bags4darfur

 

International Fair Trade Day, May 11, Ten Thousand Villages, Winnipeg.

Seven hours.

Twenty-three bags sold.

Five hundred and twenty dollars raised.

Thirty-two Thousand, One Hundred and Eighteen= new total.

Time well spent.

 

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Untitled

It's been a while since I really loved something I made.

May 11, Ten Thousand Villages, 134 Plaza Drive.

 

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Death and Resurrection

We were fresh from our glorious trip to Ecuador, heading down a very snowy and blowy highway towards a little church near Mitchell, Manitoba. I'd driven past it often enough on my way to visit my parents, or get to the grocery store. I liked the sense of disrupting my typical pattern of driving past, and instead, took a sharp right turn onto the driveway. It strikes me as peculiar that there are places we never go to, and have no sense of belonging with until something happens to change all that, and that benign place you've always driven past becomes your destination.

 

What had begun at the retreat was growing little shoots and stems, the first which was to occur at this little church on Easter Sunday. Armed with my Ipad, which held the records of all the hours I spent on prep for that glorious women's retreat, I approached the podium with joy in my step. It was even easier the second time to share the story of the bags4darfur project. I felt grateful for everything I heard myself say, and realized again that I'd inadvertently become a part of something ordinary but miraculous.

 

One of the themes that I focused a little more intentionally on was that of death and resurrection. It wasn't a contrived attempt at being relevant at Easter time in a church, but more a like an exciting time to share out loud something that I've learned over and over again during the years of sewing, selling, being excited, being bored, feeling exhilarated, feeling totally dead, dried up, has-been, even mildly embarrassed. I've learned (often kicking and screaming and panicking) that death is an important part of rebirth. Death must be accepted, even embraced if you're mature enough to push it that far. I usually cower and wail, snivel and worry myself. Still, I've tried never to force the project. I've tried not to push out bags that I'm bored of (although I still have done that, its part of the monotony of a longer term project). I've tried not to keep riding a wave when it seems clear that it's turned into a tepid parking lot puddle.

 

And I have been going through a rather dead stage. No energy for creativity. Sick and tired of photographing and uploading, and deciding on prices, and maintaining sites, followers, and e-mails. I've been hard on myself about that sometimes, but still sure about the conviction not to force anything that really wasn't coming from the heart.

 

So when Bonnie approached me about sharing the story at her retreat, I got a new glimmer of excitement. I could spend some time re-reading all the years I'd recorded on the blog, I could write it all out in some coherent way, and then I could speak it out in one continuous dialogue. I was also intimidated and afraid, but it felt like the good kind of fear that stretches and grows a person.

 

Almost immediately following that first presentation, I was asked to do a repeat performance at Mitchell Community Church. Because they were going easy on me, and allowing me to simply repeat it all verbatim off my ipad, I quickly agreed. It felt like a rebirth again. A new way to breathe life into the continuing passion of doing something tangible for situations that are much too big to change, but ought not to be ignored. And it felt amazing to do it in another way- in speaking out, lipstick on, clothing unstained, looking out across a room of adults! So much of what I've done for bags 4 darfur has been amidst the clutter of my home, un-showered, wearing clothing sprinkled in ketchup and chocolate chips, multi-tasking kids, food, fabric bits, pets, and feeling like the only adult in townships and ranges.

 

There are new tentacles and shoots growing out of bags4darfur, and I'm lucky to be the happy gardener. It's been a pretty terrible winter, and for all the pinning in the world, I've been hard pressed to garner the right kind of inspiration to truly pour myself into creating. The opportunities to write and speak have given me new hope, and a tentative excitement for new things on the horizon.

 

Meanwhile, I have been approached by the manager of Ten Thousand Villages, plaza drive, Winnipeg to partner with her store in celebrating World Fair Trade Day on May 11. She has graciously offered to give me a spot in the store to sell bags, promote the project, and take part in the day's festivities. They will allow me to donate any money from the sale of bags to the project of my choice. Interestingly enough, I had just done a little research for the most recent donation of $777.00 and found that Mennonite Central Committee

is part of a project entitled:

 

MCC’s Sudan: Coming Home campaign, a five-year campaign ending in 2013, enables MCC to support projects including those that empower women, strengthen livelihoods, build peace, promote nonviolent solutions to conflict and improve food security.
Each year 20 women in the capital city of Juba, South Sudan, participate in a six-month training program where they learn sewing, life skills and small business management skills with the hope of building a better future for themselves and their children.

