I’m sick. It’s probably to be expected. Lots of flights. Lots of public spaces. Lots of germs.
I’m snuggled up inside, doing quiet activities – needlework, reading, writing letters. So appreciative for the original radiator heat in the house that feels like a warm hug all around. So appreciative of blankets crocheted by friends that drape over me.
I glanced out of the window. THERE IS SNOW! It is the middle of March, and there is snow falling on the just blooming daffodils and hyacinths and crocus and hellebores and pansies. The juxtaposition is almost too much for me to process. And as unexpected as it is, it’s also painfully beautiful. The first signs of spring meeting the last remnants of winter.
I arrived to my hotel after almost a day of travel with one short flight, a short layover, one long flight, a considerable layover, a medium flight, and an hour drive. I had an hour before sunset.
I can hear the seagulls squawking from my balcony. Notes of live music float by. There’s an easy vibrancy in the air.
I wander down the narrow cobblestone streets, letting curiosity guide me. I turn the corner and see the streets full of people. Is it a celebration? No, it’s simply Saturday evening in Ericeira. People are sitting on benches overlooking the ocean, patiently waiting for the sun to set. Children zip by on skates and scooters, some simply running after others. Patrons spill out of a bar, where a live band is covering pop songs from the 70’s, and tipsy youngsters are belting out the chorus along with the band’s singer. A long line forms at Casa de Fernanda, each patron ready to enjoy ouriços, the delightful little pastry with a crispy outside and an oh so delicious almondy, eggy, sweet, gooey inside.
At Casa da Fernanda, waiting to try ouriços.
I am enamored.
I continue walking, and this scene plays out over and over through different parts of the little city. It seems like the whole town has poured into its narrow streets, enjoying each other’s company, enjoying life. From babies to grandparents and all ages in between. I find another bar along the water and order my favorite drink in Europe, a gin tonic. It’s served in an oversized wine goblet with so much ice and a slice of citron. I sit in my yellow plastic chair, watching the other tables. There are single parties, folks with their dogs, groups of four and more who have pulled multiple tables together.
Watching the sun set over the ocean in Ericeira.
I am relaxed.
I watch as the sun continues to drop until poof! it has sunk below the horizon. I drink the last of my gin tonic and wander the streets, excited to try local seafood for dinner. I arrive at the restaurant that has been recommended, Restaurante “A Panela”. After a while the owner comes over and asks what I would like. I tell him I’m allergic to bell peppers, I love all seafood, and I’d like for him to choose something delicious for me. It’s one of my favorite things to do – allow others to surprise me with a meal. After a while, he returns with a healthy glass of house white wine, a platter with a beautiful fried fish, a fresh salad, and perfectly cooked potatoes.
I’ve sewn since I was six years old, when my parents shipped me to Florida for the summer to stay with relatives, and my Aunty Shirley taught me and my two cousins how to make matching halter tops and wrap around skirts (we were children of the 70’s, after all). Over the next decades, I loved making my own clothing creations: dresses, tops, pants, formals, bags, truly anything.
Two years ago, a dear friend invited me to attend QuiltCon, as it was in North Carolina, in Raleigh. The overachiever I am, I signed up for *way* too many classes and workshops, and left with many half-finished projects and utterly exhausted. Even though I had sewed for years, I was new to quilting.
QuiltCon was in Raleigh again this year. Again, we made plans to go. I was more judicious in my class and workshop selection, and aimed to sign up for only one class per day (although one day I did take two; I just couldn’t help myself!). The instructors were fantastic; the fellow students were delightful, and the people watching was incredible. We challenged ourselves to talk to a person from every US state. We managed to talk to folks from 34 states and 9 foreign countries. I’m already looking forward to next year!
A summary of the workshops I took:
Sashiko – all day – Atsushi Futatsuya We learned the art of Japanese sashiko, a form of mending to repair and reinforce garments. It’s different from regular stitching, in that you create folds of fabric, then guide the needle through with a thimble on your palm. The mending is usually done in geometric patterns. Our teacher encouraged us to focus on our form (sitting position, breathing, shoulders relaxed) as much as the actual needlework. It was incredibly relaxing and I loved hearing his stories about the history of sashiko.
Wild Stitches – morning – Nichole Vogelsinger We focused on creating tapestries for embroidery from patterned fabric. Nichole taught several embroidery stitches, as well as how to attach beads and sequins. I loved the slowness of the technique. Again, very relaxing.
