Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 38

Navigating the gusts of change

My bestie snapping pics of the sunset.

Previously I was a socks on first then shoes kind of person. Lately I've been a one sock and one shoe on then the other sock and shoe type of gal. I don't exactly know what that means long term, but it seemed full of meaning when I was considering how to start this post.

If I had my way, I'd be in the thick of hand sewing an Alexandria quilt. Instead I'm full of machine-piecy notions. I didn't plan 2023 to meander along this road, but other things have occurred that weren't on my list of To Do's, definitely a let go and let God kind of year. And if that isn't your scene, how about the title of today's installment; navigating the gusts of change. Either way, I'm feeling blown off my preferred choice of course, but better to make hay or quilts or write books while the sun shines or the machine sews or the prose emerges than not.

My BFF spent the weekend with us, perhaps that's why I'm in this introspective mood. I've known this lovely lady for forty years, boy that's not a small chunk of time anymore, lol. We shared wonderful chats, delicious milkshakes, and a chilly but awesome beach outing where the sunset beckoned for us to remain on the sand, yet the wind pushed me toward the car, leaving her to enjoy the day's end, then she too hightailed back to the car, where my husband had already retreated. We're getting old, I considered, not willing to stand out in the wind despite nature's beauty, easily seen from inside a warm vehicle.

I wanted to spend this year hand-sewing, but a pinch nerve overruled that desire. I wanted to share our home with my husband's sister and her husband but cancer blew those plans askew. I wanted to draft a sequel to The Earthen Chronicles but instead I'm writing a story about life and death and alternate realities. No big mystery to where that theme emerged, ahem, but I am thoroughly enjoying crafting the kind of tale that truly drives my muse, love and regret heaped with a large dose of how can the heart move past the agony to heal? I don't know how this book will end, which is half the fun of writing it, and right now I need a copious amount of joy. The machine-piecing is also laced with the thrill of employing a new manner of sewing, those easy-peasy sixteen-patch quilt blocks immensely satisfying in a ba-da-bing-ba-da-boom manner. Hanging out with a bestie was a big win for my soul, which still aches for a beloved lost in the corporeal. I remain on this plane, at times wondering why.

Such is life, rife with peaks and valleys and marvelous sunsets that at times aren't to admire longer than seconds. A reason, a season, forever; this rule remains, yet not for us to choose how or why or when. Right now I'm happy putting on one sock, then a shoe. Maybe that's how it is, as one approaches the latter section of their fifties. I feel like I've stepped into a new reality, but man I'm super-grateful writing and sewing remain within this realm. And tomorrow I'll try it all again.

Three days in a quilt and novel life

It's smaller now, all those quarter-inch edges sewn together.

This afternoon I.... Well, I didn't finish a quilt top but I completed a goal of attaching all the squares in each row, with many of the rows attached as well. This particular quilt, or the first couple of rows, was laid out on the design wall last fall. Then other items began muscling their way onto the wall and....

Something had to give. Initially I was going to take down the upper rows, but once I'd removed all on the bottom, I didn't have the heart to peel from the batting those squares which had laid claim for weeks, well, months. Slapping up the rest of the pre-cut prints, I made it my aim this week to get them attached in some manner so if nothing else, I wouldn't have to pull up the above photo and redo it again when squares fell from the batting.

My mornings have been pleasantly usurped by writing; I am having SO MUCH FUN with this new story, oh my goodness. My cup spillith over with words, with wanting to be in that world, with those people, telling their stories. This is why I write, because when it's ON, it infuses me with energy, lifts me from where I am, taking me far away (or not so far, as the current WIP may be) to where I'm not thinking about sewing or our cool-ish weather or anything other than crafting scenes, plotting twists, dissecting dialogue.

Post-lunch (or after the post-lunch coffee) has been dedicated to sewing; while I had planned a lot of hand stitching this year, instead I am happy to sit behind my machine, letting it do the heavy lifting. Or smooth sailing as a size twelve needle runs through various fabrics like nobody's business. Many Art Gallery prints are within this quilt, but other quilting cottons too. I like mixing up four and a half inch squares with eight and a half inch squares, makes for an entertaining variety of how to sew up row after row of patchwork. Sewing is a different kind of enjoyment than writing, less cerebral, more tangible. Guiding fabrics under the presser foot, all that's required is to (basically) follow a quarter-inch seam allowance. I don't have to worry about foreshadowing, no concern to character development, or too much tell and not enough show. As long as seams nest, crisp corners result, a pretty sweet deal.

