Movement. Blog 7.

A broken block.

Broken

 

It was with great verve and anger that I attacked the t-shirt that advertised: “Don’t Play With Your Health”  Indeed!... 'playing' with my health, going up an unsafe ladder, (one that I, myself, had set) and falling to my own broken state has left me with three and half months of crutchdom, crawling up stairs on my knees in utter humiliation, suffering through painful surgery, and fractured bones that may, someday, heal. With less than three weeks until I get the okay to slowly start weight bearing and walking, I am anxious, a little terrified, and completely and utterly fed up. I am headstrong, too fast to judge, and always think I know best... all qualities that I inherited from my mother... in both their good and bad affiliations. 
 
This “Parkdale Occupational Health and Safety Committee” t-shirt was comprised of a series of comic-like drawings of work and home accidents. It was the one word “CRASH” in cartoon lettering that spoke to me the most. That sound of a ladder falling haunts me forever. I wasn’t sure where I was going when I started this quilt block, but, as I kept cutting and sewing, I realized I wanted to make it feel ‘broken’, like shattered glass or bones...  off-balance and sharp. 

Anger to Sadness... if I could just call my mother and have her admonish me for my stupidity. Sigh.
 
Note to all: always have a ladder buddy below.

Fish and leaves to be embroidered on at a later date.

Fish and Foliage

 

I started swimming as part of my physio: moving through watery space with some speed, heart beating, ankle loosening, body thanking me... underwater: I want to be a fish, or a dolphin, an orca whale. (Word of advice to anyone who suffers an injury similar to mine: swim as soon and as often as you can.) I dedicate this block to my harsh but true mantra of late: “move or die”. Swim, hike, bike... move. A family of walkers, my father hikes his way to a renewed life and love through the jungles and beaches of Costa Rica. My husband waits impatiently for our long walks, future travels, hiking new trails and old paths. Our old dog still jumps up when I move from room to room, ‘will she finally walk me?... it is time?’. Soon, dog, soon.

Hiking is healing. As family and friends gathered for my mother’s funeral, we went on a few group hikes to some of her favorite spots. It was a great time to walk together, be together with or without words, share our sorrow and heal.

Some family gathering at the bluffs, remembering.

The freedom shirt.

Liberté, Freiheit, Libertad, Freedom

A road to travel, a desert to walk.

Those words in many languages were spelled on the t-shirt used in this block. I reflect for a moment on my mother as a feminist. Remember the early days of feminism? There was a time when all that I know, and all that my daughter takes for granted, was simply not there for women in this country. Needless to say, in so many other countries and nations, women have no where near our rights and freedoms. The struggle does continue. But in honour of my mother, I harken back to the sixties and seventies when feminism first grew strong as a movement and then as a way of life. She marched and rallied and held her head high as a vocal woman, an educated woman, and a fearless woman. I winced as a young teenager at her diatribes on the importance of the feminist movement, embarrassed at her passionate and opinionated voice in front of my shy and wordless adolescent friends. I struggled with her formidable presence... I just wanted to blend in with the latest fashions, peer pressures, and mindless attitudes. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized how the gift that she gave me, that very same strong voice and feminist attitude, has formed me. A favorite song from those pioneering days of the feminist movement:  Give us bread, but give us roses.

As we go marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!
As we go marching, marching, we battle too for men,
For they are women's children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses.
As we go marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient call for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for, but we fight for roses too.
As we go marching, marching, we bring the greater days,
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler, ten that toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses, bread and roses.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; bread and roses, bread and roses.

Gratitude. Blog 6.

Gratitude in the Garden 

Gifts come in ways that are often unrecognized at first. I arrived from the palliative care hospice to my parent’s house after a sleepless night, my mother’s last, wearier than I have ever been and heavy with an ache that I had never felt before. There was resolve and peace in my father’s arms as he met me- our deep sadness and, yes, our relief, shared. My father said “Go to the garden”. Some time before, a Sunday garden ‘bee’ had been planned by friends to help out during my mother’s illness. My beautiful daughter and I walked the path down from the house to her garden, the path that she had walked so many times. We opened the gate of Tekla’s “Tree of Life” to the sounds of soft voices, children, bees, the wind, the work. As we walked through the rows, I hugged and wept with each friend... some I barely knew but all of whom I was grateful to, both for their support and for their comforting words. The bleeding hearts were in full bloom under the warmth of the May sun, as were my mother’s deep purple tulips and peonies. After sharing our sadness, each of us continued to work: pulling weeds, raking, clipping, turning the dirt, all the while feeling my mother’s presence in the peace of her garden, taking solace in the warmth of her soil. 

