Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 3

Life layers

My patches amid what's left of an EPP masterpiece.

All that dwells under the re-quilting....

Now back in my stitchy-novelistic realm, I spent late yesterday afternoon and early evening adding another round to the Kawandi-style lap quilt. It's hard, in one way, re-covering this particular cozy because its original design is a gorgeous EPP diamond star pattern. However it's been in disrepair for a long time, sporting patches adding by yours truly, and in desperate need of an overhaul. Kawandi is the perfect vehicle to upcycle it; even if the beautiful English paper piecing is obscured, the quilt itself remains a viable (if not weighty) blanket for many years to come.

Decisions about what patches to save, as well as if I choose to salvage any of the EPP, make for slow work in adding new inner rounds. I did half of the current round, then required a break to gather the mental acuity to move forward. Sounds like an apt metaphor for life in general, lol, which is why this post exists at all. Metaphors have their place in this world, layering new atop withered, adding beauty to decay. Not stripping off that which pains, but gently placing pretty fabrics accordingly, with the knowledge that the original marvel could only last so long before fraying into oblivion. That is sewist's language for it, patches not able to withstand further laundering. Something about this thrift store gem that my sister-in-law discovered then gave to me tugs at my heart, in part for all the painstaking effort put into the EPP, as well as a history unknown but deeply embedded within the cotton fibres. I don't know jack about the woman who made it, inking her name into the back, but Dorothy, wherever you were and now are, I so appreciate all the fabric cut, papers basted, shapes sewn into such a magnificent whole. And I hope if you're floating around beyond the veil, you don't want to rip my throat out as I stitch modern prints over all your hard work.

Where I stopped last night, for better or worse LOL!

The layers I am adding represent my current fave cottons stitched in an ancient method hearkening to hundred of years in the past. These layers cover other favourite fabrics I used on it, so even my efforts are being set aside for this new endeavor. I'd love to have time to write something new, but chickens are currently muscling their feathered ways into the book life. Summer brings treasured moments with grandkids, further pushing away endearing pastimes. Breathing deeply, I allow all these varied enterprises their allotted spaces, turning me into the person I am evolving into with every passing second. Not that writing or sewing will disappear, nor will my family fade into the mist. Only that there is time for all things, necessary layers that emerge as a surprise or are eagerly anticipated with such longing I ponder how did I exist prior? I don't need to ask Future Me or Past Me, I merely inhale the joy and wonder, slapping another five-inch square or equivalent scrap onto a quilt I hope will long outlive me. Did Dorothy wish for the same? If she did, she's getting that desire met in a manner she never dreamed.

Another layer of life for another snippet of August. Wishing you peace and joy on this ninth day of the eighth month of the year!

And now it's August

Some GORGEOUS Anna Maria Parry fabric that HAD to be included. How it fits is shown below, past the chicken photo.

Hard to believe it's already the eighth day of the eighth month of the freakin' year! I don't mean to malign 2025, but dude it feels (at times) like a year from, well, some back and beyond era that I thought was over.

And then there's chickens.... Thankfully they remembered me after a five-day absence while I hung out at my daughter's residence, keeping an eye on those grandsons. My husband had chick duty, but yes I came back to pullets who still respond to my chicken voice, admittedly not as cute as my youngest grandson's chicken voice, but certainly familiar enough that last night one jumped from half a hay bale onto my shoulder! And it was a chicken that doesn't even like being picked up, whoa!

Chicks this morning in the run. 

It was sunny here today, in the mid-seventies Fahrenheit in our neck of the North Coast, and I soaked up some of those rays, but mostly I ran a bunch of errands in the morning, then spent the afternoon washing dishes, doing laundry, working on a Kawandi quilt. I've stopped for the day not merely to write this, but in that I've reached a tricky spot in the quilt and it's now five-ought-four in the late afternoon. For all that I've accomplished as an abuela over the last couple of weeks, I've been itching to get back to a few aspects of life that spell W-R-I-T-E-R and Q-U-I-L-T-E-R. And other adjectives that describe me too.