Sixteen years of noveling, nine of sewing; whoa, NINE YEARS! While I had always wanted to write stories, I never pined to sew quilts. These differing pastimes fit perfectly into my world, one at times hogging the limelight, but right now they are meshing about fifty-fifty and I am reveling in the utter joy of expressing my favourite hobbies to just about their fullest potentials. And that is an amazing sensation, worthy of a few words.

Here's to the thrill of outlets for creative endeavors. May your weekends be brimming with personal fulfillment!

Wearing my writing hat

Recent creation as well as how I'm feeling about my latest WIP.

There's an authorial euphoria in the air; while I didn't write today, I've amassed over 10K for the word count since Thursday when I started writing my latest novel. Not much thought goes into the daily prose, merely typing what flows from my brain onto the virtual document. Speaking solely for myself, there is no better manner in which to let the sentences, paragraphs, scenes develop than by simply permitting those elements of a chapter to emerge. It's magical, liberating and so creatively satisfying.

I took off today, merely reading over what I've produced; it's not bad, always nice to note. Writing so uninhibitedly, I wonder if it's all crap. It's not, cool! It's a draft certainly, but with many of them under my belt, I'd like to think I kinda know what I'm doing, lol. Always room for revisions, but when half-pantsing a story, that it vaguely makes sense is reassuring.

The biggest thrill is the ability to write so freely; it has been an incalculable blessing to write so prolifically from about day one of my fiction journey; I was forty when getting started, coming on fifty-seven soon enough, dude! A few fits and slow starts, some tales left by the roadside, but mostly I've been able to churn out a chapter per day over those sixteen years. My goodness, sixteen years of writing? Jeez Louise! So yeah, still having the wherewithal to type type type (lots of blah blah blah) is awesome! Reaffirms that my writing hat still fits.

At times I wondered, especially last fall when my NANO gig bombed. Not self-doubt per se, more like reluctant acceptance that at fifty-six, I might not be the writer of old. Past Me (of three months ago when NANO took place) shrugs, not willing to consider such musings. Future Me (of an indeterminate time) nods, noting that yes, at some unknown but inevitable point, the writing will slow to a crawl. Present Me however gleefully claps hands together, giggling uncontrollably. I still can write like I used to, maybe not LONG chapters (4,500-5K words) but chapters encompassing two or three scenes ranging from 2-3.5K for the word count. Maybe not six or eight days straight, perhaps four days with one off to recharge. But the fact remains that I can write without feeling like I'm dredging snot through my navel, painful to say the least.

So I'm gonna keep wearing my writing hat, colour unknown, but the fit is perfect. Actually it's a blue and yellow hat, with pink and teal trim. Orange tassels with lime green centers. A plum and red pom-pom sits on top, garishly unattractive but easy to find. Like the words currently, God willing.

Gratifying emotional endeavors

Two blocks made from Art Gallery fabrics and some beautiful leafy linen.

Despite a still niggly pinched nerve, satisfying work has been accomplished. Today is the second in a row of decent writing, a new book finally emerging after a few weeks of hand-wringing amid personal upheaval. Yesterday I sat at the same machine where I am right now, slowly but steadily churning out a twenty-four hundred word chapter. I cannot put into prose how awesome that felt, then amazingly I did the same again this morning! Three K was added, and I feel it safe to say another novel is underway.

More about that in a few; meanwhile I am definitely up to my armpits in blocks for a sixteen-patch quilt, another project desperately needed both for practical and soul-bandwidth purposes. I'm sewing together 4.5" fat quarter-length strips, then chopping those into 4.5" wide strips, swapping two, then nesting seams. Fairly mindless but so full of pleasure that my heart feels revived. The last few months have been those of a heavy-duty variety, experienced only a few times but carrying the weight of multiple agonies. Machine sewing a simple pattern with airy cottons and lofty linens brings a terrific texture to large blocks that hopefully will translate into a gorgeous quilt once completed.

