundry line. The spider had truly DIED, but has returned with gusto, while the philodendron is struggling to reassert itself. I see more spider plants in my future, what with so many runners!

But I won't sew with my hands. Not even left-handed sewing because I found yesterday when I tried that I became frustrated and switched back to my right hand. I will make lots of machine-pieced quilt tops. And maybe write a book. Insert winking emoji HERE. 

Because sometimes you need an excerpt, especially when it's about peace, love, and understanding

Maybe how the moon appeared to Sooz. Photo from 2024.
Thank goodness that despite an achy shoulder, I can still manage revisions, lol. Was just reading Chapter 21 from Home and Far Away, and I had to put a paragraph here.

P.S.... If you want Sooz's backstory, get a copy of Far Away from Home: The Enran Chronicles Book Three. Don't worry about Books One and Two; Book Three concerns Noth in another galaxy, and as he doesn't recall his past, those earlier segments won't be missed (Though if you want the whole ball of wax, go for it!). One of the joys about writing this particular series is while the books connect, certain ones can be read as standalones. Far Away from Home and Home and Far Away are like that, just saying, hehehe.

Anyways, shameless plugs aside, more to matter is what Home and Far Away is truly about, that of love mattering more than anything, that people are worthy of said love regardless of their origins. Sooz is discovering that imminently, but will she be brave enough to act on her discoveries?

 

 

Twohours later, Sooz stood on Richard’s front porch, squinting into the darkness.Yet the Hernandezes’ home was well-lit and from where she stood, Sooz observeda crowd gathered at the back of the house, dogs barking and children shoutingalongside the live band. Max snoozed in his spot and Sooz trembled, the tunenot recognized but somehow so familiar. It was nothing like what The Other hadcrooned, nor was it akin to what Sooz listened to on the radio. It was festiveand bright, and she tapped one foot, then stopped herself. “I am not going overthere,” she said aloud, then inwardly, but Chella didn’t respond.

Theporch light shone, as did the moon’s glow, but that light came and went as thinclouds fluttered in the sky, obscuring the satellite. Faint shadows fell acrossthe yard from the workshop as Sooz stepped from the porch, merely to admire thenight sky, she told herself and Chella, if Chella was listening. But Chella hadstopped pestering Sooz shortly after mentioning the music, which now rang inSooz’s ears.

Shewalked to the middle of the yard, then gazed at the party; laughter nearlybested the music, then lively horns made her wince, the merry nature impossibleto ignore. Was Richard drinking a margarita, Sooz then wondered. Her mouthwatered slightly and she frowned, then sighed as a stiff wind made her shiver.She returned to the porch, but didn’t go inside, wishing for enough courage towalk away.

Yetnot permanently, as she had wanted to last week, or even yesterday. Againyesterday she had considered leaving this property with the firm intent neverto return. That was a foolish, mean-spirited notion, futile as well; shecouldn’t leave Chella or Gilly or…. Her heart ached profusely, but not overSquee or the dead steers. She didn’t care if she never got her driver’slicense; today had proved that patients would indeed visit Kevin’s office, forif Matty Shomberg could walk through those doors, anyone in need would learnthe young physician’s practice was a safe place. Nobody would be turned in forbeing illegal, no one would be refused treatment. Or Sooz hoped that Matty’svisit would relay that essential statement. She felt badly that he had walkedpart of the way there, not enough gas in his truck for him to have made thejourney on his own. Richard had put gas in the truck while Sooz had stayed withMatty, learning more of his history. He had fallen asleep by the time Richardreturned, Sooz covering the old man with a tattered blanket on the sofa wherehe had slumbered during Home and Far Away.

Shewould check on him next week, maybe driving illegally if necessary, but Richardwould probably insist on taking her. She frowned, then sighed, again her heartpounding. His affection for Matty was probably aligned to having lost hisgrandfather, but Richard wasn’t like most men. He was tender due to his latewife and raising their only daughter. He was thoughtful in part from thoseelderly beloveds who had instilled within him their vanishing values. Oftenduring the nightly news, Richard complained about war protestors, not that hethought the Vietnam conflict was worthy, but previous generations had lefttheir families, fighting valiantly or dying on foreign soil. It was a necessarysacrifice, he would say, no more, no less.

