Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 9

Chit chat with Future Me

Flags, courage, gardening, and staying the course....

Future Me was hanging around over the weekend, especially on Saturday as I finished my Pride in the Flag flag. She has been conspicuously ABSENT for a good while, since Breathing space. I don't blame her in a way. I've certainly wanted to abscond to distant lands.

I do not have the luxury of time travel. She, however, possesses fairy-godlike abilities, usually for which I am grateful. This weekend her presence was minimal, yet soothing, as though she kept the rain from falling until I could photograph Pride on the laundry line.

She didn't say much, perhaps our conversations are mostly of an ethereal nature, absorbed like breathing. Sometimes her voice wafts softly, often she snorts sharply. She does a lot of snorting, smirking, eye rolling, as though I'm a truculent child in constant need of being upbraided. Or maybe she's weary of this on-off-on again existence, wishing she could retire to sew or write or garden until her heart cried UNCLE.

She gazes at me, not a frown or smirk. We don't like gardening, she says quietly.

No, we don't, I agree. I am thinking about planting flowers from seeds this year, I add, wondering how she'll respond.

She nods. You should. They'd be pretty.

Need to clear a space for them, I proffer.

He can do that for you, her voice almost a smile.

The he is our husband. My husband, whatever! Timeline conflabs get tricky, trying not to think of myself in the third person, or even as plural. Yes, he can, I say, not wanting to drive her away. She's here for a reason, or maybe I'm asking for trouble, hoping for information from beyond where I now reside.

She snorts, and I smile. She never gives up anything concrete, merely flitting around like a butterfly, wanting me to notice something other than my navel.

Now she clears her throat. Yet she hesitates. Yes, I ask softly, truly not wanting to know more than I should, nor do I want her to leave. Something comforting about oneself from the future, if for nothing more than imagining there is a future with me in it.

Lots of obstacles, she murmurs.

Really?

She shrugs, then nods, again clearing her throat. Just as she starts to speak, she pauses, then turns away.

Do I keep staying the course, I query with mild trepidation.

She faces me again, nodding with vigor. Oh yes, certainly. She smirks, then clasps her hands in front of her.

A long silence feels like knives, coarse words, grimaces, aching steps taken for no purpose other than gaining steps (a topic for another entry). I'm going to wave my gorgeous new flag in front of our local courthouse today amid rain, strong winds, and of course the outward foolishness of such an endeavor in my small section of the country, not to mention it's only a flag, no words of protest or clamor. Just one person raising....

A ruckus, she smiles. Raise a big ruckus, as large as you can. Dance in boots, fly that flag as highly as your arms can reach. Hold on to it, she then snorts. It's going to be very windy out today.

I nod, a fluttering within my chest like the heavens have opened right here in my office.

And keep raising it, she concludes, walking away.

Keep raising what, I call.

She glances back, her brassy smile like a shining star. Raise a little hell, she grins. Then she faces the horizon, heading into a virtual sun.

Pride in the Flag

I really LOVE how vibrant are these colours!

I just finished my second flag. I don't know how many I'll make, but I sure enjoy creating them.

I learned A LOT in sewing the first one, which I have belatedly titled, 'Stars and Swans-Reclaiming the Flag'. I learned that 1) Flags aren't hard to make, but unless you follow a well-written tutorial, best assume your efforts will be improv. 2) My flags are art as well as defiance tools. I want them to be pretty as well as functional. And 3) Just when I thought with Kawandi-inspired quilting that I was ready to give up my sewing machine, I was wrong.

First off, here are the measurements, all pre-sewing: Union rectangle measured seventeen by twenty-four inches. Short stripes were three inches wide, thirty-five inches long. Long stripes were three inches wide and fifty-nine inches long. I sewed some test strips to made sure the stripes were the correct width, and I could have increased the stripe width to maybe three and an eighth wide, but only if I really wanted to be picky.

This makes a flag that can be gripped at the corners and extended fully for someone with a wingspan of five feet, which means me, lol. But let me note that on Monday, holding up a flag for well over two and a half hours made for some SORE UPPER ARMS afterwards.

I chose mostly Kona solids for the stripes; the dark orange is a Connecting Threads solid, while the yellow is a bargain cotton from Joann. All the low-volume stripes are Art Gallery Fabrics. AGF is great for not fraying, as are batiks. I know the Kona fabrics will be a stringy mess eventually, but I didn't want those stripes to overwhelm the pink and blue union improv. The AGF prints aren't too busy, in my opinion.