But let me wax lyrically about the writing a wee bit more.... Last fall I abandoned A Rose Blissful, wondering if the malaise was due to the topic, the timing, age, an ill relative. Certainly a combination of those are probably the culprit, but at the time I didn't have the energy to analyze why writing was so difficult. Closing the door on that story was my only recourse, and while I didn't allow myself to stew over it, obviously it remained a sticking point, as here I am mildly grousing about it now. In the back of my head was the not wish to be considered notion of: Is writing still my passion? What writer wants to delve deeply into such a topic? But it's there every time I consciously ponder it when I'm not actively engaged with a novel. Revisions/edits are their own separate animal; partaking of them to me constitutes writing. But I haven't even had the focus or desire to open a manuscript and poke around paragraphs. Yes I've been here and there and back again, which doesn't lend itself to dedicated writing work. But I've been home now a couple of weeks and until yesterday, nothing was stirring. Was I slightly frightened, perhaps. More is that I was exhausted, the noveling mojo fast asleep.

Yet as a new quilt emerged, so did my need to tell a story, out of the blue and into the black and white of a virtual document while subtle summer-hued prints were sliced into appropriate lengths, then sewn back together as though nothing else could occur. How is it an enormous amount of draft and craft enthusiasm could suddenly descend upon me simultaneously? I have no answer for that, so instead I'll write. And sew. And take some pictures of the sewing. And keep writing. And maybe finish a draft. And probably complete a quilt. And take some baby steps away from a fairly tumultuous year. And find some lovely heartpeace.

Playlists of songs and cottons

Fabrics in front have returned to my stash. The rest remain in the tote for now.

I've been breaking down a story as well as sorting through a tote with fabrics meant for the Alexandria quilt. To certain prints I had pinned pencil-written notes about where to use colour combinations, but yesterday I felt it was time to put away many of those fabrics, saving some for a future project. Of the twelve hexagon blocks I had prepped, three remain to be stitched together, and if I add a half-dozen yellow blocks, plus a couple more, I can make a quilt reminiscent of what I made last summer for my brother-in-law. No idea when or for whom such a comforter will be needed, but it's nice to have stashed away the basics of something pleasing.

As for the tunes.... In the old days I used to base a novel upon a playlist, each song representing a chapter. When I wrote The Hawk, that rule never materialized, the story so out of the blue I merely began writing and.... Five years later I was done, ahem. I didn't make a playlist for That Which Can Be Remembered, deciding that element of noveling was no longer required. Yet a playlist has emerged, sort of by accident, and while it's not short, it's also more like a soundtrack to the overall plot. A few extra tunes have landed upon it, but I'm not overtly fiddling, well, a little fiddling. But currently it stands at thirty-seven songs and I can tell you right now this story, assuming it turns into more than playlist fodder, isn't going to be thirty-seven chapters in length.

Is that rash, assuming anything at this juncture? Turks and Syrians didn't dream of the catastrophe that has befallen their nations. A year ago my family had no notion of the alterations approaching, other than maybe my BIL, who never went to the doctor unless the situation was dire. But he must have felt something, one leg riddled with cancer when he was diagnosed in March of '22. Perhaps he chalked up the pain to aging, or the cold. Those details aren't relevant now, his passing starkly reminding that lives are here, then gone, in the time it takes for cancer to overwhelm or the Earth to rip in two.

I'm using hyperbole for the latter, although having just experienced a strong quake, I can imagine the terror felt by survivors, also the sense of loss by those searching through rubble for their beloveds. How quickly our existences, our plans and dreams, are shattered by natural disasters and personal tragedies. How one quilt became mere blocks and a playlist possibly leading to fiction; it's as though nothing can be taken for granted or presumed to occur.

But the laundry still needs to be gathered, dishes washed, entries written. Prayers offered for so many, most unknown to me, yet especially for those I cherish dearly, and those having moved to another plane. I don't know where my brother-in-law dwells, although as I observe sunrises, swooping birds make me wonder is he among them keeping an eye on us here? Is he a small creature in the Midwest, lovingly watching over his widow, is he a spirit wafting through a mosque where those now homeless are trying to stay warm? I have my ideas, maybe he's all those notions. I don't believe his essence no longer breathes; instead he proffers calm and love in some form. Which is all I want to do in my small way with stories and quilts, with my hands and heart. Maybe not as I had wished at the start of the year, but curated fabrics can easily be swapped to another tote, the order of songs quickly rearranged. Chapters possibly written as personal therapy or for a wider audience; I have no idea what happens next, but despite heartache, good awaits on the horizon. Of that I am sure.

Seam ripping

Alterations afoot.