Sooztrembled, considering those she had known on Enran, then she blinked awaytears. Would Noth have fled to Canada or burned his draft card, probably not, shewanted to think. He had sacrificed as much as any American past or present, andagain she grasped his great desire to return. Not to this time, but his own,and what could that America be like if so much of the current youth was surly.Then Sooz clucked; Chella had called her surly in not wanting to join them. Howhad Chella managed to pass herself off as a human, Sooz then wondered. Maybe byunderstanding Spanish, but hopefully not by drinking alcohol. Sooz wondered ifmargaritas were being served, and again her mouth watered. She went in thehouse, shut the door, then stomped upstairs. But even in her room, with thedoor closed, the horns were sirens, pleading for her to….

Sheshook her head, then stepped to her dresser. Her curls had returned, the weathermore humid than in summer. She shook out her tresses, then swept them atop herhead, securing the bun with bobby pins. A few strands fell and she scowleddespite liking how those curls adorned her face. She gazed at her clothes, longtrousers and one of Richard’s shirts tailored to fit her. Then she peered atthe closet, where some of Celia’s outfits remained. Approaching the closet,Sooz closed her eyes, muttering a Parcathn prayer. Opening the door, she pulledthe string for the light. She rummaged through what hung on the rod, thensmiled, finding a dress not previously noticed. It was blue, with yellowstripes running diagonally, meeting in the middle. Would it fit, she wondered,and if so, would wearing tennis shoes with it look ridiculous?

She wished for her previous wardroom, one of herbright tunics would be more appropriate. But that life was her past and if shewas going to remain here, best that she integrated with Richard’s neighbors.She frowned briefly, then smirked, taking the dress from the hanger, thenfirmly closing the closet door.

The worth of perseverance

The short row of stitches directly under the lower safety pin are those done SLOWLY with my left hand.

In sewing, book publishing, and everyday life....

I considered this post a few days ago when I was happily appliqueing by hand Lucy Boston (LB) blocks. Since then my right shoulder has asserted its right to be cranky, and I don't know for how long this will be the case. Hence, perseverance now applies to waiting out troublesome joints, being fully aware that what will be most certainly will be.

Ahem. Anyways.... I pondered this post while hand-stitching a project I truly had no idea would come to fruition. Perhaps this entry is also about being faithful to one's inner spirit, or Spirit, depending on your beliefs. Either way, being faithful, obedient even (now there's an idea to spark blog post musings....) to what calls upon your heart is EXTREMELY VITAL. It's why I have books available for readers, why a Lucy Boston quilt in an altered form continues to evolve (as earlier today I did some hand-quilting with my LEFT hand, lol), why anything that matters to us that seems DAMN HARD even occurs. Being faithful to the calls upon our hearts and souls requires heaps of determination, at times sacrifices little and large, and certainly perseverance.

In Romans 5:3-5 Paul writes: ...because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. Goodness knows we need hope, but how do we get to that stage? Because for many years I had no hope that my scrappy Lucy Boston blocks would do more than take up space in a tote as well as irritate my consciousness that all the work put into them, from choosing and prepping fabrics to basting and stitching said fabrics together, would amount to anything worthwhile. I began this project shortly after I got into EPP in 2018, so it's been hanging around, at times like a millstone breaking my neck, for YEARS. Why I started it, I have no freakin' idea, and it was with the honest intention of crafting a full-blown LB EPP quilt; I have the paper pieces for accompanying one-inch squares and rectangles to prove it.

I dug through my EPP papers tote, also finding some crown shapes that probably won't be used either.

Those papers, to Present Me's mind, will never be utilized by me, myself, and I, mostly because if I am able to complete the EPP projects already underway I would be THRILLED! My right shoulder barks at me, laughs at me, teases me: Maybe I'll heal. Maybe I'll let you sew. Maybe.... WHATEVER shoulder, jeez! My life isn't all about you, well, the part of my life that isn't about handsewing, lol. Yet I will attempt to do what I can with sewing, left or right handed, and be very grateful that Recently Past Me followed her heart to 1) Finish those LB blocks. 2) Plot out an appropriate project for them. And 3) Be smart enough to let our full-of-itself shoulder dictate what happens next. 

(And yes, I am including Past Me from less than two hours ago in her attempt to hand-quilt left handed. I see her nod appreciatively, a tiny smirk on her face.)

Because Future Me knew that Past Me's smirk-worthy actions would spur Current Me's ridiculously outta left field blog post. LOLOL! Where is the deep analysis of perseverance, huh?  Suffering produces determination, determination produces character, character produces hope blah blah blah.... Not that St. Paul deserves a blah blah blah attached to his writings, but yeah, this post has wound its way onto some other yellow brick road, maybe more about my shoulder than I meant to say, which probably pleases said shoulder, already feeling damn full of its painful self. Yet my life, creative and spiritual and practical, acknowledges that a wonky shoulder fits into the scheme in its own high-handed way, alongside all the rest that makes up my.... My wonky, creative, spiritual, practical life. Because life is made up of so many aspects, some of which require perseverance!