Union block up close; twenty EPP hearts, plus more in the top fabric as a bonus.

As for that union block.... I gathered pink and light blue scraps and simply began sewing. I chose fairly bright prints so they wouldn't looked washed out when set against the vibrant solids. I thoroughly LOVED putting together that block; something so spontaneous and joyful about improv stitching!

Initially I was going to use one large-ish EPP heart for the center of the union block, but as usual, I didn't realize how large that rectangle would need to be. I had three-quarter inch jewel paper pieces, so I started with fifteen jewel hearts, then added five more once I had them laid out on the block. I hand-appliqued the hearts; I considered machine-stitching them onto the block, but that would have been 1) Loud. 2) Futzy for the short sides of the papers. 3) Loud. My ears truly don't handle machine sewing that well anymore; I wear earplugs and noise-cancelling headphones. But when spread out over a few days, machine sewing is doable. Especially when the colours are MARVELOUS and the reason essential.

I'm planning to display this flag in the coming week. I might sneak in my red, white, and blue flag on Tuesday after I give it a good pressing, as well as perhaps hemming the sides as I did Pride. While the backs of both flags are exposed, at least in hemming the edges I'm minimizing the fraying. And right now, the fewer frayed edges (and nerves) the better.

On the design wall. Not as fancy as out in the wild, but how it appears after I hemmed those edges.

Not sure what the next flag will express, other than my need to dive into bright colours while fashioning my interpretation of a symbol I've loathed for years. Yet fear and loathing must be set aside, and for some strange and amazing reason, making flags brings me immense joy and peace, a wholly unexpected reaction to this particular diversion.

As long as my ears hold out, and the need for a vibrant, meaningful banner remains, I guess I'm making flags. My sewing machine escapes its cover, living to see another day....

Nothing but book talk

The colours in this shot are referred to within my book. The birds aren't, but they are a nice touch. Photo from July 2024, taken at Humboldt Bay, California.

Okay, so this is MOSTLY novel chatter, but a heads-up: my latest fictional WIP, written in late summer 2023, seems to possess much ado concerning our current political climate. I can't escape that as I read over three chapters each morning, making me wonder if I should release it sooner than I had planned. Current launch date is for March seventeenth. Maybe writing this post will clarify that decision.

Or make known to me something other than outside noise; I've been trying to engage in beloved pastimes. With writing, all I can manage are revisions, which is as necessary as the drafting of said manuscripts. And I am TRULY GRATEFUL to have books at which to poke, not merely for the distraction, which isn't how I usually approach my writing. It's never previously resembled a distraction; for years (nineteen of them) it has been a FOCUS. It slipped from that top spot after my mom died in 2018, but in the middle of Covid I reclaimed it, or let it envelope me. In 2023 I wrote four new drafts, thought I had died and gone to authorial heaven! I thought 2024 would proffer at least a couple of additions to what had turned into a new series, but that didn't occur. I thought the beginning of 2025 would usher in a new story. AHEM. Now I'm *hoping* in May I will have the gumption/courage/wherewithal to write something NEW. I won't assume anything, but I can hope till the cows come home.

What I'd LOVE right now, among other things, is to be writing something new so I can get lost in it. Reading through a story is great, but immersing myself in a new world, now that's relief. I mean it's creative energy marvelously expended. Am I looking for a panacea, a placebo? That's not what writing has been in the past, or at least not that explicitly. Yet I've used my writing to deflect personal hoo haa, or at least wade through it in a safe boat that doesn't leak. Never have I tried to write while my democracy crumbles around me so vividly. So far, I'm not handling that well.

Except when I read those three chapters each morning; how did I craft a tale eighteen months ago that now feels so relevant? Often I note how the writing is a complete GIFT. I write from a place within my heart that is wholly attuned to grace. Splitting the Sky was originally written over a dozen years ago, but certainly speaks to RIGHT NOW. Is the third book of The Enran Chronicles similar? I feel like it is, and who knows what shape America will be in less than four weeks? Perhaps I should accelerate the release date for my next story. Maybe in another month I won't have that liberty.