Think of it as HEAVY DUTY EDITS. Or maybe what someone experiences when the rug is pulled out from under them. Or Risks Take Rake Omg.... Whatever it is, it's not in-the-moment fun. But ultimately it hurts less than beating one's head against a wall.

Or maybe it doesn't; I can't assume or presume anything right now. All I can do is accept that hand-stitching an Alexandria quilt isn't for me. Realizing that late last night, then fully grasping the concept (and my seam ripper) today mid morning has been a huge decision; this EPP project had barged in like an overbearing character, muscling their rather expansive quilty self onto an already crowded fabric docket. I acquiesced because 1) I always wanted to make this pattern and 2) Why not? When writing, I don't shy away from those pushy, unexpected characters who always seem just what my story requires. I'm thinking Ronan from That Which Can Be Remembered or Seth in The Hawk, folks necessary to those tales although I had no idea they needed to be included. Alexandria was the same, or so I thought. But now with two blocks only attached yesterday firmly DETACHED, a deep-ish sewing peace flows through me. It doesn't quite blunt the chill which lingers, but it's welcome.

I'm not going to ponder what happens to the finished blocks, nor shall I mull over fabric purchased or diamonds basted. I have considered what to do with the inner circle, pictured below with seven of the twelve blocks; I laid this out just yesterday morning, surprised I had more than half the hexagon blocks done. Little did I know by evening's end this would be the only snapshot taken of this quilt-but-not-a-quilt.

The light blue inner bit will eventually be appliqued onto a large piece of fabric, probably a couple of them sewn together unless I use a wideback solid. It's pretty and I'm glad to have made it. Will make for a nice lap/baby quilt, one of these days.

But its original purpose no longer appeals. Maybe it was merely to forge the center, make the attempt. Like an unfinished novel, it was to put into practice but in a truncated manner that didn't require more than what it is. Sometimes lives are like that too, those who pass far too soon for our liking, be those years in the couple of decades or several. What remains is a beautiful mosaic that needs to be appreciated exactly for what it is, not for what we wish had emerged. 

Easier to rip out seams than reattach heart strings, which remains far beyond my abilities....

Risks Take Rake omg....

Hexie basted earlier today.

Today's title isn't a typo, but how my eldest responded on a family text thread this morning. You could also say it's apropos of how all in my clan are grappling with last week's disturbance in the force. Heads-up: this post may be littered with random well known and intimate familial sayings. Risks take rake omg could well become shorthand for various WTF acronyms. Feel free to adopt any and all that fit your situation.

Today's forecast is for continued shivers and the occasional tremble, especially when photos of the recently deceased pop up on one's screensaver. There aren't enough words or pregnant pauses to adequately describe what my crew is attempting to digest, and that doesn't include my sister-in-law, suddenly a widow. I can't fathom her heartache, she can't really either. Says she's not thinking about it much, except when it steals over her. Or I assume that's a drop in the bucket, the writer in me. Or maybe it's me, attempting to focus on hexie flowers or repairing a blown-out knee from my eldest grandson's jeans. We can make them stronger, faster, a fabric-bionic knee replacement inside and out. The soundtrack is courtesy of Chicago, Belle and Sebastian, The Temperance Movement, one Television song, and a few tracks from Eurovision 2022. I'm trying to plot out a story via song, makes me feel like I'm accomplishing something beyond bionic sewing.

But the English paper piecing trumps, basting one-inch hexies for a collection of cotton flowers that I'll applique onto some yellow Kona fabric. Keeps my hands and mind occupied because there's only so much caffeine one can healthily ingest. Only so much indescribable confusion one can catalogue (risks take rake omg). The playlist RAWKS; even in the midst of this entry I'm swooping to the beats, feet and arms engaged in the rhythm of melodrama, each song representing a chapter (thereabouts), each five-seven tunes comprising an act that makes some kind of sense. Because right now not much makes any kind of effing reality, purpose, reason. The how behind death can be reduced to physiological footnotes. The why is wholly intangible.

And sometimes the how and why are interchangeable. How could this have happened can be rewritten as Why the *#%@ did such a good person die? Television's "1880 Or So" begins with the lyric, 'Rose of my heart....' Hearing those words from the also recently deceased Tom Verlaine makes me close my eyes, wondering why, how.... For what reason are we here, then taken on sudden frigid winds (risks take rake omg). Not long after we moved to this property, my husband dug up an ax, to which my brother-in-law said, "Save that, we might have a use for it." Over which we chuckled, for that BIL was always thinking ahead, whether it be for necessary (or not) tools to fixing broken things (from small to large) to the right time for breath to stop, a life to end, when the last pink faded from the sunset-lit western horizon.