But something I pondered while playing cards, watching boys thrash about on a trampoline, etc, was this: Am I a writer who quilts or a quilter who writes? And then, what difference does it make?

Pinned nearly within an inch of its beautiful life. How the row concludes remains up for debate.

Stuff to consider in August, I suppose. Late July into August. Mid-summer into early late summer, or truthfully here in Humboldt County true summer. Summer really doesn't start here until late July, once the ground is as warm as it's gonna get and the dragonflies have arrived to mow down most of the pesky mosquitoes, blackberries finally getting ripe, blueberries too. Garden green beans proffering a fine harvest, days growing a wee bit shorter than in late June. Kids preparing for school, so for them summer changes into a hot season in classrooms while summer for this grandma will stretch as long as the days are warm-ish and the rain holds off, maybe into late September. The chickens won't be laying eggs yet, but in another six to eight weeks they'll have proper combs, maybe wattles, and if any are chaps, we'll probably be aware.

(We're hoping for all girls you see, but we'll cross that bridge when, um, it reaches us.)

[Because while we think we're in control, it's already August. Can't stop time or change poultry genders or be more than what we humanly are, be that writers or quilters or grandmothers from far away.]

Probably Owl Chicken, captured by my husband a few days back. I suspect it's Owl because she's the tamest pullet, as well as one of three who appears thusly. If it's Camilla, I'd be surprised.

And the playlist continues; Yo La Tengo with "From a Motel 6 #2". I listened to heaps of tunes while driving home on Wednesday. You can peruse those songs here. And you can find my books here. And you can enjoy the blog posts right here! And tomorrow will still be August, ba-dump-bump! 

Sneaking in a post

My hubby has taken the grandsons to the beach this evening. I was up at stupid O-dark-thirty this morning, and while I went back to sleep (and had a half-caff tea at 2 p.m.), I am wholly TOAST now. But (BUT!) I have enough brain cells (barely) to craft this post. Because it's been days since I wrote more than notes to friends while at the same time encouraging my grandsons to write/draw letters for their cousins. And sometimes (SOMETIMES) a little plug-in to one's usual reality means the world.

The week has sped past, as all weeks seem to do. The boys have enjoyed themselves thoroughly, although my youngest grandson is pretty much ready to go home. He's six and a half, could jump on the trampoline for most of the day if permitted. His elder brother could hunt for wild plums and sticks and play cards with me or watch baseball with Grandpa. We had sunny days to start, typical cloudy days for the finish. I drive them home on Sunday, spending a few days with my daughter as well as the chaps, then return next Wednesday. I've had more time with the chickens than I thought would occur, including a nice half hour in the run this afternoon, during which time my husband snapped the photo below of myself and Owl. These chicks are five and a half weeks old; are they still chicks even? I guess, as they aren't officially pullets (maybe a cockerel among them) for another two and a half weeks. But my goodness, they don't seem like the puff-balls we brought home five weeks ago!

Will they remember me when I return is a query I ponder, lol. I hope so. If they don't, well.... I'll cross that bridge when it arrives.

Living in one's home but dwelling in a different realm through the eyes and actions of kids is a funny thing. Snuggles are copious with the six-year-old, yet the connection I have with the ten-year-old is the kind you might accrue with a child much older. That comes via all the card games we've played over the years, starting with Go Fish when he was three. This time we've added Gin to the routine, and, um, poker. We play with Legos as our currency, Five Card Draw. Jokers are wild, sometimes twos, threes, or fours. Little brother plays Go Fish with us, but only holds three cards in his hand at a time, the rest of his cards arranged on his chair. He beat me yesterday, and was still crowing about it this evening.

