I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight

What is it about life and it’s determination to upend me? Why is it impossible for me to have more than one good day in a row; for a day that has been good thus far, maintaining a steady flow of status and quo throughout, to be ruined upon reaching the ending? And why must my morning be a mess today, when today is a day upon which I need to be happy, vibrant and alive? I am not impressed and I am not smiling. Can you tell?

Sitting in Starbucks, and a grotty one at that; hiding on a table to the side and towards the back: I lick freshly inflicted wounds – wondering why, how, what just happened happened; trying to figure out what it was all about and who the main antagonist was. My head buzzes: overly full. My heart hurts, exposed and bleeding. There is the familiar pain of a hole and a slice, right at the centre, and the sense of a part that should be but isn’t. Where did it go: the thing, the part? And when, if it was there at all, did it disappear? I wonder if it always been like this, since the beginning. Or if it is more recent, something that has happened as a result of my journeying across the intervening years?

I wrap my hands around a hot mug, sip overly sweet tea, berate myself softly for the number of sweeteners I felt the need to add for comfort, wishing I were stronger, better, more in control, more like other people. Just like I do not need to click, click, click until everything tastes like it came from a sweet factory in order to placate my insides; I do not need to stubbornly plant my feet like a defiant dog refusing a walk in order to convey my point, especially when said planting and conveying results in my own person sabotage.

I blow my nose, emptying out the tears that I refuse to let flow; trying for just one day not to ruin my face – or at least not until after sundown, when the dark will hide the marks and the smear of mascara. That she hasn’t called, hasn’t even emailed to make sure I am alright, to ask where I am and what happened: only makes it, the incident, worse. Now I feel twice attacked: once by them, the angry receptionists; and once by her, the professional I stood up.

What happened? Was I wrong in my decision to act? Why did they take offence to what I intended to be a polite exchange, a look at the situation from the other side of the double-edged blade? I run the script through my mind, attempting to analyse and dissect exactly what happened, picking at words and sentences, paragraphs and phrases, until I am sure, or almost, that it wasn’t my fault.

I could have kept quiet and swallowed the humiliation… I could have pretended to be unscathed… I could have acted hard and cold and passed the buck back onto her… But I didn’t. Why the need to explain, the desire to placate, the attempt to enlighten and sway a disinterested other; the aim to aid future arrivees, discerning individuals, from a similar plight? And why leave prior to reaching a satisfactory conclusion to the heated debate, thereby denying myself the aid which had led me to the wretched organisation in the first place? Why indeed..?

As I sit here, I am an hour down and an ear short and the offloading that I had anticipated, that I had needed, that I still need, is far away. I now – thanks to my stubborn feet, my disobedient mouth, my wonky pride – have two weeks to endure before anyone, anything, attempts to step in. Not that any of the aid or the stepping has made much of a difference to date of late. The only dent in the armour has been self-made. I long for my ears of yesteryear. Patient and loving, gentle and kind: these are the people who have given and held; people who, for whose help, I am always and always will be eternally grateful.

As I slowly return to myself, I thank God for their presence in my life and the changes they helped me to achieve. I am who I am because they were there to guide me, gently encouraging and pushing like parent, friend and sibling; taking on roles that I was lacking elsewhere, and determine to care more and act with greater responsibly in the future. Just because money is short or because certain people are located elsewhere (like abroad), does not mean that I need to be restricted. The last two years have rewound me. I have been hurt; I have been broken; I have been held back and pressed down. I am clawing my way back – up and out, slowly. I need to take this time, treat this experience, as a chance to return. And if it means borrowing from the bank or going into debt, then so be it. I am worth it. It’s about time I understood that. Who, if not me, is going to treat me right, love me enough, respect and push me in the way and ways that I currently need?

Matter resolved, I dip my spoon into my cappuccino, scooping out milk flavoured with cinnamon, vanilla and nutmeg. I have drunk my way through two teas already. I’ve been to the bathroom twice that many times. I’ve sent emails and checked Twitter and Facebook, visited Amazon and surfed online. It’s been a difficult morning but I am stronger now and a decision that ought to have been made at the beginning when the reason was obvious has been solidified. Feeling lighter, stronger, cleaner and more resolved, I slip on my coat; squashing my head into a hat that I knitted in another life, pushing hands into gloves that were born in comfort and in sunshine. It’s cold out. I don’t want to hurt things that are already damaged.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight

