Hunting Squirrels
On (not) having time and on (having) many interests...and Iran
Once upon a time, in a land far away, on the second floor of beige government housing in a room covered with posters of baby animals and long haired handsome musicians, a 16 year old brown eyed and brown haired girl lay upon her maroon bedspread—the one that matched the curtains ordered from the JCPenney catalog—and, after sinking another English pop vinyl into the silver boombox, opened her spiral notebook, and began to write…
I admit at this point likely disappointing one of my earliest encouragers, to “make something of myself” with my writing. I’m still waiting for him to find me, to scold me.
“But I did write, I even wrote books,” I would say.
I can’t help but picture this young GI from Brooklyn, thin and lanky, his dark green uniform the color of winter moss, his dark brows and eyes and crossed arms, holding up my poetry. He was the big brother I never had, denying other young servicemen even wisps of flirtation.
I guess I did stop writing for a long time. By the time I got married, I had binders full of poetry and songs, ensconced in plastic sheets. I remember the moment I buried them all, clearly. One sunny afternoon, I heaved all of those binders overhead into the Dumpster, and then I watched and listened to the grinding gears of the truck tipping the whole thing upside down. I remember resolutely climbing the concrete stairs back to my condo, opening the door to my three small children, and closing it to a craft I thought I wasn’t supposed to have or make time for anymore.
The time thing, though.
The perpetual excuse of why we don’t even air kiss the tugging of our own heart. All the things we would do, or try, or consider…if only that enemy Time would acquiesce and open up a portal of endless hours. Then, of course, we would write poetry, grow flowers, sew a skirt or two, take a theology class, or relearn how to knit the way our grandmother once taught us to, her wrinkled and thin skinned hands around knitting needles.
Not my grandmother, mind you. She didn’t even cook, as I recall. But she did write letters to me in her small tight handwriting, and I wrote back with my evolving flourishes. My grandmother taught me the value of the written word.
You’d think with all of the labor saving devices, we’d have time opened up. But, no. Instead of washing by hand and hanging to dry our one extra dress, we now throw dozens of outfits into a machine and (as of yet, Mr. Musk has designs) no one is coming to fold the warm mountain of it tumbling out of the basket onto the bed. Which, of course, takes time.
Our ancestors took time. Look at their handwork, the beauty of their handwriting. Stitching, exquisite. Clothing, tailored. Food, long cooked and wholesome. Conversations on porches, gardens to pick from. Many of them memorized famous speeches, knew the flora and fauna around them, and read a daily newspaper which looked like you needed a magnifying glass to do so.
Ah, the romanticized past. Please don’t bring up dentistry.
Still, it is a time drag to use a pencil, spin yarn, knead dough, sow seeds, turn paper pages. Most of us actually do have the time; we just don’t like it stretched.
I write an article for Christian Herbal magazine on the topic of desiring and having and wanting to do it all, specifically in the herbalist realm, but it applies elsewhere as well. Perhaps one of the reasons we have no time is that we not only sprinkle in a little of everything in every 60 minutes, but we add in multi-tasking layers besides. It’s not enough to solely fold and put away that mountain of laundry, and I know some folks never do. But for those of us who tidy up, it’s an opportunity to play a podcast, listen to an audiobook, watch a YouTube channel. Stacked attention (guilty as charged).
But maybe I could have cleaned my one other dress, hung it up, and then spent the last 45 minutes of that hour writing a poem. In this case, I have the time; I prefer to have a larger closet.
My winter stitching is almost finished as I come to the end of the lettering. I love the little woman in the middle, her hands on her basket, the smell of damp sheep’s wool surrounding her.
She will have eyes on her head and herbs in her basket, but I shall decline to put a cell phone in her pocket, or earbuds in her ears.
Speaking of stitching words together, my two nonverbal girls continue to learn to communicate on the spelling boards. As one mom with her own son challenged with Down syndrome encouraged me: sometimes it’s a lonnnnnng plain of unnoticed progress. Somewhat like the plains of Kansas, I think, remembering meeting one woman on my trip through the area who told me, “This state is so flat, you can still see your dog running away a week later”.
Well, two (three?) years of spelling later, it still feels like Kansas. But yesterday, my 11 year old spelled out she liked the ORCAS in California best from our trip. I loved them, too.
I trust our horizon will eventually change. Plod, plod, plod.
I enjoy taking time out of regular life. I find the occasional change in scenery both restful and stimulating at the same time. Restful because normal chores are not necessary, and stimulating because my brain has permission to think about different noises, people, and atmosphere. Sometimes I leave town with friends; other times I go on my own or with my husband.
