Busy. Compulsive.

Ha! We all knew that "three posts a week" thing wasn't going to hold up for long. :-)

In all fairness, I had other things taking up my time.  Like teaching, and spring, and play rehearsals, and vehicular accidents (no injuries!), and general life stuff.  Priorities.  We all have them, so no apologies, no obligations.  However, other than keeping up with the hockey news, I haven't been reading anyone this past week.  So you know what I'm doing tomorrow. :-)

I have been sewing, amazingly enough.  A paper-piecing workshop at last month's Modern Guild meeting led to a scrap-busting explosion of hexagons in my living room. This is what 400 of them looks like.

All from scraps. Randomly pieced.

Yeah.  Since I ran out of my purchased hex papers about a week into this, I ended up making a crap-ton (yes, a crap-ton!) of my own.  You can read more about how on the guild blog here.

I still have some edges to fill in and a border to do but I'm pleased so far.  It's going to be a table topper.  You'd think after all of this hand-sewing, I would have mad skills when it comes to the whipstitch. I should have a wicked whipstitch. But nay, good folks, nay.  It still looks a little like I did it with a chicken bone for a needle and with my eyes closed.  Oh well, maybe some day...

I was working on this piece at my other guild meeting (there are two different guilds in town - I belong to both) and a fellow member, whom I'd never met, snarked me, "Well, that's just compulsive!"  Fair enough - there is a nugget of truth in that, my mother would certainly agree with her, but handwork helps me focus and keeps my hands busy during stretches of time where my attention would otherwise wander, like the occasional guild meeting, and I'm therefore less likely to run around like a four-year-old dragged to a tupperware party for lack of a babysitter. To my credit, I did not snark back, because I don't know her and wouldn't want to inadvertently offend her while trying to crack a joke to prove I have a sense of humour. (However, blogging about it might have devalued that credit somewhat... Oops!) I couldn't help but feel though, while not offended, that there was a different way to offer that opinion that didn't make it a personal attack.  "I personally don't have the patience for something like that" or "I can't be bothered to do hand-sewing or something that small" or even "that kind of thing is not for me" would all have come across as more supportive or polite than the undertone of "there's something wrong with you!" implied with the word compulsive. 

Of COURSE it's compulsive.  Look at this.

I had a pretty good laugh about it.  I'm fairly sure she didn't mean any harm. I'm not generally bothered by criticism. In fact, I think constructive criticism is key to growth and development, and our tendency to over-nice each other, particularly in the quilting community, detracts from our ability to deliver or accept such criticism without taking something personally.  What made me laugh was that the comment wasn't even about the work (too  many colours, poor whipstitching, inaccurately cut or sewn hexagons, or not to someone's personal taste), but that the statement was a value judgment on ME, and not the work. Now, I get called crazy all the time, (there probably IS something wrong with me - lol) but usually by people whose first names I know, and who I have an established rapport with.  I have called fellow bloggers crazy in a loving way, particularly when they are exceedingly prolific or unjustly hard on their own work. I guess I've become more aware as a teacher that what we put out there can have a impact on people.  Imagine if I'd told another artist, a potter, that pottery was a useless art, or a child whose room is covered in pink, purple and sparkles that only losers like unicorns (or apply it to weightier subjects that I won't get into here). It might roll off them like nothing, or it could stop them from enjoying something that had previously.  For the record, I think pottery is amazing and the skill level some people have achieved is staggering. I also have no problem with unicorns, though I don't embrace them as strongly as would your average person on the street.  And I LOVE constructive criticism. It helps me get better at the things I do.  I could not survive as a teacher without giving and getting constructive feedback. But this has been a reminder for me not be conscious of applying value judgments in that criticism. 

I guess you can say I DID learn something from the comment after all. 

I've got other things I've been working on but that's what's tickling my mind today.  Hope you didn't mind the musing.  Maybe it gave you something to chew on.  

Have a wonderful Wednesday!

Finished Quilt: Myself, as a Teacher (photo-heavy, epically long post)

It was finished on Tuesday afternoon so it would be ready to show after class on Wednesday.  I roped a couple of the tallest boys on the Education Students' Society council into helping hold it outside in the building.  It was sunny so there are shadows. We were in a hurry.

