Making a Quilt, Making a Life

Making a quilt is kind of like making a life.  You piece together this and that, get creative with what you have on hand, and before you know it, a pattern emerges...some of it planned and a lot of it a big, happy, imperfect surprise.  Recently, I got the urge to get back to my sewing.  I’d done quite a lot of quilting in the past, but once we moved to our new house 7 years ago and I started my own business, things just got too crazy for me and I couldn’t carve out the free time (and energy) necessary to undertake a sewing project.  Plus, the first spring after we moved here to South Portland, we had that Patriot’s Day storm which resulted in 14” of water flooding our basement and I lost a lot of my stash of quilting fabrics.  In any event, it took me a while to get back to it, but I finally did.

 

My desire to create artistic things with fabric stems from my relationship with my maternal grandmother, Laura Grondin.  Though she’s been gone from this world for many, many years, she is with me daily in spirit.  Not only was she THE source of unconditional love for me in an otherwise not-so-loving childhood, she was also an amazing gardener, cook, seamstress and queen of home arts in general and took it upon herself to pass these talents on to her granddaughters.  The home arts are fast becoming lost to our modern, fast-paced world and I feel so blessed to be carrying the torch now and bringing my own quilting projects to life.  

This quilt I am just finishing reminds me so much of my grandmother’s generation.  She was a young woman during the days of the Great Depression and learned to stretch her pennies and make do with very little and this way of living frugally stayed with her.  Visiting at her house, I’d come across pieces of twine and string rolled into a ball and kept for reuse in fastening things, jars of buttons sitting on a shelf to be later recycled in knitted sweaters and hand-stitched clothing.  I watched as she cut old woolen blankets and my grandfather’s worn out woolen hunting pants and coats into strips for use in wool rugs she’d later braid.  

     She also worked at the Hathaway shirt factory in Waterville, Maine.  Both of these experiences were reflected in her own quilts.  She would bring home scraps of shirting fabrics from her seamstress job and these would find their way into her quilts, either as part of the blocks or as patches when fabrics wore away through years of use and washing.  Most of her quilts weren’t fancy and were more utilitarian, using whatever fabrics she had on hand, whether they matched or not and whether they were 100% cotton or not. 

Over my years of quilting, I collected quite a few shirting fabrics and reproduction fabrics from the civil war and other periods.  The quilt I put together these last several weeks made use of all those fabrics.  I felt proud and frugal, knowing I used what I had on hand and didn’t spend lots of money on new fabrics that coordinated and matched perfectly.  And the resulting quilt reminds me of those from my childhood, on the beds and couches at our family camp on Great Pond, owned by three generations of Grondins.

Each time I entered my sun-lit art room to work on the project, I felt my grandmother’s presence.  The scent of steam rising from freshly laundered fabrics being pressed on the iron board reminded me of her.  The little embroidery scissors I use to snip sewing threads were hers.  The shirting fabrics I was cutting and piecing into the light portions of the blocks could’ve been from Hathaway shirts.  And certainly, the odd combinations of light and dark fabrics I was joining together in the blocks had me smiling in remembrance of her similar choices.

I moved my dog’s bed into my art room and on sewing days Tonya would snore peacefully as I worked away, both of us comforted and lulled by the whir of my machine stitch-stitch-stitching along.  Mike would join us at the end of his work day, touching each of the new blocks and laying out his favorites in a row on my work surface.  I’ve always known, and have told Michael many times, that our deceased grandmothers orchestrated us coming across each other and eventually falling in love.  They are “up there” having tea and looking down on this scene with smiles on their faces, for sure.  Seventeen years later, here we are:  me, sewing a quilt for our bed and him, enjoying the process and encouraging me at just the right times.

Making a decent quilt, like making a decent life for yourself, is no easy feat and is full of trial and error.  It takes lots of practice and many skills and there are so many opportunities to mess it up in small ways here and there that can add up to a crooked, ugly mess when all is said and done.  Getting back to my cutting tools, my ironing board and my trusty Singer machine after many years was both daunting and rewarding.  My skills came back after a while and I began to relax and enjoy each step, from choosing the design and fabrics to pressing to cutting to stitching and so on.  After the first day of working on the project, though, I had some incredibly intense low back pain.  Who knew that several hours of cutting and pressing and stitching would be kind of like an athletic event.   