Lots of blueberries have been eaten from the bushes in our garden, blackberries too. Oldest grandson made a Korean Beef dish on Monday, but the green beans haven't been picked in days, LOL. This afternoon we kicked around a soccer ball and threw the Frisbee, and my meniscus is NOT happy with me, sigh. That's why I'm not with them at the beach. Hopefully my knee will feel better tomorrow, and hopefully I won't be awake at stupid O-dark-thirty tomorrow morning. If I am, well, I'll drink some tea and mull over the exceptional elements of the last seven days. And drink a little more tea while I pack a suitcase and confirm all their treasures are also gathered. Chat with you more next week, plenty of book and quilt hoo-haa to discuss!

Chickens, Amazon, and a break in the blogging action

Seven of eight chicks on a perch my husband fashioned. Their baby chick perch remains a fave spot too, lol.

Nearly a week has passed since we moved the chicks into the coop. Their first few days in a new to them home was steeped in their adjustment to plenteous room, no feed overnight, and us attempting to coax them from said coop to the attached run. They seem to love more space, haven't minded waiting for breakfast (although they cried the first night when we turned off the light, and on subsequent evenings when not under the heat plate when that light was again shut off), and finally braved the strange opening to the outside world that of course is far more exciting than their spacious coop. Getting them back into the coop was a chore, and not for worms or scratch would they head up the ramp. We're still searching for an appropriate treat in which to lure them hither and yon; today I'll try some grated carrot (Update: they couldn't care less about grated carrot, sigh.), as they gobble blades of grass like addicts. Yes, I plan to employ treats to train them, but first I need to find a treat they adore.

It was odd those first few days without them in the garage. In less than four weeks, I had grown very accustomed to them there, to the brooder, to an element of our lives not previously explored. Getting chicks has now evolved into raising chickens, and currently at four and a half weeks old, they are feathered enough to resemble small hawks, which I find quite ironic. They still have access to the brooder, where the heat plate remains, but maybe for another week or so. We'll wean them off gradually, as we allow them to spend more time in the run. And hopefully an acceptable treat will emerge so we can get them back in the coop easily, LOL.

As for Amazon.... Currently I have two series available, That Which Can Be Remembered and The Hawk. Heaven Lies East of the Mississippi was recently added, a standalone love story. Just this morning I began adding Alvin's Farm, my first series originally published in 2011. Boy, that seems like a LONG TIME AGO. Why have I waited so long to put my novels on Amazon? The short answer is Amazon doesn't appreciate freebies. The long answer goes like this....

When I first started releasing my novels independently, Smashwords had a tricky relationship with Amazon, in that Smashwords' president Mark Coker didn't mince words when it came to how poorly Amazon treated indie authors. I found it brave and humorous, and never put my books on Amazon because 1) It was enough to prep them for Smashwords and 2) As I said above, Amazon doesn't permit freebies as a rule. Allegedly if they find a title has been released for free elsewhere, they might match that price. Ultimately, it wasn't worth my time to align my novels to Amazon, and I happily released them at other places.

Fast forward several years, and books, and life changes: In 2025 Smashwords is no longer my distribution point. Their merger with Draft2Digital now includes me as I have been integrated into their system. Which means their good relationship with Amazon permits my inclusion within that outlet through their arrangement. Which meant some serious thought about whether or not to add Amazon to my release wheelhouse. It wasn't about the projected royalties; in pricing my novels at the lowest cost of ninety-nine cents (American dollars), my take through D2D is twenty-nine cents, which D2D admits is a reduced rate in having set the price below $2.99. More to matter was how ethical was it for me to release books on Amazon when I admit they treat writers like.... Well, not nearly as well as we treat our chickens, might I say! Amazon is a behemoth we avoid as much as possible, even before the current administration took office. Why place my novels in such a realm?

I asked a dear friend her opinion, and she told me that my books are an antidote to companies like Amazon. That my novels, steeped in love, could proffer a reader a different viewpoint. I smiled at her response, and thanked her for the wisdom. Then another woman told me how her husband loves downloading ninety-nine cent books, as if at that price point they are free. Maybe there is an audience for my books on Amazon. And if there is, well, I'm glad my novels are there.