The one on the left is Kyle.  We had the following conversation:

        Kyle:  Am I going to be in this photo?

        Me: No.

        Kyle:  Then I'm not doing it.

        Me: Oh. Ok.  You can be in the photo if you want.

        Kyle:  Will I be tagged?

        Me: No.

        Kyle:  Then I'm not doing it. 

I love my friends.  Jon, by the way, didn't really care if he was featured or not. (Thanks for your help, gents!)

I've discussed part of the symbolism of the quilt in past posts, all tagged with Teacher Identity Project, but I'll go into detail here.  The quilt represents who I am as an antiracist, anti-oppressive educator. Why did I pick a quilt? Well, for starters, like teaching, quilting is something I love doing. There's also a rich history of quilting bringing people together. It represents community, sharing of knowledge and skill, collectiveness.  Quilts are practical, keeping people warm, and beautiful, showing craft and art. I hope that my work as a teacher keeps my students warm and empowers them to keep themselves and others warm with what we learn together.  Quilts are also used for activism.  I remember the profound experience of viewing the AIDS quilt when I was in high school.  I am inspired by the Quilt of Belonging which represents all the different peoples of Canada.  So much hope and togetherness. And above all, love.

Firsts

Today is my first day back at university since April.  It's odd to be on the student side of things again and I miss teaching like it's as important to as breathing.  And it is.  Of course, I'm an advocate of lifelong learning, and wearing jeans on weekdays again, but the adjustment is tricky.  Ready to go there but not ready to be here.  Ah, the hoops.

Tomorrow is my nephew's first birthday.  I remember it well for being so very long a day.  The call came at 12:45 am and after a few hours, they sent her home until the afternoon.  I had four classes (one a three-hour night class) that day on two hours of sleep.  I went back and forth between hospital and class all day.  He arrived at 11:30pm.  On his due date.  And has filled my life with so much love, I can't believe it.  I'm lucky that I get to see him almost every day.


I made him a sweater.  With an elephant.

From Vintage Knits for Modern Babies. Debbie Bliss Baby Cashmerino. Elephant instead of bird.

And towards many other firsts, a second.  I was spoiled by Santa this Christmas and found a new sewing machine under the tree. It's a Janome 4120QDC and it's so zoomy!!!  I love it and can finally learn to free-motion.  It's incredibly quiet (my old Kenmore shook and squeaked the house down) and if I can't manage a scant 1/4" seam allowance, I have nothing left to blame but the operator. I have only just started to play around with all the features and what-not but I'm completely in love.

 I named it Oscar.  Yep, I name things.  Usually British men's names.  My phone is Giles. My iPad is Nigel.  There's also a Hamish, a Kenneth, and a Darwin in my life.  There was a Kevin, but it's still too hard to talk about... :-)  I don't name cars; I find it portends their doom.

Steve

What do I say?  

His influence on me and on how I do things, how I teach, interact and work, is distinctly visible in how I live my daily life.  

It's not simply possessions - possessions only carry a person so far - it's a way of thinking, of looking at things, a elegant simplicity, and a demand of excellence.  It's a lifestyle, a philosophy, an idea.

He was a unique individual, a visionary, a pioneer, a genius and possibly a tyrant.  He didn't know me, nor I, him.  But he understood my goals and how I wanted to reach them.  

He changed the world.

Steve Jobs.  1955-2011.  

Things will not be the same without him.

"You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life."

Snippet of Life

The following anecdote may fall into the category of TMI.  You have been warned.  :-)

Picture is unrelated but I'm trying to keep the blog rated PG  :-D

While watching a little dessert television, the subject of a certain television host's breasts came up.  Father made a comment about how lovely they were...

Me: They might look nice, but they're fake.
Father:  I don't care.
Me: The fake ones don't feel the same, Dad.
Father:  Yeah, *I know.*

At this point, I was confused and doing a little head scratch.  My parents have been married for 39 years and I was trying to figure out just what situation would make his knowledge possible without making my head explode.

Me:  *How*, exactly, do you know that?
Mother:  Seriously?

She stared at me with a look of disbelief.  At this point, I remembered.

Me:  Oh! Right.  Sorry, Mum! 