While I was working, I did a lot of thinking and I had so many good thoughts, that I decided to start making a list of the Life Lessons I Learned While Quilting.  Here are a few:

Triangles are unstable.  Think about that.  It’s certainly true in sewing.  Because angles are cut across the grain of the fabric for quilt blocks, they can easily get stretched and distorted if not handled with care.  Isn’t the same true of “triangles” in our human lives?  It’s always been a tricky thing to manage the relationships between and amongst myself, my husband and my son, Brody, to keep it all balanced and everyone happy.  And when I think of the countless triangles that we get ourselves into in our love relationships, work relationships and family relationships over the course of a lifetime...wow!  Triangles really ARE unstable and need special care.

Expect to be less than perfect, but do your very best with each little task.  Every step of the way when making a quilt, you have to try really hard to get it close to perfect.  You have to measure perfectly and then cut precisely and then sew exactly and then stitch sewn pieces together just so.  You can even mess things up by getting too intense with the ironing!  It helps to take it slow and concentrate just on the present, doing the ONE task with all of your attention and care.  Otherwise, you get flustered and overwhelmed and start thinking about giving up.  And isn’t that true of life as well?  In my yoga practice, all of my emphasis is placed on staying present for the posture I’m working on in the here and now, dismissing any thoughts or distractions that may arise and keeping my focus on the ONE pose.  Many MANY times

along the way, I’ve wanted to give up and walk away, feeling inadequate, not good enough, not strong enough.  But when I focus on just today, just THIS class or THAT posture, I’m okay and I can keep going.  In my work with my dog students, taking one moment at a time and letting it go as soon as it’s over has saved me from going crazy and making it through long and trying days and weeks.  So it is with quilting.  If a seam is a bit crooked or not exactly 1/4”, I notice it and let it go, focusing on the next one and trying to make it better. 

Wash it first so it won’t bleed later.  When making a quilt, you’ve first got to take all of your fabrics and put them through the washer and dryer before you can begin.  Lots of quilters have great disdain for this necessity.  Prior to washing, the fabrics are a bit stiffer and are easier to work with, and you are just so excited and anxious to get started on the “real work” of making a quilt, so it’s easy to understand why a lot of us want to skip this step.  But...if you don’t wash and dry your fabrics, you risk disaster later on when the quilt needs to be washed.  Those fabrics, especially the dark ones, can bleed ink all over the light ones and ruin your beautiful work.  And the fabrics shrink a bit in the prewashing, so skipping that step means risking puckering and distortion in your quilt blocks later on.

In life, if we put off necessary and important tasks, the results often come screaming back to haunt us, making us bleed all over the place.  Take, for instance, my computerized accounting system.  Though it’s brilliant and keeps track of all my expenses and income, I have to actually input the numbers.  And if I don’t input the numbers on a regular basis, I’ve got a huge mountain of receipts and deposit slips to catch up on later, causing frustration, irritation and seepage of grouchy feelings all over the place.  On the other hand, keeping up on the task of entering data gives me a feeling of accomplishment and ease. 

Press toward the dark.  This lesson has given me the most pause.  In quilting, “pressing toward the dark” refers to the seams in your quilt blocks, rows, sashing and borders.  After stitching one fabric to another, you use a hot iron to press your seams one way or the other:  toward the light fabric or toward the dark.  Pressing toward the dark ensures that your lighter fabric at the seam doesn’t show through the darker one when the quilt is finished.  It makes good quilting sense.  I wonder, though, about pressing toward the darkness that exists inside each of us as human beings.  Certainly we all struggle with less-than-acceptable, kind or compassionate feelings, compulsions and actions...towards ourselves and others.  Some of us aren’t sure what motivates us to do some of the darker things we do.  Others are continually drawn to things (people, behaviors, situations) that aren’t so good for us.  Perhaps leaning into our darker side, being willing to explore the desire a bit, brings a greater understanding of our motivations and drives.  Sometimes, pressing toward the darkness is the best thing we can do for ourselves and those around us.  It’s easy to see and understand when the sun is shining a bright light, but so much more challenging to walk into the dark alone and feel our way.