We couldn't make him stronger or faster. All we could do was hold his hands, whisper how loved he was, how we'd take care of his wife and each other. Then the sliding door was opened and somehow he slipped out as we studied his face, wishing for one more cognizant nod. Risks take rake omg; thanks for letting me ramble.

Hospice quilts and roads home

Made for my mom when she entered hospice, this quilt graces our sofa.

Our beloved has passed, a beautiful moment of affection, grace, and letting go. I was privileged to be among those seeing off this man to a new plane, my heart aching for the tears of his widow yet grateful for his presence in all the lives so blessed to have known him.

This title was from a week ago when I was going to write about having visited my youngest daughter and her crew, but there was no time as I then caught a flight east to be with another branch of my family. The quilt pictured above was from when my mom died. A different one was made for my brother-in-law last summer, and it was in use all week to keep him warm.

Roads home take us from east to west, back east and beyond. They flow over mountain ranges and vast swathes of our nation. They amble alongside rushing rivers muddy brown from violent storms or soar high over quiet snow-laden acreage. They are pleasant and pensive, poignant and painful. Sometimes they are cushioned by comforters that later act as gentle reminders of how sorrow turns to healing.

I'm going home today, another road traveled back across the country. With me I'll carry items previously belonging to a man so deeply admired, and I'll don those shirts and sweaters knowing he'd be glad such apparel is not only still in use, but acting as a salve on weary hearts. His wife, my sister-in-law, insisted as soon as I arrived to take whatever I wished, wanting to share in his graciousness. Perhaps no mortal more full of grace and kindness has lived, or maybe I'm biased. A bright light has gone out; may we honor him by carrying on his sweet humanity every day.

The muted muse

Green and blue hexagons waiting to be sewn into blocks.

Several still days of my writing life have accrued. The depletion of my emotional bandwidth is mostly to blame, what with aftershocks, bomb cyclones, and impending loss colliding. The result is I feel barely capable of cognitive thought, and very grateful for all the fabric I cut recently. Hand sewing takes little out of me mentally, although my right shoulder is beginning to protest from the uptick in slow stitching.

Past Me has no good advice; she's dwelling in memories that occurred before last spring when cancer was diagnosed. Future Me is also staying out of the picture; perhaps she's quietly steering me to days when atmospheric and emotional storms are few. Right now it's me, myself and Present I bumbling about; drinking warm caffeinated tea, listening to the rain. Gazing at the still sparkling Christmas lights on the front fence, peering into the darkness of a winter morning. Well, I was doing that until I sat at my computer. Now I'm staring at a bright monitor, mulling over how I have zero interest in writing more than this post. Not that plots have disappeared, I still have more story ideas than sense. But common sense dictates that when so burdened by sorrow, leave the writing. It will be there another day.

Shall it, Present Me wonders, sipping my tea. Will the impetus return after a loved one is gone, beyond the rainy season (for which most Californians are indeed grateful if not ready for a wee break), past the unpleasant sense of fear when the windows rattle or a loud sound emerges. I was especially shaky yesterday as something kept making creaking noises, a bird accidentally bonking against the panes maybe? A Go Bag has been on my list of To Do's, and finally it is underway; change of clothes, spare charged phone, flash drive recently backed up and other bits in case of an earthquake or power outage or UFO landing in the driveway. One never knows, or if Future Me is aware she's smartly keeping her mouth shut. My nerves are stretched quite thinly right now, very little room remains for anything traumatic to be absorbed.

I'm not good at writing when stressed. My creative life prefers peace, or at least the wordy side of my artful endeavors. And I'm not that young anymore. How much age plays into my writing malaise is debatable, but undeniable. Past Me gently reminds me that after Mom died in summer of 2018, I didn't write anything new for two years. TWO YEARS, she huffs softly. Not that I was completely fallow; I did plenty of revisions, yet the necessary energy/passion/drive to create something new was wholly absent. Future Me nods, her arms folded over her chest, not the most encouraging body language, but she's wiser than Past Me, older too. And here I sit between them, my younger self wishing to proffer encouragement while one elder provides understanding for my current predicament. Which is very nice, Present Me smiles at them both, but does little to assuage all my inner turmoil.