Paranoid, maybe. Probably. I really don't know anymore. It's extremely hard to walk the line between despair and joy. Maybe even considering writing something new is folly; what is the point? Then I remember this quote: It may be that the day of judgment will dawn tomorrow; in that case, we shall gladly stop working for a better future. But not before.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote those words in 1943 while in prison. I am sitting in Humboldt County, unfettered by walls and chains other than those of my own making. I went to a protest on Monday. Perhaps I need to find the time and inner mettle to indeed write a novel, if only because I can. So much to ponder, where previously I left politics and revolutions for others to coordinate. Yet I must reconsider my activities to better reflect the times I now dwell within.

Not that I'm any closer to deciding when I'll release my next novel, but once I make the decision, I'll be sure to let you know, insert winking emoji HERE!

Three chapters a day

My vision of the American flag; she's weary after hours of being waved, but merely needs a good pressing for further activity.

Like I'm limping along with the revisions, but everything is currently meted out in what I am able to accomplish....

A little bit of this, a smidgen of that... Thus is not merely my day-to-day, which helps in knowing I'm not alone in feeling.... How am I feeling this morning?

From yesterday's protest in Eureka, California.

Good. I've read three chapters of the next Enran Chronicles book, which I am LOVIN'! Can't wait to publish it next month! (It has a timely message that I didn't foresee when I wrote it in late summer 2023, but I'm still aiming for a St. Patrick's Day release.)

I slept well last night; might be due to participating in a No Kings protest at the Humboldt County Courthouse, WOO HOO! (Though I wish said protest wasn't necessary, WHATEVER!) Being surrounded by so many patriotic folks was a balm on my parched soul, feeling the assertive PUSH to get people to give a damn! And they did; so many cars honked in support, so many made peace signs and thumbs up as they passed, such a marvelous and revelatory moment! Just as good was how our local news outlets, both TV and internet, reported the protest! Despite major news organizations ignoring the nationwide event, that we had local coverage makes me hope other towns and cities did as well.

Signs for others to display.

A dear friend sends me uplifting quotes and today's was basically: Do all you can do. Don't fret what is beyond you, because others will pick up those tasks. Every single action is MEANINGFUL!!

More balm on my soul that wishes a day lasted forty-eight hours! I have another idea for a flag, so despite thinking I'm kinda done with my sewing machine, I'll be seated at it as soon as I can squeeze in the time to....

Make a change. Raise my voice. To dissent and denounce and craft and create and rest and wash dishes and throw laundry in the wash but maybe continue to avoid cleaning the shower. Lol.

Yours truly yesterday at the protest.

But I should sweep the kitchen. And perhaps muck out the loo, or two. And those three chapters a day: Heck YEAH! Three chapters a day instead of five. Sewing a flag alongside hand-stitching on Red Sky at Night Kawandi-style. Getting my steps but not in front of municipal buildings, merely in the quiet of my little corner of our planet.

Every little step counts. Wishing you a great week, loads of peace, and heaps of We Got This smiles no matter how dark looks the night. The dawn always arrives. ALWAYS!

Reject Domestic Terrorism

I've been struggling with the term fascism; it's somewhat esoteric, not glamorous or eye-catching. 

Domestic terrorism leaves nothing to the imagination. All that the current administration is doing/threatening/stopped from accomplishing because of lawsuits is just that: Domestic Terrorism.

In my previous post, I lauded the need for JOY. Terrorism's main aim is to rob one of said JOY. To reduce one to such fear and powerlessness that one becomes inactive, feeble, incapable of existence. That is what the president is trying to do.

This is short post, merely to spread the word. Movements have been fraught with what to call the revolution. The administration has made its aims CLEAR. Let us do the same.

REJECT DOMESTIC TERRORISM! Especially when it emerges from the highest position in our nation.

Safeguarding the joy

Nearly finished with another small block for Alexandria. Fashioning another bit for that EEP behemoth is somewhat akin to keeping alive the flame of JOY right now.

While this blog remains about writing and quilting, something has altered. I have changed and no matter what emerges from the current political situation, my nation will never be as it was before.

I didn't wish to become a revolutionary. I'm fifty-eight years old, never wanted to be this damn strong again. But revolutionaries come in all ages, from all walks of life, performing tasks previously unconsidered. No one, or very damn few, take Revolutionary 101 in elementary, middle, or high school. And those who study such topics in college rarely have the opportunity to use all that learning in the real world.