     You CAN handle math and machines.  Quilting has given me ample opportunity to face two of my demons:  math and machinery.  I shy away from both, feeling like I'm not fit to work with either because they scare me and make me feel dumb.  But, I love fabric and making things with it, so I've had to make peace with both of my nemeses.  What I've found is this:  my junior high math teacher was correct - you do use your math in every day life!  And this:  mastering quilting math or quick-fixing my sewing machine leaves me feeling competent, able, and kind of like an independent little rock star in my small moments of success.  The sewing machine malfunctions regularly.  The bobbin jams.  The thread somehow gets all tangled.  The needle breaks.  And you just handle it.  You use your eyes and you examine the way things work and you fiddle with the different and assorted parts until you make the problem go away.  And then you keep on sewing happily.  

There's no such thing as a quilt without math.  Sure, you can avoid triangles (and I probably did for the first year or two) but at some point you realize that triangles make your quilts more sassy and visually interesting.  So you start to figure out quilting math and you get comfortable with the small measurements in an inch....like 5/8ths and 7/8ths.  And you start watching videos on Youtube on the various ways to figure out how big to cut squares so that you can then cut them into triangles that are the right measurement to fit your blocks.  Brilliant!  Small steps...and they lead to big confidence and a sense of self-reliance and independence.  You don't hear me yelling for Mike anymore when I'm stuck.  I just sit there and think and figure it out and THEN I yell for him to come and see my masterpiece.

Halloween candy and saying goodbye...

  

     I’m developing a taste for dark chocolate.  I avoided it for years, but I’m strangely drawn to it lately.  For me, it’s taken time to work through the at first sharp bitterness on my tongue and I’ve done so in great part because of the sweetness that rescues me as the bite melts in my mouth.  The resulting richness is so deep and pleasurable and lingers for quite some time.  And...unlike with other candy, a little goes a long way.

I was thinking about this....about bittersweet...last night as I sampled the left over Halloween candy.  My wonderings held particular significance because it was the eve of yet another bittersweet happening in my life.  And there have been a lot of those raining down lately. 

     Webster’s defines bittersweet as “pleasure alloyed with pain.”  Isn’t it true that as humans, our daily lives are a constant dance of pleasure laced with pain? We might not like to admit it, but if we are open to and accepting of both the bitter and the sweet, our experiences can shape us into more compassionate, empathic, deep-feeling people.

Last night marked the two month anniversary of my dog, Casco’s, death.  He was twelve and his life is a testament to the definition of bittersweet.  A fiercely independent, hyper, yet aloof boy, this yellow beast of a dog brought pleasure and pain of all sorts to my life on a daily basis.  His final passing on a Thursday evening was one of the most ridiculously emotional, traumatizing experiences of my life.  For weeks after we had to put this regal animal to sleep in a place he loved dearly (the vet’s office), I couldn’t speak of, or even hear others speak of, his passing without tears welling up and my throat clenching.  Yet....within hours of Casco leaving us, something magical was happening. 

In the middle of the very next day, I got a call from a dear friend.  Her Yellow Lab was beginning to give birth to her first litter of puppies and I was summoned to assist.  I was beside myself with sadness, yet my heart was invited to hold the joy of something amazing and incredibly moving as well.  With tears streaming, I somehow drove myself to Jessie’s side and assisted her in the births of four of her pups.  Talk about sweetness!  Five of the pups were yellow, just like my Casco, and the connectedness of his death and these new lives was profound.   It felt like his passing had made room for these tender babies.  It felt like he had somehow orchestrated this puppy birth (they were early!) for my benefit, for my personal healing. My pain over losing my pal was now laced with the pleasure of helping with the raising of my first litter of pups....and they all reminded me of my best days with him.

And now eight weeks have passed.  The puppies are ready to go home with their new families and I am hosting the transfer here at my puppy school later this afternoon.  Jessie, the Momma dog, will be here along with my sweet friend Vicki, Jessie’s owner.  Together, we will somehow place five of the puppies into the waiting arms of their new owners.  Our hearts will break and grow as we do so.  Each week of the puppies’ lives, I’ve played “litter sitter” on Fridays and have spent countless hours caring for them, while watching in awe as Jessie nurses them, teaches them to fend for themselves and coaches them in all sorts of puppy games.  It has been a deeply emotional experience for me, to say the least.  Our attachment to these warm, delightful bundles of adorableness is strong. 