It’s mild out and I’m sweating in my coat, softly cursing my heatgen underwear, wishing I had had the foresight to check the weather forecast before committing to clothes. I’m also wishing I had packed my umbrella, another reason for checking Thursday’s intentions in advance of entering into her orbit, but it’s too late now, so I unbutton my coat, shed my hat and gloves and thank God for his kindness. In December, 14 degrees is an unexpected gift: I’ll not be condemning the horse or speaking ill of the dead, even if it does mean juggling extra pieces. I wipe water from my nose with a tissue and close my handbag; it’s spitting slightly and threatening to rain and the sky looks positively angry. In truth, I’m slightly scared. Ominous and oppressive come to mind; vindictive, also. I walk fast, hoping to make it to the station unscathed.

I cross Leicester Square, dodging commuters and eager tourists. Continue on to Embankment, where I pull out my Oyster, tap the gate, scan the map, turn (as per instructed) and descend, stepping almost immediately onto a train. The doors close and for four stops I knit, the strip in my hands extending, bit by bit. Two weeks in, it has advanced from single brown square to autumn quilt, albeit a small one, housing a bunny rabbit, two carrots, a ladybird and a branch. Organic, in charge of me rather than me in charge of it, I have no idea what comes next: a flower, a moon, a person, a dog…? At the end, there will be a message; there always is. I am keen to read it. I used to check my horoscope and consult the cards, translating from a ‘how to’ book. I also analysed leaves, pulling shapes out of cups. But creativity is better: harder to decipher, perhaps, but more insightful and based in fact. My novels held messages about where I ought to go and where, as a result, I’ve travelled since. My poetry, too; warning and guiding, if only I had been open to seeing and obeying when it was relevant.

At Sloane Square, I finish my row and bag my needles. Then it’s up and off and through another barrier.

Outside it’s dry and quiet, a scattering of people queuing at a newsstand, several taxis speeding by, the odd bus… I take out my phone and check the time: if I’m quick, I can grab a coffee; I could use the pick-me-up as I’m feeling tired and the ‘no light’ does strange things to me. Fresh out of bed, I’m not yet sure what kind of a day today is, but if the last month and a half are anything to go by, it won’t be great; I don’t want to tempt fate by starting on a backfoot. It will also act as a shield against what’s to come if it turns into an ambush or becomes in any way uncomfortable: after Friday’s disaster, I’m on edge; I’m also nervous. In truth, I’d rather not be here but I made a commitment and a bad day or a bad day last week, isn’t enough of an excuse to deny myself a potential opportunity that, in the long run, I should appreciate. I’m dipping and dabbling, sampling and savouring, endeavouring to fix the broken and right the wrong. There will be mistakes. There will be disasters. There will be injuries and things that ache. But it is by being open and by doing, by absorbing and by experimenting, that we learn. Curl up small, attempt to shut it out, retreat and withdraw and reverse into relative silence: and it all stops: movement, action, improvement, progress, healing, happiness and health.

Coffee in hand slightly later than planned, I rush towards my destination; turning sharply onto a quiet street, slipping through a peeling gate, stumbling down mossy stairs. Nose running, coffee dripping from my coat, late: I’m flustered. Now I wish I’d carried on walking or bought camomile tea instead – it wouldn’t stain and there would be no frantic mopping up, later attempted washing, need to visit the dry cleaners… Cost aside: I’ve nothing else to wear in between. A dress and a cardigan; a skirt and a jumper, don’t quite suit. Even with gloves, a hat, a thick scarf, etc., I will be freezing.

But all of this is tissue paper and beside the point. What’s important is yesterday and how that made me feel and how I feel today, still, as a result: positive, alive, strong. Which, after everything I’ve endured, everything I’ve done, everything I’ve suffered and everything I’ve survived, is a miracle.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Snowmen in winter

imageBetter the devil you know than the prince you are chasing after. Better the life you have than the future you would like to arrive. Birds in the hand are worth more than mammals in the distance. Eggs more reliable assets than chickens down the line.

Thank God for what you have and count your lucky stars. Let absence take care of what is missing and providence provide. Tread softly around others, be mindful of their dreams. Give what you can to the less fortunate, take only what you need from those who can provide.

Think big, stand tall, set goals, climb skyscrapers. Plan ahead, take action, share often, do more. Walk with courage, run with enthusiasm, sit down with dignity, sleep with pride. Love each season as if it were the only one available. Embrace all weather, as if it were all there were.

