Kindness. Women’s issues.
Social justice.
Personal histories.
These are just a few of our shared interests.
We, like many others, discover our common threads through art, and more often than not, we use cloth to tell our stories and speak our truths.
“You, too?” If we had a nickel for every time we’ve said that, we’d buy all y’all lunch.
We’re not carbon copies, yet even in our differences we find opportunities to rejoice, chortle, and learn. If that’s not the mark oftrue friendship, please tell us what is.
Here’s to the joys of an ever-unfolding friendship that began with a funny story at Sacred Threads 2019. Ask us to tell you that one some time.
~~~~~~~
Imagine a World: Nancy’s Larks + Be Kind – a collaboration by Maxine and Jeanne – will be on exhibit at the Southeastern Quilt and Textile Museum in Carrollton, GA from September 25 to December 20, 2024.
To hear me, Jeanne Hewell-Chambers, mash the arrow on the left of the above media file. (Apologies in advance for my allergy-laden voice. Oh, and any knocking around you hear in the background? That’s The Engineer repairing our air conditioning.)
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth . . .
~ from Kindness, a poem penned by Naomi Shihab Nye
At Sacred Threads,
a sacred coincidence . . .
When one woman uses her elbow
to shove me aside
and position herself
in front of the man who was
sharing a phone number with me
of someone who might be able to help me find
a suitcase lost in transit,
I turn – stunned –
to find a woman quietly waiting
to talk to me.
“I think I have something that belongs with you,” she says.
Thinking blocks or quilts for The 70273 Project,
I mentally envision my luggage
in search of space to get her contributions home with me.
It is not cloth contributions Maxine brings me,
however, but a story of Minni,
a woman who,
through a series of coincidences,
finds herself working at the Nuremberg Trial
of physicians. On trial were
many members of Aktion T4,
the secret organization
responsible for murdering (at least)
70,273 people with disabilities.
From rudeness to kindness.
From being shoved aside,
to standing smack dab in the middle of new possibilities.
76 years after the
end of Aktion T4
(though not the end of the
unimaginable murders, mind you),
a big, fat, crazy idea
lights on my shoulder and whispers
”Listen up, Shug, cause here’s
how you’re going to spend the next
several years of your life
and all your children’s inheritance.”
And because I couldn’t not do it, The 70273 Project was born
10 days later,
before I could think myself out of it.
From knowledge of unfathomable atrocities
comes worldwide compassion
and vows to be constantly vigilant
for opportunities to
counter hate, arrogance, and meanness
with compassion and education.
Were they caught up in their game
or were they a product of their home environment?
We’ll never know,
but their callous disregard for Nancy’s precious life
impacted countless other lives.
From their senseless actions
comes a new way of communicating, a wordless soul language
Few words
+ small marks
= communion.
It’s a world of riotous color
comingling with black and white.
A world filled with a forest of trees,
the likes of which you’ve never seen.
Brightly colored moss covers the forest floor,
and birds of various abilities, likes, talents, and song
fill the air.
It’s a land where differences are
not feared or shunned
but cherished and celebrated.
Stories are lived, shared, enjoyed by all
in this world.
The living beings who call our world home
learn from each other
enjoy being with each other
nourish each other in ways large and small.
Life is a feast in our Rural Route 1,
and we hope you’ll make a note on your calendar
and visit us here in the land of social media
and there at the museum
to learn more about Minni and Nancy,
The 70273 Project, how kindness can (and does) triumph,
and more. Much, much more.
Who knows?
Perhaps you’ll even find your way to visit the exhibit.
We sure hope so!
Imagine a World: Nancy’s Larks + Be Kind
Opening Wednesday, September 25, 2024
Artist Mix ‘n Mingle 4 to 6 p.m.
Treat yourself to being the first to know about
opportunities for involvement (there are several,
and I think you’re gonna’ like them!),
special event details, sneak peeks, and other fun tidbits and tales
by subscribing.