How cool that the money I just donated to MCC was going to be part of a project to empower women, and teach someone how to sew?! And then the funny little connection to MCC's Ten Thousand Villages, following so quickly on the heels of that discovery.

In this endless winter on the prairies, these signs of resurrection and rebirth are particularly exciting.

And now, I must sew!

 

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Bags of Another Nature

 

I've resurrected my passport bag. It hasn't carried a passport since 1991, when a friend and I spent six weeks exploring Australia, sleeping in hostels, partying on beaches, and jumping off cranes.

It's been a while.

Twenty-one years since my husband and I travelled together. On Thursday, we'll give it another go, and celebrate our nearly 21 years together in Quito, Ecuador.

I didn't want to get a new bag, I wanted to carry my old one. The one with history.

So, I "be-raggled" it. (a brand new hippy version of "be-dazzling).

I patched some holes, added some signature touches- a stretch of ancient tape measure measuring 45 to 47.. the next few years of my life. A custom made button by my friend Lory, made out of home made shrinky dink, with the words "bags4darfur" stamped all over it. A salvage edge of fabric sent by Lettuce in England.

A few more patches on the back, and a tiny bit of needlework from a decaying leather glove that my friend Rosa gifted me many years ago.

I'm taking little bits of home and my friends with me when I go. I'm taking little pieces of history, and memories, and thoughts of my younger self as the explorer.

When I get back, it will be Good Friday. I'll have a day to find my head, and then I'll be presenting again. This time at Mitchell Community Church. I'll be like a preacher or something. I hope my papa will be proud.

I'll tell the story again about bags4darfur. The surprises, the redemptions, the miracles, the beautiful people. The hope, the faith, the energy to carry on. And I'll watch it all come to life again- it will remind me of another story we never tire of hearing- that ancient story of death and of resurrection.

So until then, au revior.

 

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Now With Pictures

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Beauty: A Delicate Force Spinning Its Strands As a Spiritual Discipline- A Women's Day Retreat

Sunday morning, hair akimbo, coffee in my hands.

I keep repeating the third essential prayer in Anne Lamott's book:  "Help, Thanks, Wow".

Wow.

My three sewing machines are out of place-  parked just inside the back door, alongside of a tub or two of fabric, a tin of buttons, and a suitcase with a few bags left inside of it.  My sewing room floor is still scattered with bits and scraps from the sewing and prepping, packing and fussing.

The retreat is over.  The presentation and workshops are behind me now.  And though I am filled up entirely from the very top of my most Joyce-ed-ness to the very bottom, I am strangely at a loss for words.

How can I describe for you the house; with its yellow paint, windy staircase, wooden floors, coloured glass?  How can I give justice to the piece they call "The cabin"- the scattered rugs, rows of marvelously incongruent chairs, wood fire burning, deep burgandy couches, wooden piano, rows of books, curvey coffee table, candles burning?  Or the kitchen, richly infused with coffee bean grinding, red glass suspended in sunlight, that orange chair, the bowl of apples?

How could I possibly give adequate descriptors to the women who filled these spaces?  Silver hair and shining eyes, auburn mother with babes at home and the one she carries inside her.  Long legs, slender.  Shorter, rounder.  Retired; just starting.  Socks and sweaters, skirts.  Fitted, flowing.  Tight, taute-  sick.  Dying.  Mother, grandmother, soccer player, writer.

And so, we began with silence.  Allowing it to fill and expand us, pushing us past the relentless urge to do and say, and into the reflective grace of quiet.  Together.

The first presenter brought me back to my own beginning.  A little church in a prairie field.  The youth group we once shared.  The centuries that had since passed.  And in the cabin on a cold, cold winter's day, the strange redemption that began to unfold as I heard her speak so eloquently, with such passion, and on the topic she couldn't have known was ever on my heart and mind, the one that raged and waned, ebbed and flowed within me.

“Threads that Bind Us; Unraveling Societal Female Beauty Standards".