We know that this is the flow of life...that pups need good homes and wonderful families to share in the joy of raising them.  Just like I knew when I took Casco into my life that someday he would no longer be with me, that I would surely outlive him, we also knew that Jessie’s pups would leave her and us when they were eight weeks old.  It’s a bittersweet day and feels very much like an ending and a beginning all at once.  The things we love go away, and we grow.  We grow from having experienced the cycle of life in all its glory, gore and ordinariness.  We grow by keeping our hearts open despite the knowledge that with the sweetness comes some pain...and some magic too.  

      Today, I am grateful for left over Halloween candy....  I’ll be choosing the dark chocolates, savoring the sweetness, and remembering Casco’s gift.

On Finding Your Best Self...

Is there a person, place or situation that invites, encourages and allows you to be your very best as a human being?  Perhaps you are in touch with this feeling in a relationship with a child or a lover.  Maybe you reach it through running a few miles or playing your guitar or volunteering at a soup kitchen.  You might paint or draw or sculpt or sing...and find your best self expressed within your art.  Mountains, the ocean or a sunrise might awaken it in you.  Whatever the vehicle for getting you there, if you’ve reached that place, you know joy.  You know deep peace, gratitude, humbleness and a sense of yourself as part of something expansive and wonderful.  

For me, I encounter my best self in the hot, sweaty room I’ve returned to hundreds of times over the last nine years to practice Bikram yoga.  Maybe it’s the mirrors that run the length of the studio, forcing you or inviting you (however you choose to view them on a particular day) to acknowledge yourself in all of your humanness.  The mirrors don’t lie and I think that’s part of why they are there:  to hold you accountable for who you are on any given day.  How’ve you been treating your body lately?  You’ll find the answer in the mirror.  Are you carrying sadness into your practice with you?  The mirror will reflect that back to you.  How much hate is in your heart today...for yourself, for your practice, for whatever?  You can’t escape it...it’s written on your body and staring back at you in that mirror.  

Stay with your practice long enough, and you’ll learn from the mirrors...maybe about loving yourself and accepting yourself just as you are in the present moment.  You might find kindness and a sense of softening toward your broken places, your faults, your mistakes, your flailing.  That’s certainly been true for me.  Over the course of nine years, I’ve dragged lots of shit into that room and dumped it all out on my mat, picked up the pieces and looked at them in those mirrors.  I’ve held up this or that thought, feeling or belief and taken a good hard look at it, cried over it, struggled with it, allowed it to wash over me in waves....and then let it go and found peace, over and over and over again.  

Besides the mirrors, there’s so much more in that hot room that challenges me and strips me to my bare bones, asking me what I’m made of, what I believe in, how much I’m willing to put myself out there and try...despite the heat and the sweat and the anguish of a grueling physical practice.  And asking me this, too:  am I willing to accept and perhaps even love myself for better or worse, despite how well I can do the postures or stand the heat?  The answers have changed over and over and over again as my practice has deepened, but the question is there every time I enter the room and settle in for a 90 minute encounter with my oh-so-human self.

Like with anything you commit yourself to wholeheartedly and practice often, things shift and things change...and you either quit or begin to shift and change yourself.  Now, at the very beginning of Year 10, there are a multitude of things that don’t affect me when I’m in the practice room.  There are things I used to cling to in the past that don’t have a hold on me in the present.  I’ve worked through a lot of my petty irritations with the practice itself and am able to be calm, centered and focused in a way that’s taken years to hone.  I don’t reach anxiously for my water bottle to cool me down or a towel to wipe my sweaty face, because I’ve let go of those things and I’ve developed a trust in my breath as the number one thing that’ll keep me going through the 90 minutes.   

