Spirit Cloth

Stitching

 

Quilting (for me) is a needle chant. 

One stitch at a time is how I like it.

Needle in

Needle out

Making do

 

I have heard my posts have not been arriving by email lately. To those subscribed, well, oh well. It's free and it's all I got.

Today I have begun quilting an older piece. I was calling it Half Woven in Space.

That still seems OK. I have decided to make this into a larger piece.

Because I dreamed of it.

A blanket. A quilt.

It is already 25" square.  About.

Right now it is pinned to the Magic Cloth. 

Where it seems to give me the impression of a window.

To another dimension.

 

I want to talk about this cloth more. Talk about quilting.  Tomorrow.  I will quietly sit with it today.

Without talking.

 

Something like a curtain

There is a bunch of thin cloth hanging between the drafty kitchen and the room we heat. The kitchen is between the studio and that warm room.  I replaced the heavier one because I just couldn't stand not to have some light coming through. It helps to hold the heat. With an occasional cool breeze.

Soul-o loves it.  He chases shadows and runs back and forth between the sections, especially at night when the firelight makes it seem like a dense fog in the wind.

March is a bit like a curtain between seasons.  The kind you cannot pull back to see more clearly.  More like a fog that lifts on it's own accord.  And it's been hanging there. 

I placed a square of very thin cloth (I used to test the indigo vat) over the patchwork from last week.  I like what it did to the grid.  It erased the lines.  Made a window.  But didn't destroy the sense of order.  The thought. In my mind I can see through it. 

to Hold and be Held

Basket Sense

Making sense of self. I continue to let the image form. I learn from image. Form.

It is sort of three things. For me.

Basket.

A sense of  self.  A sense of what self might hold. A sense of what might hold self.   Sense is personal.  No one else needs to understand. Until you understand, then you might share.

It is snowing. Cold. Again. The studio, the quiet room closed. Not because there is no wood. Just because I am tired of keeping so many fires burning. And I don't need to. 

This morning, the curve of the path out seems the rim of a bigger basket. Bigger than my sense of anything yet considered.