At the proverbial end of the day, who reads my stories is well out of my hands. All I am called to do is write, then publish these tales, centered on love and families, healing and suspense, though not in a suspense-genre type of way. I'm not keen on genres, too limiting. As a character-driven storyteller, I allow the cast to propel the action, and to wring any available tears, both from pathos and laughter. More of my books will emerge on Amazon as the weeks pass, especially since I plan to release Straight to the Heart: The Hawk Book Three next month! The fourth book of The Enran Chronicles is slated for September publication, and if I can get my ducks in a row (certainly not those chickens), The Hawk Book Four could appear in December. I've been at this indie author gig for over a dozen years, and I'm trying to exist exactly where I am supposed to be at this moment in time. Currently that's available on Amazon. If the situation calls for me to exit that distribution point, I'll indeed follow my heart. Following my heart is at the heart of all I write, including this blog, which is taking a brief hiatus while grandsons visit. If time exists to pop in with a cute chicken photo, I will certainly do so. Otherwise I'll chat with you in August, chicken, novel, and quilting stories well in hand.

Sometimes an excerpt matters

In reading Straight to the Heart: The Hawk Book Three, I'm astonished at how timely is the message, despite being set in autumn of 1962. Below is a section from Chapter 76, when the Cuban Missile Crisis was in full swing.

Whenhe reached the studio, stars twinkled in the sky. Eric could make out thestorage building, and turning back, the house blazed with light. Yet, he neededto set something to canvas, although he didn’t wish to work in the sunroom. Hewasn’t sure what bubbled inside him, other than a sense of purpose. Perhapsthis was how President Kennedy felt, his hands just as tied. Yet Lynne had beenright, it was too dark to work. Again gazing upwards, Eric admired the nightsky, chuckling at himself. Then he walked around the studio, standing in frontof the storage building. Something tugged at him from within, so he pulled thekey from his pocket, opened the door, then flipped on the light. There on aneasel was the portrait of Marek and Jane.

Steppinginto the small building, Eric couldn’t look away from his daughter. She wasn’tthat little now, even if he’d painted this a few months before. Before made Eric shiver, for all thathad occurred since this painting, up to that very evening. Jane was inside,probably being dressed for bed, with no idea what was happening in Washingtonand Moscow. She had no clue as to what others had suffered since, she was onlya baby. She also had no manner to discern all that had occurred to the manholding her, but for the first time, Eric had an inkling, and it made himshudder. Marek’s brown eyes glowed with an eerie knowledge, propelling Eric tostep closer to the canvas. Leaving a foot between himself and the painting,Eric peered at what he had created, but seeing far more than layers of paint.In Marek’s chocolate brown eyes, Eric saw a multitude of horrors, more than anyperson should realize.

Insteadof being repulsed, Eric traced around Marek’s eyes, sensing how such miserycould, over time, become beauty. Eric had translated something similar, yetcarrying much less emotional weight, when he painted the blue barn. Sam,Laurie, and Stanford had asked how Eric did it, and there was no verbal mannerin which to answer that question; Eric had simply picked up a brush, dabbed itonto his palette, then transferred those feelings onto canvas. He had done thesame when painting Marek and Jane, but while Jane’s eyes held only joy, Marek’spossessed a deep well of sorrow hinting to the unmitigated catastrophe thatsomehow that man had overcome. Suddenly Eric stepped back, in awe of suchtragedy having been healed. The loss of Marek’s entire family didn’t prey onthat man’s mind, or within his soul. Marek’s soul was protected by Christ.

Thelast two nights Eric and Lynne had made love, but not as they had been for thelast few weeks. Lynne had purposely used her diaphragm, telling her husband shedidn’t feel the timing was right to actively try for another baby. Her unspokenmessage had been clear and Eric hadn’t argued. The world was still a terribleplace, nothing was certain. Eric had wondered if Sam’s fears about becoming afather would be exacerbated by all that was occurring, but how could thiscompare with previous disasters in human history? If Khrushchev gave the signal,would the destruction of America’s East Coast be worse than The Holocaust inEurope? Would it be more evil than what sat plainly in Marek’s brown eyes?