And we all burst out into giggles at the silliness of it all.  My mother is an eight-year survivor of breast cancer.  We may have a little experience with the fake ones.

Mother:  This doesn't go on your blog....
Me:  It IS Breast Cancer Awareness Month....
Mother:  Meh.  Fair enough.

Moral of the story:  Don't be a Boob. Be aware.

For all the women (and men) who have found themselves battling this particular brand of the horror that is cancer, for those that have lost the battle, for the families and friends of those who've won and lost, for the researchers, doctors and nurses that are working to eradicate cancer, for every person who runs, fundraises or shaves their head in solidarity, and for every pink ribbon...  you have my prayers, thoughts and hopes. Keep fighting.

Broken-hearted

There have been three very sad deaths in the hockey community in the last four months.  Two of them were guys from Saskatoon.  One of them, I'd actually met.

The death of Wade Belak hits pretty close to home.  Within a block, in fact.  I can't tell you what I was dressed as for Halloween in 1991, but I can tell you who opened the door we knocked on at the seventh house.  Hushed and excited whispers as we walked away.

I watched him play I don't know how many games with the Saskatoon Blades, our hometown junior hockey team. He was a solid player, and only retired from the NHL this March, after playing with a number of teams, the Maple Leafs being one of them.  My father told stories about going with him to the children's ward at one of the hospitals in town and seeing Wade get mauled by kid after kid, a human jungle gym, staying for hours until the nurses finally sent him home...  We were talking about him just this past Sunday before dinner, about how we might actually have to watch Battle of the Blades (Dancing with the Stars on-ice for ex-hockey players) this year because he was going to be competing.  There's no doubt in my mind that he'd have won.  He was a favourite in town and a favourite in the hockey world.  And I have never heard anyone say a negative word about him whenever his name came up.

I was driving home yesterday afternoon when I heard the news.  It's all kinds of horrible. Today, everywhere I went, the air was filled with "Did you hear...?" and "What?!? No... That's so sad..." and people telling stories about him. My heart goes out to his family, along with prayers - if my heart broke, I can't imagine how devastating it is for those who were close to him.  I wish them healing and hope they find solace.  I hope they know he will be missed by many.

Rest in Peace, Wade.

The Link doesn't dissolve with Marriage and Children

My sister and I have always been able to communicate entire thought waves with very few or even a single word.  Kinda like zipping a file before sending an email. But then she got married and had a baby and I started to wonder if we were losing our mojo... The other day, a rapid-fire conversation took place.


Seester:  That commercial always reminds me of that dojo.... (snaps fingers in attempt to remember)
Me:  Cobra-Kai.
Seester:  YES! See, I love that I can just say 'dojo' and you know exactly what I'm talking about...
Me:  What other dojo could you possibly mean?  
Seester:  Mmm.  True.


Mum:  *...*  What just happened?
Bro:  I have no idea...


Just because she's married doesn't mean I don't *get* her anymore and vice versa.  Sisterhood; such a wonderful and strange phenomenon...

PS.  She was referring to the evil instructor and his dojo in The Karate Kid.  The classic one.  Pat Morita, not Jackie Chan.  I still love Jackie Chan but he's not as easily incorporated into our familial nostalgia...

Imminent

This post has been imminent for a long time. Ha!

I have survived my first semester and started back at classes this morning.  The holiday was a whirlwind and I owe a great many emails and back comments - if I've been quiet on your blog lately, it's because I haven't had the time to read it for the last two and a half months.  Sorry - but I know you understand and you know that I'll catch up.  Thanks for the well-wishes!  You'll be pleased to know that the first round of marks were of the RockStar variety so my focussing was not a waste of time...

I made very little in terms of gifts this year unless you count making naps and butter tarts a priority.  I made a quilted stocking and a baby blanket (of which I apparently took pictures with the camera NOT currently on my person.  Read: not my phone.)  They were made to match and to grow a little with their recipient and went under the tree to be opened by expectant parents.  And now, I have a few moments, sitting in a hospital waiting room, wallowing in our catastrophic World Junior hockey gold medal loss, with two hours of sleep in the last 38,  waiting for the arrival of the person I have been more excited to meet than anyone before in my life.  Nephew is Imminent.  Impending Nephew.  Incoming!!