Me with bleeding hearts, peonies, and Tekla with yellow Iris

Four More

Four more weeks before I can walk without crutches on my broken foot, four more quilt blocks built. I have reigned in my wild newbie quilting ways, a sightly nagging fear of making all the blocks actually work together. Starting to wonder about, eek, hand quilting versus machine quilting.... does it really matter? Especially when I know nothing about either. And how big do I make this thing? Will I have enough blocks for a queen sized quilt? What the hell is queen sized anyways? More research and helpful hints required! Fixing the sewing machine tension while taking my time to enjoy the process.

The Organ with tubal ligation

The “Organ” block made from a thin t-shirt from who-knows-where, had to use the stiff and somewhat dreaded fusible backing, sewed the labels with baby heads into the block. A nod to my mother’s love of babies, birds, and all kinds of music, even the oftentimes dreaded organ (although I am sure she would have some snide remark about the word “organ” in all it’s other tubular instances).

The Squirrel with pigeons.

The “Squirrel” block, likely another t-shirt from my New York brother with the pictured squirrel atop the Empire State Building. Lots of little annoying pieces but I love the result. 

The adventure of Costa Rica: Pura Vida!

“Pura Vida” from my mother’s second home in beautiful Costa Rica. Pura Vida, a strictly Costa Rican phrase meaning: "plenty of life", "full of life", "this is living!", "going great", "real living", "Awesome!" or "cool!" The ‘sculpted’ figure is roughly placed and will be embroidered onto the block as soon as I learn how to do that as well!

Writer's Block

Last, but not least, the “Writer’s” block (pun intended). My father, a novelist... this is his shirt, I believe, from the Shawnigan Lake writer’s festival, kept for sentimental reasons?... maybe... or just another good thick work shirt. A gracious nod to the writing world, not just my father’s world, but also my mother’s world as editor, sounding board, avid reader, and number one fan of aforementioned author:  http://william.deverell.com/

An inspiration to remember

I wanted to share a thought from my mother’s dear friend, Ken Hancock, he wrote to me: “thank you so much for sharing this, I remember the healing power of quilting back in the 80s and 90s and how it helped my gay brothers and sisters, friends and families cope with unbelievable loss”. I hadn’t thought about the AIDS quilt ( http://www.aidsquilt.org ) for some time, how it relates to what I am doing: loss, reflection, community, grieving, quilting.  As I sewed these last few blocks, I also reflected on the loss of many gay friends in those terrible times in the 80’s, too soon, too young, life unfulfilled. A remembrance to you: Guy, Pierre, Gordie, and all the others, a sweet remembrance as I sew.

Interesting discoveries

Received a couple of emails solving the mysterious origins of various t-shirts and why my mother kept them. The “Women’s Faces” block (from my blog entry Nov. 14th) was created by dear artist friend Isabelle Roberts. And friend and close neighbour Michelle Marsden created the “Love Your Ocean” (see blog entry Nov. 8th) as part of a local beach clean-up campaign. To those women: a posthumous and vigorous applause from Tekla for allowing her daughter to reclaim your artwork in her honour!

Brooklyn Blog 5.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

A block made yesterday in honour of my brother Daniel’s birthday. A New Yorker for over twenty years, my brother gave this t-shirt to our Mother... point to be made, trees DO grow in Brooklyn, it isn’t just concrete and cement sidewalks (with a definitive nod to Betty Smith, author of the American classic novel of the same name). Our mother held life in the big city with some disdain, it was not for her. My brother and I, however, sought out the faster, grittier, noisier realms. Despite distances and differences from East Coast Big City to West Coast Rural Bliss... Danny Boy was always her baby boy. 

Mother and son, early photos and last photo together, a tender moment.

Some (Un)Technical Notes

 

Making it up as I sew.

I have quickly become a rogue quilter/sewer. It was bound to happen. Careful measuring, pinning, fusible backing, and cutting have gone by the wayside for a more immediate... er... artistry. For “A Tree Grows” I wanted the feeling of trunks and fall leaves (it is November) but also city. I just kind of went at it without a real plan, snipping and slopping bits of fabric about, still without that badly needed rotary cutter. My advice... “Don’t try this at home kids”... sometimes it’s good to let loose a little but this method kind of bit me in the ass... many stitches had to be removed and re-sewn with added bits. 

A cathartic and messy experience, not for everyone.

A Simple Green Stain. Blog 4.

Georgia O'Keeffe, young and old, with Poppy painting from 1927

Our daughter, Rachel, weaves her web around Grandma.

 

Georgia O’Keeffe

 

Exposure to art was one of the greatest gifts my mother gave my brother and I. Weekly lessons at the Vancouver Art Gallery from a very early age were essential in her mind. Despite the fact that she was neither artist nor performer: art, dance, and music were always encouraged. When our young children got into her knitting basket and let loose with a giant and intricate web of all her wool throughout the house, a mess through which none of us could move, they were not admonished, instead they were celebrated for their sculptural abilities and encouraged in their art play. A few days before she died, in a moment of lucidity for both of us, I thanked my mother for all the art, the dance lessons, the piano, the attention to detail, all those gifts. Life and art a web... woven, intertwined.