Forthe first time since the president’s announcement on Monday night, Eric didn’tworry about his family’s future. Perhaps this was another step on his journeyas a Christian, or an artist, or simply as a man. If the very worst occurred,it wouldn’t be the absolute end of the world, for the worst had been recycledtime and again. In just that century, two world wars had ravaged across much ofthe globe, millions of lives lost, so much desolation accrued. But in a smalltown on the West Coast, Eric had fashioned beautiful paintings, he couldn’tdeny that. Assuming Kennedy and Khrushchev negotiated a way out of this mess,by the end of November, this painting, along with others, wouldn’t even bewhere Eric could see them; they would be in New York, then onto London, thento…. Eric smiled, the first real joy he’d felt all week. Making love with hiswife had been a balm, but actual happiness rumbled inside him, in part frompeace and from the truth within Marek’s eyes. If one day Eric heard thosefacts, they wouldn’t be any more vile than what he had implied within thatman’s gaze. Yet, anguish wasn’t the essence of what Eric had portrayed. Lovecovered all that wretchedness, so great a love that grief, loneliness, anddespair hadn’t been able to stay.

ThenEric shivered; whatever had sent Seth to Korea was a similar kind ofdevastation, yet Seth hadn’t been able to fight himself free. Eric wondered ifperhaps as a child Seth had been molested, but Seth and Laurie were so close,had that been the case, Laurie would know. Or maybe not. Then Eric consideredthe figures at Stanford and Laurie’s apartment, sculptures that had beenfashioned by someone with a tremendous will to live and love. Nothing darkclouded those statues, from their hopeful stances to their vibrant hues. Twovivid blues enhanced those figurines; Seth hadn’t made them in the throes ofdepression, but in youthful optimism. But that confidence had been short-lived.Laurie had mentioned Seth wasn’t exactly soldier material, that he’d had a fewissues even before he’d enlisted. What had he thought going to Korea wouldaccomplish, and once there, what had he seen or done that had so tarnished hissoul?

Again Eric gazed at Marek, but not at his face.This time Eric studied how tenderly Jane rested in the pastor’s grasp, almostwith as much affection as Eric held his daughter. Marek had never spoken of alover, maybe a woman had been left behind in Britain or in…. Marek had been ateenager during the war; might he have lost a girlfriend alongside his family?Eric ached to know, then he sighed, feeling chilled. He turned off the light,locked the storage building, making his slow way back to the house with as manyquestions, albeit about different subjects, than as when he had headed outside.

The last of the summer placemats

The Kaffe Fassett collection side.

Recently I gratefully accepted that all my ongoing projects, both in writing and quilting, aren't a burden; right now I couldn't wrap my head around sorting out something new. I preface this post with that realization because it's good to embrace one's limits and other extraneous forces wafting nearby.

Now, to the placemats. I began sewing them in a rather impromptu manner a couple of months ago, having blithely purchased some gorgeous Kaffe Fassett prints. Incorporating my love for Kawandi-style stitching, as well as wanting to use up scraps for the backs, I whipped through four or five, then made my way through three or four more, employing fewer scraps for the backs because that quickly lost its shine, lol. Then I bought a wee bit more fabric (LOL) because my husband actually said he really liked one of the prints, and I found it in three other colourways! And then I found myself with only a few of the original choices left, so I prepped one, stitched it up, then found another I had prepped (Go Past Me!), sewed it, and that left one more Kaffe Fassett print that simply required a back, turning that sudden but pleasant intrusion into my sewing realm into something DONE.

What did I choose for the back? Well, let me tell you a little story about my adoration for certain Anna Maria Parry (formerly Horner) fabrics! I am not slavishly devoted to her creations, but I do like many of them, and maybe five years ago (Where has that half-decade gone???)  I picked up a few from whatever collection she had going at the time. Hindsight was the name of the prints, in two different colours, as well as in a wideback in which the print was smaller. The yellow version was what I chose yesterday, because hording it is silly. Fabric is meant to be USED. So I did. And while these summer placemats are all of a Kaffe Fassett origin, this Anna Maria mat is truly my fave.