And...since I’ve got less tugging on my mind while practicing, I’m able to truly listen to the coaching being offered up by the instructor and willingly and openly apply the fine-tuning to my postures.  It’s a collaborative effort between student and teacher to bring me, and each person in the room if they choose to engage, to the very fullest expression of each beautiful posture in the series.  And when you are able to find the strength, breath and stamina to hold on and make it to the end of the 30 seconds or minute and are STILL holding yourself in a posture, damn!  It feels mighty good.  And your teacher is so proud and energized by your effort.  You can hear it in his voice and you can feel it in your chest...that sense of accomplishment and pride in a job well done....together.  There’s really nothing else quite like that feeling for me, and it keeps me coming back as a humble warrior to try again, to deepen a posture just a little bit more, to practice stillness and calmness through my breath despite the intensity of everything around me...the mirrors, the heat, the humidity, the visible and audible efforts of my fellow students.  It’s insane and wonderful at once.  And it’s the way I find the best in myself, the way I measure my growth as a human being.  It’s an exquisite and powerful collaboration, all designed to bring health and well-being to those who are willing to engage fully with their whole being.  

Like anything else that requires dedication and discipline, the more you show up and allow yourself to be vulnerable and open, the more you learn, and in the case of my yoga...and perhaps your religion or relationship or volunteerism or athleticism...I’ve come to understand and know myself better through my willingness to be there, to show up again and again.  I’m as lazy and excuse-ridden as the next person, perhaps more so at times, but the memory of my sweaty face in that mirror is etched inside me and I’ve come to love that face because of what I’ve witnessed in that mirror.  It’s been an amazing and wonderful transformation, turning my negativity into strength, my vulnerability into something beautiful and strong.  My very best self and my ability to love who I am was discovered...uncovered...recovered... in a hot, smelly yoga studio and I am humbled and awed by that.  Namaste.

I'll Tell You A Secret

Lately I’ve been spending Monday evenings over at Justice In The Body (http://www.justiceinthebody.com/) and taking part in a six-week course on The Power of Vulnerability (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCvmsMzlF7o).  I’m learning that there’s a difference (big) between shame and guilt.  I’m also learning that vulnerability isn’t always a dark emotion but is also the birthplace of all the beautiful emotions (empathy, love, joy, compassion) as well.  Our “teacher” for the course is Brene Brown who has been researching shame, vulnerability and something she calls “wholeheartedness” for years.   Along with about 15 others, I watch videos of Brene discussing her findings and then in between clips we talk as a group about what we think and how we feel in reaction to the info she’s presenting.  So, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the ways I avoid or embrace being vulnerable in my daily life and how I carry shame and why.  Big thoughts.

Meanwhile life goes on and this weekend I found myself seated for two solid days in a photography course where I, gulp, tried to learn how the hell a camera works.  And that, my dear friends, has prompted the writing of this blog.

I have a huge confession to make:  I don’t really know how to use a camera -- not “for real” anyway.  Oh, sure, I take some good photos, but the truth is that I NEVER use my camera in the manual mode.  I stay comfortably in the “safe zone” where the camera does all the thinking for me.  Lots of movement to be captured?  Put the camera in the “sports” mode.  Want to take a good head shot of a person?  Switch over to the “portrait” mode.  Looking at a beautiful natural vista? Take the photo in “landscape” mode.  

You may be thinking, “Who cares?  You take great photos, so why does it matter how you get there?”  True enough, but...what matters is how I feel about myself as a photographer and honestly, I feel like a fraud and I carry a lot of shame around with me about that.  I have a website dedicated to my photography where I post thousands of images that people actually fork over money to purchase, just like the “real photographers” do, and yet I am petrified and dumbfounded by figuring out all that stuff about aperture and f-stops and ISO and light metering that goes into taking a photo all by yourself without cheating.  Just typing those photography terms makes my palms sweat and my eye start to twitch.  I mean....do you even know what ISO means?  And do you have any idea about the MATH involved in figuring out f-stops?  It’s all frigging backwards.  If you want to add light, you have to subtract the numbers.  Things are halved and doubled.  The inside of a camera is like a house of mirrors.  What??!!   I get confused and overwhelmed and start feeling stupid and then I shut down.  It’s too hard.  I’m too dumb.  I can’t do it.  Those are the thoughts that fill my head, the old tapes that run in an ongoing loop through my mind, triggered by trying to learn something that is truly challenging for me.  My vulnerability switch is decidedly in the ON position, and my camera goes back into the cheat modes.

