Catching up

I've written, like, five posts about why I haven't been blogging lately and they're all crap, and I'm realizing that blogging about not blogging is the number-one reason I haven't been blogging. Because it's really boring.

The short version of those scrapped posts: insomnia is the pits. I've spent over a month now with an epic case of insomnia that is just now starting to become manageable, thanks to a book with a super-cheesy title and a supportive partner. I have almost gotten to the point now where I'm actually thankful to have to face this - particularly the root of it - because it's teaching me a lot about stress and anxiety and life beyond insomnia. I'm meditating and changing my internal dialogue and all sorts of other calming things with the power of my mind. Better yet, all this introspection and mindfulness seems to be building a tremendous urge to be creative and active and social and to open myself to new things, if only to refocus my energy and attention on that which is life-giving, and to prevent myself from Googling insomnia forums.

Since my last blog entry, a lot of life-giving summer has happened. We enjoyed a weekend of baseball and family time in Seattle. While there I got to visit both Essex (for cocktails) and Delancey (for pizza), which had long been on my list due to my appreciation of all things Molly Wizenberg. I picked a bunch of cherries, completed my first (and only, so far) canning project, and made bread with my own sourdough starter. I visited my family in Boise. I went to a David Bazan show, and an art opening for my friend and former professor. I finished knitting a pair of socks. I read "The Big Sleep" by Raymond Chandler while finding the title hilariously ironic since I read most of it during sleepless nights. We over-nighted at the lake; we picnicked by the river. We rode our bikes to Sunday brunch and around downtown. We celebrated many family birthdays. I embroidered a shirt for my dad. I planted dahlias, which are now blooming, and tomatoes, which I'm now harvesting. We started watching Stranger Things. We revisited our favorite spots at Bowl & Pitcher. We went to friend's wedding, and to a beer festival. I invented new recipes with my CSA haul. We've taken many walks at sunset, and have driven along the Palouse. We are watching the summer Olympics.

David Bazan

Home from our morning walk - magical June when both peonies and roses are blooming

I love the smell of my hands after touching a tomato plant

A bottle of wine and a piece of river to ourselves

Sourdough starter

Pizza at Delancy

Father's Day present

Making cookies with my niece

Cocktails at the lake

Bing!

Luna loving life

Classic

Boutique pensione bathroom in Seattle

 A few things yet to happen: a roadtrip with the dog (Boise again), a river float/paddle, swimming (!!), and a Spokane Indians baseball game.

Aside from that, there's that festering need to be creative I mentioned above. The other day I challenged myself to commit to a Creative Hour each day. It could be 20 minutes, too, but an hour is a good goal for me. This helps me think about my creativity each day and gives me freedom in how I want to explore it, depending on my mood. This could be anything from trying a new recipe to picking something from a Pinterest board to continuing on the sweater I've been working on. To be honest, I probably already spend an hour on a lot of these things without really thinking of it, but having that "creative hour" lens really makes me feel that much more intentional and willing to branch out.

So that's that. I hope to check in here a bit more, use a camera that is not always my phone, and show proof of my work. That's what I always intend to do, but in summertime, it's sometimes nice to let these things just sit in reflection mode a bit longer. Speaking of reflection, Joel said something perhaps unintentionally profound to me the other day when we came home after a bike ride. He said, "You can ride up any hill as long as you're in the right gear." I thought about this later and how much that spoke to what I'm going through right now. I've had to do a lot of adjusting lately to account for variations in sleep and energy, but I feel like I'm finding a mode and frame of mind that is helping me get through this chapter, however long it lasts. Our ability to adapt is a gift.

Stitching and gathering (#39 Create a guest book table cloth)

My Oma had the perfect grandmotherly kitchen - copper tins hung on a painted-brick wall, multiple patterns of dishes and silverware sat in the cupboards and drawers, a silver ice bucket on the counter contained a seemingly endless supply of pretzels, and the whole place either smelled like slow-roasted beef and carrots or cinnamon and butter, depending on the day. Everything about it welcomed you from the moment you stepped in it.