The Anna Maria Parry side.

I ADORE the colours. I ADMIRE the design. I am ENAMORED of the whole freaking thing, LOL! I made an apron with some of the wideback, used the other colour scheme in a quilt made during 2020, but this particular print has been waiting for me to.... What makes a quilter hold tightly to their stash? We buy these fabrics because they speak to our hearts, and yet we can't let go of them, so they sit in stacks, buried under other pretties. Yet life is short and summer is too, especially here in Humboldt County. It was time to bring out that BEAUTIFUL print, stitch it sweetly, and now I can stare at it every morning until it's too dirty and goes in the wash, replaced with an equally stunning mat that will be in the rotation until October.

(When I then pull out the autumn placemats, because of course I have autumn placemats waiting....) 

I didn't plan on finishing these mats so expediently because lately that's not how the sewing rolls. Lately projects stack up, making me feel somewhat uncomfortable for all I've started, then set aside, ahem. But as I just noted, summer only lasts what feels like a fleeting glance along the North Coast. And I do love me some Kawandi stitching. And small projects means quick finishes, which feels good when so much of my sewing calls for a long-haul approach. Like writing books for a series, another ahem. These placemats were just what I needed right now as chickens no longer rule the garage, but have landed as of yesterday into their coop, HURRAY! More room for them to putter, or do whatever chicks do, and more room again in the garage, and none of them can now fly out of the brooder into said garage, DUDE! For that I am WHOLLY thankful, about as grateful as having the summer placemats completed. And, lol, for getting three ebooks onto, wait for it....

Amazon.

Yes, I have allowed distribution of one series, That Which Can Be Remembered, onto that behemoth, and no, they are not free because Amazon doesn't play that way. They are ninety-nine cents each, the minimum cost. My take from that is twenty-nine cents, if you are curious. I put them there, after much soul searching, when a dear friend noted that despite how poorly Amazon treats writers (and the planet at large), my books proffer a different world view.

 

Chicks outside the brooder and inside the coop. Now their adventures begin!

More on that in a future post. As well as how the chicks are faring in their new home. For now I won't fret all the other EPP fun that awaits, nor Kawandi quilts aching for my attention, One project is out of the way, allowing more time for others. Nothing new. Seriously. Just taking what already exists, then enjoying it for the goodness it is.

Making good trouble

Sporting my Pride Flag, here I am after my walk. Waving that beautiful (if I say so myself) flag aloft always feels SO HEALING!

Joining hundreds of others locally (and perhaps up to a million Americans nationwide), I marched along the recently opened Humboldt Bay Trail South late yesterday afternoon. The breeze was pleasant, scattered sunshine a plus, but best of all were those who gathered in the spirit of Congressman John Lewis to protest the inhumane administration leading our nation.

Westernish view from the pedestrian bridge.

It's important to denote these rallies because they are happening! It's vital to denounce a corrupt government and lame-ass congress who won't do their jobs. It's meaningful to continue making noise, stirring good trouble. My right knee wasn't thrilled, a slow pace due to a dodgy meniscus, but every step felt liberating, honorable, and correct. 

A few of us were getting an early start.

I wasn't certain if I would make it out there, but after giving the chickens an hour in their run, I too required moments away from my usual element. And I hope for more marches along the Bay Trail both for its beauty and exposure to Highway 101 coming in and out of Eureka.

Another shot of the natural beauty; we only have one planet and can't waste a moment doing our part to save it AND DEMOCRACY for future generations.

These efforts MATTER! When wrong is allowed to proliferate, silence becomes complicity. I wasn't going to post about this, but a friend sent me a reminder about how important our peaceful endeavors are to publicize. So here I am, yakking about freedom, a Bay Trail, and the need for making good trouble. If you feel compelled today, make some of your own!

The comfort of routine

A sample from yesterday's work....

