Wednesday, January 27, 2016

At Sixes and Sevens

I'm not sure how to describe how I'm feeling today, so I goggled "at sixes and sevens." 

To be "at sixes and sevens" is a British English idiom used to describe a state of confusion or disarray. (Wikipedia)
Disarrayed works.  My small little world feels like a precarious Jenga tower where I need to be  careful in choosing the piece I want to remove or the whole thing will come tumbling down.

Silence is really vital to the human heart.
You see the human heart can’t live with
Constant sound or noise.
It needs silence in order to heal itself.
The only two things that are ultimately required 
for spiritual homecoming are stillness and silence
If in your day you can build little windows of silence
and little windows of stillness
You will never lose touch with your deepest voice.
You will never lose touch with your most secret belonging.
Even though you walk and talk in the world
You will never leave the inner, tender home of your soul.
Charles William Golding (1931-2004) 

Here I sit, alone. Surrounded in the quiet. In the sunny spot on the desk, Boy Cat sleeps like there's nothing more important. Buddy stands guard from the chair in front of the window. Maizey appears to snooze in the leather recliner facing the same window. I'm on to her, though. Any pedestrian, bike rider, dog walker, or stray cat that happens by will set off a barking session that could shatter ear drums. Sweetie and I traded places. I got out of bed, he got in. The man doesn't sleep much at night, so catches up during the day.

All that to say that I couldn't be in a better place for a quiet pause or spiritual homecoming. Yet I feel kind of wired, like I had one too many cups of coffee, only I don't drink coffee and my tea is decaffienated. Someone I know and love might point out that my body is crying out for it's morning dose of refined sugar. 

This may sound weird but I think I may be pregnant. Can one be creatively pregnant? Instead of a baby forming in my womb,  I kind of feel the fluttering of something creative beginning to stir. Although re-painting my kitchen or Sweetie's office does not sound "creative" it would be a good way to use up some dormant energy. I could take a walk, which I'm proud to say is something I can do again, with little discomfort. Again, a walk would be good for me, but would not use the right kind of energy. Writing is always an option. Truth be told, I think I need to spend some time communing with fabric.  The last thing I need to do is buy anymore fabric. But a trip to the fabric store might corral my creative juices. 

Wendy came for a short, 4 day visit last week. That's kind of like wanting to take a long, luxurious soak in a tub, and only having an opportunity to put my toes in the water. We packed a lot into those 4 days. We checked off all our favorite things to do together - get our toes done, go to a movie, eat at the Columbia House, drink tea, take walks. My favorite, perhaps, was the time spent in Barnes & Noble. Having discussed the pros and cons of big box bookstores,  both of us would like support independent retailers, with limited time and money, we opted for the tried and true. While it would be a stretch to compare a book store with a cathedral, I feel something akin to holiness when surrounded by books.  Like being caught off guard by the Holy Spirit during a boring Sunday morning sermon, there comes a moment every time I go to a bookstore, when I stand in awe and soak up the joyful effectiveness of books. (It's usually in the children's department!) All those words. The authors who penned them. The artist's who illustrated them. The lives, young and old, they have or will change. Not to mention the combined zeal of bibliophiles for their favorite genres. Kind of like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir when it all comes together, don't you think?

But I digress. I do love books. I also love fabric. I get many of the same feelings inside Joann's Fabric as I do in B&N. There have been times in my life when walking past brightly colored bolts of cotton calico,  soft, snuggly flannels, and delicate silks proved as therapeutic as an hour with a psychiatrist. Knowing I have enough of a "stash" I've purposely stayed away from the after Christmas sales. If I went into the bedroom/sewing room and organized the fabric I already own, maybe I'll get the same kind of high as well as that good feeling that comes when you've made a big dent in the chore list.

To come full circle, another reason I'm feeling six-ish and seven-ish is because there's a woman I know only through FB that's really, really, really sick. She had a brain stem stroke. Miracle of miracles she is still alive and will fight with superhuman powers to regain the use of her lifeless limbs. That coupled with reading the book my son-in-law wrote before he passed away, makes me keenly aware of a) how quickly things can change b)how lucky am and c)how helpless I feel in such dire circumstances. It's no wonder I turn to fabric as a restorative elixir. Quilts are not just pieces of cloth sewn together with thread. There's a lot of love and prayer sandwiched between layers of  batting. That's where the healing comes from for both the quilter and the person who lies under the magic cloth. 

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