I attended all four of the classes I had today, despite the action.  Plus, the fact that the hospital is on campus made it much easier to zip over between them. All my new college buddies are awaiting word.  He's Eminent as well as Imminent, my Nephew.  I'm exhausted but giddy.  And WAY too caffeinated.  Which explains the silly word play.

I hope that your holiday - no matter your creed or tradition - was filled with hope, anticipation of the new year and  all things good.  Mine, other than the hockey game, most certainly was.

Blessings and happiness!

We'll chat soon.

Thankful for Grover

It's Thanksgiving in Canada, today.  And I am working hard on assignments and reading (no, I haven't really caught up - I've never been a successful skimmer, I pretty much have to read every word...) but on my way to my university log-in page, I travelled through the land of Yahoo! as a portal and lo' and behold:



Maybe because I'm fried or maybe because it's educational and my brain has turned to 'teacher'... But I think it's some friggin' hilarious.

So I am thankful for opportunities, my family and friends who are patiently tolerating my present but absent state of being, and Starbucks for being open when all buildings on campus were locked tight.

Next post:   Man, We Need Groceries Soup

Birth of the Life - 100

I disappeared for a while, lost amid the transitions.  I was hijacked, distracted, and more than a little intimidated by the idea of a hundredth post.   For 100,  I had no desire to write about the latest sweater (though I will), about gutting my closet like the victim of a Roman campaign, a fabulous little meal from a borrowed kitchen and the hands of student chefs (though I will), or relate another anecdote from my button story (but it's coming).  Nothing seemed right to me.  It's a milestone, albeit a somewhat arbitrary one, and I felt the need to mark it.  And after running into an extraordinary teacher today in one of my favourite art gallery/cafes, I had the moment where I figured it out.

There was a sessional lecturer in the Department of Drama that used to teach a theory on breaking down plays, scenes and monologues.  To absorb a piece, it needs to be broken into manageable chunks.  The Birth, The Life, and The Death.  Easily identifiable but still too large.  So you take it further and each chunk has its own Birth, Life, and Death.  The Birth of the Birth, The Life of the Death, and so on.

I'd been in a funk and now I find myself in a swirl of creation and transition, and running break-neck trying to catch up.
I am winding down at the best job I've ever had and winding up to a period of intensity and learning.
I am two weeks from 32.
I am 6 days from the first anniversary of CitricSugar.
I am 4 and a half months from becoming an aunt (and the word from the ultrasound today is Nephew!)
I am no longer who I was _____ (then, before, ago, earlier, once, yesterday).
I am a woman with curlers in her hair.

I am passing out of the Death of the Birth and into The Birth of the Life.

My life.  And I can't wait to get to it.  I had focussed too much on what was already behind me.  The conversation I'd had at the cafe sparked ideas in my brain and sitting in my car after on-campus errands, it struck me.  Time to redirect my attention and ABSORB.  Embrace the metamorphosis!  (Not to imply that I plan on waking up as a beetle tomorrow....  Kafka, anyone? No?)  This is a transformative time and like a photo taken in a mirror, it's tough to get the right perspective.  But it's possibilities that excite me.

I always become a little introspective and often maudlin around my birthday.  As odd as it is to say, one must always remember the future.

You never put curlers in your hair for the present.  :-)

Thank you for joining me for 100 posts of CitricSugar.  Soon, one hundred and one...
Much love, Carly

Five minutes.

This is the start of the downpour last Wednesday.

This is five minutes later.

The rain here has the power to scrub away those pesky sidewalks.  :-)  SuperDeluge's sidekick Humid McHugsYouToDeath has been thwarting the hair rescuing efforts of straightening irons throughout western Canada.

I only mention it because it stormed again this weekend and we're "due" (ha!) for one tonight.  I predict a province-wide "Hat Day" tomorrow....

Absent. Minded.

I have been quiet.  So quiet radar couldn't have detected me.  I wasn't moving.  I wasn't lurking.  I wasn't even online.

And I missed it.