Build snowmen in winter. Plant daisies in spring. Pick apples in summer. Make fires in fall. Smile at those who hurt you, laugh with those who don’t. Listen to your elders, teach your youth. Show those who are searching, lead them who would like to learn. Imagine it all different, then get up and take a turn.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
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Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
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Under the Bed

imageLast year, there were lights
dancing in the sky
that looked like alien spaceships.

This year, there were moths
coveting a lamp.

In winter, gekkos
hide behind the mirror
and spiders crawl under the bed.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

imageTo keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
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Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
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The Potential Possum and the Mostly Moon (as featured on Let’s Knit)

imageRead full-length piece.
Read Let’s Knit blog

Up until now:

The majority of my pieces are colourful narratives – bright, shiny and cheerful. They depict wonderful beginnings, beautiful middles and happy endings.

my textile work

My drawing, on the other hand, tends towards the opposite.

my illustration

Perhaps it has something to do with the tradition of the craft and how I see it: gainfull employment for hands that would be idle. It reminds me of classic novels and of women who were well-behaved. It is passive and quiet, undeniably elegant. It has no room for rage or despair; for the mess of external expression.

how I see the craft

Or maybe it’s because it was my grandmother who taught me and I see her as this shining light, someone who always managed to put a positive spin on things? Perhaps I am scared to taint her memory and infect her gift?

my grandmother

Or it could be that I am attached to the concept that we traditionally knit items to wear or use and embroider things to decorate and gift?

In trying to turn something ‘crafty’ into something ‘arty’, I am changing the rules and I think this attempted remodelling is where I have become tangled up. So this project is all about letting go.

Instead of having a vague idea of a theme for a piece, I shall clear my mind and work without attachment to direction or outcome, allowing my inner guide and my outer muse (the below-featured chihuahua) to steer the journey.


Something new:

Having decided to try my hand at something new, I decided it was only right that I use a new ball of wool and a new colour; that way everything would be different – the background, the method, the colouring. Worst case scenario, should I mess up entirely, I would simply fail to swim. And from the bottom of the pool, lake or ocean, I could float my way back up, either unpicking and correcting in order to continue or starting over afresh.

Sidar Snuggly Baby Crofter – Winnie (178)

I elect to make a plain square and begin by casting on 40 stitches. The purpose here was for the tension square to serve as a pseudo-type therapist; an entity both strong enough and reliable enough to accommodate my emotions, thereby enabling me space to temporarily switch off from all catastrophizing about the future in order to sit still and silent within the present. It kind of works.

40 stitches x 22 rows

Having completed my square, I am then ready to move on to the frame. This will serve to ground the square visually. It will also catch and hold straight the edges, which would otherwise curl. I have chosen to use white because it is clean and fresh and also because, being plain and simple, it won’t distract from what’s going on inside. The only complication I allow myself I limit to one row:

k2tog, yo; repeat

At the same time, I decide to approach the inside: the space where the story will sit.

Picking up my knitting doll, I select a length of yarn and proceed to make a cord, which I will coil in much the same way as with a coaster or mat. The process is quick, simple and meditative and I lose myself effortlessly to the rhythm of it.

My moon takes me three days: one to make the coil and two to decorate.

knitted edges and a spool moon

Next up, the focus of my piece: my person or animal. I have no idea what will come out; I simply pick up my needles and trust in the process. I watch with interest until it starts to look like a ‘something’ and then I intrude.

In this instance, the suggested is of animal inclination. Beginning as a cat, it later becomes a rat and then, finally, joyously, a possum. This feels right, reminiscent of my time in Australia and my love for the family of possums who lived in the trees surrounding my house. I loved watching them, constantly surprised that in their lack of dexterity and elegance, they never seemed to fall.

I give my possum a tail, slightly curled. Then I add two ears – one that sticks up, the other out. After this, I add a nose, a mouth and a cheek, all in various shades of pink. Lastly, I give it claws, a necklace and a bracelet.

my possum

Because at the moment it’s top right and bottom left with nothing in between, I decide to make a star, which, along with providing company for the moon, will help to balance it out. But as it evolves, it transforms into a flower – jasmine or honeysuckle. Knitted in mohair and angora, it is soft with a fluffy sheen. I decorate it in pearls with a single sequin at its centre, then surround it with more flowers, only smaller this time, made of pearl and sequin.