Tekla's poppy, the day she died.

The Georgia O’Keeffe t-shirt, I believe, was purchased while visiting a close artist friend in O’Keeffe’s beloved New Mexico. Desert rocks, bones, skulls, flowers... poppies that burst orgiastically from their pods. I particularly love the fact that there is a stain of green paint across the Georgia O’Keeffe signature on the t-shirt. 

O'Keeffe Poppy t-shirt block.

 

 

The Dirt

 

The Dirt Shirt from my mother's beloved Costa Rica.

Mom in the garden, a celebration of dirt.

The block that I made from the Costa Rican “Dirt” shirt was fast and fun. Dirt: hands in endless dirt, the smell, the goodness, the creatures, the start and end of life... giver of food, flowers, trees then air. Love dirt.  

Woman’s Faces

Beautiful face.

This is the first t-shirt which I did not cut up, instead, I left the image intact. These sad women’s faces showing so many aspects of grieving. An often worn t-shirt with haunting empty eyes, I hadn’t seen the sadness in it all those years my mother wore it. Until now.

Women's Faces... needs a few more patches.

 

MMMMM... Mother, Mourning, Menopause, Metatarsal, Madness

 

My left foot: first metatarsal good and screwed.

If life comes in waves, then this year has been a tsunami of sorts. My frankly tiresome Lisfranc foot fracture heals with no great aplomb, just little by little, testing my patience each tiny step of the way (or lack thereof) . I swear to stop reading about bone loss in menopausal women in front of the computer. It does not help 'them bones' to heal. Instead, I crutch my way to my little city garden and take what sun there is and munch on something not yet killed by frost.... recommended vitamins D, K, and F-ing whatever! Am I angry at my broken foot?... hell ya! It’s a good thing that it was me and only me who fixed the ladder when it slid off the roof’s edge with yours truly riding it all the way down (sound effect: ladder crashing). Am I angry that my mother died?... I suppose I was, but anger just becomes a kind of helpless sadness. I AM angry still at her unrelenting addiction to nicotine. That sense of anger and betrayal and disappointment of her endless smoking will never go away. They say that smoking takes ten years off your life. Despite any anger, I could have used another ten years of her. 

Mother does not always know best. 

A Few More Blocks Completed. Blog 3.

Garlic, Gilroy, and Good Times 

 

Mom with her prize winning garlic braid

A pungent nod the world’s biggest garlic festival in Gilroy, California, http://gilroygarlicfestival.com/, as I cut up two of my mother’s t-shirts from some of the early years of this celebration of “the stinking rose”. For a number of years, my mother grew garlic as the main crop of her small organic farm. Sometime in late summer, there would be heaps of garlic drying on the deck to just the point where they would they be pliable enough to braid. I would help her with stripping the excess dried strands, cleaning the bulbs and trimming their roots, making a good tight braid and decorating with small dried flowers from the garden, always that heavy but sweet smell of garlic and her careful instructions. She went down the West Coast to the Gilroy festival in California a couple of times in the early 80’s, learning the ways of the true garlic aficionado. Her garlic was small but flavorful, in fact, my mother discounted those large bulbs of "elephant" garlic as tasteless and showy. Bigger is not better. Good, garlicky times.

I am especially pleased with the “how to grow garlic” block. Learning from my nervous beginner experience, I have decided not to trim that block just yet. 

Garlic block number one.

Untrimmed "How to Grow Garlic", lots of little pieces.

 

"What garlic is to food, insanity is to art." 

- Augustus Saint-Gaudens. 

 

Love Your Ocean 

Love Your Ocean.

Walks along the shore picking shells, driftwood, spotting terns and gulls, seals and sea otters, my mother never missed a sighting. She had ‘macro-vision’... tiny crabs under tiny rocks... the complete and independent world of tidal pool inhabitants. She loved the ocean, maybe feared it, as all good prairie girls should. Mostly, she respected it. The “Love your Ocean” from a seaside clean-up campaign in 1992 might just be one of my all time favorite quilt blocks... so far.

 

 

 

Mom at 73... barefoot in the sand in Costa Rica.

 

 

Some More Things Learned...

Four blocks completed, each tiny piece of fabric individually measured and marked and carefully cut along a thin pencil line while going cross-eyed. I know there’s a better way, better tools... something to do with a rotary cutter. Note to self: get whatever those tools are before going bonkers.

As I Cut and Sew... 

... remembering and grieving, and sometimes I cry, listening to some of the music I played during her last few days... looking through photos to find her in that particular shirt, at that particular time and place. But then, more often, I smile... because my mother would love that I am doing this, she would get it, chiding and teasing me for using those old stained shirts but understanding and appreciating it all the same. 

A shared vision. The art of healing.