It's a treat to me to get a little bit of time to sit and read, to think and commiserate, to opine and admire, and to share, to be part of this delightfully weird and inspiring community connected by wi-fi and cable but joined by more than that, even if it's a laugh, a tear, an invisible hug for a stranger who shares a passion for the same obscure candy from childhood, or  a thank-you for a tidbit of advice or a heart-rending story, a powerful set of words, an incredible photograph, a project, a slice of life so very different and so very similar to your own.

 I wasn't absent-minded;  I was absent.  And I minded.

My world has been like a box of pieces.  Nothing's fallen to pieces;  it seems they've simply arrived that way.  It's exciting, the assembly, but pieces seem to take up far more room in their original state.  I can't wait to see what they become.

Distractions have been many. Anticipation of tiny, pudgy arms. (No, not from me. But I do get to knit with wild abandon and look forward to many squoodges and fat-belly kisses with the added bonus of relinquishing said fat-belly when it poops or starts to cry!  YAY!)

The wettest spring since 1874 complete with all the climatological consequences for migraneurs.  When my head hurts, it is far easier to knit  and block than to read and blog.

Registering for classes and applying for student loans - I've only been gone from university for seven years and EVERYTHING is different or being renovated.  (I've already cased the bookstore so I'm ready come August.  Me = Nerd.)

Tackling a massive to-do list that I am determined to conquer before September 1st, including a stack of actual printed-on-paper reading!  I am adding the odd 'easy-to-check-off' item to the list like Go For Coffee (or vodka) with So&So so that I can eat my coffee cake and check it off, too.  ( I add a very square check-box beside each entry on the list.  Me = Anal-Retentive Nerd.)

I've spent the last couple hours catching up on other people's lives.  I still have a few more to check in on. And some emails  to which I've wanted to reply. But I plan on adding my blog-reading and -writing respite onto the permanent list of things I want to do.  Insert very square check-box here.

Sweet Nostalgia; Random Connections

On the street where I grew up, like the streets where everyone else grew up, you could mark seasons by the sounds.  Summer brought the whir of lawnmowers, the subsequent clank when one mower would pick up a rock and send it shooting across the sidewalk, the clickety-tap of neon-coloured beads on bicycle tires,  or engines revving as teenagers took to drag-racing down the stretch after curfew.  In winter, metal shovels scraping against cement driveways, toboggans dragging on asphalt behind sixty-pound children wrapped in eighty pounds of scarf, and tinny, choking engines trying to turn over.
Regardless of the season, you could hear the kid across the street firing hockey pucks against the garage door.  But the timbre and pitch of the bang would let you know if it were a crisp autumn morning or a balmy spring evening.  It was a constant reminder that it was an ordinary day in an ordinary neighbourhood.  To this day, the sound is comforting and bittersweet.
Tonight, that kid from across the street hoisted the Stanley Cup.   Ordinary day for me.  Extraordinary day for him.
They put residential speed bumps on the stretch, we moved to a crescent, and most people have replaced shovels with snowblowers.  But no matter the season, there's always a kid banging pucks against the garage.

Cynical Rainbow, Happy Student

Before you think I have lost my sense of sarcasm and gone even warm-fuzzier than ever, I should point out the tiny blue sign just to the left of the proverbial pot of gold.

It's a Wal-Mart.

Even Mother Nature can crack a joke. And the fainter, second rainbow lands gracefully on the university campus. Being that I will be a student there again shortly, spending all my pennies on tuition and books, I find that very funny indeed. My letter of acceptance has arrived this week and it is official... I'm in!!

And they've already asked for money.  :-)

Goosed

Lately, when I'm driving along the river, particularly on my way home from work, I see the gangs gathering.

They threaten and mark their territory. People go out of their way to avoid walking too close.

I wonder when we lost our parks.

To tell the truth, it reminds me of that Monty Python sketch where the roving gangs of grannies took over the neighbourhood, frightening all the youth and wreaking havoc.

The other night, on my way to a meeting, I was stopped behind three cars at at apparently clear underpass. Wondering what the hold-up was, I started looking around and caught sight of a bad-ass goose strutting across the street to get to his buddies on the other side. No playing chicken. He was full of intent.

No one's messing with an intentional goose.

Snippets of a Week

Humbled by an invitation to witness forty-one people become Canadians. You only see the red serge jackets at important events...

Managed to salvage lemon pin-curls into a lemonade 40s up-do.