I was spellbound as she led us through hundreds of years of history on perceptions and demands that popular culture has imposed on its female population.  Its mothers and lovers and daughters.  How our rates of depression have risen while billboards demand that our thighs and waists decrease and our bosoms increase.  I felt strangely vindicated, as though I couldn't bear full responsibility for my own lifetime of obsession, disgust, starving.....  I felt like I had found some kindred spirits who weren't hoping for a pedicure after lunch, or a three tiered sales pitch on miracle creams to make all that nasty badness go away.  I felt a solidarity, a happy collusion- I rose my glass, and joined a pact to use my voice,- yes, and my body to preach a different gospel.  One of redemption and beauty and power, and not of "not-enough-ness" whose tune had grated me for oh so long.

All that before lunch.
All that before I led my workshop to a group of inquisitive, interested women who wrapped themselves in the layers of my "break the rules" sewing circle.  Our needles and voices rose and fell.  With hands busy creating and redeeming these swatches that nobody wanted, there was no awkward effort in getting to know one another or soothing that itch to find a conversation.  It found us in exactly the places that we were and invited us to embrace what was, who we were, where we found ourselves, where we might yet be going.

It isn't often lately that I forget to eat, but if it weren't for the smell of fresh coffee brewing, and the sounds of women setting out cheese and dips, salads and sandwhiches, tall glasses of cool water infused with lemon and lime... I could have happily gone through my day feasting on the richness of my berninas whirring.

But the coffee was rich, and there were a myriad of coloured felt balls in bowls on the table- the fruit of another labour in a workshop I wished I'd been to.  Skeins of wool in decadant dyes.

There were songs and poems.  Laughter and silence.  Readings, spoken words of wisdom.

And then the presentation I'd laboured and birthed.
It was everything you said it would be- a reception for the story that has written itself, in all its miracles and redemptions, generosity and stories.  And then the threads that wove my story into Val's rendition of women and their bodies, the redefinition of beauty, the constant practise of
Construction, Deconstruction.... Reconstruction.

I couldn't have been more happy, more entirely "joyce", and yet simultaneously lifted way above myself into something so reverent, and beautiful, and Holy.

There was oppurtunity for walks, and yoga, silence, and naps.  Felting wool balls, learning how to knit.  And I wanted it all, but found myself nesting upstairs with my berninas and my inspired new seamstresses, pushing the limits of what I thought might be possible to complete in one singular day.  It was endlessly gratifying to notice how they took my stacks and combined them in ways I hadn't seen myself.  How they were curious about corners, and linings, pockets and straps.  How we continuously lost ourselves while simultaneously being found.

We had to be prodded down the stairs, lured by the smells of rices and dahl, green beans and spicy dishes.  Cake.  Wine.  Coffee.

And even more fullness as we once again convened in the cabin, summing up our day in single words while we passed an empty bowl around the circle of women.  We wept at the death of a local woman, who courageously lived out her cancerous life, losing every piece of her physical femininity, and yet remaining intact- loved, celebrated, beautiful in ways that our bodies couldn't possibly show.  We laughed through a one woman monologue depicting the reality of sitting through one of those horrible home parties where your physical flaws are enunciated for the express purpose of selling you the product to make it all better- to make you happy, whole, unblemished.  We toasted to hair, and dimples, real breasts and fleshy thighs.

I felt like I'd come home.
I wanted it to last forever.

And in ways, I think it will.  I will carry this with me, in my pocket, in my days of monotony and "if only's".  I will know that its okay to raise my voice, swim upstream, love "even though".  In bits and pieces, I will recall those women with their beautiful hair, their creative clothing, their songs and poems, silences and laughter.  These women who do not hide their essentials selves.  I will seek them out, and fashion my life in ways that give permission to others, as I'd enjoyed that same permission on that glorious, glorious Saturday in the coldest Canadian prairie winter.

A week ago, I prayed for HELP.  And you did.  You e-mailed and messaged and commented.  You rallied and believed.  You gave these gifts of assurance and assured me kicking and screaming and whining right into
THANKS.

And best of all,
WOW.

Help.

I've been known to agree to things that I in no way know how to do.

Enthusiastically.

As a terrified university student, I was so afraid of failing my statistics course that I studied and memorized obsessively, sometimes waking at night from reviewing formulas in lucid dreams. At the end of the course, my final grade ranked second in the course, and my professor asked me to work as his assistant the following year.