~~~~~~~
Road signs you can click to find more information and updates:
Nancy’s 4th set of drawings – 95 delightfully different, wonderfully wonky birds. Stitched individually and presented here in book form.
Imagine a World, a poem penned and read by me, Jeanne Hewell Chambers (who is fluent only in English and Southern, and while I adore the word “reliquaries”, it tangles my tongue every time. That’s why I spelled it in this reading. Sigh.)
Imagine a small town as big as the world being created
through quiet, non-aggressive, unpretentious ways
by kind hearts and doers of good deeds.
Imagine this big small town furnished with a single table graced with lush bouquets of chortles,
understanding, and recognition. Imagine ever-replenishing platters of stories being constantly served up at this table,
witnessed without judgment
and told with undaunted mettle.
Imagine a table with an abundance of leaves, where there is always room
for anybody to pull up a chair.
No special invitation needed
because inclusivity is not a word here,
not something talked about in committees,
it’s an action
a way of being
our native language.
Imagine a table where
we don’t count limbs or digits
because those are inconsequential numbers
that don’t tell us a twit about who you are or what you’re capable of.
A table where you don’t have to see to be Seen
or hear to be Heard,
be ambulatory to move forward
or hold a fork to be Fed.
Where you don’t have to sit up straight to be taken seriously
or be quiet to be allowed to stay.
Imagine a table where
those who view the world in the rich orderliness of black and white,|
formulas, and one right answer
mingle amicably with those who experience life in spirals
of riotous explosions of color and questions.
Where everybody shows up with baskets laden with attributes and abilities,
with experiences and erudition
unique to them,
and where all are welcome
because it takes every kind of elan
to accomplish good and worthwhile things.
Imagine a table
where some impart much wisdom without uttering a word
while others let their joy or needs be known in indecipherable, inarticulate shouts.
A table where
we listen over, under, around, behind, and through words,
where we listen to soulful eyes,
hands that come together in a hearty “Yes!”
and hands that remain forever still in laps.
We listen to eyes that smile
and reliquaries of tears that leave hushed traces.
A table where
we listen to crayon marks on paper,
spontaneous shuffling of feet,
and hanging heads.
to the tiniest movement of a single finger
and the almost imperceptible turn of a head
to eyes that aren’t comfortable
engaging with other eyes
and eyes that roam without cessation.
A table where we remain deeply attentive to each other
because we know that there are countless ways to express and convey
and all deserve to be heard.
This is no fairy tale . . . at least it doesn’t have to be.
Right now, right at this very minute,
there are enough capricious, uncalculated caring folks
who pledge covenants
of encouragement and empathy,
kindness and curiosity,
laughter and listening,
and in unending ways large and small
we roll up our sleeves and build this table.
With grace and gumption,
we vow to help people build their wings
without jealousy, fear of diminishment,
or dread of becoming grounded
because we know with absolute certainty
that there’s sky enough for all.
Every chair is a storytelling chair at our table
because everybody has stories worth sharing.
Every. Single. Person.
We listen to each other with openness and attentiveness
not just because that’s what we want to be shown when we tell our stories,
but because we are absolutely certain that by bearing witness with curiosity and respect –
even to those whose stories are difficult to hear – we learn something that will help us do our part to make the world a better place.
We delight in knowing that our common threads are often disguised as differences, and that our stories,
when offered and received in gentle communion,
prove ever so much more potent than bullets,
more unifying than threats,
more gratifying than feuds and vendettas,
when it comes to living together on this beautiful blue orb called Earth.
~~~~~~~
Several years ago, in a story of magic and awe that I’ll tell you about in installments here ‘n there, I met Maxine Hess, and now here we are – collaborating on an exhibit at the Southeastern Quilt and Textile Museum in Carrollton, GA. We call the exhibit Imagine a World: Nancy’s Larks and Be Kind, and we are creating the world we want all y’all and us and our families and future generations to inhabit. The exhibit opens September 25, 2024 with an Artist Mix ‘n Mingle from 4 to 6 p.m. Here’s where you can watch it unfold, get more information, ask questions, and hopefully come say Hey to our faces when we’re there.
