Mom

This is a picture of my mother Norma Jean. She was 16 when this was taken. She would have been 73 on the 17th. I miss you Mom. You still remain the most giving and joyful person I have ever known. I love you.

Day Seven

Day Six

Wednesday evening was a special wonder. I was getting some stuff @ Merril Hall, the rain pouring most of the day. (Good sewing weather!) This was the eye treat when the sun set low enough to come through. There was a double rainbow.

Good things come to them that wait. While others hurried off to get back to their projects, a few of us hung back and got the better of the moment.











Art then, imitated life.

Day Four and Five

Dear Cathy,
I finally began sewing last night. It has been two days of pasting up block patterns and not just talking about color relationships, but seeing them. Every eye has it's own DNA of rods and cones. My eye actually sees color slightly differently that your eye. Maybe we all knew that, but the thought should free us up from thinking that what we like is not "the right thing". Then, if there really is a problem with the quilt, the color theory can help solve it.I've settled in to a palette for Margie's quilt yesterday. Dull darks and intense lights make for a luminous design. So I'll be tesing out that theory as I sew together all my little 1, 2, and 3 inch squares. Also, more pieces make for more chances to place accents just where they are needed.



Of course, there is no shortage of talented people here. Many in my class have a very good color sense and I am amazed at how they see. For the first time though, I am here without any melancholy about what I am not. Must be age. It must be gratitude also.
This truly is a Holy Week for me. Seperate, pure and good. I keep thinking of Fr. Rossi and his red vestments. A week like this is a vestment for me. Soon I will take it off, but the moments I wore it will make a difference for me at home.

Day Three

Hi Cathy!
I don't want to sound too happy-you're not here! But I am loving it so far. I have a room on the second floor of the Lodge with my bed under the window. I won't tell you I can see the waves breaking from my pillow. I have layed out all the "don't -forget-Cathy" items. But I especially thought of you when Emma Allebes got up and showed her quilts. You would love her. She is the Ultimate Grandma. She is "Oma" to her dears. She is famous for her Taxi Cab outfit (who wouldn't be!) and her grandaughter had her for Show and Tell. We have a new height to attain to as our future Grandmotherdom unfolds. It's good to be inspired.

I can't figure out how to segue into telling you about Mass this morning. It is Palm Sunday and unlike most of the other congregants, I was more than happy to stand through the reading of the Passion. I will have my palm branch pinned to my work board all week. I'm thinking of going to Holy Thursday service at the Carmel Mission.

Christine Barnes is a true Teacher. I've had a couple Ahha moments already, as in "Ah, color!"

Day Two

Dear Cathy,

I slept well. Mark and I went to sleep to a recording of an Hispanic Mass that our mother had. I began telling him how I was looking all over for it and before I could finish describing it, he pulled it from his box of albums. Oh, joy of my heart! the album cover with all the pen drawings of the Virgin and the altar pieces. The only person who would understand is Mark.

We left for the city after I had the Greatest Tuna Melt I Have Ever Had!! The secret, I think, is a little lemon juice squeezed over the lettuce and tomato. Make mine with Chedder, please. I heard pitiful stories about David Lee Roth from Mark's buddy and stopped for a great view in Tiberon. There are so many beautiful places in this world! But I don't have a pic of any of those things- I went to Britex! As they say, it's worth a thousand words. and maybe two more: four stories!

Day One

Dear Cathy,
I'm on the first leg of the trip. I miss you already. I miss other people too, of course, but you're the one who should be here with me.
I made to The Apricot Tree Restaurant before I thought my bladder would explode. Which is not a good lead into a description of a late breakfast. Instead of getting something at the catholic McDonalds, I thought I would check out the specialties of the local diner. It was your kinda people, know what I mean? And it included the largest collection of vintage lunch boxes this side of the Rockies. I saw a stray cat out of the view from my booth; a nice corner spot over-looking the air conditioning unit. What was that poor kitty doing hanging out by the frreway? His tail was only half long.















I made it to Renegade by 12:30 with nary a hitch in the navigation of the 5/880/80/680/101 confusion past San Leandro. I usually always have story to tell in that mess. I remembered exactly where Mark's work is; navigation angels, probably. This place has grown so much. Tons of equipment, musicians friend. There; a plug for you Terry Morton to my vast blog readership... and you, of course, Cathy. I'm tagging along with them to a Jewish wedding in the City tomorrow.

You'll forget I love you
and not believe a word
when chemistry and
moonless sleep scrubs you clean

You lack a history of
believing me, so all the
systems tried and true
work tirelessly as you mill about

doubting. Wrestling aged
troubles that come your way
make them recovered and weighted.
And I carry them too
agreeing there are monsters
and other phantoms

It only takes daylight to
slay them, but while the
sun's away, I'll hold you,
whispering my voice
a mercy.

If love were all about
my thoughts of you
Love woould be your bread
and butter, your God and
Everlasting

If you leave or when you
walk back in again
Love will be the soles of your shoes and the bones
of your feet

If you succeed and when you fail, love isn't afraid
to weep when you are hungry
If you run and when
you stop, love won't look away when you are blistered

Gilead

If you need a book right now, can I recommend Gilead? This is now my all time favorite. Personal choice, I know, but let me sell you a little. If you read this bit at all, then you must like a measure of what interests me.
Why do I search out the life of ministry- Christ's and otherwise? This novel says all I could explain about how the dedication to spiritual growth in one's self and other's is heroic and beautiful.
Here's an ordinary man in a unnoticable community making an epic love story by his honesty and grace. He's writing to his young son during the last months of his life, as last words become so compelling. His limits are what I fear in us and his generosity is what I believe about us. And of course there is the wisdom, speaking to someone like you and me-

"...I have thought about that very often-how the times change, and the same words that carry a good many people into the howling wilderness in one gereration are irksome or meaningless in the next...young people from my own flock have come home witha copy of...L'Immoraliste, flummoxed by the possibility of unbelief, when I must have told them a thousand times that unbelief is possible...And they want me to defend religion, and they want me to give them "proofs." I just won't do it. It only confirms them in their skepticism. Because nothing true can be said about God from a posture of defense."

There is no proof of God in this novel, but an acting out that is undeniable.