A Quilt Made of Love

(written for an AIDS program at our local high school)

©1997 by Susan Noyes Anderson

When I was a child, my very best thing

was to snuggle up warm under grandmother’s quilt.

Every patch was a memory, stitched up with love;

every square a reminder, painstakingly built,

of birthdays and holidays, weddings and dreams,

of laughter and tears sewn in resolute seams…

beginnings and endings, first times and last days,

golden threads of a family, tied intricate ways.

A quilt made of love, not of cotton or fill,

but of love, freely shared; I am warmed by it still.

******

The AIDS quilt has traveled through cities and states,

extending the borders by which we are bound,

inviting each heart to reflect on expressions

of love, spilled in patches and squares on the ground.

At Washington’s feet, o’er the land of the free, lies

a blanket, a monument, growing too fast…

and spreading, like wildflowers sprinkled on hills,

vivid flashes of color and beauty that pass

into cold, frozen earth as the winter begins,

into pieces of quilt upon quilt upon quilt …

Every patch is a memory, stitched up with love;

every square a reminder, painstakingly built,

of birthdays and holidays, weddings and dreams …

of laughter and tears sewn in resolute seams…

beginnings and endings, first times and last days,

golden threads of a nation, tied intricate ways.

A quilt made of love, not of cotton or fill,

but of love, freely shared; we are warmed by it still.

Click below for more Q posts.

Blast from the Past

Okay. For those of you who perused yesterday's post, this is the photo my mom requested (in her comment) that I publish today. I'm not sure why, given the ugly shirt and the fact that I'm not even looking at the camera, but it's her favorite one of me as a young woman. I was attending the University of Utah at the time and studying for something or other. Can't imagine who snapped the picture. Must have been my hubby (then boyfriend) or roommate, I guess. Pretty glamorous, eh?

This one is in response to Jill's comment asking if I would post some photos of myself as a young mother "with all my kids around me." It hangs on my photo wall, and since I was too lazy to take it out of the frame and scan it, this is a picture of that picture, cropped rather carelessly. But you get the idea, right? Cute kids!

Here are a couple of faded but favorite photos from our picture book. Why must these old pics always turn yellow? (That's a rhetorical question, by the way, so please spare me the chemical details!) The first one was taken in front of my in-laws' summer home in Rancho Mirage. The second was in front of our old house in Southern California, just before my sister's wedding reception. Weren't the little guys cute in their suspenders?

And finally, here is the lovely (?) pic that hung on the wall of our church building for more than a few years. They happened to catch Matt in his dreaded dreadlock phase, so I thought you might get a kick out of it. (We were highly amused at the time, as you might imagine...)

Okay, that's enough self-revelation to last clear into next year. You can thank Jen (or not) for getting me started. Or maybe you should blame it all on my mom!

;)

PS. Those gluttons for punishment who long to feast their eyes on some earlier shots of my honey and me may click here and here. Those of you with better sense, thanks for your indulgence! (And I hereby vow not to post any photos of myself for a good, long time.)

Put on a Happy Face

Spending beach time with the hubby makes me happy.

In the interest of coming to a greater peace with our physical selves, Jen from Denton Sanatorium has issued her readers a challenge to gaze into the mirror for a few moments and decide which facial feature is most lovely.

To be honest, I've always been reasonably pleased with the facial features reflected back at me every morning. It's the rounding of my face by age and added weight that doesn't thrill me. (I hope to change the shape of things a bit this year!)

But that's not the point, is it? I've got a choice to make here, and I'd better get down to business.

Okay. I could definitely say my eyes, which are an interesting shade of hazel and generally shining with one emotion or another. Unfortunately, they are not visible in this photo due to sun, squinting, and the next feature worthy of consideration: a big smile. =D

I like my smile, but since I've yet to jump on the bleached-tooth train and now appear to be sporting the only yellowing cuspids in town, maybe I'd better move on.

I find no fault with my nose or ears, but neither is more than unobjectionable. The brow and chin are ordinary as well, despite thinning and doubling to perfection.

Historically, thick hair has been my best feature. In its heyday, my crown was glorious, luxurious, and the envy of all my friends. No more, though. Today it is thin and fine and flying away faster than a flock of birds hurrying south for the winter.