I said yes. But it mostly involved running a computer lab and I had absolutely no-zero-zilch experience on a computer. As in, I didn't know how to turn it on, I didn't know what a window was, I knew absolutely nothing aside from keyboarding. Fortunately, before the fall commenced, my husband's pursuit of education led us away from Winnipeg and away from that terrifying room full of clickety clack computers that I had pretended to know how to teach. I still feel sick at the thought of it. All those students looking at me as I mumbled into my neck.... mmmmm I dunno...... sorry......

In the eighties I signed up to join Mennonite Disaster Service, an organisation dedicated to bringing aid to people affected by natural disasters. I was terrible at swinging a hammer, I couldn't measure a door or window if my life depended on it (as it often felt that it did), I sucked at laying linoleum, and I once spent four days in the rafters of a house swinging at nails in an effort to reinforce beams affected by a house fire.

Except that I rarely made contact with the nails. Any of them.

 

Most recently, I have agreed to present at a women's retreat. Being one to learn from my mistakes (dwell on them, obsess over them....) I fastidiously checked for evidence of hammers, nails, rafters, window wells, computer labs, and irritated students. Then I said yes. But now I'm remembering that I have no experience in this field. I've never monologued before a group of people, except that time I went on tour with my Capernwray musical ensemble, that other time I had to "give my testimony" so I could get baptized in the Mennonite church, and that one or two times I blurted out confessions in the semi-light of camptire during youth group.

Not a solid background. Not a winning portfolio.

I've been sewing bags out of this-es and thats for so long now that its like I can't remember why. I have this vague worry that I'll find myself standing in front of a group of expectant women, gripping a handful of rags, and mumbling nervously- apologetically, and saying "duh" a great deal.

I'm pretty sure I'm not good at monologue- I tend to be more of the listener than the lecturer. And that's where you come in. Time for a little roll play- You are going to a day long retreat with 29 other strong, creative, deep thinking women from many faith backgrounds and walks of life. You are looking forward to being in this rich environment and hoping to come away from it inspired to be more fully your own self. To more willingly offer your self, your gifts, your weaknesses and sensibilities to your world. To become more authentically the person you were created to be. You imagine the smell of hot coffee, fresh bread, an old farmhouse filled with character pieces and colored bits of glass, rooms warmed by wood fire, the wisdom of women, the beauty of art.

There are four presenters:

Janet Kroeker runs a wool company, making and selling comforters, pillows and mattresses. From the cuttings of her production, she gathers up the bits of wool, shapes them into balls, then felts them into designs of texture and color. In her home, which is located along the Roseau River, on her dining room table, sits a basket of these beautiful little creations.

Val Hiebert, while working on completing her doctorate, and teaching students sociology at Providence University, has been an enthusiast for this day. For us, she will weave together a presentation that shows her passion and understanding of the social constructs that influence how we view beauty.

Bonnie Loewen keeps listening for and finding ways to weave in the habits of regular life with our spiritual journey, and the habits of our spiritual journey with regular life. She does this alongside Prairie Wind Mennonite Church, a house church that gathers in the southeast area and also together with those who don’t fit inside of institutional religion through palliative care, ceremonies of passage, and retreats. This retreat will be located at her house and farmyard.

Oh yeah... and that absent minded artist who sews bags out of her impressive excess. Her too.

(why can't I get rid of this frigging indentation??? I"m feeling this unwelcome flashback to that room full of computers at the University of Winnipeg....)

I need your help to remind me how to do this? Put on your journalistic, retreat-er-ific hats and remind me what to say? How to present? What you'd like to see me demonstrate in the real world?

And maybe- why I said "yes"?

(because its going to be AWESOME! and I know that. And I'm so honored to be included, invited, trusted, welcomed. I know I'll come away richer, more inspired, more in touch with what I love about my life, my faith, and the ways in which I get to make sense of them both. I know that these women will flood my soul with light, with hope, with a desire to pursue the extraordinary in the every day, to see the miraculous in the mundane.)

A couple of days ago I bought Anne Lamott's latest book: "Help, Thanks, Wow- the Three Essential Prayers". And I've begun to practise them just a little. I'm pretty much stuck at the "Help" portion, but with a little help from my friends, I'm looking forward to a little "Thanks".

Since I've just agreed to do something that I'm not at all sure I know how to do.

And maybe, just maybe after that, I'll have the honour of a teensiest little bit of "Wow".