This year I am looking forward to another year of horse riding in the Idaho mountains, a road trip to Montana for intensive textile classes, and a visit to my grown children in Georgia and Texas.
In preparation of my textile trip, I dug out my small tapestry hand loom. Granted, none of my classes have anything to do with tapestry, but still. It’s a loom. It’s wool. It’s texture. It’s pretty.
I put it on my desk next to my computer to enjoy as decor, and possibly inspiration to pick at during family movie nights.
On my floor loom, the linens and shawl are off and ready for finishing, and lovely silk noir in blue and cream will be dressed next. And, as I’m thinking of my herbalist article on desiring and having and wanting to do it all, I recognize that behind my desk, upon a narrow wooden tabletop, my art journaling books are open and ready for paint, bits of paper collaging, scratches and scribbles.
Squirrels, everywhere, it seems.
Not that hunting such squirrels is my full time job, you see. In answering a friend about how often I sit at my loom, for example, I guessed, “Once? Maybe twice a week?” She thought that was a lot. I suppose it could be, but I have no idea with what to compare that with. The laundry does, in fact, get folded after all.
If there is A Work I am about, it is primarily serving my family and home which outflows from my love of Jesus. Certainly, I enjoy Him when I write or create, much as Eric Liddell felt God’s pleasure as he ran, but I also enjoy Him while sitting outside listening to the sweet spring song of the sparrows, and while changing diapers and when making a pot of oatmeal. I worship and rejoice in Him that even in my suffering, even when my heart is skinned (again!) due to sin, He is my Strength, my Song, my life’s priority. He’s THE reason why I continue to even try making and finding beauty in the world, and to fight the battle of choosing where my attention goes.
“Did you say goat milk, or oat milk?”
I find the question funny. What barista offers goat milk?
I’m at the coffee shop/bakery in my small town, the one whose ferry service to the big city clogs up traffic down the main street multiple times a day. I watch all those cars, each in a 25 miles per hour hurry to go somewhere else, over the steam rising from my cup of a perfectly crafted Americano (without goat milk).
I did some reading about the attack upon Iran, and this morning remembered a Persian friend of older times, Sabrina, whose family had fled that area decades ago. I pray continually as the news comes forth, for her family, for their own prayers to be answered. I mostly decline to further dive into rabbit holes, as the news is too fresh and that alone makes me cautious in my attempt to ferret out what is truth, or what is psyop, or propaganda. I watch from afar in every way, contemplating, thinking.
A friend once suggested this was passivity. I in return suggested discernment. Who can know?
We shall see. Somehow God hears and answers my prayers, despite my lack of full knowledge.
I gather up my yellow Tomboy pencils (needing sharpening at this point) and my notebook. As I am busing my dishes, the drone of conversations around me revolve around spring cleaning, wood chips, trimming up the (specific pear) tree, property transfers. Sure, I eavesdropped, I’m a writer, that’s what we do.
The espresso machine hums along, whirring and overlapping with the sound of thickening milk for lattes and cappuccinos. Shout outs for a 16 ounce hazelnut truffle cold brew, a 16 ounce spicy chai, a double 8 ounce latte. The shop smells of roasted coffee and baked sugar and weathered winter coats. I almost hate to leave, but I have beautiful people and better things to attend to. I’m grateful I had the chance to be here and spend some time writing (to you).
Life goes on. History books add more chapters. I get older. Despite wars and rumors of wars, spring is coming on the heels of winter. Lent. Resurrection so close I breathe in its anticipatory scent.
I surprise myself, thinking of Neil all those years ago. I am still in the company of a yellow #2 and a spiral notebook. As it turns out, nothing really gets buried or lost. Dormancy does not equal death. God still makes 24 hours in a day. And no matter what the horizon looks like, He is still worthy to be praised.
Oops…I did it again. Hit send before I was ready. Anyway…Thank you so much for sharing with us all that you are doing. Hope the family is well, and staying healthy amidst all the sicknesses I have encountered with other people. God bless you all, and keep up the amazing work you are doing my sweet friend. Would love to make time to see you. Maybe for tea/coffee? Take care!
Love and Blessings,
Colleen
Keri, Thank you. I always love reading all you have to write. They always bring a smile to my face, seeing what you and the family are up to.
I am thinking of taking a textile hand loom class at the little shop in Port Gamble. Your class sound great that is coming up. Your woman with her basket in her hand looks so good! I have thought about taking a felt/ wool class to make some interesting characters like the one I purchased at the Poulsbo Farmer’s Market year ago, and the wool pumpkin I purchased at the textile shop in Port Gamble. Those look fun to make.