Month: November 2017

I Remember

I Remember

Sometimes I stand in the shower

Cold water turned off

Scalding water raining down on me like cinders

My skin goes through a transformation

Milk white, then new born pink, then cattle brand red

In that moment when all the blood rushes up and my skin threatens to bubble,

I remember

I remember the cords around my wrists

The way the sap from the stake penetrated the hand spun cotton of my dress.

How many people there were gawking, both aroused and appalled

Hiding behind and covering their eyes with their holy claims.

The urgency in their eyes,

the hunger that would have pulled my meat from the bone if the flames didn’t take.

I remember the rush of heat, of pain, of cosmic elation as the smoke found a new home in my lungs,

throwing out all the oxygen that has once resided there.

It thickened my blood and blocked my nose,

Fervent prayers weighing down the blanket of flame

that consumed me.

I remember I was gone before the body was done,

before my meat and fat had melted like candle wax

the salivating audience ,ready for my ashes got them on their tongue

proof they saw an abomination erased, stayed until the moon rose high

my body becoming the smoke that itched their nose and stayed in their clothes for weeks to come.

I remember they put my remains with the animal waste

and then wondered why their crops didn’t return, even with the manure.

I remember the cries of hunger, of pain, of violation as the little village

became nothing more than an empty field again.

You say you’re the granddaughters of the witches they forgot to burn.

I was burned.

And I remember.

Poetry has long been a love of mine.

It started with my love of country music. In grade school, I was convinced I was going to grow up to be a songwriter. I’d write song after song, no music just lyrics. It wasn’t until I was in the middle of my depressive preteen years that I figured out, lyrics with out music are just a poem. I devoured poems (and paper writing my own) throughout my teenage and young adult years. Then adult life struck and being a mom and wife forced my writing to go into hibernation. That seems to be changing now. Some of it has to do with reading Lisa Lister’s  book Witch. Some of it has to do with having some amazing friends who inspire me every day to be more authentic. Some of it is because I’m waking up. And I’m thankful for it all.





The Subtle Art of Good Enough

The balance between “measure twice, cut once” and wild creative abandon.


When I was seriously learning to sew, my mentor was a perfectionist. She is an amazing seamstress and crafter, but oh my god, she was obsessive about things being perfect. She painstakingly went over the delicate art of pinning the tissue thin pattern to the fabric, the importance of surgeon like accurate cut along the perimeter of the pattern, and how to carefully and perfectly re-fold the pattern, ironing it down to its original size. I remember carefully unfolding a years old pattern,still in perfect condition, and wanting to run. How was I supposed to use this? I couldn’t even get a newspaper back to normal after reading. My anxiety kicked into overdrive and what was suppose to be a fun activity became a test of my endurance.

All the guidelines and suggestions on how to do things the “right way” made my brain itch. Why measure twice? Couldn’t I just eyeball it? Wasn’t this suppose to be about creating some type of fabric magic?  How am I suppose to use these scissors to cut that perfectly straight? What if we just added a little bit here? No one will notice if the seam on the inside is long will they? I believe we managed to cut half of a dress pattern out that day. And we never attempted it again. My dress remains unmade to this day.


Sewing became something I pursued on own, trying new patterns and projects. I was gifted an ancient Brothers sewing machine and used it the best I could. When my drive outgrew the machine, I joined the modern era and got a shiny white Singer. The more I did, the more I learned and the more I wanted to do. But one thing stayed constant, nothing I did was perfect. Functional? Yes. Decent looking? Yes.  But perfect? Oh noooo. No, no, no.

This isn’t a philosophy that’s limited to my creative life. My everyday existence is a series  of “good enoughs”. My shoe strings don’t match but my shoes stay tied. My 4th grader had cookies for breakfast, but he didn’t go to school hungry. My fabric is stored in a plastic tub all mixed together but that’s how I see things. That’s how I match fabrics and get ideas.

In the middle of all my barely contained chaos, beauty exist. In a perfect world of order and perfect, I don’t think I could make things work. I need this mess, I need this disorder, I need to be able to cut before I measure twice. I follow patterns now, but I am not above changing them when I have a better idea.

This half ass spirit is part of my design. It’s how I do things. And I think accepting that is important. There’s nothing wrong with being a perfectionist. There’s also nothing wrong with being the mess I am.