HAH! There is it, perseverance, wonky shoulder be darned!

Anyway, that's my take on why perseverance matters. Obedience is another force, maybe I'll write about it one day. First comes reviewing Draft2Digital's publishing operations, plus telling the story of Owl Chicken's rescue. Eventual tales for Future Me to tell when she's feeling chatty.

Morning chicken routine

Good morning my chickens! All photos from today.

Subject to change at the whim of said chickens and the lessening morning light....

Amid books and quilts and laundry, etc, are the chickens. These chickens were my husband's idea, to which I acquiesced after how many chicken videos, lol. Feeding them in the morning is my job, which blends easily for how early I get up, yet the mornings aren't as bright as previously. Consequently the chickens don't get their feeder in the coop until it's light enough for me to head outside and deliver it.

Yet they're not the wee babes of earlier in summer, HAH! They're quite, um, large. Eleven weeks old yesterday, they prance around the run like they've always had possession of it. They strut around the coop as if forever calling it home. They race to the wall above the roost in the evenings, jockeying for position along the boards my husband placed there so we'd not have to rescue another one of them the way we did Owl Chicken, FACEPALM. Yet that's a tale for another post. Today I'm yammering about what happens once a new day begins....

Everyone feasting on chick crumble. Nesting boxes to the left, covered for at least a few (or several, we'll how they go) more weeks.

Currently there's no pecking order, forcing a chicken or three onto the lower rungs. At eleven weeks old, all fit at the highest level which they can reach, that escape the predators instinct alive and well. For the last week or so, all of them crowd up there at bedtime, then in the mornings, they all have to figure out how to return to the floor in order to get breakfast. Watching them do that has been entertainment aplenty, because despite how grandly they march about, they are indeed chickens at heart in flying down.

Now having said that, I am immensely proud of Owl and Camilla, always the first two leaping from the rest. Today a Barnevelder was right on their heels, followed by Cami (short for Little Camilla) and another Barnevelder. That left three on the wall, one of which was Welsummer, who for the last few days has claimed her own manner of departure; she gamely hops onto the first level of the roost, then squats as though she's heading straight for the floor. Instead she plops down another rung, then scouts out the best spot to jump to the last rung. Today she immediately hopped onto the floor, as if realizing she didn't need to be so observant. Two Barnevelders remained, one flying down as soon as Welsummer reached the floor, leaving the last chicken pacing, trying to ascertain what to do.

Chickens in the run! My husband gave them the frisbee yesterday, filled at the time with rainwater. They also liked pecking the water off the rake, goombahs!

Quickly it decided breakfast mattered more than dithering, for she swooped down, joining her sisters. Which is a far cry from yesterday, assuming it's always the same chicken as the last one; one of the Barnevelders wandered for a couple of minutes before going down, while a few days ago it took one of those chickens FIVE MINUTES to get herself down for breakfast! I know this because I filmed them, and after the first minute only one remained and I kept filming and then I was committed to the task, dorky chickens! Back and forth and squatting, then standing, then more pacing while mildly chirping as the rest pecked through the chick crumble, peck peck peck! Finally that apprehensive hen-in-the-making made her way off what they have fashioned as the Top of the Roost, enabling me to stop filming and get on with MY LIFE.

Further down in the run, as they followed my crooning, lol. Sweet, if not goofy, chicken gals.

Ahem.... Which merely means I walk back to the house, take off the sweats and hoodie I wear over my PJ's, wash my hands, then refill my teacup, lol. After that I started handsewing the Lucy Boston quilt while my husband woke leisurely. After our breakfast, which he finished before me, he let out the chicks into the run; they SPRINTED out, he called to me as I joined them. I crooned my usual sing-song chatter, which goes, "Hey chickens, good morning chickens. Chick-o-linas, chick-a-listas, henny-penny's, etc, etc, etc...." He smiled and said they perked up at the sound of my voice, my chicken voice might I add, which is more high-pitched than my usual speaking voice. They've been hearing that chirpy tone for nearly eleven weeks now, at first from the brooder, which I'm sure they don't recall in any manner, and now from their coop and run.

And so begins another day in the life of a writing, quilting chicken keeper. How did this happen, and what's all this about an Owl Chicken rescue? Stay tuned for further chicken tales....