Lefty to the rescue

 

I always wanted to do my hair in a French braid, but had no clue how to go about it. Then, one day, I was at the doctor's office waiting to get blood drawn for something forgotten and the technician had to kneel down to get supplies from a low cabinet drawer. 

Her hair was a rusty brown. Sleek, shiny, and braided to her head from the crown to the ends well past her shoulders. I studied that braid intently. That night, I dreamed about how it was done. 

I can't remember the specifics of the dream, but the next morning I hung my head over the side of the bed, brushed out all the knots, and did the thing. 

The first time I did it so tight, my eyes tipped up at the corners. My sister is a hair professional and told me that I've done is called an inverted fishtail braid. It wasn't like I could see what my fingers were doing. 

Today I gave Lefty a shot at the needle and thread. Give Righty a rest and flex the part of the brain that learns new tricks.

Just the stabbing pavers stitch for now. Slow motion eases the way. It was surprisingly easy enough to be satisfying. I'll save the wrapped rope and knots for Righty.

I have misplaced words during conversations more than I like lately, so I'm pushing the gray matter into new and different situations to keep the grooves from smoothing out. 

I've written a Tarot Spread to be included in the new novel. Haven't named it yet. That will come after I use it for a while.

Meanwhile, slackers abound!

open heart

 

The shape is ubiquitous, but I never cared for the flat, two-dimensional version. The shape inside the stamped paper lace cut-outs. 

The engine of life is so much more complex. The actual, fist-shaped, meat version is unpretty. Brutal looking. 

I shouldn't have even started this one, but there's the nature of compulsion. 

Some over-use/abuse of my right shoulder (probably pool cleaning related) is causing a distracting level of pain in my right shoulder to fingertips. Stitching, even a few minutes at a time is suspended.

I can talk my keyboard through the motions of getting words on paper. There's that for now.

It's Father's Day. My sons learned from the best. 

A very fine friday

 Except for the nasturtium seeds, everything here came from the big box dead wagon or trash can (I can't dumpster dive anymore. It requires a partner and I don't know anyone willing to do time for stealing dead geraniums.) But if you become a regular, even a browser, the cashier is more likely to cut a deal with you rather than see plants with a little hope thrown in the garbage. 

Sometimes, if I'm real quiet, I hear them humming. and grunting. and complaining. 

During odd hours this week, this audacious little heart demanded to be manifest. I obliged and immediately put it to work on the side of the writing tote that I drag around. Usually, it's Just In Case (a spirit moves me). 

Over these last few days a large chunk of the work in progress, book four, fell into place. I wrote out notecards for all the scenes I have that are half-baked. gooey still and flexible.

Being able to put them in some kind of order gives the book a beating heart. It's quite thrilling when the smoke clears.

I'm also seeing a way forward for another book that's been on the back burner for several years. 

And today I got my happy place back. Thirty minutes of work brushing and siphoning, then an hour surveying my domain from the floaty. (Deep gratitude for Samantha providing an electric air pump) . We have a few anoles, I hear the tree frogs at night. Dragonflies came in low and slow to inspect me then flitted off for discussions. 

Scrap refresh

 

I've been making up orders (bless you all) and felt that the scrap basket could use some pizzazz. 

Actually, the giant tote that I keep my personal stash in fell off the third closet shell while I was shoving things around looking for What Was It?

I went down the rabbit hole poking around in it. Some things still dazzled others made me wonder what I was thinking or smoking that day. 

I won't call it death cleaning. Just the realization that my "somedays" are much more likely to have been promised to other activities or people. Things that will give me a lot more satisfaction than completing another stitched Whatsis that will be lucky if it becomes a potholder or a placemat. 

There was a big stack of those in another tote. Stuff that's mostly finished. As in Now What?

At least a well-made quilt gets to be useful so I'm thinking that if one of those "somedays" turns up a little empty, I'm going to whip all of those little projects together with the sewing machine, break out that double-sized Warm&Natural batt that's been roosting on a high shelf, find or cobble together a backside and create something useful out of all that wishful thinking.

 

So, now there are bits and pieces of my cloth history going back ten, fifteen years in the scrap bin. 

I have a lot of commercial prints that I've hoarded, too, but didn't add them in. Quilt backs eventually, I guess.

Salem and Bailey doing their best to keep me indolent on a rainy day.  Yesterday, I got thirty minutes in the very cold pool doing cleanup work before the skies opened up. I would have stayed, but never with thunder.

And from Colin at the airport last night, this miracle. The weather flexed from nasty to glorious three times yesterday making the day seem eternal. It was disorienting. This sunset promised a beauty today, but I'll wait and see what the weather gods have up their sleeves.  

I could use a Sweetie or two.

First dibs

 

I got mine!

(As she congratulates herself on her restraint)

Now to make room in my threadbox. And pesky? I gave away all those cardboard bobbins. 

Distant thunder just now. With it, the first rain in weeks! The gardenias have been blooming and dying in one day. I have been carrying gallons to the pumpkins out front and the deck plants. Amen.

 I can feel the plants and animals unfurling. Opening. Drinking it in. 

Thunder answers. You're welcome.