It’s that time of year. The peonies are starting to bloom. I simply want to sit outside and watch them all day long. Their beauty only lasts a few days and then their petals start to drop, creating memories of color where their blooms once were.
All day I felt unease. Nothing in particular had happened, and yet malaise blanketed me. I didn’t feel comfortable in my body.
The usual things that lift my spirits had no effect. Water aerobics, puttering in the yard, meditating, sewing, even a massage. It was as I was lying there on the massage table that it hit me. Hard.
It’s the season. Not the date, but the season. Seven years ago, on the Thursday morning before Palm Sunday, I went into Dad’s bedroom to tell him goodbye, as I was about to drive to Charleston for a dear friend’s 50th birthday celebration. I found him doubled over in pain, unable to speak. I immediately called 911 and watched as the paramedics took him away. We reunited in the Emergency Room, and the doctors assured me that all he needed was a drip of penicillin to combat the infection from his dialysis. I didn’t go to Charleston that day.
I stayed with Dad, and watched over Mom. I silently cried, unable to bear to see him in so much pain. I apologized profusely. See, the day before, we had had an argument. An argument in which we raised our voices with each other, which I had never remembered happening in my entire life. With Mom, yes. She was a yeller. With Dad, no. He was a negotiator, a peace maker.
I was sitting at the dining room table, working. He was sitting at his desk across the room, writing correspondence. Mom’s best friend was visiting. She had agreed to take Mom to a medical appointment in a couple of weeks, as I would be taking Dad to a chemotherapy appointment that day. Dad confirmed with Mom’s best friend that she would take Mom to her appointment next week. Without really thinking, I said, “Week after next.” Dad turned to me and yelled, “Stop correcting me! Just stop it!” I was so stunned that he raised his voice that I was paralyzed. I excused myself to take out the trash.
As soon as I was out of the condo, I started bawling. What was happening? I literally had never heard Dad raise his voice. Not when I was arrested for underage drinking and he had to collect me at the county jail on Christmas Eve. Not when I thought I was helping with weeding and accidentally butchered all of the raspberry and blackberry bushes, wiping out the season’s bounty. Not when I had a wreck and totaled a new BMW with paper tags (ie, less than 30 days in the owner’s possession).
I collected myself and returned to the condo. As soon as I saw him, I started crying again. Not kindly, he said, “What?” All the feelings at once assaulted me. What had I done? Why was he mad? Why had I sacrificed months to live with them? Why was he dying? And all of that poured forth. And we both cried, and hugged, and cried some more.
And the next morning he was in the ER. That couldn’t be our last memory. I apologized over and over. He apologized. And yet. In my bones I knew something was off.
He implored me to go to Charleston. Relationships are too important; you have to nourish them, he told me. I’ll be fine, he told me. I’ll be home by the time you return on Sunday, he told me.
On Saturday morning, I reluctantly drove to Charleston. On Sunday morning, less than 24 hours later, my sister called and said she was driving straight to the hospital from Atlanta because Dad had taken a turn for the worse. I immediately got in my car, praying I would arrive before he passed. I did. And a few hours later he was no longer in this world.
In a strange twist of fate, this Saturday morning I’m due to drive to meet the same three friends I met with the weekend of Dad’s death. In Atlanta this time, not Charleston. And the sense of deja vu is in my bones. The tears are already flowing. Even though there is no one left to die.
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’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:
As we neared Asheville, snow flurries appeared. A perfect ending to a perfect weekend. Beautiful, light, magical. Until next year, QuiltCon. ❤
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.
Oh, if only life always offered that.
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. ❤
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.
Christmas is a hard holiday. Or rather, Christmas Eve is. It’s a day for traditions. For opening one present. For dinners with family. It’s difficult when there is no family.
I miss Christmas Eve with Mom and Dad. I miss all of us jockeying when to fill each others’ Christmas stockings, trying to do it when no one else will notice. I miss the Moravian Lovefeast in Rural Hall culminating at midnight, singing carols, eating buns, and drinking Sanka.
I stare in wonder at my friends who still have one, or both, of their parents. Do they realize how lucky they are? Have they any idea how much they will miss them when they’re no longer there? When traditions no longer are, because the people aren’t there to uphold them?
Since the summer, my right hand has been going numb, and I drop things – books, paintbrushes, silverware, glasses. This morning I had carpal tunnel surgery. The surgeon repeatedly mentioned it was a quick surgery – 15 minutes tops. She asked if I wanted general or local anesthesia. For only 15 minutes, I didn’t want to endure the fogginess that general anesthesia brings on, sometimes for days. I chose local.
As we entered the waiting room, she asked what music I’d like during the procedure. I chose the Hamilton soundtrack, which has gotten me through so many difficult situations before. A large needle with local anesthesia was injected into my right hand, and I went numb almost immediately. As “The Schuyler Sisters” played, I sang loudly, “We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal, and when I meet Thomas Jefferson, I’m gonna impel him to include women in the sequel. Work!” The tech told me to sing it, sister (something I’ve never heard before, and was encouraged by). They washed me in an iodine solution, and began to position a drape between my arm and my head. “Oh, no, no, no. If I’m going to be awake, I want to watch.”
The drape needed to be there for hygienic reasons. And, she said that with each step, they would raise the drape so that I could see what was happening. I felt the incision, more like pressure than pain, and didn’t feel anything else. I asked why I didn’t feel blood spurting everywhere (I expected this after cutting into my wrist), and she said there was something in the anesthesia to stop the bleeding, and she had cauterized me. I had not smelled the singe of skin, so that surprised me. And, I was impressed.
She snipped, and dug, and snipped some more. The incision was held open by forceps (what a wonderful tool, forceps), so it appeared more like a rectangle than a slit. She cut the ligament, to create more space for the nerve. She explained what she was doing, and where, as she did it. I saw the finished result, a lovely opening where my nerve could move freely.
She then explained they would flush the wound, and I felt ccs of saline injected and expunging. I saw the freshly cleaned wound, and she began stitching me closed. I admired her stitches, and then she began the work of bandaging me. It felt excessive (much like Randy in A Christmas Story being bundled up to go outside in the cold), but I didn’t object. I wiggled my fingers, and she told me we were done. How lucky I am to witness such a procedure.
LoriLoo 