The definition of revolutionary as an adjective is twofold: 1) Involving or causing a complete or dramatic change, and 2) Engaged in or promoting political revolution. Using it as a noun in this post feels odd, slightly liberating, almost peaceful. Not because I'm all hyped up to become a new person, but because in acknowledging this, I'm taking small steps to reclaiming my inner self, which needs to be lauded as much as everything else I do. My inner self, unlike Future, Past or even Present Me, needs JOY to thrive. JOY is the flame all I am and everything I do burns on, propelling me to love, write, sew, holler at injustices, craft this post. Crafting this post matters, especially when doing it with JOY.

A little bit of rain is currently falling, which assuages my heart that now is NOT the time to go out for a walk. I've been increasing my step count over the last few weeks, which has been good for my body, maybe helps with sleeping, but cuts into my time to do other things that are necessary, but right now time feels as squeezed as I have ever known! I require time to write novels-NOT HAPPENING! I need time to sew-kinda occurring. I ache for time to simply be a slug-that is DEFINITELY not happening, lol. Weeks ago all that mattered was spending time with my hubby, the fave hobbies, keeping abreast of family activities. Life was simple. Life was....different.

My life won't return to that previous mantra. Past Me has no frickin' clue of what's ahead, and honestly, Present Me doesn't either, which is truly for the best. No LOL's here, other than inwardly harnessing the essential JOY that will get me through what's coming. Future Me hasn't said jack since she admonished me to stay the course. That was over three weeks ago. In three weeks my country has been hurtled down a sharp, dangerous precipice, and we're not at the bottom of whatever awaits. Right now I'm steeled for that reality, or I think I am. Maybe I'm completely delusional, but at this moment, JOY must reign.

I'm putting JOY in all caps because JOY is what cannot be taken from me. Not in the loving of God, my spouse, family, and neighbor. Not in the crafting in all manners of creativity. Not even in the small protest I raise, and believe me it's minuscule in comparison to what hell has been stirred, yet even in my small abuela-way, noting the wrongs is imperative and doing it with lovingkindness is even more vital. Not merely for those to whom I entreat, but for MYSELF. In JOY I will stay the course. In anger, I would burn out tonight.

When Future Me told then-Present Me to stay the course, she didn't say: And do it with an honest smile. Perhaps she knew I'd roll my eyes hard, maybe even flip her off. Well, of course she knew; she's from the future and knows it all. Or most of it. She knew to merely tell me to hang in there. She knew I was going to lose it thoroughly. And she knows what I'm writing at this moment, although she's still keeping to herself. That's all right. Maybe to emerge would be too much for either of us, in what she'd have to keep under wraps, and for what I need to learn on my own via God's grace. That JOY has to be protected, nurtured, like a newborn baby. How precious and vulnerable are wee ones, and how much happiness do they bring to those in contact with them! Our JOY must be treated as such, because we're gonna need every last living ounce of JOY to withstand the domestic terrorism that the current American administration wishes to shove down our throats.

Fear. Oppression. Anger. Hatred. Bias. Hopelessness. So many despicable themes that will probably unhinge us for moments, but by maintaining a relatively keen grasp on JOY, we will be able to deflect the muck, warming and healing our hearts and minds (and maybe our physical selves) while we.... While we endure this assault on democracy, liberty, on our JOY. We will bend, and I have, but we shall not break. I don't need Future Me to tell me that. God's grace is more than enough.

Safeguard your joy. If that means taking a sabbatical from reading this blog, by all means do what you need to for your well-being. One day, hopefully soon, this site will return to previous topics, those of novels written and quilts sewn, of Future and Past Me never letting me forget they exist. Yet right now it's about the present. Present Me needs to keep alive the flame of inner me's JOY. If this stokes your JOY, AWESOME, and please share this will all you consider in need of JOY. And may you know JOY today!

How dark the shale

Wales, United Kingdom, February 2000.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want to be somewhere else

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right through the hoop, hoop, hoop

Posted on my Bluesky account.

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

"With Stephen Curry, Curry, Curry

You never gotta worry, worry, worry

'Cause the ball goes swoop, swoop, swoop

Right through the hoop, hoop, hoop."

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

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

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

Thanks for reading,

Sincerely, Anna.

Groping for a safe spot to stand

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

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

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

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

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

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