for at Easter, the world turned.
(Or I believe it did.)
At Easter, spring has arrived,
or is knocking on the door,
even in Britain.
In California, spring’s been around
since the beginning of the year,
but in Yorkshire,
spring was more elusive.
I changed tremendously
while we lived in Great Britain,
but deeper changes have occurred since we came back to America.
Well, all but my hair, thank you Jesus.
I can tap dance around the most significant bits
but to be honest,
and I prefer honesty,
I change every single day.
Only when I think about it,
or am confronted with it,
do I feel the weight
of who I am now
compared to who I used to be.
In 2014 I write and quilt;
I didn’t do those things in 2004.
But those are tips of an iceberg
more massive than what sank the Titanic.
Funny to consider all this
just from one photograph
while hiding out from my baseball team
that did manage to score one run.
A Plethora of Meanings
Many hours were driven
just to be with my beloveds
for probably less than the time spent on the road.
But I’d do it again,
and relatively soon,
for another chance with those I love best;
children and parents,
siblings and their wee ones.
It doesn’t seem fair
we only get one day
yet, Easter is a funny holiday
celebrating one of the greatest
unbalanced moments
of human history.
Now it’s late,
I’m tired,
but I’m also grateful
for more than these paltry words can express.
Hugs big and small
compensate for a miracle from over two thousand years
which manifests itself
in each of those embraces.
Each time one of my family smiles
is a reflection of the greater good.
What a blessing indeed.
Nine Days of April Remain
Sometimes coming up with a poem a day
is tough.
Poetry doesn’t just fall off trees,
you know.
A Quilt for Dietrich Bonhoeffer
I decided not to keep this quilt;
it’s gone through a couple of names,
The Quilt on the Wall,
The Fat Quarters Quilt.
It’s eventually going to be call Mi Hijos Quilt,
my children in Spanish,
or just Mijos for short.
My daughter, her husband, and their basset Buttercup
will be the recipients
this weekend,
but it’s a surprise…
However, in my heart,
this will always be for Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
Maria von Wedemeyer-Weller too,
for if Dietrich had lived,
they would have wed,
and this quilt would be for them both.
Every day for most of this month
I’ve been reading from his Letters & Papers From Prison book,
then I’d go back to piecing,
then layering,
then quilting.
Mostly piecing, as the rest came about fairly recently.
But with every stitch sewn,
this quilt left the twenty-first century,
traveling back to 1943, 1944.
That’s as far as I’ve gotten,
January 1944, nearly Bonhoeffer’s birthday.
His best friend Eberhard Bethge is in Italy somewhere,
serving with the German Army,
while Bonhoeffer whiles away time in Tegel Prison,
awaiting his trial,
which of course never occurred in a correct manner.
I can’t begin to describe
what it has been like learning the German perspective
of WWII, both from Bonhoeffer’s prison cell
and his large family’s tribulations,
what with their son, and a son-in-law, incarcerated,
plus the bombings.
I never expected that, but then, what did I imagine
when I began reading it, for Lent originally.
Easter has come and gone, and Bonhoeffer just spent Christmas
separated from those he loves, and Bethge is one of his most loved.
They were best friends,
which Dietrich expounds upon in a smuggled letter,
how friendship slips from the radar
compared to the most blessed relationships.
Just another issue for me to ponder,
sewn into the patches of a very colourful quilt.
Within this quilt, my children certainly will never recognize the lives of
Dietrich and Maria,
Eberhard and Renate,
Bonhoeffer’s parents,
and countless other relatives.
My clan will snuggle under this quilt
for a day or so after they get it,
then temperatures are going to rise,
rendering it somewhat unnecessary.
Yet within that comforter
lies many truths;
freedom
love
faith
helplessness
friendship.
I wonder if they will sense any of that?
Buttercup might;
she is a hound after all.
But I will never forget it
when I visit their house,
perhaps cuddling with a grandchild someday,
or commiserating with my daughter over a sorrow.
All that Bonhoeffer and his beloveds endured
will strengthen that blanket
so that over the years
it will provide special consolation
and tender love
to all surrounded by it.