When we feel vulnerable, we want to hide.  We want to keep the secret safe from others.  We worry that if people knew about us, they’d reject us, judge us, talk behind our backs, ridicule us....essentially not love us anymore.  It doesn’t really matter what the “secret” is.  For me, it’s the inability to set my camera based on knowledge of the basics of photography and take a photo I can be proud of...to create art on my very own.  For you, it might be something big or something not-so-big.  Perhaps you are unhappy in your relationship and secretly contemplate leaving.   Maybe you struggle with your weight.  You may hide your drinking or your sexual preference.  Living with a secret, whatever it is, triggers shame and shame is a very sucky thing.  Shame silences you, separates you and steals your joy.  It casts a shadow over your life that follows you no matter what else might be going on.  You always have that voice in the back of your head that says, “yeah...but if they only knew the truth about me.”

While learning about vulnerability and shame, there’s also been this bright beacon of light surrounding this concept of “wholeheartedness” that Brene Brown has been bumping into in her research.  She’s found this cross section of people who, despite everything (shitty upbringing, lack of supports, etc.), believe in their own loveability and are able to love others well.  These folks, in the midst of their struggles, never feel like their worthiness is on the chopping block.  They have an underlying good feeling about themselves and others.  The difference with these folks is that they aren’t afraid to be vulnerable.  They are honest about who they are, what they need and want. They have the capacity to engage in their lives with authenticity, cultivate courage and compassion and deeply and profoundly embrace the imperfections of who they really are.  Holy shit, right?  Happiness is something Brene Brown has become intensely interested in, and the one thing she’s found that consistently co-occurs with true happiness is the notion of authenticity.  And in order to be authentic, you’ve got to be okay with a level of vulnerability most of us just aren’t comfortable with.

Before beginning this Power of Vulnerability study group, I thought I didn’t have any problems with vulnerability.  I saw myself as a pretty courageous person...overcoming the pains of my childhood, raising a healthy young adult, starting my own business and working hard to make it a success...those things take guts, right?  But there’s also this dark side...the place where I hide my secrets.  And these secrets keep me from reaching out to people, from engaging in my community in meaningful ways, and from working through my fears and learning to use my precious camera.  Anyone who knows me well knows how much I love to take photographs.  It is the absolute joy of my life, the one thing I can rely on every single day to put me in a better place emotionally.  In fact, my camera is actually a conduit and connecting point for me in otherwise awkward social situations...because I’m actually more of an introvert than an extrovert.  Put a camera in my hands and give me the role of photographer at an event and I feel more comfortable, safer, more relaxed.  

After a full day of instruction on Saturday, I went home, put on my mud boots, loaded my dogs into the car and took them for a long walk in the woods to clear my mind.  When we got to my favorite stream about 20 minutes down the path, the light was soft and beautiful and I watched the water bubbling and roiling over the ice-covered rocks and a few fat tears rolled down my cheeks.  I absolutely LOVE that water.  The number of times I’ve tried to capture it with my camera is too high to count, and honestly it’s not doable without taking a deep breath, putting the camera into the manual mode on a tripod and figuring out the math, deciphering the photography jargon and risking failure.  The truth is there WILL be failures.  I will take rotten, terrible photos.  And I will learn from them.  I will figure it out and at some point, I will start to get it right.  The water will start to look smoky and ethereal.  The rocks will be crisp and in focus.  And I will probably shed a few tears of a different kind, knowing that I did it on my own.   

So I’m out on a limb now and being vulnerable here in print.  I’ve taken my self-worth off the chopping block and I’m screwing up my courage and learning how to use my camera in the manual mode as a gift to myself.  Was this weekend’s photography seminar difficult for me?  You bet.  Was I uncomfortable at times?  Yep.  Did I want to shut down, give up and run away?  A time or two, yes.  But I hung in there because I desperately want this change, and as the different classes went on, I found myself feeling a bit more confident.  And on the breaks, I tried to apply the learning by fiddling with the settings on my camera and pressing the shutter button (which I am now calling the “shudder button”).  And I’ve made a promise to myself to not take a single photo for an entire week, no matter what, in the auto/cheat modes.  

