On the passing of a good friend and making blue birds

Life has been just too busy - I find it hard to really believe it has been so long since I posted - though I know that it is three months since I met with the groups I belong to.

I have been making and stitching sporadically. Short trips to the studio have left me with a number of birds like the ones above. They seem to grow in my hands and I love making them. Bandaged birds I call them – they are made by wrapping Paverpol soaked strips of fabric around a polystyrene ball which is shaped with alfoil. Some of them are covered with gauze bandage as well which gives a lovely surface texture.
But, mostly I have been caught up worrying and trying to help an unwell friend who lived quite a distance away - my divided time between her, paid work and family.

Grace passed away on the 18th August and her service was last Friday. I will miss her. She was a great champion and encouraged me in all my art endeveours.
This poem is for Grace:

What the Living Do

Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
 
waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
 
the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
 
I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
 
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
 
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.
 
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep
 
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

From What the Living Do, copyright © 1998 by Marie Howe.