Saeksilnubi: Colored Thread Quilting – afternoon – Youngmin Lee I took a bojagi class with Youngmin Lee in 2024 and was enamored. When I saw she was teaching this year, I immediately signed up. Saeksilnubi is a technique where you wind mulberry paper into thin strands, then stitch them in between two pieces of fabric and create a small pouch. It’s slow handiwork, and incredibly relaxing. Picture is of a work in progress.
Kawandi-Inspired Quilting: Hand-Stitched Traditions with a Modern Lens – morning – Lorena Uriate Kawandi is an African and Southeast Asian technique of quilt-as-you-go, using scraps of material to quilt from the border in (the opposite of traditional quilting techniques). I loved the organic process and it’s a delightful way to use scraps of material. Picture is of a work in progress.
Happy Mail – morning – Sarah Ruiz This class description resonated with me so hard! I love to send mail, and I aim to send an average of one piece of mail per day. I’ve been doing this for the last five years or so, and it brings me so much joy. This class focused on making quilted postcards. Oh, heaven!!!!! It’s a fairly simple process, and depending on the complexity, postcards can be made in anywhere from 30 minutes to two hours. I’m so excited to make bespoke creations to send to friends! I attempted a star-shaped quilting pattern on this postcard, which didn’t really work as I intended , but it gave me great insights for future postcards!
Juried Show And then there was the juried quilt show. My goodness, these quilters had thoughts to share! I loved the boldness of the messages. Find a gallery to peruse:
Returning Home And then the four hour drive home. Road trips are so much more fun with a friend. There’s talking, there’s carpool karaoke. Most of the ride we listened to 1970’s country music, and then the last hour-ish, she rose to the challenge of playing only songs with “walk” in the title. We giddily sang along with:
I love flying west. It’s a form of magic – being able to gain time. To relive hours that you’ve already lived. To choose to make the same choices, or different ones.
This feeling is similar to the one I had when I was taking care of Mom, who had Alzheimer’s. Much of the time that I spent with her felt like Groundhog’s Day. She asked the same questions over and over. She made the same observations over and over. We had the same interactions over and over. In the very beginning, this irritated me. “I just told you!,” I thought in my head. And then it dawned on me what a precious offering was being presented.
If I got it wrong the first time (as I often did), I had multiple opportunities to improve. She didn’t remember the time I got it wrong, which was such a gift. If something I said made her upset, I could reflect on it, or speak to her Memory Care doctor, and learn what I could do better. I could improve the next time she queried (and there was always a next time. And a next.). And after two or three tries, we both were content with our interaction.
I can’t remember ever having a small chest. It was as if one day I was prepubescent, and the next I was a 34 DD (that’s big, for folks who don’t know sizing). In fifth grade. It wasn’t ideal.
I fielded inappropriate comments from classmates, from teachers, and from random men, for years. As I aged, and as I grew, I took to binding myself, to buying minimizer bras, and to wearing baggy clothing to try to hide the shape of my body.
I hated exercising. It hurt. I hated running. However running was what my friend group gravitated towards, signing up for races around the country. I bought sports bras from Germany, virtual steel traps. I ran, so thankful for crossing the finish line, when I wouldn’t be bouncing anymore.
I went through menopause. I gained weight. My boobs became even bigger. I wore a 36K bra size, which had to be special ordered. No stores carried that size. My shoulders ached. My neck ached. My back ached. I engaged in physical therapy for almost two years to try to alleviate the pain. I lost over 50 pounds. And none of that weight came from my boobs.
I despaired. I didn’t want to be in constant pain. I didn’t want to hate pictures I saw of myself.
I don’t even remember how it came up, but one day, in a conversation with my neighbor, she mentioned she had had breast reduction surgery and it was the best decision she’d ever made. She showed me before and after pictures, and talked about how she was no longer in pain.
I reached out to her doctor for a consultation. He’s popular. I waited almost 4 months to be seen. He said, yes, I was an ideal candidate for breast reduction. I petitioned my insurance company. Again and again. A date was set for surgery. I told the doctor to remove as much as he possibly could. He asked ideally what size would I like to be. I told him a B cup. He sighed, and said he didn’t think that was safely possible. But he’d do the best he could.
The morning of the surgery, I reminded him that I wanted to be as small as possible. He acknowledged my request and said he’d see what he could do.
