Hands
The cool earthy clay fills my hands and I still. My breath slows as I shape a ball of possibilities.
The bamboo hook takes the wool through my fingers, fibrous hues form blankets of calm .Purls and plains encircle needles of connection, a chain of moments joined together for now. All is good. I live to make with my hands. I am gra…
The cool earthy clay fills my hands and I still. My breath slows as I shape a ball of possibilities.
The bamboo hook takes the wool through my fingers, fibrous hues form blankets of calm .Purls and plains encircle needles of connection, a chain of moments joined together for now. All is good. I live to make with my hands. I am grateful for each day that I can make expressions of my life.
There was a time when I lived for the touch of another hand. The merest brush of another’s whorls and ridges grazing mine, by chance or design. To be guided, held. Sharing, exchanging, teaching feeding. That friction between souls through body parts…
Now my hands echo my mother’s, weaving textile dreams for others.
My fingers turn the earths body into endless vessels, shoals of ceramic fishes and the odd grog goddess.
But I am grounded in their existence and am capable of holding my own hand now …mostly.
Oh Jan, this is exquisite. Such a beautiful articulation of that alchemy that comes from turning single long threads or pieces of yarn into objects of use and beauty that also contain all the time and private thoughts we put into them.
And such a poignant ending.
I don't think you've read The Cure for Sleep - but if you do ever, you'll see that crochet blankets are both a central metaphor as well as real objects I make at key points of crisis/recovery!
Here is your link, with thanks again for joining the project. Your friend Carol has explained how she recommended this community after reading TCFS - so pleased you followed the thread and found us all here.
I'm sorry if you'd already sent me a message about reading the book, and in the shock of Mum's diagnosis I got muddled up! Until I had Covid last January, I had a near-photographic memory for names, conversations, messages - since then I'm finding gaps appearing: I feel like I've lost an important dimension - a sort of certainty...
I do hope Carol will join us by writing for the project soon! Perhaps there's even potential for you both to do something new for the project by submitting a joint piece for the Friends theme!
Absolutely no need to apologise Tanya. The fact that you manage to respond to us all is I think quite remarkable and admirable. I once tried keeping a blog and I can tell you it didn’t last very long because it is a huge commitment and chronic illness for me requires making hard decisions about where to direct precious energy.
As to memory ... it never ceases to amaze me that I forget recently learned names and facts yet can remember all the lyrics to the album Hunky Dory at the slightest prompt!
Sorry to hear you have had bad news about your mums health.
Carol and I no longer live in the same town as I have recently moved to West Yorkshire. Sad to see I missed you at the Ilkley Literature Festival.
Hands
The cool earthy clay fills my hands and I still. My breath slows as I shape a ball of possibilities.
The bamboo hook takes the wool through my fingers, fibrous hues form blankets of calm .Purls and plains encircle needles of connection, a chain of moments joined together for now. All is good. I live to make with my hands. I am grateful for each day that I can make expressions of my life.
There was a time when I lived for the touch of another hand. The merest brush of another’s whorls and ridges grazing mine, by chance or design. To be guided, held. Sharing, exchanging, teaching feeding. That friction between souls through body parts…
Now my hands echo my mother’s, weaving textile dreams for others.
My fingers turn the earths body into endless vessels, shoals of ceramic fishes and the odd grog goddess.
But I am grounded in their existence and am capable of holding my own hand now …mostly.
Oh Jan, this is exquisite. Such a beautiful articulation of that alchemy that comes from turning single long threads or pieces of yarn into objects of use and beauty that also contain all the time and private thoughts we put into them.
And such a poignant ending.
I don't think you've read The Cure for Sleep - but if you do ever, you'll see that crochet blankets are both a central metaphor as well as real objects I make at key points of crisis/recovery!
Here is your link, with thanks again for joining the project. Your friend Carol has explained how she recommended this community after reading TCFS - so pleased you followed the thread and found us all here.
https://thecureforsleep.com/april-issue-hands/#JanHillier
Txx
Thank you, Tanya.
Yes I read The Cure for Sleep the very day Carol recommended it.
Your work allowed me to give myself permission to write in this way so thank you so much.
Crochet and knitting seem to be an integral part of my creative process, my mindfulness.
I would be lost without it !
Honoured to be part of the project
Jan x
I'm sorry if you'd already sent me a message about reading the book, and in the shock of Mum's diagnosis I got muddled up! Until I had Covid last January, I had a near-photographic memory for names, conversations, messages - since then I'm finding gaps appearing: I feel like I've lost an important dimension - a sort of certainty...
I do hope Carol will join us by writing for the project soon! Perhaps there's even potential for you both to do something new for the project by submitting a joint piece for the Friends theme!
Absolutely no need to apologise Tanya. The fact that you manage to respond to us all is I think quite remarkable and admirable. I once tried keeping a blog and I can tell you it didn’t last very long because it is a huge commitment and chronic illness for me requires making hard decisions about where to direct precious energy.
As to memory ... it never ceases to amaze me that I forget recently learned names and facts yet can remember all the lyrics to the album Hunky Dory at the slightest prompt!
Sorry to hear you have had bad news about your mums health.
Carol and I no longer live in the same town as I have recently moved to West Yorkshire. Sad to see I missed you at the Ilkley Literature Festival.
Jan x