Down By The River Side

If you’re going to sew anyway, where would you rather do it?---at home with the cat, in the cool shade of the house? Or down by the river, in the shade of a tree? If you grew up in Ireland, where the slightest glimmer of sunshine or the merest hint of warm weather cause the natives to kick up their heels, down tools and go cavorting gleefully into the great outdoors, the decision is simple.

I’ve been working on some hand piecing since I finished the star quilt. I hadn’t exactly planned on starting a new project. But the universe decided I needed to make it, so without asking my brain for permission, my hands started cutting and stitching. If consulted, my brain would have had to say

“No. Have you looked at the pile of unfinished symphonies in the closet? No, no, NO!”

But since the brain was left out of the decision making process, all that negativity was avoided.

The hands have been busy. A little every day. I’d forgotten how much I love “handwerk.” Just me and the needle, the thread and the fabric……And my mind wide open for traipsing across the plains and plateaus of LIFE.

You look at a woman sitting by the river, stitching. And you think you’re seeing a woman sitting by the river, stitching.

But you’re not.

You’re seeing a woman on a journey, a journey through the “caverns of her mind.” A woman tentatively picking her way through a minefield of intimate relationships, stepping gingerly lest she cause an explosion, and, at times, casting caution to the winds and speaking her mind---a dangerous habit. A woman trying to understand why, when all the players speak the same language, it is SO difficult to communicate.

Because egos are involved.
Expectations are involved.
Personalities are involved.
And dreams.

And each player’s personality, each player’s expectations, and each player’s dreams are different. Oy.

Suddenly that stitcher by the river, that dreamer, that luster after peace and harmony….. leaps from her reverie in the grass back to the real, sun-dappled world of the river bank.

With a loud, indignant yelp.

Feeling a sharp sting on her sandalled foot, she looked down and discovered she was sitting in the middle of basic training for an army of ants.


Nevertheless, progress has been made, the state of the world has been pondered. Conclusions have been drawn, that we’re a lot like the ants, running in circles, wringing our hands, agonizing over the twists and turns of our petty, insignificant lives, when Life, in his big, agricultural, hob-nailed boots can stomp all over us at any moment and obliterate us. I’m just hoping he lets me linger by the river ‘til I’m finished my stitching.