Our hands, our future

There's a simple, almost primal joy in creating something by hand. As technology takes our hands and applies them to a keyboard-only world, I feel that I am rebelling by doing more handwork. 


I've talked about my hand-piecing, hand-quilting craft before on this blog. But it's really much deeper than just the Zen quality I gain from putting needle and thread to fabric.


As you become more familiar with a task, you stop thinking. Your body - often your hands - take over. While piecing and quilting I find myself sometimes looking down at my hands in wonder. 


How did I get to the point where my hands work so quickly to thread a needle, move two pieces of fabric together almost without effort into the correct position, and even recover from a mis-stich so effortlessly?


I get that same feeling when I play guitar. A couple of weeks ago I was teaching a friend (with only two formal lessons under her belt) to play some basic chords. When did I become such an expert? How did my hands become so familiar with the neck of a guitar?


I know you'll say that it's just a matter of repetition but it seems more than that. I think intuition plays a big part. Creating things with our hands is as true to our nature as mammals as we can get. Yet, we are quick to delegate "manual labor" to others. Handwork is quickly becoming a blue-collar specialty.


When I was a kid, my dad and his friends used to get together on Saturday mornings and build dormers on each others' houses. Then they moved on to picture windows. No one ever hired a carpenter unless it was a job outside of their common-sense realm like building a house from scratch.


Where has that trust in our own sense and our own hands gone? 


When my friend Lynne was teaching me how to quilt a few years ago, I was (and still am) adamant that I would make my quilts entirely by hand. I wouldn't have it any other way. No machine ever touches my quilts.


There are people who look at me like I'm insane when I tell them that. But their looks of confusion quickly turn to wonder. My grandmother made quilts by hand but no one looked on in wonder then. It was a standard answer because most people didn't have the money to buy fancy sewing machines and certainly never considered outsourcing the final quilting to a quilt shop as is often done today.


So how do we capitalize on that sense of wonder and inspire others to get back to the basics? 


I don't know anyone under the age of 50 who quilts, knits or sews. Will texting replace the beautiful handwork skills we've inherited from our ancestors? Will we begin giving up life-sustaining and creative skills like cooking and baking and delegate them to a trained few? 

I worry about these things as I see computer skills become more and more important in school curriculum and social interactions. And then I think: Who can I pass this wonder down to?

Should vs. want

I've been working at finding some space for my writing. Not physical but mental. My world lately is consumed by thoughts and concerns about caring for an elderly parent. I've noticed that space in my brain for more ethereal ideas is easily taken over by the need to worry about things over which I have no control.


Nobody really wants to worry. It's compulsive behavior. And so often we feel trapped and ultimately defined by our compulsions. "If I'm not a worrier, than what am I?" 


For the last few days I've been contemplating the power of the spirit. To me, no brain - not even one as perfect as Einstein's - can hold a candle to our intuition and inner voice. I would use the term "soul" but so many people go straight to traditional religion when they hear it and that's not where I want to lead you.


My friend Tiffany said to me recently that we use the word "should" too often in our language. "I should really get my housework done." "I'd like to spend some time with friends but I should get to work on my volunteer responsibilities."


Tiffany suggests that a shift to the word "want" changes not just the sentence but our attitudes. I do want to have a clean house and give back with my volunteerism. So, why do I use the word "should" all the time?


When it comes to writing, which is how I get in touch with my inner voice, I don't want to get in the habit of using the S word. I truly enjoy finding the pearl that lies within a moment. And I enjoy thinking about the wisdom that each of us gains as we go through life. Mostly I love putting words around that wisdom and feel that this is the one true gift I have to offer during my time on this planet.


I'm finding space and, at the same time, finding me again. I should and will do a lot of things but I want to stop being a slave to my compulsions. Worrying about the next thing I will have to do. I will replace the worry space with the want space. 


What will you put in your want space?

Glads for mom

A lot of my family's time this week is being spent remembering my mom and also, I think, dreading tomorrow which marks one year since she passed. 

I believe that everyone's essence is in their personalities not their bodies. So for me, I feel like today is more of the anniversary I've been dreading since the day before she died was the last time we had a conversation.

Last week I was out shopping and came upon a bin filled with different colored gladiolus bulbs. I was struck by them since that was my mother's favorite perennial. My great aunt and uncle were really into glads (as mom always called them), so much so that they had huge gladiolus gardens around their house.

