Happy Earth Day!
We live between two huge Spruce trees now, towering biomes unto themselves and I am properly obsessed with them. The trees mean that there is always something to see- last week fledgling Golden Crowned Kinglets scampered across the pine boughs as if they were solid mounds of mossy earth. Two days ago I spotted a Northern Flicker hopping ever upwards. Underneath the tree out back I’ve found owl pellets full of rat bones and, looking up, caught the barest glimpse of a big extended wing. Clumps of feathers regularly appear and disappear from the yard. Limon, the neighbor's orange cat, rolls himself dusty in the patches of bare soil after moving one such bit of gristle from one corner to another and wiping his jaw across my shin. He lets himself in through a snag in the fence behind the raspberries and I heap compost around the catnip and bruise a few leaves with my fingers so he knows he’s welcome. I love the watchful company of a cat on his own time.
On dry days I pick up the pinecones, piling them at the base of the trees where they expand and contract with the air temperature. When they’re wide open I take a glass of water out onto the front porch. Shockwaves of silence ripple from my presence outwards, eventually interrupted by tentative chirps as I settle into a chair in the shade. After a few minutes the birds have all but forgotten I’m there and they crowd the branches above my head, just soft bellies and wiry toes from my vantage point. One or two brave souls alight on the rotting porch rail to inspect the wood for bugs and cock an eyeball in my direction. After an hour I move to a sunny patch, triggering another, considerably shorter, pause. We’re still so close to the equinox that it’s chilly in the shade, but I can’t stay in the sun for very long. For half of a year my skin has been swathed in protective layers of wool and subjected only to weak winter sunlight. Like the houseplants bound for the porch all summer I need to be eased in or I’ll turn up burnt and chapped. But oh for a minute the sun feels so good.
I worried, when we moved into this apartment with a yard, that I had forgotten how to be in such close relationship with the land. For the last decade I’ve lived in second and third floor apartments with no outdoor space to speak of; the trees were my bridge to the earth and the habits I built around being up in their branches made the big city livable for me. I didn’t need to worry though- ground level access has only grown my reverence. Every chance I get I heed the beckoning sway of their branches and the tantalizing calls of their inhabitants to the porch or the yard. The trees are teaching me how to move slow in fast times. As I give in to their leisurely pace I find myself in situations that I haven’t made time for since childhood. The slow witnessing of the Elm’s tassels in the wind. The stillness that emboldens the birds to come closer. It turns out that I do remember how to be with the land- all it asks is careful attention without too much interference, skills I honed in those years up in the trees.
Lincoln’s Sparrow
Earlier this Spring I had the opportunity to contribute a piece to Disappearing Birds of North America. I was assigned Lincoln’s Sparrow, and I decided to create an appliqué piece after my great grandmother Leta who once appliquéd a whole quilt of birds. I started with a sunshine and shadows log cabin block, then appliquéd the body of the bird directly onto that. I’m lucky to have a huge palette of fabric scraps from quilting so I was able to make this piece entirely with things I already had. The fabric is mostly garment linen and the thread is a mix of many things. I photographed the piece taped flat to the wall, where it has stayed while I attended to other projects. This week I took it down and finished the back by folding the edges over and tacking them down to a piece of heavy canvas prepared with grommets. This piece will be in Eliza Fernand’s Queer Quilting show later this spring- stay tuned for details!
Mending
Part of my yearly Earth Day ritual is a recommitment to mending, so it feels like a good time to mention that Sarah Eichhorn and I are hosting a mending workshop at Tooth & Nail in May. I’ve been working through my mending pile in preparation and while I usually view mending as more of an obligation, this round has been pretty enjoyable. Above are three items I’m very glad to have back in rotation: A cotton dish towel that only just started to get hole-y after 10 years of service and multiple over-dyes, a threadbare shirt that I thrifted last year and wore all summer, and a linen bag that I made from a thrifted pillowcase and then spilled bleach all over.
The production of textiles as we currently know it is devastating to the planet. Lifestyle choices alone won’t slow climate change, but we can all do our part in stemming demand by committing to what we’ve got. My commitment to mending goes hand in hand with my commitment to buying as few new things as possible and making all of it last. I love the ease of a passive radical act- just stop buying things! I love an engaged one too- caring for the objects I’ve taken responsibility for deepens my connection to them and fills our home with objects of meaning. The skill building is a perk too.
I’m spending the rest of this Earth Day squatting in the raspberry bed making wild guesses about the plants coming up between the canes. I hope it’s a nice one for you too.
-Grace
I love your posts, Grace.
I have two wooden darning eggs, as well as several mended dishtowels that belonged to my great grandmother that I treasure. I can't say that I've mastered the art of darning yet, but I'm working on it.
; - )