Pride while Mum and I taught Sister to crochet. Skills passed on. Bonds strengthened.

Saddened, but warmed, by an articulate and beautiful eulogy for a man I barely knew.

Oddly dreamt. Text message to Sister: Regarding my dream last night, the next time you shove a shotgun in my face, you best be prepared to use it. Love you! Text message back: LOL. Noted!

Inspired by sunshine leaking through painted glass.

Frustrated at an apparent pact with the devil playing out on the ice. My words were ineloquent. "That GUY can't tend goal for any OTHER team in the @*&%ing league???"

Sometimes, you find a book that makes your day.

Normally, I attempt to be a positive, life-affirming, people-empowering person.

But sometimes, a girl just needs a rant.

This journal is filled with cynical quotes from some of history's great thinkers and plenty of space to get one's bluster off her chest and save some poor unsuspecting paperboy.

Kidding. I have never unleashed a tirade on a paperboy. But I did go off on a plastic blister package once. It's going in the book....

Baby tops

I have been sewing up a storm. In little bitty clouds. As in, not altogether. A few seams at a time. The literal weather is decidedly spring-y and has slowed me down a little lately but nothing can keep me from my sewing machine for long.

I've got enough pieces cut for three baby quilt tops. And to read more about where they're going, stop in here or here. I don't care so much about the giveaways but I do want to help pass a little goodness forward, and I get to play with colours and fabrics I wouldn't normally use for myself. Like puppy dogs and ducks. Polka dots and vibrant stripes. Plus, I've never made pinwheel blocks before now. They're kinda fun.

Oh, who am I trying to kid? It's mostly about having an "excuse" to sew. Who can begrudge you time spent making quilt blocks for extra-special, need-a-little-more-attention wee babes??

No one. Not without looking a bit like a jerk. And that, my friends, is the secret to getting away with being selfish with your time. :-)

Spring is for Tidying

There are things that are necessary when moving between the seasons. A good sort of the closets, a deep-clean of items that usually get a regular clean, a new project, and a kick-ass playlist for aiding all of the above.

A proper playlist for a solid Spring Tidy includes anything upbeat enough to make elbow grease seem effortless, booty-shaking inevitable, and a healthy dose of classic rock. It's amazing how shiny and dust-free a living room will become when you're singing your heart out to an appropriate song... I recommend "When the Going Gets Tough" from the Easy Virtue soundtrack, some cheesy pop music I wouldn't play in any moment I actually wanted to think but has a beat to it, and Boston's "Peace of Mind" (though "More than a Feeling" will do, in a pinch.)

I volunteered to make some blocks for a woman giving back to the hospital where her son was born and had a rough time of it. (More of that story as the blocks progress.) I went rifling through my stash to find the perfect fabrics and discovered that a)my stash was a mess and b)almost all my non-project specific yardage was unwashed. So, I washed and dried and started one of the most soothing activities of tidying - Ironing. I love ironing. Not clothes, mind you, just large fabric swaths - expanses of wrinkles smoothed away, the smell of hot cotton drifting towards me, and the satisfying shhhhtt of the spray-bottle full of water. And when you get to do that in the sunshine...!!! (JOY.) Then folding and stacking and putting away in stacks so neat, they're almost precious. The best part of Spring Cleaning is that mental calm that comes with it. I'm a believer in the literal affecting the metaphorical... I get the same way with new journals, unused crayons, and perfect rows of the same item over and over again. Visual order - inner peace. (At least for a moment or two. ;-)

Chaos can be fun, too, though. The annoying bit of washing un-hemmed fabrics is all the ravel-ly bits that need trimming away. But roll them all into a lump and it seems so very pretty.

I'm going to name it Norman.

Silliness. On all fronts.

Hey there, Thumbper. What's the matter?

Ooooooh. Ouch. Plastic bakeware-safe knife, you say? Because I didn't grease the brownie pan properly in haste to watch the hockey game? Because I was rushing to grab a brownie on my way back to the tv and slipped with the plastic bakeware-safe, good-for-lettuce, knife? And what's with the overly-dramatic lighting?

No, I don't think you need stitches. Yes, it's deep but that's what Superglue's for...

Walk it off, Thumbper. Walk it off.