I ache for a man facing the end of his life. I cringe for a woman dealing with impending widowhood. I loathe considering all who have lost their homes and peace of mind due to quakes and floods and other natural disasters. My peace of mind is fluid, at times grateful for multiple blessings, then thrown into a dark void, bleh! Past Me sighs while Future Me continues to nod, but her arms no longer grip her upper body in apprehension. Her hands are clasped in front of her, a tender smile on her face. This too will pass, she seems to convey, although when and how remain cloistered. Go easy on yourself, she murmurs, Past Me adding her assent, softly patting my shoulders. Together they step away, then parting to different directions, leaving me to close this post with a smidgen more peace than when I began it. Go easy on myself. Good advice in all circumstances.

Part Two: Lives in disarray

Hexagon block quilt top photographed in March 2021.

The quilt above lives in the Midwest. Initially I made the EPP blocks assuming I would connect them not appliqued on solid squares but sewn together by hand. Yet my hands were achy back in late 2020, so that idea was scuppered for a more friendly version, which actually resulted in a twin being fashioned from excess blocks, call that a win.

The photo was taken in our old Silicon Valley backyard not long before we moved to the North Coast. Relatives in Wisconsin were to be the recipients of the quilt, but it wasn't going to live in their Midwestern home; it was going to dwell in Humboldt County where they would visit us when their winters were bitter and ours merely cool. We had our retirement house then, but weren't yet living in it full time.

That quilt top was carefully folded, then packed away. Then my husband and I made the big decision to jumpstart retirement living, and all our belongings were placed into boxes, heading several hours up the California coast, where we started a new chapter, one that would often include our Wisconsin beloveds. That quilt top resided in the small closet in my office/sewing room, awaiting the perfect time for completion.

But plans can be blown away in the time it takes for MRIs and CAT scans and PET scans; not quite a year ago one so loved in our clan was diagnosed with cancer. A treatable cancer, but also aggressive. Chemo was administered, prayers offered, hopes alight. In late spring I attached a cuddly lap blanket as the backing for this quilt, recalling from my dad's battle with cancer that despite warm temps outside, those undergoing chemotherapy are often chilled, and indeed this quilt came in handy as an amazing person endured a host of chemicals to fight lymphoma. And for a brief time in late summer, this awesome soul seemed to have won the battle.

Cancer is an insidious, vile disease. Despite many treatments proffered, our beloved is facing the end of his life. I won't discount the slender chance of some possible miracle, it happens. Yet I am aware those odds are extremely slim, and the most likely outcome is this person's corporeal death. The concept is sobering, shattering, shitty. The last six weeks have been geared toward the hope that a very intensive treatment would prove beneficial. And for a short time, the news was positive. Yesterday we learned that doctors feel otherwise, our beloved's health in a poor state. Hospice care is the next step, kind of hard to wrap one's head around something so final.

For most of yesterday I pondered this marvelous soul and the woman who loves him; their marriage is lengthy, their joys and sorrows having connected them in a manner that makes me ache for what lies ahead for her, separation from her soulmate. In partaking of matrimony, usually til death do us part is stated or implied. I don't know the essence of their vows, but I am pretty certain that element was included. And now that element rears its vicious head. It's a lot to fathom.

Public horrors aren't any more miserable than private hells, merely more visible. I built a fire last night, not wishing to be cold as I sat and stitched while the Warriors played an awful game against the Suns. That loss seemed to cap off a terrible day for our family, yet my beloved wasn't going to let it end on such a depressing note; suddenly Bluey was on our TV; Muffin turned up on her cousins' doorstep in desperate need of a nap. Bluey got distracted from a family game of hide and seek. And finally, in what has become my newest fave episode, Bluey and her family went "Camping". Bluey made friends with a youngster, Jean-Luc, who only spoke French and when she finds him gone, her heart is broken. Yet her mum Chilli remarks that maybe Bluey might see Jean-Luc again one day, because the world is a magical place. I went to bed last night with tears in my eyes, marveling at how joy emerges despite massive heartache. And today, in rehashing what has clouded my family for nearly a year since cancer was found, tears again spill down my cheeks. This nasty, mean-spirited, disease-ridden world is also a beautiful, joyous, magical place. More quilts, or at least more EPP is required, more Bluey too. And prayers and affection and the continued hope that all done in love will indeed triumph. Right now, hope is essential in all manner of things.