An old song
Sometimes while I’m stitching I can feel the light, the hands, the hours, the same reveries as woman who have stitched before me. It’s a song really, a melody infused inside the blood, like the knowing of the tree to move upward towards the sun.
I love that it’s considered “Womans Work”. Of course it is. It’s a song of the mother that is part of our remembering.
Not all woman and some men too. Because it’s alive and so there really are no rules. Only archetypes and mythologies and patterns within patterns...
Sometimes while I’m stitching it becomes so silent I can hear the silences of other fingers touching other fabrics throughout the history of fiber. The braiding of grasses, the knotting of twine, the needles pressing up against cloth revealing the unseen...
I try and put that vastness and those songs into my stitches. Each stitch carries the whole story, all the stories. Again and again, from different points of entry. Exiting from different perspectives.
I offer the stories as reflections back to the places where they come from, to feed the song, to nourish the line.
I offer the stories to you, as reflections back to the places where you come from. To feed your hunger for connection. To nourish your line.
I offer the stories to my own body for nourishment. I’m fed with the food of the ancestors when I interpret their songs with needle and thread.
There is everything in this language. An invitation to dance in the ways we know how.