my star

Three feels like the correct number of elements for the piece, so I decide to leave it there. But something is missing. I decide to add some sequins and beads to the area beneath the moon. I leave their translation open to the spectator. To me, however, they are many things: raindrops, snowflakes, tears, shooting stars, meteorites, petals; their essence changing with my mood.

my moon

Overall, this piece has two levels. The surface one – which is sweet, playful and fun; almost childlike in presentation. And the underlying one – which speaks of hope and faith, goal and intent, apprehension and fear, sorrow and grief; of things let go and left behind, and of things yet to be encountered and enjoyed.

the potential possum and the mostly moon

I miss Australia: the buzz of the city, the contrast of towering skyscraper against colonial relic, the warmth of the people; Chinatown, it’s smells and tastes; the beach – Bondi, Manley, Cooggie, Bronte, with its bronzed swimmers and surfers, its vistas and cliffs; the animals – pelican, cockatiel, fruit bat, koala, possum, kangaroo; my house; the places I went, the experiences I had, the people I met.

Australia

I know that when I leave here, Mallorca, I shall miss the landscape, the sky, and the light; watching the sun rise and set, the moon wax and wane; spotting shapes in the clouds; counting the stars and looking for various formations, every so often chancing upon a lone crusader as it flies past on its way to earth. I shall also miss the peace and quiet, the land that surrounds my house and the walled orchard with its fruit trees: lemon, lime, orange, pear, plum and fig… each month delivering a new surprise.

Mallorca

In its intentions, this piece has been fairly successful. In telling a story that wanted to be told, it has given voice to a handful of emotions and feelings, setting some free while merely drawing attention to the presence of others. I have gained information and advice about necessary inner work and learnt that as well as grieving the departure of people, it is also important to mourn the loss of home and place.

Everything we touch, everywhere we settle, every experience we have… impacts upon us in some way. And whether small or large, pleasant or terrible, they need to be honoured and thanked.

This lesson shall go with me into the next chapter and the next piece.

• see the rest of the collection (as and when it arrives)
• learn about other pieces I have made
• visit my website

The potential possum and the mostly moon (full-length version)

image• Read short version (as featured on Let’s Knit)
• Read Let’s Knit guest post

Objects of beauty:

I am starting to tire of my current series: the pieces take too long to make and the repetition, although pleasantly meditative, has become boring. I need to shake it up, increasing the pressure in order to scare myself; for while I am a creature of habit in my daily life: when it comes to creativity I need to be challenged and stimulated.

Vitruvian Woman

This piece is part of a new series I am making entitled Square Pegs. It is based on the following concepts:

1) the suggested tension square accompanying almost every pattern (something I rarely do and so have decided to practice)
2) patchwork quilts – old, beautiful and steeped in tradition
3) my own obstinate peg, namely accepting and embracing it

In knitting square after square, working within the security of a fixed environment, I hope to provide an outlet for life’s challenges, honouring the grazes by transforming them into objects of beauty; the idea being that these small squares, with their individual narratives, come together to form a whole that tells an entire story.

A natural disposition to be good:

Most of what I am about to do is undecided and I have restricted myself to three changes:

• a yarn background instead of a felt one
• a smaller workspace
• a square canvas

This expanse of unknown excites me and I am keen to see how it will translate.

Up until now:

Up until now, the majority of my pieces have been colourful narratives – bright, sparkly and cheerful. They depict wonderful beginnings, beautiful middles and happy endings.

my textile work

My drawing, on the other hand, tends towards the opposite; although here, too, you have to know what you are looking for.

my illustration

My poetry and prose, also; both reflecting (often with alarming honesty) exactly what is going on inside my head.

Why then, when I pick up a yarn or thread, does it always come out with a smile? I don’t understand it and while I don’t necessarily mind (for cheerful is always good), I would like to have more of a choice. That way, when I’ve got something on my mind: like when I’m worried or stressed or upset… I can allow its story an outlet along with the emotion it contains.

how I see the craft

Perhaps it has something to do with the tradition of the craft and how I see it: gainfull employment for hands that would be idle, domesticity at its best, a relic from a time that no longer exists? It reminds me of classic novels and of women who were well-behaved. It is passive and quiet; undeniably elegant. It has no room for rage or despair, for the mess of external expression. It was something that you sat and did, either in solitude or in company. Perhaps it is this that is stopping me, along with a natural disposition to be good?

a natural disposition to be good

Or maybe it’s because it was my grandmother who taught me and I see her as this shining light, someone who always managed to put a positive spin on things? Perhaps I am scared to taint her memory and infect her gift?

my grandmother

Or it could be that I am attached to the concept that we traditionally knit items to wear or use and embroider things to decorate and gift? Both are seen as crafts and craft, by its very nature, or at least according to it’s stereotype, is typically an airhead.

