slowly she turned

Living the Slow life in North Carolina

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  • An eastern horizon was like a memory

    By the second day, I felt like I was where I should be. I felt like I was home. I feel this way every time I go to the West Coast.

    Pam started us off with a design exercise. She passed out small pieces of gesso board and a piece of yupo paper to make small designs with the idea of murals and the theme of the sea in mind. Two of my photos of these ideas didn’t photograph well. I chose the photo of my feet in the Pacific for my small tapestry and the design of the photo at the top of this post for my next one (which I didn’t have time to do in Oregon).

    I learned a great new way to warp my loom warping two at a time. I purposely did not take many photos on this day because I wanted to be present in the moment, but during the next few days I made up for it and how. So much beauty. So many fascinating books and objects.

    More tomorrow.

  • A winding path to the Sea

    Let me say it right up front – Pam Patrie is an AMAZING hostess, and her cabin on a cliff overlooking the Pacific oozed charm and personality and comfort. Here is the front of her medicine cabinet in the bathroom!

    Once we unloaded the food and supplies, Linda and I walked down the path to the beach as the other tapestry weavers trickled in. It turns very steep toward the bottom and was a good hamstring workout.

    We dined like eight queens and one king while there. It was all fresh, healthy, vegetarian, and absolutely delicious. Almost everyone contributed to the cooking except Linda and I. Shirley was responsible for this incredible curry meal on the second night.

    I’m warning you now, the photos are overwhelming. I won’t be writing that much about this particular retreat.

    So much of it can’t be expressed adequately in words.

  • On a Particular … Day

    When I arrived in Portland, Oregon on the evening of August 21, I was met by my ray of sunshine friend, Cat. We went to her beau’s place, where he grilled succulent wild king salmon for us in the courtyard of his Pearl District apartment building. We relaxed with wine outside while he serenaded us on his acoustic guitar. A sweet, easy-going, handsome guy who can sing and cook? Go, Cat!

    She took me to a house where I rented a room via AirBnB – a first for me. It was comfortable and clean, and I amused myself early in the morning by returning their escaped chickens to their fenced back yard and walking around a cute neighborhood. The poem above was posted in front of a creative front yard across the street, and it was so spot on for my journey here and beyond that I’ve decided to use it. I don’t know the poet’s name. I googled the words and received no results. M, who lives on N. Arlington St. in Portland, I am grateful for your beautiful words. Here they are, since they are hard to read in the photo.

    On a Particular … Day

    The light awoke the morning, silently
    So fresh was the air, like a breath taken from the stars
    An eastern horizon was like a memory
    What beholds a given day, an hour, a moment
    With the turning…so goes everything
    A winding path, to the Sea, A gift left unopened, A footprint like no other and a flower, always a touch of beauty

    M…

    Then Cat and Matt picked me up and we went to Alberta St. for breakfast. Our first choice, The Tin Shed, was too busy so we ate at Halser’s. I had potato pancakes, and we drank beverages (Cat has steamed soy milk – she is so good!) and Matt treated us.

    As it went with my previous trip to Portland, I had very little time to explore it. Next time I’d like to shop at some of the eclectic shops on Alberta St. Pam, my retreat hostess, picked me up and we picked up Linda at the airport, and we were whisked away to Pam’s cabin just south of Cannon Beach, Oregon.

  • Heading west again

    The big event is almost here, and of course my heart is racing. Tonight I’ll go spend the night in Chapel Hill with family, and in the morning one of them will drop me off at the airport in Raleigh. I’ll fly to Portland, Oregon on Southwest Airlines, over 9 hours with 2 stops but no plane change. I paid for the way out there with credit card miles, so I sprang for the $12.50 early check-in charge in an attempt to get a decent seat. I arrive in Portland at 6:15 p.m., to be picked up by one of my favorite people in the entire world, fed a wonderful locally sourced dinner by her chef boyfriend, then stay in a little AirBnB room. The next morning I’ll bop around on Alberta St. with Cat until Pam Patrie picks me up to deliver me to her advanced tapestry retreat in a cabin overlooking the Pacific Ocean near Cannon Beach.

    I have been living for this trip since June. The weather forecast is clear and in the high 60s/low 70s range. And to spend a week with accomplished tapestry weavers – well, that’s something I never thought I’d be able to do. These are people who I can learn a lot from. It seems too good to be true.

    I won’t deny that after the cancellation of two vacations this year due to my mother’s health and death I am just a tad nervous and would appreciate good vibrations sent this way for my trip. I need it so badly. And, there will be another big trip west in mid-September that I planned long ago to look forward to after this one! I am sad when I think about not being able to share my excitement and my photos with my mother, but on the other hand, I know that she would be happy for me. She loved to travel too. I’m sure that there will be a huge hole in my life for a long time as I continue to adjust to life without her. Each day gets a little more tolerable, but I still find myself surprised at odd moments when I think of something that I’m going to tell her or show her and I abruptly realize that I won’t be able to do that. She was 90, and she lived a good full happy life, but I honestly expected to have more time with her.