And now it’s your turn, dear reader.  What’s your secret?  What’s that one scary thing you keep hidden from view...that one thing that silences you and steals your peace?  Perhaps it’s time to bring it into the light.  You may sleep better tonight with that weight off your chest, and you may find that the world rises up to welcome you into the fold of the wholehearted.  I’ll meet you there.  I'll be the one with the camera...

“Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.” 

                                                                                                                                                  ― Brené Brown

We all need a little sunshine...

Is it just me, or has this winter been particularly challenging for the body and the spirit?  The combination of frigid, stormy winter weather and a sloth-like lethargy have leveled me this year.  So many factors have aligned, creating a “perfect storm” that’s got me dragging myself through my days, hoping for the warming sun of early spring to show up soon and redeem me.  Mainers have, indeed, earned their reputation as stalwart, hearty folk for wintering here year upon year.

Starting my work day in the dark....and then finishing it in the dark has left me feeling like all I do is crawl out of bed and crawl back into bed, day after day for six or eight weeks on end.  It’s hard to muster any enthusiasm for an after work walk with my dogs when I can’t see my own hand in front of my face, my teeth are chattering and the sidewalks are ice-covered.

It’s also unfortunate that the “busy time” at my chosen yoga studio is always in January/February.  Everyone is seeking refuge from the cold and trying to keep their New Year’s fitness resolutions, while clogging, stinking and sweating up my personal space.  Top that off with a Groupon offering by my studio for cheap classes last month, and it’s been hard to find a parking spot for my car in the lot much less a two-foot-by-six-foot space for my mat in the practice room.  On the one hand, going to yoga represents the opportunity to be around people (instead of dogs) and to move my body.  On the other hand, my bed is so much more inviting when I’m chilled to the bone from working outside all day.....even if it IS 6:00 p.m.

And then there’s food.  Let’s face it:  I don’t know a single person for whom food does not represent comfort.  Who wants to go to yoga when there’s a crock pot of lentil stew simmering in the kitchen after a day spent outside picking up dog poop and freezing your ass?  There seems to be no end to my cravings for comfort food lately.  Pasta and cheese and bread and mashed potatoes and...well...you get the picture.  I even baked cookies this week.  I want it ALL and then I want to roll into my warm bed and hibernate, with a fistful of cookies to munch until sweet slumber overtakes me.

Winter is, of course, a time for turning inward....hibernating or cocooning while awaiting spring’s rebirth, both in nature and within our own hearts.  Bears do it.  Caterpillars do it.  Why not me?  For so many years, I’ve been so good...running miles and miles in subzero weather, putting in dozens of classes in the hot yoga room during those frozen winter months.  This year, I’ve just lost my verve somehow.  I find it hard to recall how it was I got myself to don all those layers and hit the road....or take off all those layers and hit the mat.  

The thing that’s gotten me through these long, dark weeks has been my photography and for that I’m ever grateful.  Scrolling through years worth of images of glorious spring and summer hikes, sailing trips and sunny vacations has provided hope of warmer, longer days.  March is upon us now, and the birds are appearing and singing in the trees on some balmier late mornings and early afternoons.  A big group of European Starlings descended on my bird feeders last week and pecked and munched heartily while four fat Robins watched and waited their turn from the high, bare branches of a birch tree.  In the early mornings, a Cardinal couple has been staking out their territory in a neighboring yard, the male’s shiny coat studding an otherwise drab landscape with a brilliant dot of cherry while he calls out from the highest branch of an evergreen.

These harbingers of spring have drawn me out of my cocoon and back into the world a bit.  Ideas for creative projects are sprouting inside me and enthusiasm for a return to my athletic life is building.  And these dark, quiet times have given me ample opportunity to dwell on the possibility of change in some key areas of my life.  Painful and long as these winter days have been at times, we all know that pain and darkness pave the way toward change.  Perhaps it’s a good thing that we Mainers have this annual time of drawing inward and retreating from the cold for a while.  A slower pace and a more contemplative, broody mood might actually be healthy for the soul and the spirit, offering the chance to think things through, germinate a few seeds and prepare for the next season of weather and of life as well.  In any event, here we are just a few short weeks from spring.  We’ve almost made it through the dark.  My spirit feels ready for some thawing and the warmth of a strong sun.  And don’t we all need a little sunshine?  I hear it's coming on Saturday...all day. I'll be out there, drinking it in.