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Some New Old Things

 

Well, the stocking thing went really well. I was able to send a cheque for $400.00 to Canadian Mennonite University's Outtatown program to provide additional funds to the projects they support in Guatemala. Its personal for me, our daughter left just Tuesday to go be a part of those projects. She'll get to see firsthand the well projects, affordable housing, and orphanage that will benefit from financial donations.

So, thanks for being part of that.

It seems like I haven't sewn in ages, but it turns out that's just one of my crazy perceptions. I did sew 30+ Christmas stockings. I also tried out a nifty hooded scarf pattern that I've had laying around for a couple of years. (No pic, sorry...) There are also some bags.

Just enough zip and zing to get you through til spring. Available in my ETSY shop.

Heavy, moony recycled wool crazy quilt messenger bag.

A smaller version, laden with gorgeous vintage buttons from my impressive collection.

Can't get enough of those layered unbleached cotton and odd bit bags.

All these bags are available for sale in the etsy shop, and there should be a link at the top of this blog page. If there isn't; then something has gone terribly wrong and do be sure to let me know.

In the "that was fun" category, I've been playing around with some other diversions.

A wrist cuff. I've been meaning to play with this idea for over a year now. Funny how it takes so much time to find the mental and physical space to launch into unexplored territory with fabric and bitty bobs.

I like the finished result, and have been wearing it gleefully all day.

 

And then there's these. I was introduced to the fingerless mitt by my brilliant artist friend Lory and have been wearing the pair she and I fashioned together one dreamy day last winter at her dining room table. I've meant to make more ever since.

So far I've made two pairs.

Soon to become available for sale in the etsy shop?

It's a new year, and a good time to try some new things. Of particular excitement is an upcoming women's retreat at which I am to appear as a presenter, to share the story of bags4darfur. We're going to spend a day creating, dreaming, stretching, learning, and growing together. We'll also raise some money that will be forwarded to an elementary school in Kenya that my friends have seen firsthand.

I like new starts! Oh, and I love to sew.

 

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From Socks To Stoves

 

If my calculations are right (and let's face it- they're not. They never, ever are. That's why I sew stuff and I don't work as a mathematician, a bank teller, or a Wal-Mart cashier.) Did I ever tell you the story about working at Culture's Restaurant when I was a student at University of Winnipeg? Oh. Well I should.

But say they were right, I would venture to say that I've cut two and a half quilts, a baby quilt, and the salvaged edges of a fourth quilt into stocking shapes, and that twenty-eight of those have successfully sold, generating a revenue of approximately $336.00.

Not bad, I say. Especially because the first quilt was free, the second was $4.00, the third one a gift that had tattered to the point of needing reincarnation, and the baby quilt? Found. So, if my calculations are sort of roughly right-ish, my supplies cost probably cost less than ten dollars. Which leaves a profit of $326.00. And that's only if I deduct my costs going in, which only happens occasionally. That would involve math... which I'm not actually so good at.

But even if my numbers are a little less than perfect, here's what I know so far. I'm going to be donating $336.00 sometime in the next couple of days.

I'm excited to be taking a bit of a diversion from the World Food Program, which we've been sending funds to for years now. I hope you'll be excited along with me.

My daughter Arianna has been participating in a program through Canadian Mennonite University called outtatown: a discipleship school of CMU. After Christmas, she and thirty other students will be travelling to Guatemala to partner with a number of local, grass-roots initiatives. They will be building homes for indigenous families in the Panajachel area.....working with orphaned children, volunteering in a local hospital for children with physical and mental disabilities, assisting with reforestation and community building projects in the rainforest, and supporting outreach ministries to the poorest of the poor in Guatemala.

www.porchdesalomon.org....building homes for local indigenous families that are desperately in need of adequate housing. Solomon's Porch projects include a needs-based street miistry, home building projects, a coffeehouse outreach ministry to expatriates and tourists and weekly worship gatherings for the local community.

Manna Of Life...is a school, feeding program and ministry that reaches out to hundreds of children ech day, offering them access to education and adequate nutrition.

Rock of Help:....food, medical aid, nutritional programs and education for families throughout the city.

Mission Impact Guatemala: a ministry that builds cisterns and fuel defiant stoves for local families, giving people access to clean water and the ability to cook safely within their homes.

Any money raised through the sale of these stockings will go to support the projects that I've listed above. I want to be clear that this money goes directly to the projects, and not to the students who are travelling to Guatemala as volunteers. Their fees have already been paid. This is another reason I'm excited to support these projects. I really like the idea of the funds being directly applied to real needs.