    Anyway, I will see you on the other side of this trip on August 28, when I should have some amazing photos and experiences to share!

  • Architectural archaeology

    Sandy’s man cave is being divided into a second bathroom and the rest is going to be re-floored and painted. It’s had this god-awful 80s wallpaper since we bought the house. I’m a little afraid that the wallpaper might be what is holding the plaster together in the wall, but whatever.

    So far I have found four layers. The layer beneath the country polka dot was painted over with a bright pink, and it was originally a vivid floral design. Underneath that was doilies and roses. But underneath that, and very hard to separate, was this vintage nursery wallpaper. I had a lot of fun trying to scrape it just right to solve the mystery of the pattern. Little by little, scenes of children and toys emerged.

  • A little of this, a little of that

    Weekend before last, I dyed this white cotton tank top from Dharma Trading with turmeric, soda ash, cream of tartar, and bundled it up around a stick with oak leaves and steamed it. Then I dipped it in some water with a scrap piece of iron and some vinegar to take the edge of that brilliant yellow. Now it has been in the wash twice and is much more tan. I’m going to bundle it again with some eucalyptus leaves and steam it. Maybe add some fig leaves. The material feels so light and soft.

    Scenes like these on my walk home from work made me consider doing the visual diary journal again:


    I remember when I was little I found a whole continent in the roots of a large oak tree – mountains, valleys, lakes, forests…

  • Foodie post

    After two years, I finally managed to pick a ripe Cherokee Purple tomato from the Back Forty. This is what should always be done with the first sun-warmed tomato from your garden:


    Sandy and I have gone out to eat a little more than usual lately. Here’s our supper on the upper patio at M’Coul’s. Their roast beef is really tender. And y’all know how I feel about Smithwick’s.

    Finally, my friend Kathie Lapcevic and I had met through food blogging many years ago, but had never met in person. Her food writing career is on the rise – see her blogs Homespun Seasonal Living and Two Frog Home for more. She stopped to visit me in Greensboro on her way to Asheville for a food writers’ conference. Since Kathie is from Montana and Pittsburgh, I suggested that she try the twice baked grits at Lucky 32 for brunch. We both ordered them with collard greens. Oh so good, and so good to see her. I’ve been friends with her on Facebook and the blogs for so long that meeting her in person just felt like getting together with an old friend.

  • Oh Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done

    Like millions of his fans, I was stunned by Robin’s suicide, both by the event and by the strong emotions it evoked in me. I’m sure that by now, everyone is experiencing Robin Williams overload, but last night after I discussed it for the first time with my husband I realized that I was going to have to write about it for my own therapeutic reasons. I’m including some links to some of the articles that I felt expressed my own feelings or helped me to clarify my thinking during the past three days.

    A lot of the comments I’ve seen or heard about led me to believe that even though we have come a very long way in our understanding of depression, there is still a lot of ignorance and some outright prejudice and cruelty about mental illness out there.

    Even my husband said that after a lot of analyzing his feelings about Robin’s suicide, he found that he mostly felt disappointed in Robin’s actions. I could understand that feeling as well as some feelings of anger that I’ve seen. They are normal reactions to a personal sense of loss. I still feel disappointment and anger at my father at times for his choice of refusing medical procedures that could have prolonged his life and given me more time with him.

    However, it confirmed my own knowledge that only someone who has experienced clinical general depression or bi-polar disorder could possibly understand what it feels like at the bottom of the hole. A person who has never experienced addiction is not capable of understanding what addiction is really like. These conditions transcend logic. If anyone thinks that a depressed person, especially a suicidally depressed person, can pull out of it by choice or for the sake of the ones s/he loves, that person does not “get” severe mental illness.

    I remember visiting a friend who I dearly loved in a mental health facility after she had a psychotic break and was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. In my ignorance, I brought her a crystal and a small framed drawing of Quan Yin, the Buddhist goddess of mercy. She knew that these offerings were precious to me and I brought them to her as symbols of our friendship and my spirit being joined with hers during this time. When she returned them to me, the glass in the frame was broken and she told me that she had considered swallowing the crystal. At the time I left them with her, she seemed quite normal and lucid and I didn’t see the danger.

    You cannot know what is happening in the brain of another person, not even a person who you feel is a soulmate.

    To know that it is possible to lose that logical dialogue with your brain and emotions (or lack of them) is horrifying.

    To a suicidal person who has lost the ability to use logic, the only choices they can see that they have control over is the continuation of suffering or death. They do not see the choice of hope.

    Yes, suicide is a choice. It may have been that mental illness compelled Robin and others to make that choice – blinded them to the choice of life or hope. We can’t know. But we do know what people who have survived suicide attempts have told us, and we must never abandon the idea that hope is a choice. It may be a dim vision, but that’s where we need to step up and try to clarify that vision for those who are suffering.

