Setting the stage

Lately I have been experiencing different things with my vision. A different sort of depth perception. It is very interesting, although a little unnerving while driving.

Cameras don't catch it. Thanks be for filters!


On Sunday I brought the quilt I finished for little Bobby into work. I literally like to set the stage on Sunday mornings for the evening performance. This week, I left the quilt on stage all day, periodically pulling folks over to look at my handiwork. (Not real modest, me.)

I wasn't able to go to the show that night, but apparently all parties concerned were pleased and decided to hang it on the stage!

Upon seeing the above photo, I was immediately able to articulate something I haven't before nailed down, and that is: As a dancer, I am really familiar with a certain form of audience participation. The energy raised while interpreting the story being told by the band, through the the geometry of nerve, muscle, and bone. That sort of involvement is fleeting, even as it is very real.

I have been clearing and preparing the stage at work, both physically and energetically, for a while now, and I am interested in taking that a little further, when appropriate, through a sort of set design, the sort seen above. A kind of enhancement. A little co-creation.

Don't worry, I'm not going to dress the stage at the Fort George Brewery every week! *chuckles nervously and backs away…*


House of the rising sun

I stitched this last night. It surprised me. It is a very intimate, and somewhat damaged, piece. Made from an old bedsheet, white rayon satin from a pair of pants I bought in New Orleans that I have no doubt was in a parade or two, and some ancient ribbon I had laying around. French knots make up the little mattresses, which still need a bit of stuffing. It is not finished.

I think French knots are my jam. Thanks to Jude for jump starting this process. Handwork goes at a much different pace and is well suited to the solitude of the next two weeks (my busy town life excepted.)


while I was walking…

Walking today, knitting a small pink hat, contemplating the intention that goes into creation. How we can check in with the thing we are making while in the process of making it, in order to find out more about its nature. I think about affinities a lot, correspondences, dwelling-places, stories, signatures. I am beginning to trust that the things I make without a specific recipient will find the people for whom they are appropriate. A certain resonance is built into the hat, or quilt, or shawl, during its manufacture. Whether or not I am paying attention, but ever more so if I am.
I look forward to working more on the little pink cap, as I can sense the magic of childhood as it takes shape in my hands. There is a certain romance in it, if you will.

On the same walk, thinking about the signature of things, and of people, I remembered being motivated to take certain actions that were not in my nature, out of a sense of fear. I took Dan Evahama’s recommendation to blend with the land as an injunction. I should grow my own food, I should have a better understanding of systems, even those that do not come intuitively to me. Apocalypse training and all that.
However, there is a different spin on those words “blend with the land,” and that is “come into the fullness of your own nature.” Like in the book I used to read to the kids, The Legend of Indian Paintbrush. The kid in the story had this affinity for making marks, and would spend hours innovating with different media while the other children played ball and practiced tracking and stuff. It was a real challenge for the young painter; one image I recall vividly is of the boy looking longingly at the circle of children, from the outside. In the end he embraced his calling and was gifted with these brushes that sprung out of the ground, full of the colors of dawn. He painted with them, a work like he had never before been able to create, and every year thereafter, the brushes sprouted from the ground and bloomed, as they do to this day. Indian paintbrushes they are called.

It feels great to relax now into the work I am called to do and let the fear fall away.