Reading through Book Three of The Hawk and being in the writing/revising zone....

Before I begin today's reading, I need to note how comforting it was yesterday to dive into a manuscript well known and steep myself not only in its realm, but the steadying manner of doing something related to writing. And how I didn't realize it would be so cathartic until dwelling there.

There is a place I've enjoyed for nearly twenty years, the haunts of authorhood, of piecing prose, of writing. Revisions are a part of it, prepping manuscripts, crafting the first dang draft itself; all those elements are necessary if one chooses (or is chosen, lol) to follow the muse as far as it wishes to take us. Dragging us at times, yes, but only because writers are fearful of being shot down, of not being able to write, of bad reviews, of losing the plot, of whatever dark clouds that mar our vision.

This of course can apply to artists spanning a wide range of talents. My talent is writing. And oh my goodness I am grateful to again dip my toes into those calming waters.

'Nuff said. Time to return to the early 1960s, where Lynne and Eric are realizing their most precious dream. Check out The Hawk if you're curious. Or soothe yourself in a fave pastime. And enjoy a beautiful day!

Why owning peace matters

I cannot be a channel of peace unless first I own it.

Sometimes I forget I'm semi-retired. Books to write, quilts to make, chickens to feed.... Chickens, at my age? I'm in my sixtieth year for crying out loud. What were we thinking when deciding to get baby chicks?

I'm tired, but not too weary to write a post. Just finished the dishes, not many, but our oatmeal bowls, my teapot, the stuff we need for the morning. Our kitchen is...old. Lol. No dishwasher, but a decent disposal. Big sinks. Lots of room to handwash all the dirty dishes we make. And thankfully we have an ancient concrete double sink in the equally aged laundry room to wash chick feeders and waterers. Hot water only, as the other two taps are hooked to the washer. For which I am also VERY GRATEFUL.

Despite feeling exhausted, peace has been flowing through me in healing waves. Despite needy chickens, a despotic president, and other world traumas (like what's happening to women in Afghanistan for instance), I have been feeling pretty damn calm. A few mornings ago I had more than a spate of tears for how broken is our planet, for my ill friend who has been in hospital for four weeks as well as her family trying to figure out what is wrong, and for other beloveds requiring prayers for healing and wholeness. I fully accept there will always be people in need, always some evil wrapping its gnarled fingers around the necks of unsuspecting humans. Yet balancing all that ugliness with the goodness of this life MATTERS SO VERY MUCH. I want my books to bring joy, relief, entertainment. I wish for my quilts to proffer warmth and love and wellness. I hope all my words, thoughts, and deeds are for the betterment of society. I desire to be a channel of peace.

I get no visits from Past or Future Me as this descends. All I have is my semi-retired self to offer, a body going on sixty years, a mind mostly together, my soul linked with love. Loving one another is paramount, because when we love each other, we treat each other with kindness, consideration, tenderness. We care for each other. All the crap that happens is because people won't or can't or refuse to care about one another, instead putting themselves first for whatever reason. I don't mean to boil this down to the essence, but what else is there? For if you truly love someone, their well-being will matter more than your own.

Things seem bleak right now, what with America's atrocious leadership, the appalling treatment of Palestinians, fires burning and people dying in floods, and wars raging all over this sphere. But as I said in an earlier paragraph, shite has always occurred. We can look to last century's two World Wars, then say we learned nothing from all that destruction. Why we learned nothing is for someone else to analyze. All I know is I cannot succumb to the horror, the terror, the futility. If I do that, my joy means nothing. Evil wins. I am here to love others, to do good, to be mindful, to channel peace. To raise chickens, write books, sew quilts. To craft blog posts that have little to do with books and quilts, because sometimes the things I enjoy doing aren't the focus. Love is the center. Peace is the result. I believe, and could be completely wrong, that if we demonstrate love and care, we spread peace. In loving each other, calm is the result.

The bird on the left does not like being held. Owl, on the right, is my most tame chick.