    That’s not easy when our society continues to make mental illness a source of shame. How can we identify those who need help, those who aren’t capable of seeking help on their own, those who cover up their suffering with jokes and masks? One way we can help is to talk about it with compassion and remove the stigma from mental illness.

    I felt fear when the news of Robin’s death broke. This was a performer who I have followed from the beginning of his career and I felt connected to him as if he was a friend. Comedy is one of my talents and at one time I aspired to comic acting or stand-up, so I follow a lot of the comedians who inspired me from the 70s and 80s. I felt fear because I am convinced that others will hear about his choice and the choice of hope will fade from their vision.

    I felt fear because, although I have not been suicidal, I remember one afternoon when I lay on my bed, thinking that death could not be worse than feeling nothing. The good thing is that I haven’t feared death since then. But I am terrified of another trip to the bottom of the hole where I cannot feel joy or happiness or anger or sadness or anything much at all. I managed to drag myself to a doctor and get help. I would have done it sooner, but I couldn’t make myself do it, and I couldn’t make myself ask a friend or my husband for help. If a friend had stepped up and said, “Can I help you make an appointment and drive you to a doctor?” I would have been so grateful.

    I have lost a cousin and a friend to suicide. I don’t think that either one would have made that choice had they been able to see the top of the hole. They didn’t mean to hurt anyone else. Their vision was clouded from their own suffering, and the disease that blinded them to the choice of hope.

    If you have a loved one or friend who is suffering from depression, I beg you to read some of the following articles. They will help you understand, and maybe you can help.

    Robin Williams and Why Funny People Kill Themselves

    Hyperbole and a Half: Depression Part Two

    Not Everyone Feels This Way

    21 Things Nobody Tells You About Being Depressed – Yes, it’s a Buzzfeed list, but it makes some very good points if you can’t make yourself read something heavier.

    O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
    The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
    The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
    While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
    But O heart! heart! heart!
    O the bleeding drops of red,
    Where on the deck my Captain lies,
    Fallen cold and dead.

    O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
    Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
    For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
    For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
    Here Captain! dear father!
    This arm beneath your head!
    It is some dream that on the deck,
    You’ve fallen cold and dead.

    My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
    My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
    The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
    From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
    Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
    But I with mournful tread,
    Walk the deck my Captain lies,
    Fallen cold and dead.

    Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass

  • Progress and layers

    First, here’s a lovely blog post about an India Flint experience in Scotland. Made me quite jealous until I remembered the big adventure coming my way in less than a month: six days in a tapestry retreat on the Oregon coast! It brought back sweet memories of the workshop I took with India last summer, without the ticks.

    Just finished the philtrum on the tapestry.


    Construction on the new bathroom is underway, and gutting the space has revealed some interesting textures and old wallpaper:

    I saved a few scraps and will glue them to the cover of my journal. I just love stuff like this! Seeds for design.

    Whoops, nearly forgot the kitty shot.

  • Progress

    My progress as of three days ago. I have to find the battery charger for my camera. It is in the new place that I decided would be the logical place that I would look for it the last time I lost and found it. Maybe I need a hypnotist.

    Work began on the new bathroom today, thank God. There were a few times when I was afraid that the whole thing was going to have to be put off for weeks. The two fellows working on it are very pleasant and willing to work around the cats. The possibility of my cats getting out in a panic or getting sick from stress or getting underfoot is my main concern right now. Miss Lucy simply wants to hide, but Theo, Pablo, and Diego are all obsessed with the closed doors that used to be open.

    My own work is picking up, so the time is going by more quickly.

    Last night I cooked butterbeans with a few field peas tossed in and a squash casserole, with most ingredients from my garden. Before that I cooked what might have been the last green (purple) beans. The butterbeans should produce until frost, especially with the unseasonably cool temperatures we have now. The squash are definitely gone because the plants were diseased and I pulled them up. The seeds that I thought were cucumbers turned out to be butternut squash and those plants are producing and doing well because I planted them away from the yellow squash. Lots of green tomatoes are on the plants I grew from seed, and I covered them with chicken wire cages. The blueberries are nearly gone, but I did get to eat a few. Didn’t get to harvest any of the pears, as usual. Lots of figs are on the reviving fig tree that we butchered this spring. Can you even kill a fig tree? I don’t know.

    I miss talking about gardening with my mother. I’m having a hard time with the loss in general, but I think that working in my garden really brings it home for me. We didn’t agree about much, especially the religion that was so important to her, and the art I do was sometimes incomprehensible to her. Much of my conversation bored her, but we could talk enthusiastically about gardening and cooking. I spent so much of my time in summer picking, shelling, and freezing butterbeans and field peas with my mother and other relatives and friends. I was lucky because my work was limited to vegetables and blueberries and the occasional load of shrimp instead of the tobacco fields and barns that my friends had to work in. I was also lucky because I learned to garden and preserve food from my mother. Not cooking, though. I learned to cook on my own.

    Casting my thoughts increasingly toward tapestry and the retreat coming up in Oregon. Less than a month away!