Some of you may remember the words penned by my friend Rhonda about her life with multiple sclerosis and life in hospice that I shared on my blog a few years ago. I met Rhonda in graduate school where she routinely shed her crutches and the clutches of multiple sclerosis when she picked up her camera. It was a sight to behold watching her climb picnic tables to get better shots.
For her thesis, this former professional photographer named Rhonda asked women to allow her to take nude portraits of them. Though I cheered her on and even recruited for her, I admit to feeling a wee little bit left out that she didn’t ask me . . . but then, on the last night of her last residency, she flopped down in one of those hideous metal folding chairs and asked, “So, are you going to pose for me?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I told her.
We met the next morning in the meditation house, one of the two locations she chose for my portrait, and she casually mentioned that she was also going to take some shots of me sitting on some moss in the woods because she had more than 36 exposures to spend and I was her last model. As I stripped completely naked in front of those beautiful walls with their layers and layers of peeling paint, I chattered with nervous excitement. When i neatly folded the last article of clothing, Rhonda looked at me and said, “I was only going to photograph you from the waist up.”
The portraits became a part of her thesis and went on to become a traveling exhibit that moved the country around with and without her accompanying workshop. Rumor has it that they are being compiled into a book. I’ll keep you posted.
Rhonda also asked me to read the Vagina Monologue she wrote as part of her thesis, and I tell you what: I don’t know when I’ve had so much fun or been so honored. That woman is just full of surprises.
Rhonda’s courage, her determination to live even while dying, her deep dedication to writing the unblinking, undiluted truth about her life with multiple sclerosis and her life in hospice has been a constant source of inspiration. I love her.
I’ve just received notice that Rhonda is in the final days of her earthly life, and I thought maybe you’d like to take a few minutes to send her on her way by reading her story then leaving her a note in her journal over at Caring Bridge. Her family is reading all notes left in her journal to her as she transitions. Whether your read her writings or not, thank you for giving her a fine send-off with your thoughts and wishes, and thank you Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg for letting us know.
As they left the church, the preacher shook their hands and surprised them by announcing his decision to join them at their house for lunch. Said he’d change clothes and be right over. The mother hadn’t prepared enough food for an extra hungry mouth, and of course there was no time to increase the quantities, so when the preacher arrived, threw back his shoulders, patted his paunch, and announced how very hungry he was, the three girls did the only thing they knew to do. They passed the platter of fried chicken to him, and when he asked “Aren’t you having some?” as he heaped three pieces on his own plate, they said “We don’t eat chicken on Sunday.” And when they passed the peas without taking any for themselves, they said “We don’t eat peas on Sunday.” And there was enough for him to have three refills of sweet tea because – you guessed it – they professed to not drinking tea on Sunday.
These were my great aunts, and my heart cries a little bit every time I think about this true story, and whether it’s slaving over a hot stove then heaping the food onto the plates of men waiting at the table with napkins tied around their necks or insisting that men ride in the front seat of the car they bought and paid for, or any number of other things that my tired brain can’t think of right now, I realize how many women have taught me well when it comes to handing over my power.
Why beat a dead horse, you might ask. This is old news. Can’t we move on?
Where’s the line between good manners and handing over your power, anyway? How can you tell the difference between the two?
Then comes my personal favorite, always asked with eyes closed to the point of slits: Are you trying to make all these women be like you instead of allowing them to be themselves?
Good questions that I ask myself (frequently) along with a side of these:
Where did this come from, this handing over of our female power? Was it after World War II when the women stepped aside from the jobs they did so well to let the resume working? Was when the men returned after the Revolutionary War and the War Between the States when woman after woman not only increased the income from the farms but found new crops and markets for those new crops?