Two of our eight chickens like being held. A third accepts it. A fourth barely tolerates it. The other four won't let me hold them at all, and probably wouldn't even if I offered them meal worms. I respect those that decline my efforts, and lavish my attentions on the ones who permit me to scoop them into my palm. My tangible peace goes to those who wish for it, be they chickens or humans. As for those who choose to remain in chaos, I pray for peace to find them. Then I move on, because there's always something to do in this life. Sometimes it's as simple as sitting on the couch, admirning the waning afternoon sunshine, which here in Humboldt County is pretty darn terrific. Wherever you are today, I pray that peace finds you. And that you can share that peace with who or whatever comes your way.

Mid-year musings

Chicks we call The Clones as it's a little hard to tell them apart, lol.

Slow quilt stitching, baby chicks, and a new book distributor....

Where has the first half of 2025 gone? I thought this year would slog along, stuck in a lousy government situation, but no. 2025 is speeding past as quickly, if not more so, than the last ten years have zoomed by. Like sand slipping through my fingers is each day, as though I wake, then suddenly it's four p.m., time to do my stretches! I won't ponder that element of my existence, but I can mull over the changes to my life that certainly has NOT remained as it was previously.

Like chickens! LOL. The chicks have had outdoor time the last two days in what will eventually be their run. The first day they practically clung to one another for a good twenty minutes before finally stepping a few inches in their own directions. Today they seemed to recall the grass, the shade (oddly enough they weren't keen on going into the sun), and how much fun they had yesterday. We'll take them out again tomorrow afternoon, what with relatively warm summer temps forecast as a heat dome sits over the West Coast. We certainly didn't plan on becoming chicken tenders (my husband's joke) back in January!

The English paper piecing on this quilt is beautiful, but it's become so worn that I'm making a new top Kawandi-style. Note the patches, some of which I will be saving (and wishing I could save the actual EPP too).

As for quilting, I'm finally getting some traction on recovering (like literally recovering a sofa) a tattered EPP quilt that I did not make, but was a thrift store find years ago by my sister-in-law, who then gave the quilt to me, and I loved it so hard (and washed it so often) it is now falling apart and I'm tired of patching it hither and yon. Yes that's a long sentence, but getting around to working on this quilt has felt equally lengthy in coming, and it could be said that said quilt is merely another hand-stitching project thrown onto the already tall pile of EPP and Kawandi sewing, and you'd be right. Another long sentence, maybe it's a night for extended verbiage. It's late, already past nine p.m., but I'm in a mood to write, having snuck a little regular coffee into my usually decaf brew, plus a fair amount of jasmine tea with lunch, not that jasmine tea has heaps of caffeine, but you get the idea. Maybe unconsciously I knew I needed to be up past my usual bedtime to write this post. Or Future Me knew, and she slipped in the small scoop of regular java so I'd have barely enough wits to craft this entry.

Or something like that.

Anyway.... I barely touch my sewing machine anymore, other than flags I made in spring when I first started going to protests. I was kind of into a hand-stitching groove before 2025 began and that groove has continued, when I have time to stitch. Given the chicks, ahem, sewing time feels squeezed. Or sewing time during the day; stitching time at night remains SOLID. And for that I am VERY GRATEFUL.

Wildflowers that I had to capture because for as unpredictable and at times awful as life feels, beauty remains and we need to appreciate it.

As for Draft2Digital, I'm thankful. For still having a place to publish books. For free. I've solved the missing scene breaks issue. I'm waiting for a new vendor to fall into place (more about that once it's fallen into place). I'm feeling like D2D will be fine. FINE. Um, fine. Just use three hard carriage returns when moving onto a new scene, and all will be...fine.

(Especially since I did write a quarter of the next Enran book last month, WOO HOO!!)

There's more I could say, but I'm starting to yawn, so probably best to close this up. 2025 has been trying. Distressing at times. Yet I live my life doing what I love, creating stories and quilts, going to protests, and now raising chickens. CHICKENS! I truly never saw that coming.