And in the back of my head,
while other names swirl,
one will remain as the main title for this project.
For Dietrich, and Maria,
and those who loved them.
This Is All I Have, This Is All I Need
Been listening to ‘90s singles all afternoon
while placing another quilt on the wall.
This has been my life for the last several weeks,
quilts and tunes we listened to during the last years of the 1990s
in Great Britain.
That all seems so far away from what I’ve been reading
at lunchtime,
set in the mid-1940s.
But that’s not far from a photo of my family;
both of the young women are still living.
My father wasn’t yet born,
but was percolating within my grandmother.
And all of this brings to mind
how little it takes to survive,
to be happy.
Music, fabric, memories.
Photographs from long ago
set against words from that same time
in a country far away
awash in war.
I require nothing more
than squares of fabric,
tunes,
and food for thought.
This is all I have,
this is all I need.
The Daughter of a King
I’ll be turning 48 soon;
we’re having a party,
all sorts of celebrations.
Around here,
birthday festivities begin about
two weeks before the
big day.
/> My husband goes around humming
“Happy Birthday To You”
not to tease
but to commemorate.
It’s rather lovely,
as if the whole month
is all about me.
Today I’m starting a new quilt,
listening to Simon and Garfunkel as I sew.
I’m indulging myself,
and doing laundry
(there’s always laundry),
pondering impending visitors,
groceries to purchase,
but no cake, thanks.
As I sang while I sewed
(or maybe it was the other way around)
I was caught up
in the blissful nature
of feeling…
…special.
Which isn’t a crime,
even at nearly 48.
It’s noting that
life is good
and soon enough
I’ll get to see
many of my most loved.
As I laid out more squares of fabric
to be artfully arranged, or at least in a semblance of art,
I considered how to God
every day every person is celebrating a birthday.
Not in the newborn sense,
but in that He loves us
enormously
even more than my humming husband
loves me.
To God, each
morning, afternoon, and evening
should be feted
with as much enthusiasm
as I feel for the upcoming
big day.
I don’t know how that’s possible,
but I do know that it is.
And more,
I am suddenly gifted,
a few days early,
with a tremendously liberating concept –
each day I am so beloved
as if newly born,
or turning 13, 16, 21,
30 even.
(Actually 30 was okay. 29 was the pits.)
Every moment
with every breath taken,
each word scribbled
(then typed out onto the internet)
means something magnificent
to God
in relation to our lives
in this corporeal realm.
I’d never thought of it like that before.
Now I feel like not only am I turning 48,
but my life is restarting.
Yes, a few changes,
like the quilting madness
and a recently realized aversion to dairy,
but this second part of my life
can’t be like the first.
Lactose intolerance and sewing
will mesh with writing
and laundry, of course,
as I skip about
reveling in being the daughter of a King.
I really am, you know.
What does a yearly birthday celebration
have on being the daughter of a king?
I can’t wait to find out!
Rain and Hail and a Chat with My Daughter
Crazy rain,
crazier hail.
Relatively sane conversation with my twenty-one-year-old
on our way home today.
Rain rain rain
as if it had never rained before in its whole rainy life.
But very little drama of old with my youngest child;
she’s not the little girl of the ancient past
or the teenager of recently.
She’s the age I was when I met her father,
although it wasn’t raining on that day.
She’s the age… Goodness, that makes me sound old!
(Well, you are nearly 48 sweetheart…)
She’s the age people are
when they are a few years past high school
but not in their mid-twenties.
She’s at an age
where rain and hail
are something to run from the car into the house
whereas I am at the age that I walked briskly from the car
into the house
and was glad not to fall on my keister.
Rain and hail
and a chat with my daughter;
I won’t forget this day
anytime soon.
The Smallest Gifts
See blessed moments
through a camera phone lens,
as if your eye
was transplanted into a device
that lasts until the lights go out.
Bases loaded,
hits dribbled in;
runs add
to a total that expresses
more than just a win.
One magical moment
from old magazines
to conversations overheard
and I wonder if this day will ever end.
No, I don’t think it will.