The last thing I remember was laughing with my sister, then being rolled into the operating room. And then I was being woken up, in the recovery area, three hours later. The nurse helped me dress – surgical bra, button up shirt, pants. As I stepped off the table, as groggy and medicated as I was, I felt such relief. I could stand up straight. I could hold my shoulders back without effort.
I’m not as small as I’d hoped I’d be. But I feel balanced. I feel comfortable in my body. And there’s no more back, neck, or shoulder pain. It’s an amazing feeling.
We had dinner plans. She suggested we got to the North Carolina Arboretum instead/in addition to visit Thomas Dambo’s “Trolls: A Field Study” exhibition. It was the perfect day for it. Cold, but not as cold as the recent single digit snowy temperatures. A pleasant chilly. Gray and drizzly. Not many other visitors. An ideal day to saunter through the Arboretum and enjoy the calming force of being among copses of trees, walking on paths covered with soft pine needles.
Each troll had a message. About food waste, noise pollution, capital consumption, among others. The messages were short and to the point, with suggested action items. The trolls were delightful. Huge wooden sculptures with surprising details. Beautiful fingernails. Wild hair made from twigs. Kindly facial expressions. And with each troll Dambo captured the essence of movement – catching something (perhaps a human?) with a net, attempting a handstand, delighting in found objects. I marvel at artists. How do their minds work to come up with these ideas? Simply stunning.
Eternally grateful for the surprises the world offers. ❤
Valle – encouraging us to take a breakBignut – capturing us to allow us to marvel at natureLilnut Boge – collecting thoughts on nature (and nibbling on my shoulder ❤ )Kirse – what designs in nature bear repeating?Poppy – why are we consuming so much??Hasse – look at nature from new angles!Birch – nature comes in all sizesAnya – collecting stones and admiring natureLarke – why do we throw away so much food when so many go hungry? Wilde – observing humans
I subscribe to Suleika Jaouad and The Isolation Journals. I love her insights, and her prompts encourage me to think, and sometimes write.
Today, “Write about being gentle with yourself in grief. Maybe about a time you extended yourself grace. Maybe about a time someone else showed up and helped you pack (literally or figuratively). “
It was March 2022. I simply could not care for Mom anymore. I wanted to, and I couldn’t. I felt defeated. Her Alzheimer’s had progressed to a point that I didn’t know how to handle. She had started escaping at night, and when I tried to bring her home she would physically assault me. I thought everything was fine (enough) until the night she threw a mug of boiling tea at me. Things weren’t fine.
I visited several facilities. Each one felt more depressing than the previous. I was already feeling guilty for “giving up,” for preparing to move Mom to a facility. Each place I visited simply intensified that guilt. Until I visited Tore’s Home. It was small – only six memory care units. It felt like more of a home than a facility. I made a deposit and I planned to move Mom in mid-March.
A dear friend helped me meet the movers at Tore’s Home. They unloaded Mom’s bedroom set, clothes, and other things that would hopefully make this new place feel like home. As I unpacked boxes, my friend offered to go out and get lunch. She came back with a sandwich from Flat Rock Village Bakery. I don’t know that I’ve ever tasted a sandwich so good, prior or since. It was that act of caring, of providing sustenance when I most needed it, that I acknowledged as an act of love. She silently sat with me as I cried, wishing I could have done more, knowing I had done as much as I could. She gave me the gift of grace.
We’re expecting a big storm this weekend. Possibly snow, probably lots of ice. Ice could mean downed power lines. For a long time. I’ve been familiar with storm prep all my life. There are many wonderful things about living in the south; however, storm response is not really one.
I remember as a child, maybe 11? maybe 12 years old?, we had a snowstorm that took out power for over a week. I remember being trapped in the house, confined to our den that had a fireplace/wood stove. We shut all the doors to try to keep heat in, and hunkered down under layers of blankets. We warmed soup over the wood stove, read or played games during the daylight hours, and went to sleep when night fell. It’s not a bad memory. It’s one of comfort, and belonging, and safety. And fun. We made snow cream every day during the storm. The sweet, delicious treat of snow mixed with condensed milk and vanilla. And we could eat as much as we wanted. There was no limit to the decadence.
This impending storm, however, brings up different memories. Memories from just over a year ago. Memories of being without power for weeks, and without water for months. Hurricane Helene was a doozy.
And so, in my storm prep, I find myself charging all my devices, yes. But also, doing all my laundry. Refreshing my sheets. Washing my hair. Setting out flashlights and candles. Making food that would be as delicious cold as hot. Setting out stacks of physical books and jigsaw puzzles for entertainment if electricity fails. And physically preparing to be alone if need be.