In trying to turn something ‘crafty’ into something ‘arty’, something with a message that goes deeper than a surface: “Hey look at me! Am I not the most lovely scarf, the most delicious hat? ”, I am changing the rules and I think this, the attempted remodelling, is where I have become tangled up.

An idealistic approach:

So this project is all about breaking the rules and moving away from the place where it all started. My previous work was different in the sense that it took embroidery and knitting as crafts and turned them into art, reinventing them and our perception of the form they take.

This work is all about exploration and doubly letting go, letting go a second time. Instead of having a vague idea of a theme for a piece: a pregnant rabbit, a frog in drag, a horse eating ice cream; I shall clear my mind and work without attachment to direction or outcome, allowing my inner guide and my outer muse to steer the journey. It is an idealistic approach, but one that excites me.

Phase one: humble beginnings

Sidar Snuggly Baby Crofter – Winnie (178)

Having decided to try my hand at something new, I decided it was only right that I use a new ball of wool and a new colour; that way, everything would be different – the background, the method, the colouring – reducing the risk of any and all attempts on my part to cling to the previously tested. I would dive in and wait to see. Worst case scenario, should I mess up entirely, I would simply fail to swim. And from the bottom of the pool, lake or ocean, (it’s length and breadth dependent on the extent of the mess I am in ), I could simply float my way back up, either unpicking and correcting in order to continue or starting over afresh. No big deal. It’s not like the wellbeing of the world or even myself depends upon it, although my confidence might be dented somewhat.

image

I elect to make a plain square and begin by casting on 40 stitches. My first time slot (I work in the car) allows me 22 rows. So far, so good. Not that that says much; although to a novice, even this might be a significant success. In my classes (I offer small workshops and private lessons) I have seen all kinds of things and it always surprises me how diverse people’s blocks and difficulties are – some struggling to cast on; while others steam ahead, only stumbling when they try to end. It fascinates me, this first dipped toe, this initial sampling, and I am always honoured to be a part of it.

Phase two: the next step

Repetition therapy

Having completed my square (roughly K40 x K36, although I must confess I forgot to count them), I am ready to move on to the next step and already I have an inkling about what I want it to be. But I shall keep that part of the narrative a secret until I have a photograph to accompany it: that way I maintain your attention for a little longer, allowing me pause to examine the benefits, if there were any, of the square.

Brief interlude in which I attempt to examine the benefits, if there were any, of the square:

The purpose here was to provide an outlet: the tension square serving as a pseudo-type therapist; an entity both strong enough and reliable enough to accommodate my emotions, thereby enabling me space to temporarily switch off from all catastrophizing about the future in order to sit still and silent within the present. And while it is far from a cure or a remedy: it’s a something, and something’s are things I am always grateful for. One doesn’t reject a thing just because it only delivers part of what is desired: a ball of acrylic is infinitely better than having no ball at all.

I think the solution is to keep making – increasing the pressure and the challenge, experimenting with what works on the outside and trying, as much as possible, to draw a parallel between that which is kind to my inside. The trick will be in uniting the two, so that my squares not only serve to tell a story but also to exorcise the emotions attached.

Phase three: two birds

Moonlight and right angles

Moving on, it is time for the frame: the knitted edging to replace what has previously been in ribbon. This will serve to ground the square visually, making it easier to work with. It will also catch and hold straight the edges, which would otherwise curl. I have chosen to use white because it is clean and fresh and also because, being plain and simple, it won’t distract from what’s going on inside. The only complication I allow myself (for even when striving for simplicity, there has to be one), I limit to one row: k2tog, yo; repeat.

At the same time, because I work my interiors while stationary and because I don’t want to start anything else for fear of overwhelm or distraction from the task, I decide to approach the inside: the space where the story will sit.

The mostly moon

Picking up my knitting doll (old and much-loved), I select a length of yarn and proceed to make a cord, which, when done, I will coil in much the same way one does a coaster or mat. The process is quick, simple and meditative and I lose myself effortlessly to the rhythm of it, re-emerging only when I am done. One of the things that I love most about sewing and knitting is that it is all-encompassing – swallowing me up thoughts, worries, distractions, life pressures and all… rescuing me (albeit temporarily) from the current weight of the world and the speed in which it invariably flows.

