She was a very small child navigating the frightening and turbulent seas of very large feelings. The legal proceedings of my divorce, of which she was largely unaware, went fairly smoothly and quickly. The emotional proceedings, however, were rocky and treacherous and every week she visited a therapist named Sue. I sat in on each session, silently providing motherly reassurance and learning a surprising amount about myself by simply listening in.
One day Sue directed our attention to ocean waves. They can be peaceful and calm, sparkling in the sun and making the beach shine, or they can be big and intimidating. But there is not one wave that ever stays. They come up, wash over the sand and then flow back into the sea. Living an hour from the coast, we had been to watch many a wave and we agreed. We had never seen one stay.
Emotions, Sue pointed out, are like waves. Sometimes they are sparkly and fun, sometimes they are uncomfortable or scary. But they never stay. They wash over us and recede.
Last week, as I was getting up to leave my own therapy session, I paused to take a quick photo. The items that sit arranged on top of a low bookcase, including a box of tissues, were backlit by the uncovered windows. Whoever had last pulled a tissue from the box had unknowingly left behind a sculpture of folds and curves that was now exposed by the low angle of evening light.
At home with the photo and my sketchbook I wondered for a moment if it was possible to recreate the image in fabric, then began to draw. As various shades of blue began to translate my impression onto the paper, an image like a wave began to form. The thought of the original wave being composed of facial tissue in my therapist’s office was amusing to me as I was reminded of Sue’s analogy made years ago, but it was also appropriate. Many waves of overwhelming emotion have been experienced and even explored in safety there, often disposed of within the folds of a tissue from a box by the window.
I have a memory of standing on the landing between my upstairs bedroom and the kitchen, asking my mother to help me knot the thread in my needle. We moved from that house when I was eight years old. Before I left home my sewing resume had grown to include doll dresses and teddy bears, clothing and quilts, three years of sewing nylon kites for a local business, and two Dacron sails for the boat that my dad and I built when I was 16. As an adult I have continued to sew curtains and quilts and clothing, including suits, wedding dresses and detailed costumes.
This past week there has been a bedspread beneath the presser foot of my sewing machine. It was a simple project structurally, a queen bed sized square of heavy linen that needed to be hemmed around. The yardage and weight of the fabric and my recent illness slowed me down a bit, requiring patience and an extra chair to drape it over while I sewed. The flowing folds and curves of the fabric that spread out from my sewing machine were beautiful, and I took another photo as a reference for future inspiration. Fabric manipulations and textile art fascinate me. Yet it has only been recently that I began to see fiber as a medium for my artwork. The inspiration is everywhere!
After a trip through the washer and dryer to rinse out creases from being stored and to restore the lovely washed linen texture that had been flattened by the hot iron, I spread it over my bed. It replaces the well used, stained and torn quilted coverlet that has protected my bed from our pets for long enough. In a gesture of respect for a planet overwhelmed by the castoffs of human mismanagement it is being reused for another project, but that is a story for another day.
(Featured image: Beverly Beach, Oregon. Photo by Martina.)
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