I took my Scottish great grandmother’s needle made of bone to the bench today to mend the broken line. First, I cut the frayed ends off—a good 5 inches worth. Then I laid one end on top of the other and began putting stitches through both to join them. The moment felt sacred to me, like I was mending my broken heart…so many fractures now, I can’t keep the straight! “Heart heals like good bone,” I kept saying to myself…what I remember as a line from a Denise Levertov poem. How did we come to imagine the “heart” as a bone? I wonder. It’s curious. A broken tooth or bone is so much easier to mend.
C. came out with a photo album of her beloved dad, so I put aside my surgery and looked at these pictures of her now deceased dad…Such a beloved man. A book full of smiles, letters, love…Then she left, and I went back to work.
The results are not as pretty as I had hoped—a bit lumpy and bumpy—but it feels so strong. I thought about how some of the most difficult circumstances in my life have inspired my best artwork—suffering transubstantiated into beauty. It almost feels as if a certain degree of heartache and loneliness is necessary to give rise to the need to express one’s self to another through a work of art. Just then, the sun split the dark clouds open and everything was lit up with brilliant light like noon day. It was then around 7 pm. I grabbed my camera and tried to capture the transfigured landscape.
I walked up behind E’s place after my knit in search of strawberries but only found one. Instead, I found flowers growing wild in tall grass on the other side of the alley. Filled with gratitude at nature’s free gifts, I gathered a bountiful bouquet of red and purple flowers, and daisies.