Which leaves me and my slightly winterized face with the final answer: my skin. I am selecting my skin as the grand prize winner today...not because of its rosy hue, silky texture, or healthy glow but because it is relatively free of wrinkles and earns me a compliment now and again for being so. The secret? Sun avoidance and Aida Thibiant––a high price to pay! (The sun figuratively and Aida literally). heehee

In all seriousness, this was a good exercise for me. I used to be quite comfortable in my own skin (facial and otherwise), but aging has given me pause. I confess it is indescribably strange to look in the mirror and see thinning hair, brows, and lashes; fading color; sagging chops; and lines that were never there before. (I only said relatively wrinkle-free, remember?)

In short, it's true what they say: Aging is not for sissies! Having made that point, I am determined not to wallow in woe. Hey, it is what it is, right? And no one can deny that it beats the alternative...

;)

Click here for more favorite facial feature posts and below for more happiness.

The Reformation

Enough said. I am reforming!

Again.

Here's why.

The Reunion

One of the weekend's best events is Jenny Matlock's Saturday Centus, and this week she has reverted to form with a prompt that stirs the imagination in lovely directions. (I should mention, in the interest of full disclosure, that we owe this golden prompt to Judie, our fellow Centusian.) Much appreciated, my friend!

The prompt, as always, is in red.

∞§∞

Early morning light was spilling into colors on the attic floor when she lifted the stack of letters from the ancient chest and began to read. The script had nearly faded, but the strokes were bold and strong, with just a little nonsense at the edges. She liked him already.

“My Dearest Annie…”

In keeping with the soft, golden light surrounding her, she had intended to savor each word, but within moments she was swallowing whole sentences, eager to know this man who had lived just long enough to sire her great-grandmother and vanish into anonymity.

The twilight found her sated, nearly filled...heartfed by tender roots, still new and green.

∞§∞

Life Flight

©2011 Susan Noyes Anderson (text only)

There is a time to test our wings...

to strike out on our own.

But those who go the distance

rarely choose to fly alone.

∞§∞

Today I am feeling grateful for friends and family who support and uphold us as

we journey through the ups and downs of life in an imperfect world.

We climb highest and farthest when we are in good company.

Poems and Prayers and Promises

I've been writing poems and saying prayers and making promises since I was a little girl, and while I've never "passed the pipe around" (that early lyric was changed for later versions), whenever I hear this song I am reminded of happy days and good memories. It was popular in 1971, a year before my college graduation and marriage. Listening to it still brings back those peaceful feelings of hope and beauty experienced by a young woman with a whole lifetime waiting to unfold.

Now, having lived a fairly healthy portion of that lifetime, I am grateful for music that allows me to recapture those feelings of my youth when I need them. And I'm saddened that John Denver only lived to the age of 53, despite the fact that it "turned [him] on to think of growing old." Life isn't always fair, is it?

Agatha Christie knew whereof she spoke when she said, "I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing."

I think Mr. Denver would have agreed.

First poem I ever wrote, at the age of 7:

My Sister

I have a little sister.

She has a funny smile.

She wants to go to school with me,

but she'll have to wait awhile.

For she is only one year old,

and what would teacher do,

if I brought her to school with me?

I wouldn't know; would you?

The prayer I am praying today:

Comfort for well-loved friends whose son's (and brother's) life, like John Denver's, passed too quickly. Healing for Catherine. Strength and stamina for my own children, who are old enough to well and truly need it.

The promise I am making:

"To make love live and breathe in all I do" (a line from one of my own poems).

Because loving, living, and breathing are what poems, prayers, and promises are all about.

For more P posts, just click below.

The Seasoning

The Seasoning

©1992 by Susan Noyes Anderson

Bare branches,

gnarled, athritic fingers,

reaching, groping,

which way out?

Out of the forest.

Out of the snarl of oak.

Out of the tangled confusion

(or intricate pattern)

or both.

All is revealed.

The trunk an aneurysm,

leaking into gray matter,

a textured nevus

on the sky’s skin.

An old tree.

A harsh winter.

But the blue jay

claiming

one barren limb

shrieks Spring.

My feeling today is to let the shrieking begin. Events of the past couple of weeks have brought too much winter to my (old tree) soul, and I'm ready for the chill winds of loss to blow a little warmer, or to shift entirely. Remember when Mary Poppins sailed into town on that bonnie breeze of change? *sigh* It was lovely. Too bad I'm not in charge of the timetable on grieving.

In the meantime, thanks for letting me vent here now and again. I think Shakespeare got it right:

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.

∞§∞