Mom just fell in love with the flowers and so they would invite her over to pick as many as she wanted to bring home. She loved all varieties of colors and would make a beautiful arrangement with them, admiring them as long as they lasted in their vase. Mom looked forward to gladiolus season every year and could never drive by them without commenting on their beauty.

As I stood in the store I reminded myself that I've never had luck with bulbs in my yard. I think the moles use them as late-night snacks since I lose more every year. But with glads you dig them up every fall and replant them in the spring. So maybe this would work.

I picked out a variety of colors and brought the bulbs home. This week I will find the perfect spot for them and plant them in my yard. 

I will honor her memory as I plant them, enjoy their beauty when their season comes, and return them to rest in the winter. I'll remind myself that a great love is always there. Sometimes it blossoms and sometimes it sleeps. But it never really dies.

I got the music in me

I had a follow-up appointment with the shoulder surgeon yesterday and he was trying to get a feel for whether I was returning to my previous activities. 

Doc: Do you play golf?

Me: No, I play guitar.

When I was in high school, I wanted to be a folk star. Most kids probably dream of being rock stars, but not me. 

I wasn't inspired to play and sing because of the Beatles like a lot of people in my generation. I was inspired by John Denver and his acoustic guitar. He also sang in my key making it easy for me to sing along. 

When I was young, my mother insisted I take piano lessons. We all did, though none of us kept it up. The lessons helped me understand more about music and music composition and for that I was grateful.

But it was hard to play piano in the living room when everyone was watching tv. And when I got into my teens, I wanted to be in my room by myself more anyway. So the guitar was also a great solution to my music yearnings while still giving me the space I needed.

My folks gave me a "starter" guitar for Christmas when I was 16. Next to my engagement ring 12 years later, it was the best gift ever. I immediately signed up for guitar lessons at the Andover YMCA. 

We learned how to strum in different rhythms and finger pick. The instructor also taught us all the major chords we would find in most songs. I played and played until my finger tips bled. But once I got the callouses going, the pain went away and I was able to focus on switching quickly between chords and then switching without having to look at my fingers. 

I got a bunch of songbooks (John Denver's was, of course, first on the list) and played songs until I knew them without looking at the music. My guitar came with me to college where I would sit on "the quad" and play and sing for my friends. It also came with me to the beach in the summer when the gang would build a fire in the dunes at night and sing Beatles songs.

Because I was an English major, I started writing poetry and then putting the poetry to music. I wrote some pretty good songs and a friend asked me to record them in his basement studio. Friends added background harmony and instruments. They were pretty sappy songs but I still think they were quite good.

After I was married, I joined the church folk choir where the choir director liked my stuff and had me do quite a bit of playing and singing. She and I also did a St. Paddy's Day gig where I learned traditional Irish folk songs that I perform today.

For many years, I got too busy to take time at night to play - and sing. I actually like to play mostly so that I can sing along. Singing is a bigger love of mine than guitar. Strangely, I sing better while playing, probably because I'm so focused on playing the correct chords that I can relax and not over-think the vocals.

These days I play and sing in church at our circle worship services at night, often with my friend Will on piano and voice (see video above).

Music brings so much joy and, when needed, comfort to others that it's hard to imagine my life without it. When I was in a chorale that went to nursing homes on Saturdays, I saw just how much music lifts us up and takes us back to times of great emotion - happy or sad. No matter how long ago those times happened.

My guitar playing might not be Hendrix-like and my voice certainly isn't as good as Denver's but it brings me a lot of happiness. And when someone asks what I play, I still get a thrill out of answering, "Guitar."

Time for teens

Me and one of "my" kids

There are times in my life when I look at what I'm doing and think, "How in the hell did I get here?" Today was one of those times.


I've mentioned before on this blog that I lead the church youth group. Kids in the group are from grades 9 through 12. 


When I was in high school, I had zero sense of what "cool" was. When I thought I was doing something hip (something I worked at full-time) it was actually quite stupid and goofy. I was made fun of - or worse, ignored - by my peers for most of my teen years. It all changed in college, but high school was a living hell for me.


Ever since then I never knew how to talk to teens. I sort of reverted back to my old goofy self and stumbled over my words. Feeling again like I was that clueless teen trying not to be ignored or laughed at.


Leading this group has changed my perspective on what it is to be a teen. And I know now that I really was a typical teen. The only difference was I didn't wear the mask as well as the others. 


