how to love

I am writing this from Georgian Bay Canada.
Where the rocks are ancient spirals.

And folds.
And they have been here forever
and they shall continue.

And I've been working on the same pieces for months
And I shall continue.

And April and Jordan arrived on my birthday all the way from Chicago, and then they made a cake.

And we went for a sunset boat ride to celebrate.
And the sun continued its journey
And it too shall continue tomorrow
and the next tomorrow too

 

And then the next day April began to work with  a remarkable quilt top
Rescued from a flea market in Wisconsin

And finally,
the centerpiece that Jordan crafted for the birthday dinner
using wildflowers that have grown here forever
and they too shall continue

All these things fill me with gratitude
and tenderness
and wonder
and love.

nature's embroidery and a memory

When I was a little girl I hid in the pantry.
I wanted to see how long it would take before people missed me.

There was a hook on the kitchen side of the swing door, but none on the pantry side where I was.   My mother had sent me in for some can or box.

I didn't really intend to hide, but once I heard my mother lock the door from the kitchen side, I realized she had forgotten about me.

So it become a test.
How long would it take before people noticed I wasn't around?

It took forever.

Eventually I had to rattle the door.

something like stamina

I'm fascinated with artists, she said.  I love reading about their lives.  You know how they say that so many artists are melancholic?

Apparently, the part of the brain that can obsess over dark things like death and pain and nothingness, which is depression more or less,  is the same part of the brain that allows a person to obsess over the infinite challenges of art and produces something like stamina.

I don't know.  Or focus.  The focus required to complete one long query.

Am I making sense?

text is from the novel, Irma Voth by Miriam Toews.