Patches and Stashes
I won’t say I’m a fabric junkie;
I am a colour junkie, oh my goodness yes.
I like bright hues,
seventies style, according to my eldest.
I also like batiks; the stack is from that young woman
who introduced me into the world of quilting.
Now she wants me to acquire a stash of cottons
that would rival the stacks of records and CDs
in this small room.
It’s not a big room
but it feels bursting to the seams.
The WIP is a queen/king comforter
for summer,
hence the vibrant shades
and that’s only seen from the back.
The fabrics neatly folded
and awaiting a home
(much like a boll weevil)
are for… Now, you tell me what am I supposed to make with those?
I don’t say that with a snarl,
only the rolling eyes of a mother
rightly surprised by the varied fat quarters,
also greatly pleased.
And wondering where in the world they are going to go,
not project-wise,
but in this rather small-ish room
that houses music and my computer and an ironing board
amid other possessions.
It’s also home to a laundry basket,
Dandelion Library Books,
and a closet that is stuffed to the gills.
I don’t want to become a hoarder
as well as a quilter,
but if my daughter has her way…
I just wanna sew some quilts
(I just wanna go to the beach).
I just want to share a little love
in the guise of a lap-sized
(or larger)
blanket that I myself fashioned.
But I won’t deny the joy
of opening that little paper bag
filled with rolled fat quarters
of varying colours and types
as if I was stepping into another’s life,
handing them my love
which they could wrap around themselves
and I’d be with them forever.
Is it like kids who leave things behind
so they have a reason to come home,
or those who leave texts and voicemail messages
just to be heard?
I don’t know.
All I know is those fabrics are aching for me to figure out what to do with them.
They’re screaming,
“You’re making an e-nor-mo summer blanket,
don’t forget about us!”
And while I write this poem,
I wonder when
and how
and for whom
that quilt will be
made and
what it will look like.
Well, regardless of the pattern
or size,
/>
I do realize one thing;
it’s all about love baby.
All about love.
Just Sew Baby
I’m building a garden,
acres of wildflowers
amid a fabric horizon
awash with a soft, cottony feel.
I’m writing this poem as I sew,
pinning as I go,
dancing to U2
as flowers stir around my heels.
Lilacs and roses
attract hummingbirds
while posies of bright blue-backed
bouquets spring like
lollipops.
Guitars ring along as the words flow
while the flowers grow,
row by row of 8 ½” squares
turning into blocks whipping as they are whisked from
the sewing grotto into the living room
while the music spins the wind
whipping petals
like the pins removed
so the needle doesn’t sew over them.
I’ve a garden within my house,
soon enough spilling out onto the bed
where fragrant blossoms
will perfume the room
as my memories trip along
the keyboard
as easily as guiding the fabric over the feed dogs.
And one day this field will grow for others
as they snuggle under bedding
wondering where and when and how
so many flowers came together via threads and batting.
Another story for another day,
I’ll say, as we turn pages of another book
wrapping the scented love field all around us.
Gone But Not Forgotten
You might wonder what a writer does with books that don’t have a home.
I’m not talking about unsold paperbacks,
but those rough drafts that linger in various cyber realms.
Actually, mine live in playlists
made for each novel.
Which sounds a little…
Strange, but it was how I rolled.
Or rocked,
or wrote.
One of the three, but as the songs waft in the sewing grotto,
I’m reminded of something else I used to do.
I haven’t been long at this sewing gig;
quilting is fairly new on the scene.
Prior to drowning in cottons and thread
I was neck-deep in plots,
novels mostly,
many novels.
And with those novels came music,
many playlists,
heaps of tunes.
Over the last day,
while basting and tying the summer comforter,
I’ve been awash in projects from the past
all in the music pouring through small speakers
in what used to be my writing room.
Funny how one small space
can house many lives,
mine and those I created.
Right now it’s Leish, Casey, and Greg,
from a novel about twenty-something’s
facing mortality
and love
with copious amounts of boysenberry yogurt.
The book is called
Some Happy Endings,
the playlist filed under
Completed Drafts