If anyone is curious about following the group as they travel and learn, you can do so by visiting their website: www.outtatown.com

And if anyone is interested in purchasing some awesome socks and supporting some great initiatives in Guatemala, there are still some available in my Etsy shop.

Besides, I still have a couple of quilts that have not yet been chopped....

 

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From Rags To Christmas

A number of weeks ago I took a road trip through a winter storm down unfrequented Manitoba highways, headed for Boissevain/Killarney. My daughter was playing in a volleyball tournament there, so I wanted to make sure she was well equipped with juice boxes, sandwiches from Subway, and all around moral support. Fortunately for me, I have a dear friend in the area, and I managed to avoid the sketchy prairie hotel room and lounge around in her country mansion instead.

When the time came for us to attempt the snow covered drive home, Rosa gave me a parting gift: a box full of goodies that she'd culled from her attic. Among the treasures was an old quilt- beautifully hand stitched, softly aged to near perfection, and hopelessly frayed to smithereens all along its edges.

I decided to bypass the stage of hoarding it in my stacks for a few billion years and set straight to cutting it into stocking-esque shapes. I'd made a few of this type of stocking last year at the request of a friend, and she's been badgering me endlessly about putting some together for the project. The time was now.

Fortunately, I'd also been hoarding chennille bedspreads and baby blankets for the past millenium, and this provided the perfect pallet to showcase some of it.

Once my bernina had eaten up the first entire quilt, my latent "Edward Scissorhands" arose and I chopped up another beautiful quilt that I'd gotten as a gift for my fortieth birthday.

And then with suggestions that maybe not everyone was wild about hint of pink for their husbands and sons ( picky, picky), I found the perfect use for this quilt: a marvelous piece made out of recycled wool bits, flannel, and corduroy.

I'm pleased to report this morning, that so far, the damaged quilt that Rose gifted me those weeks ago has generated $96.00 for charity! I love garbage that way.

(Here's me, this morning all cozy in a thrifted cardigan, cup of coffee, calculator, ipad, notes, and kitty cat. Talking to all of you. ;) Have a perfectly marvelous day).

(stockings available here:http://www.etsy.com/shop/joycebaglady4darfur?ref=si_shop )

 

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From my inbox

Sometimes it really helps to read an individual story. The problems and issues are so broad, so endless, so overwhelming. Reading Chep's story this morning made me feel like that "drop in the ocean" still makes a difference. That it still matters to care, and to do what little we can.

Joyce -- After my father was killed and I lost my home, the rest of my family and I fled South Sudan in search of a safe place. We spent endless days with empty stomachs and uncertainty, not knowing when our next meal would be. My mother took us to the Kakuma camp in Kenya, where we finally found refuge. I spent the next 12 years of my life in that camp, where WFP school meals helped nourish my body and mind and helped me get the education that took me to where I am today: a college graduate with a job as a mechatronic engineer. I still remember the first time I entered the crowded room of my school in the Kakuma refugee camp. I was a frightened 9 year-old boy, but the smell of porridge filled my nose and calmed my nerves. I soon came to cherish that hot and filling meal. Food and school became the only certainties for me and the other children. I looked forward to them every day. It would have been difficult to learn if I was hungry. Instead, school meals made sure my classmates and I kept coming back day after day. With the support of WFP’s school meals, my studies brought me all the way to Australia where I enrolled in university. I just graduated a couple of weeks ago and found a well-paying job programming robots. Staying in school gave me not only the ability to do what I love but also an opportunity to help my country. I want to return to South Sudan and help rebuild it. I hope to one day raise my family there. Everything I learned in school while living at the Kakuma refugee camp contributed to my success, and now I want to bring this success back home. Thank you for being part of the WFP community -- and, a part of the solution to hunger. Your continued support is giving more students like me the chance to escape poverty and hunger. It’s leading us to a better future, instead of a dead-end. Sincerely, Chep Makur Chuot

The World Food Programme (WFP) fights hunger worldwide, saving lives during emergencies while building a better future for the next generation. WFP is funded solely by voluntary donations.