When I have roughly 25cm of cord, I make my coil, which I then loosely secure with cotton so that I can work on it. I then bring out my collection of sequins and beads and deliberate over which sizes and colours to pick. The larger my collection, the harder the task, despite my intention being the opposite.

My moon takes me three days: one to make the coil and two to decorate.

The potential possum a

Next up: the focus of my piece: my person or animal. At this point, I have no idea what will come out; I simply pick up my needles and trust in the process. My hands move independently and gradually a shape emerges. I watch with interest until it starts to look like a ‘something’ and then I intrude.

In this instance, the suggested is of animal inclination. Beginning as a cat, it later becomes a rat and then, finally, joyously, (I couldn’t abide having to devote myself to such an odious creature: its yellow teeth, its scaly tail) a possum. This feels right, reminiscent of my time in Australia and my love for the family of possums who lived in the trees surrounding my house. A cross between a cat, a rat and a squirrel, they were among the most curious of all the creatures I had the pleasure of meeting. I loved watching them, constantly surprised that, in their lack of dexterity and elegance, they never seemed to fall. I still struggle to accept that something that maladroit can live securely amongst branches and leaves.

I give my possum a tail, slightly curled. Then I add two ears – one that sticks up, the other out, separate to the piece so that’s 3-dimensional. After this, I add a nose, a mouth and a cheek, all in various shades of pink. And lastly, an eye: fishlike and slightly Egyptian, reminiscent of pyramids and the calligraphy that decorates their walls. Lastly, I give it claws, grey, a pearl necklace and a tail bracelet. I work slowly, concentrating on each addition, careful not to overload it. I want it to be likeable, and the jewelery helps this, but at the same time I don’t want it to feel overdone. I’m pleased with the result as well as my restraint.

The budding star

To balance the piece out, I decide to make a star, which, along with providing company for the moon, will help to balance the piece out. But as it evolves, it transforms into a flower, jasmine or honeysuckle. Knitted in mohair and angora, it is soft with a fluffy sheen. I decorate it in pearls with a single sequin at its centre, then surround it with more flowers, pearl and sequin in nature.

Three feels like the correct number of elements for the piece, so I decide to leave it there. But something is missing. Sitting with it for several days, looking at it often, thinking both in front of it and away, I decide to add some sequins and beads to the area beneath the moon. I leave their translation open to the spectator. To me, however, they are many things: raindrops, snowflakes, tears, shooting stars, meteorites, petals; their essence changing with my mood. Raindrops and tears are sorrowful, regretful, remorseful and hurt, representing certain people and events and the way I feel about them, along with the future and what it potentially holds. Shooting stars, snowflakes, petals and meteorites are more positive, signifying birth and transformation, possibility and change. Again, elements belonging to the future, but one I feel more warmth towards.

Summing up:

The potential possum and the mostly moon

Overall, this piece has two levels. The surface one, which is sweet, playful and fun, almost childlike in presentation. And the underlying one, which speaks of hope and faith, goal and intent, apprehension and fear, sorrow and grief; of things let go and left behind, and of things yet to be encountered and enjoyed.

Australia

I miss Australia: the buzz of the city, the contrast of towering skyscrape against colonial relic, the warmth of the people; Chinatown, it’s smells and tastes; the beach – Bondi, Manley, Cooggie, Bronte with its bronzed swimmers and surfers, its vistas and cliffs; the animals – pelican, cockatiel, fruit bat, koala, possum, kangaroo; my house, the places I went, the experiences I had, the people I met.

Mallorca

I know that when I leave here, Mallorca, I shall miss the landscape, the sky and the light; watching the sun rise and set, the moon wax and wane, spotting shapes in the clouds, counting the stars and looking for various formations, every so often chancing upon a lone crusader as it flies past on its way to earth. I shall also miss the peace and quiet, the land that surrounds my house and the walled orchard with its fruit trees: lemon, lime, orange, pear, plum and fig, each month delivering a new surprise.

In its intentions, this piece has been fairly successful, although incomplete in its remedy. In telling a story that wanted to be told, it has given voice to a handful of emotions and the feelings that were attached, setting some free, while merely drawing attention to the presence of others. I have gained information and advice about necessary inner work and learnt that as well as grieving the departure of people, it is also important to mourn the loss of place and home.