Spending Sunday mornings and some Sunday evenings mentoring teens has helped me resolve the anguish I had for all those earlier years. I finally feel like I can be myself around a group that, although no longer my peers, are the very age group with whom I struggled the most. 


Sounds crazy. Here I am in my early 50s and I'm just now feeling like I can put my teen angst behind me.


I look at the youth I work with - some of whom I have become very close to - and feel this huge burden lifted. Like it finally came full circle for me.


And when I sat with these amazing teens today, asking them some of the tough, soul-searching questions that no one asked me at that age, I feel like there was a reason for my square-peg status as a teen. 


How could I understand now just how hard it was to be a teen if it had been easy? How could I offer a knowing hug, an empathic ear, and a like war story if I had been one of those teens who wore their manufactured confidence like a shield? 


I tell the kids all the time that I get more out of my time with them than they do and that they will never know just now much sharing this time in their lives means to me.


Maybe they understand, maybe not. Maybe some of them will get to be 53, connect with teens in a meaningful way, say, "How in the hell did I get here?", and think of me.

Well alright then

I attended the Tenebrae Service at my church on Thursday night. This service isn’t the cheeriest of services because it reflects on the death of Jesus which precedes the celebration of rebirth that is Easter. 

People have asked me why the service is so important to me when it is such a “downer.” The answer is not as simple as I’d like but I think it has something to do with my philosophy on life.

There’s a scene in the movie Oklahoma when the main characters’ wedding night is marred by a murder. Wise Aunt Eller tells her heartbroken newlywed niece that as you age you come to an understanding that you’ve got to look at life as a complete picture. To quote Aunt Eller: “You gotta look at the good on one side and the bad on the other and say, ‘Well alright then, to BOTH of them.’”

That quote has gotten me through some pretty serious heartache in my life. I accept that when things are going great, they won’t always stay that way. But when things are not going well, I remember THAT will change too. 

Easter seems like the perfect time to connect with that truth. When winter is over and spring has arrived. When the ground softens and reveals its treasures - hidden, just beneath the long-frozen surface.

Family and fences

Tonight I went out to dinner with my cousin on my mother's side. She lost her mom, my Aunt Peggy, not long before I lost my mom. 


Cousin Jackie was amazing to my mom when mom was dying. She sent her a card daily for a very long time. Her cards were funny and chatty and just what my mom needed.


Mom always commented that one of the greatest joys at the end of her life was her relationship with her niece. Because she didn't have one for most of her life.

The Powers Girls

My mom and her siblings had drifted into two sides early on. One side was closer to my grandmother; the other to my grandfather. Jackie's mom and my mom were on opposite sides of this game for most of their adult lives. Disagreements between the siblings—and later their spouses—escalated hard feelings and the lines were drawn.


That affected not only the siblings relationships with each other, but their kids relationships with their cousins. Typical family stuff. But I remained loyal to the sides my parents had chosen and that was that.


My relationship with my aunt Peggy's kids started to open up more as we aged but was far from anything resembling friendship. Until recently.


My mom and Peggy (along with their sister, Muriel) started to find middle ground later in life. I was so happy for that since I didn't want my mom to end her life with regrets.


As the sisters passed away, their kids were left with the realization that we never had a chance to be friends. 


My cousin Jackie and I bonded as my mom failed. I found that I had a connection with her that was meaningful and helpful. She had lost her mom a couple of years before and knew what I was going through. I found a great comfort in our shared DNA even though we did not have shared childhoods. 


We met for dinner tonight. Something we swore we would do more often. We found ourselves sharing the good and the bad of our pasts, breaking down the walls of a family feud where negatives were hidden and only positives were played. 


I felt myself freed from the constraints of family secrets. I could be honest and not feel that I was obligated to keep up a facade created by years of defensive posturing. And to prove what? That one side of the family was right and the other wrong?


Right, wrong. Better, best. All to prove one is loved more than another. 


Tonight I felt that Jackie and I took decades worth of fences our parents built and continued the work our mothers started several years ago. Our moms mended those fences; their daughters ripped them out of the ground, threw them on a pile, and lit them on fire. 


These fences were never ours yet they kept us apart for so long. Tonight I learned that the only baggage I should carry is my own. 


As I drove away from the restaurant I felt like I had peeled off all the layers of side-choosing that my mom lived with for years. Layers that weighed me down and kept me from being honest. What a gift to find a friend who was there all along. A friend who had to carry the hurt of her parents for fear of being disloyal. Just like me.