Rediscovery

Arful gatherings of eco-dyed fabrics from my garden, odd scraps, and little studies in slow stitch— pieces of the old finding their way into the new.

Recovery from grief and illness began a journey where I found myself thrust into a story I had never foreseen. I had landed somewhere I'd never imagined I'd be. I didn't feel lost. Not even disoriented. More exactly, a new sensitivity had been unearthed.

For the very first time in my creative life, I discovered a deepened sense of simply being aware. Being present in the moment. Looking closer. In awe of what is, instead of what was or will be.

Slow stitching matched the rhythm of my inner world.

At first, my creativity was intended to be therapeutic. Dexterity and concentration required new effort. Stitching offered a rhythm. It was like breathing–bring the needle through the fabric, out, in, and out. Slow stitching closely matched my inner world, moving in rhythms that felt safe because the art was in the discovery, not the finished product.

Instructional needlework pattern on linen. Counted stitches produce uniform rhythm and precise stitch tension and color selections.

More instructional embroidery offered predictable outcomes. It enhanced my focus and enoucraged a sense of accomplishment. Every stitch became a footprint, a tick of time spent on the clock. A metronome. A basic rhythm of dicipline and patience.

Next, I unboxed the eco-dye studies I had completed long ago in fabric and paper. Specimen prints included geraniums, red cape flowers and buds, leaves from my yellow rose bushes, and miscellaneous unidentified leaves and spices tossed into a pot of rusty garden things and soupy ingredients steaming on the stove.

My relationship with cerativity had reawakened. Today, discovery is all that matters on this leg of my creative journey. Process over outcome. This approach was a tough shift for me in the beginning. My inner rhythm has grown louder. Enough for me to finally listen. I won't know all the next steps by heart, nor the exact recipe for the things I make. It's just me now, learning that being present may be the secret ingredient after all.

Eco-Dye studies.

Life events can make us and break us. Both happened as a result of mine. Yet the broken pieces, on close inspection, carry a strange beauty that cries out, "I am here."

My art has always been a collage. I've grown to appreciate the materials that have been with me all along; living things from my garden, fragments of paper and fabricks I've painted, threads I've gathered, journals I've constructed–all waiting to become.