Everything we touch, everywhere we settle, every experience we have, impacts upon us in some way. And whether small or large, pleasant or terrible, they need to be honoured and thanked.

This lesson shall go with me into the next chapter and the next piece.

• see the rest of the collection (as and when it arrives)
• learn about other pieces I have made
• visit my website
imageTo keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
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The Reluctant Robin and the Blue Bud

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This piece is part of a new series I am making, entitled Square Pegs. It is based on the following concepts:

1) the suggested tension square accompanying almost every pattern (something I rarely do and so have decided to practice)
2) patchwork quilts – old, beautiful and steeped in tradition
3) my own obstinate peg, namely accepting and embracing it

In knitting square after square, working within the security of a fixed environment, I hope to provide an outlet for life’s challenges, honouring the cuts and scrapes by transforming them into objects of beauty; the idea being that these small squares, with their individual narratives, come together to form a whole that tells an entire story.

This is the second piece in my collection. I have called it: The Reluctant Robin and the Blue Bud.

~

The robin was reluctant to admit to his part in the affair: the things he had done, the words he had said, the actions he had taken and the others he had withheld; things which, collectively, had led to the arrival of the blue bud – a despondent bloom who did nothing but weep, crying over today as if it were the last day on which it were possible for such things to be shed. Such was the weight of his woe, he had quite saturated the garden, coming very close to drowning an earthworm and several small slugs.The robin sighed: how did one deal with such a creature? Should he approach with a handkerchief and attempt to wipe the stain from his nose? Or should he prepare a pot and serve hot tea instead? Whatever… whichever… he had to do something: the pathetic plant was driving him mad. Besides, he didn’t have time to indulge the dramatics of others, not when he still had so many of his own.In addition, to further complicate, he had been raised to see all forms of weeping as weakness and displays of emotion as frail. Tears were for the faint-hearted: those who couldn’t function adequately or competently cope; the type who were afraid to go far and who would be fated to fail if ever they should. To show oneself in the company of strangers (most of whom would likely always stay that way) was both unadvisable and unwise. They might haul you in and examine your head, ply you with medication. They may even lock you up: the bud was obviously unstable, in need of help; anyone could see that. But he wasn’t about to be the one to give it: not now, not after so long… and he resented the feeling that was trying to make him believe he should.The sun rose slowly, breaking through the cloud blanket, weak rays caressing the darker, still shadowed landscape. It woke the robin, gently tickling his eyelids. It roused the bud too, evicting it from its respite. With reluctance, it awoke. Lifting its head, it turned its face to its only companion, attempting a smile. Then, failing – as entirely as one might manage to fail when attempting a venture whose outcome they had vested an amount of energy and interest in – it looked sadly away. It knew it had to do better, figure something out. But how did one attempt to wrestle the weight of the world, placate the paralysis of problems? Did one? Could one? It wasn’t sure.

Uncharacteristically moved, the robin asked if it was hungry and offered to get breakfast in.BWhile he was away, most likely foraging in another farmer’s field, the bud decided to confront the intruders, attempting to deconstruct the darkness in order to remove it from his life. Lifting a leaf, he poked and prodded in the space around his head, believing the problem to be in his stamen. But when he brought it back out, it was empty of defect and blight.CRefusing to give up, he tried his roots, pushing another leaf down into the soil. Jackpot: immediate resistance: a creeping, crawling, carpet-skinned thing that felt like it was made up of hundreds and thousands of creatures. Ants? Beetles? Bugs? How undignified. And how horrific to have the source of his malaise situated there, somewhere so far from his immediate person and in a region he couldn’t ever hope to visually reach?9The robin returned, presenting a slug. The bud faked grateful, forcing a smile, surreptitiously sliding the odious thing away. Didn’t the robin know that slugs were poison to buds, likely to remove whole chunks from leaves and half bites from heads? To eat it would lead to his destruction: a slow crunching and chomping from the inside out; him disappearing – bit by bit, cell by cell – until he was dry, brown and brittle, a hollow shell.Or maybe that was the plan? And if it wasn’t, then maybe he should adopt it? At least then he would have a choice. And being eaten by a slug was less intimidating and worrying then being possessed by beetles and ants. At least it would be quick.11The ants, on the otherhand, wishing only to torment, would stay – hanging around to forage and bring back to; running up and down, in and out; hiding, holding – until he found another conclusion to escape the confines of his life.

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