One Last Mother's Day Gift

 I mentioned that my mother passed away this past December.

However, all things weren't quite laid to rest then.

But let's start at the beginning.

I had a brother I never knew except from my mother's mentions of him.  His name was Keith. 

He was my parents' first child, born in the summer of 1949.

Things were very difficult in many ways back then and especially so for my parents.

When Keith was 7 months old, he died from pneumonia.

My mother carried the pain of that loss for all her years.

She, like many of that era, believed illnesses like pneumonia and colds were caused by getting cold and she frequently said that Keith would perhaps not have gotten sick had she had a proper blanket for him.

It was a statement we heard so often growing up that, one Mother's Day, my sister gifted my mother a baby blanket she crocheted for Keith.

My mother kept and treasured that blanket and, somehow, it found its way back to my sister when my mom went into assisted care and, when my mother passed, into her casket, along with a photo of Keith.

My mom had always said she wished that Keith would be buried with her when she died, but at least some of us were a bit surprised to learn that she also reduced that wish to writing and made it a formal part of her funeral arrangements.

It was bitter cold here in December when my mom died.  While the cemetery said they would be able to tent and warm the ground to inter my mother, they were hesitant about using that process to disinter Keith since he was buried in a simple wood box and they were concerned about damaging what remains there would be.

So, rather than interring my mother then and later disinterring her and Keith when the ground thawed, a difficult decision was made to have my mother's body held over at the funeral home until spring.

While spring was slow in its coming this year, it did eventually come....

...and, on Friday, Keith's remains were tucked into the blanket in my mother's casket and the two were finally laid to rest together next to my father.

 

One final Mother's Day gift, Mom.

Love you most.

The end. I win.

Flights of Angels and Turkeys...

I'm in another one of those funks.

This funk, though, is different than my other funks.

Who'd'a thunk there could be so many kinds of funks?

My "typical" funk is that I don't feel compelled in the least to pick up a needle, a hook, or anything of that ilk.

This funk, however, is, as I said, unique: I want to create and I actually pick up my needle and hook and such, and I start...but then careen quickly off the rails.

Nothing...and I mean absolutely nothing, pleases me.

The linen choice is wrong, the floss colors are wrong for the linen (and, often, both the linen and the floss are wrong), the color plan doesn't work as I thought for the hooking, the finishing technique isn't suiting me...

You name it, I will count the way it displeases me.

So, I have accomplished nothing - other than add to the land mass of the ever-expanding Isle of Misfits and Castaways.

Start over you say?

Oh, but I have...over and over and over.

Colors changed, fabrics changed, techniques changed, projects changed...until I reach "that point" - the one I call the Marly Point of Inflection:

I have gone too far to rip everything out and start over - or I have started over too many times to start over again - and I start to seriously consider a bonfire in the backyard.

I really can't remember anything I've completed in the past 6 months or more so I have little to share with you in that regard.

But...I did force myself to finish this piece even though, again, I am not pleased. 

I will not tell you how many different floss choices were started and frogged, replaced (often with ones I had already tried and ripped out), and I am still not happy but I did not want to risk weakening the linen further.

It is called "Flight of Angels" by MommaLovesYouGB, a designer from the UK.

Her original design had crowns where the angels are on mine to commemorate Queen Elizabeth's passing, but I loved the verse and stitched the modified version as a remembrance of my mom.

{Stitched on 40 count "Natural Brown" linen by Wichelt, 1 over 2, except dates, which are 1 over 1.}

The back is based on a portion of a design called "Handprint On My Heart" by Heartstring Samplery.

It's done and that's all I'm going to say.

In other "flight" news, I have been invaded by turkeys.

Flocks and herds of turkeys.

Snowdog used to keep them at bay, but now they have free and unfettered range.

This is just a small fraction of them.  

They have taken up residence in copse of pines that borders our property line, venturing out many times during the day to overwhelm the front and side yards.

It is disconcerting as I can hear them walking on the hardened snow even when I can't see them...day and night...like an invisible army marching endlessly to battle.

It is even more disconcerting when I absent-mindedly walk outside realizing too late they have paused their eternal march and taken up foraging operations and they then take flight...the whole company of them.

The airborne division they are not - I am certain there are not many other birds more ungainly or noisy in flight than the turkey 

And someone really should tell them they need to work on their camouflage routines.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I hope those in the grips of winter storms and bitter temps stay safe and out of harm's way.

The Blackbird's Visit

Winter has reclaimed Nod as its own...ensconcing it in ice and snow...and endless whiteness. 

I think Nod has always belonged to Winter.

Winter is a taker.

It steals the light from our days, the warmth from our nights, the color from our world.

And this year it also took my beloved mum.

It's been a year of loss for me and Winter has nothing to offer in exchange.

The week before Christmas was spent planning a funeral and the one after, licking already-raw wounds.

No one knew me like my mother...no one ever believed in me like she did...and no one ever loved me like she did.

Of all my siblings, I caused her the most grief and worry.  And while I was perhaps more "independent" than my other siblings, I think, in many ways, I needed her more than the others did.

{Letters I wrote to my mom from Spain that I never knew she saved....}

It should not have surprised me, therefore, when the blackbird came.

I do not believe in coincidences and I do believe our souls live on, yet I was not expecting a message nor a messenger - particularly such an unusual one.

Yet here she was...perched precariously on a mound of snow directly outside my back patio doors while my kitties watched.  In fact, it was the cats' prolonged attention that drew my attention and as I approached the door to look more closely, the blackbird cocked her little head to the side and looked directly at me.

Had it been the proverbial red cardinal that is commonly regarded as heavenly messengers of departed loved ones, I may have made a more immediate connection. Then, again, perhaps not as cardinals are regular visitors here.

But the mysterious blackbird and her unassuming stillness caught me unawares. 

Although blackbirds have not been viewed particularly favorably by Christianity and Judaism, in other cultures (e.g., Egyptian and Japanese), the blackbird is seen as a symbol of the cycle of life and represents rebirth and regeneration.

(On rare occasion, my background in Egyptology has served me well.)

In the spirtual realm, blackbirds are viewed as symbols of transition and transformation, balancing darkness and light.  One can call upon the blackbird when they need spiritual guidance and the blackbird can remind us to use our senses and inner wisdom to understand and adapt to the different aspects of life.  They may appear to prepare us for changes so that we may adapt to those changes and allow us to find happiness in them.  And the blackbird can warn us of the dangers of our past entrapping us.

The blackbird stayed on her mound of snow for a considerable amount of time and only the cats know how long she had been there before I noticed her.

She was not ruffled by kitties, and patiently waited as the unusualness of event slowly sunk in and while I got my glasses and phone and took her photo.

And still she stayed.

Fearing she may be injured, I finally opened the double doors to go out.

Only then did she lift her wings and flit away into the whiteness.

Of course my mother would not choose an ostentatious or common cardinal.

She knew me well.

I love you the most....the end.

xoxo