I remember sitting at her kitchen table in an olive-green vinyl chair whose back and arms formed a sort of padded half-circle. Kind of like a hug. Her table was often covered with an old-fashioned tablecloth, but there's one in particular I have thought about a lot since those days. It was white with bright daisies on it. It was very cute and very Oma - daisies were her favorite flower and the motif matched her kitchen. In between the printed daisies were hand-embroidered names, all stitched by her hand. I don't know when she started this tradition, but for years when guests came for coffee or dinner, rather than have people sign a guestbook, she handed them a pen and had them sign the tablecloth. Later she would carefully embroider over the pen marks and create a more permanent history of her visitors. There seemed to be hundreds of them. Some of them were friends from church, some were neighbors, or relatives from Germany, or the ladies with whom she played Liverpool.

The tablecloth was as much a testament to her gift of embroidery as it was to her natural abilities of hospitality and friendship. She opened up her heart as often as she opened up her home. And she was eager to add people to her extended family. That's why, while a few called her Wilma, most people under a certain age (hers) just called her "Oma," at her insistence.

When we decided to host our dinner party a couple months ago, I knew I wanted to start my own tablecloth tradition, in memory of Oma and her spirit of entertaining. I looked everywhere for a tablecloth that was even slightly reminiscent of the daisy pattern, but time was ticking and nothing I found looked quite right.  Instead I bought some linen at JoAnn's and made a simple table runner, which ended up working just great. After the dinner party and another small gathering since, I've finally gotten around to stitching the names. It's been a fun little project.

I've been doing a simple straight stitch for the names. And for the extra "Oma" touch, I'm covering up any little stains (mostly wine) with daisies.

There's a meetin' here tonight

All of us kids have heard the beloved family legend that Dad was one of the Brothers Four (with his three brothers), a popular folk quartet from the 1950s and 60s.


Photos of Dad from those years were not much different from the album covers. For example:
(I think he was about to sing "Michael, Row the Boat Ashore" right here on Lake Michigan.)

It was easy to imagine him holding a bass or a banjo and singing "Greenfields," and it was especially fun to pretend that I was the daughter of a faded celebrity who have up his fame to be a dad. Even though Dad knew we knew he was joking, he always did a good job of bringing up the glory days of the Brothers Four from time to time.

This explains what led me to create this embroidered t-shirt for him this year for Father's Day.

I felt that if the Brothers Four ever did have a reunion tour, they would have embroidered mementos like this. And I figure, if Dad ever wears this, people might ask him who the Brothers Four are, and he can continue the legend.
While stitching, I had a heck of a good time listening to these old folk songs, some by The Brothers Four, others by the Kingston Trio, the Limeliters and the New Christy Minstrels. If you've seen A Mighty Wind, you'll realize they got this genre spot-on after listening to these groups. They sang about Tijuana jails, quaint little taverns, sailing on the Sloop John B, what you'd find at the end of a rainbow, and how to say goodbye in Jamaica - sometimes in simple three-part harmony and instrumentation, or, like in the case of the New Christy Minstrels, in robust, hootenanny-like groups. They often prefaced the singing with spoken tales, and repeated the choruses enough times to induce sing-alongs.

After an hour or so of listening to this stuff, I was convinced that if a Brothers Four reunion tour existed, I very well may go.

See if you can pick out my dad in this clip:

Revisiting my closet

My bedroom closet is a mausoleum for dead craft projects. Shoebox coffins contain half-knit sweaters, partially-sewn dresses, and dish towels left to rot without their anticipated embroidered embellishment, resting on top of glittery ashes. Crepe paper and floral wire lie suffocated in a Ziploc bag, never to reach their botanical entelechy. Skeins of yarn, once bright and enticing in the warm light of a yarn store, are carefully preserved in plastic tombs, far from the light of day.

I guess the death metaphor is overly dramatic. These things don't die, of course - they are just left waiting for the moment I have time and inspiration to revisit them. But it's still kind of sad.

About a week ago, I finished a bigger craft project that I swore I would keep working on before starting anything new (lest it meet its fate in the Craft Cemetery), so suddenly I was freed up to do something easy and comparatively quick.

So, I returned to those dish towels I mentioned.

This was mostly completed in a couple hours, late on a Tuesday afternoon, around the time the sun hits a nice spot coming through the window.

It must be dish towel season, because for my birthday, my mom sent me a lovely bundle of dish towels that she, my Oma, and even my great-grandmother made years ago. They put mine to shame, but it's clear where I get my love of needle and thread.