More than anything (except for world peace, of course) I want to move past this, but obviously it’s something that remains stuck in my craw. For the record, no, I absolutely am not trying to change women who defer to men. That’s their choice to do or stop doing as they see fit. I recognize the deep and constant conditioning and imprinting on me, and I know that I’m an adult woman, perfectly capable of making my own decisions, cognitively aware of what’s going on. But regardless of years gone under my bridge, regardless of what my brain knows, I still feel the imprinting, and I feel it strongly . . . usually in the form of guilt for refusing to give my food to any man who is rude enough and pompous enough to expect me to; shame that I can’t be as nice and as generous as the women who preceded me in this family; and concern that I embarrass them with my repeated outbursts about handing over our power in ways large and small.
Two days ago, Angela Kelsey wrote about provenance – such a lovely word referring to the chain of ownership of a work of art. She notes her own provenance (because let’s face it: life is art) and closes with her hope that the final entry of her provenance will be herself. Her own name. Her post is the spark that got me pondering this . . . again . . . but this time by stitching the two plates of peas, I stayed with this agitation long enough to realize that at the heart of my continued agitation is the aforementioned guilt and shame and embarrassment. I, too, want to add my name to my life’s provenance, and I want to do it resolutely without a trace of doubt or sticky residue. Now I know what to work on, that I’m certain that I’m really not continuing to flog a dead horse, I’ll set about plucking out the guilt, embarrassment, and shame – and I will do it, too, then I’ll complete my provenance by adding my own name: Wholly Jeanne.
mother’s friendship roll is long and full. she has friends from work, friends from starbucks, friends from church, friends she grew up with. mother is always socializing with this friend or that friend. sending cards. going to lunch. making quick check-in phone calls.
me? well, i always said that my children made me the best friends – and in many ways they still do. historically, my friends were mothers of my children’s friends. now my friendship roll is populated with women i’ve met through my involvement with the theatre company my daughter started 5 years ago. many of the people i graduated from high school with are still in the area, and i count them as friends. my friends from graduate school, both classmates and faculty, are scattered around the world. and then there are the women i’ve met online – mostly through blogs and twitter.
(my mother must occasionally worry about how many people will be at my funeral, because that is an important testament, you know.)
in my experience, the evolution of an online friendship – at least on twitter – goes like this: exchange follows on twitter > exchange tweets and retweets > comment on each other’s blog > swap private emails > exchange phone numbers > connect via phone or skype > meet in person.
many of my friends live in different time zones, so when we do lunch, it’s a virtual lunch.
and it’s not always at lunchtime for at least one of us.
but they’re still friendships. we’re women who share the same interests; ask the same questions of ourselves and others; laugh together; cry together; help each other realize our desires and dreams; and just generally see and consequently bring out the best in each other. it’s amazing how close i feel to so many of these women i’ve never laid eyes on. how much i cherish them, am stimulated by their creativity, enriched by their intelligence, shored by our conversations.
one of these women is celebrating a birthday today: angela kelsey (@angelakelsey). angela is an avid, intrepid seeker who is (thank goodness) willing to share her questions and occasional answers. her open mind and equally open heart inspire me, tickle me, challenge me, encourage me. though her interests are varied, the common thread is a desire to be the very best woman she can be. please click on her name to visit her blog or find her on twitter or, if all else fails, leave a comment here to join me in wishing her happy, happy.
when angela and i first met in person, the ways our friendships differ from our mothers’ friendships really surfaced. when angela told her mother that i was meeting her in columbia, south carolina, her mother expressed concern that i might turn out to be an axe murderer or something. we laughed as she told me the story, but i couldn’t help thinking how understandable that is from our mothers’ perspectives.
well anyway, whether your friends live in the same town or are neighbors in the etherhood, go invest some time into evolving a friendship, will ya? the return on investment is astounding, humbling, life changing.
here ‘n there