World Food Programme wfp.org | Contact us | Privacy | Unsubscribe

World Food Programme Via C.G.Viola 68 Parco dei Medici Rome, 00148 Italy

Cozy Socks

 

I went out to the van yesterday in the snow, dragging half of a computer desk along with me. It was destined for the thrift shop and I wanted to get a move on it before we got buried alive in an anticipated snow storm. (that hasn't actually shown up....) When I opened the back of the van I found.... all the stuff I'd still not unpacked from the Winnipeg Etsy sale. *sigh* First world problems....

It made me think about how a day used to last 24 hours, and a week for 7 days. Lately Monday seems to blend into Friday back into Monday and I'm left sweeping up the crumbs from several Mondays ago wondering what the heck happened. So, somehow three weeks can zip by and I haven't even been to my beloved blog to indulge in an entirely one-sided conversation. How selfish of me.

Well, winter is coming early to the prairies this year. And while I despise winter with its chills, darkness, and seclusion, I do adore Christmas time with all its trappings, decor, and stimulation to create things.

Last weekend I took a road trip through a snow storm to Killarney Manitoba to watch my daughter not play volleyball with her team. She played an important role though, sitting on the bench. I've never been particularly good at sports, but I think that's a really valuable position. While out there, I had the privelege of spending time with my dear old friend Rosa in her fabulous stone farm house. Before I left to drive back home on Roads of Certain Death and Doom, she gifted me a box full of goodies that I might use for the bag project. At the bottom of the stack was a lovely old quilt, a little tattered around the edges but delightful nonetheless.

I set straight to work turning that quilt into a small stack of Christmas stockings.

They're lined, a generous size, and truly magnificent little pieces of craft(woman)ship and history and I expect to have them photographed and available for sale very shortly in my etsy shop.

If Sunday will just slow down enough before it slides into ThursdayFridaySaturdayDecember.

 

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Baby, I Was Born For This!

Okay.
So, that was a lot of fun.
I admit that I'd used my favorite form of reverse psychology to mentally prepare for my first ever WEST sale.  I told myself that it was only a five hour sale, and how much could really happen in five hours?  I told myself "Self!" You're probably going to haul tonnes of stuff in your rusty van to Winnipeg and set it all up and then be mildly embarrassed, standing all awkward like behind your stuff, like... "Yeah.... Look at me all weird and gamey, standing here behind all this HOME MADE crap".

And, sure.  The first hour generally feels a bit like that.  But even in the first awkward hour, I was starting to fly kind of high.  I was across the way from "JunkSalvation", and I loved her display.  I was beside Katie (HeartfeltYarrnWreaths) and she was super sweet, like yummy ice cream. I even met her mother and grandmother, who were similarly delicious.
I watched some other women haul in bags and bags of vintage clothes. I met a book binder (Andrea Davis, www.weareboundtogether.com) who planned to donate her proceeds to Voice of the Martyrs.  I mingled with Andee from Sew Dandee, and Kami (marathon1981). 

Speaking of which.

Any of you who stalk me closely (Hello, Teresa!  It was so much fun to meet you!) may remember that I have a crazy obsession right now with old alarm clocks.  Some of you may remember me weeping over a clock that I found in Brandon that was priced at $99.00.  It had a little red robin that ducked up and down pulling a worm out of the ground at every dip.  It made me weak in the knees, but I remembered about the children, and the need for milk and cheerios back at home.  Then a few months later at my local thrift shop, I saw a guy in line ahead of me buying a chicken clock for ONE CANADIAN DOLLAR.  I nearly followed him out the door to throw him into the Manning Canal and shamelessly steal the clock from him.  But then I remembered my Judeao Christian ethics and sat on my hands, duct taped my mouth closed, and hid all my sewing needles.

Good things come to she who killeth not.

Kami over at marathon1981 had the chicken clock.  For an entirely affordable $10.00.  I'm putting her in my will.  I was so excited all day about my chickies that I amused myself by occasionally winding them up and watching mama chicky peck, peck, peck away at her wee grains of wheat.  Life is so good when its simple.

And that whole "what can really happen in five hours" theory?  Wrong, again.

I met a zillion adorable, supportive, enthusiastic customers.  There was a palpable hum and buzz.  If I had one of those wind turbines beside my table where I could collect energy, I think I could go off the grid for the entire freezing cold Manitoba winter.

After this post hits publish, I'll be going over to the UN website to donate a cool  $910.00.

Bringing our total to $30,061.00!!

Folks, it doesn't get sweeter than that.