When we get warnings like this, it seems like it could either be the storm of the century, or a big bust. Looking forward to seeing what this brings.
Such serendipity. A dear former colleague and her family were vacationing in Mexico City. ON THE EXACT SAME DATES I WAS!!!!! We discovered this through a mutual friend. I couldn’t believe how lucky this was. Unexpected joy is the best.
We shared many dinners and excursions together, and shared tips on the things we had done apart. She recommended the Palacio de Correos de Mexico and I was enamored. I love all things mail. I love stamps. I love connecting through the written word. And. Oh, my goodness. The extravagance. The opulence. I repeatedly oohed and ahhed and gaped and gasped. I couldn’t believe such a structure had been built as a post office. And the preservation! Marble and gild and art and stone and mahogany and brass and statues and…
One of the first exhibits was a collage made of postage stamps. This wasn’t a small collage. It was at least six feet wide by eight feet tall. So. Many. Stamps. And so stunning from afar, where it appeared to be a painting, and so stunning up close, where it became apparent how much painstaking care was needed to create such a masterpiece.
Each room highlighted a different aspect of the postal service. Stamps. Plates to make stamps. Seals for letters. Postal uniforms. Post boxes through the years. Postal art.
And then. There was the special exhibit. People who had stitched letters. Some of the letters were heartbreaking. Messages to children who had died. Messages to former lovers. Messages to family members who had passed into the next world. Messages to friends. All were stunningly beautiful.
As we were leaving, my friend said, “That was a museum built for you.” And it was. Every brick, every light fixture, every exhibit, spoke to my heart. Thank you, Mexico. ❤
We arrived to Santuario Piedra Herrada, after an almost three hour drive from Mexico City. I stretched my legs slowly and breathed in the crisp mountain air. I watched my breath exhale in tiny wisps of white “smoke.” I smiled.
We walked to the base of the mountain, where horses waited for us. José helped me mount Regal, a sweet, sleepy horse, with deep brown pools for eyes. Up the mountain we went in silence, two riders, two horses, two guides leading the way. There is something primal about being in the woods. Not just being outside, but being surrounded by wilderness, the seemingly disorderly arrangement of trees, bushes, flowers. And that’s all that you can see, all around you. It’s as though nature is enveloping you in a tight hug, reminding you that you are loved.
Jose leading me and Regal
We rode like this for almost an hour. I marveled at lantana that were closer to the size of bushes, rather than the small plants I have at home. Sprigs of red bee balm peeked through the browns and greens of the forest. Sunlight dappled the path, where it could penetrate the tops of the oyamel fir trees. My body swayed and bobbed with Regal’s gait, lured into a peaceful trance. As we climbed higher, a fluttering captured my eye. Oh! There! The bright orange of a monarch’s wings captivated me. I watched as it glided closer, effortlessly drifting, before landing on a bright flower. I was mesmerized.
We reached the point where horses could go no further. We dismounted, and began the final climb on foot to the top of the mountain. Ten minutes later our guide stopped. We stopped, somewhat out of breath, the elevation of 5,500 feet bearing on us. I wondered why we stopped. We were in a fir grove, mulched wood soft and spongey beneath our feet. Our guide pointed upwards.
It took me a minute to process what I was seeing. There, on the trees, were brown clusters, which looked similar to wasps’ nests. I stood in silence, wondering what the ever so slight sound was that I could barely discern. And then I saw it. As the sunlight hit the clusters, individual monarchs peeled off and began flying around the tops of the firs. Each individual monarch appeared to be a diamond in the sky, sparkling as the sunlight reflected off its wings. I reveled in the silence. I stared upward, my eyes darting each time a butterfly took flight. They circled, they dipped, they returned to the cluster, they took flight again. A woodpecker peck, peck, pecked on a nearby tree. I was on sacred ground.
We watched in silence, marveling at the miracle before us. I attempted a video, but camera simply could not fully capture the magic of the moment.
After what felt like an eternity, and at the same time no time at all, our guide motioned for us to follow him back to the horses. Part of me wanted to plead for just a few more minutes. And part of me understood that I had witnessed something magical, and it was time to allow others to experience the same. As we walked to where the horses were, more butterflies fluttered past. I said a silent prayer of gratitude for being able to experience this miracle. Muchas gracias, mis monarcas.
LoriLoo 