Sample Pages From "Lives in Process"
One Creation Leads to Another

What joy! It pleased me to travel alone and experience myself. Part of me wished that I had experienced this freedom earlier in life, but another part knew that at age 55 I had accumulated enough wisdom to know that this journey was not only for me. It was for all women in search of their true selves, because every time one of us opens to our potential, we all benefit. Ten years of yoga had not taught me to breathe as deeply and fully as I was breathing now, and I was truly learning to listen with my body by observing how it felt in various situations and trusting those feelings to guide me. Earth was no longer just an object. She was my companion, protector, nurturer, and friend. I loved being in the Southwest and watching the ever--changing skies. The shifting formations of the clouds and the brilliant sunsets were endless sources of delight. In spite of an extra dry and dusty summer, the air remained clear.
Two years earlier, a chance connection led to my invitation to teach and lecture in Albuquerque and was the seed that influenced me to begin “Piecing a Quilt of Life.” I met Lynn Pruvost at a craft show in Washington DC where I was selling my work. She had asked if I taught classes, and I had given her a packet of information to distribute to other quilters in New Mexico. I was now following Lynn in her car to Los Alamos where I would connect with other quilters.
When creating my art quilts, if I am able to surrender to the moment, follow my intuition, and allow my decisions to flow from a deep place inside, I am able to create much more than my ego can imagine. Neither Lynn nor I had any idea that these were the first stitches for “Piecing a Quilt of Life,” yet we honored our mutual interests and acted intuitively. Later, when Lynn learned about the project, she encouraged me to think big and see the possibilities. Knowing that the potential for all creation is elusive, she encouraged me to trust the unknown.

Giving Ourselves Permission

The five days in Los Alamos were filled with connections to interesting people and places. Christa Manning opened both her home and her heart to me while I was there, sharing openly her thoughts and memories. Born in Germany, Christa evacuated to East Germany during World War II. At the end of the war she was in Austria, where her great-grandfather lived. Times were hard. She watched her mother create dresses from curtains and shoes from leather purses. Her first recollection of playing with fabric was when she was ill and her mother gave her a stack of beautiful handkerchiefs, a doll, and pins with which to play. Nature was her sanctuary and friend, the place where she felt protected:
“I remember picking different colors [of flowers] and sorting them into small jars with water. It was my way of having pretty things close to me. There was also a special tree with a large mushroom on the trunk. In my childish imagination, the tree was sick and I would pilgrimage to it and take it flowers. As a return the tree would listen to me telling him my problems. I told my tree/friend how hungry I was or how my feet hurt from going barefoot. The tree always understood.”
Christa eventually became a master seamstress and moved to America. She first saw a quilt at the Smithsonian Museum, fell in love with the colors and designs, and began making them. She followed traditional patterns, then expanded by varying and creating her own versions of the old. When I met Christa, she longed for a more personal expression. I encouraged her to do whatever she chose and to create her own standards for quality. It was permission! Like the power of the gift that opened my life to travel, she immediately began to create quilts with landscape and petroglyph themes. She had freed herself to see and accept the possibilities.

New Experiences

In southern New Mexico I camped under the stars at the home of Elaine, a healer, and friend of a friend in South Carolina. We talked about finding our voice as women, and I told the story of my voice lessons. Elaine listened, and I appreciated being heard.
I loved sleeping without a tent, feeling protected and loved by Mother Earth, and seeing the crescent moon and stars shine through the umbrella of cottonwood trees. Elaine’s gardens are arranged according to the medicine wheel and in spirals. Watered by the well’s reserves, her bit of desert had turned into an oasis.
When I drove slowly away from Elaine’s house, I wasn’t completely ready to leave, but I knew that my journey had more to reveal and that I must continue. At Canyon De Chelly, a place I had only heard about, but intuitively felt that I must visit, I arrived early enough to set up my campsite and walk to the bottom of the canyon before sunset. The late afternoon light was magnificent, casting a warm glow on the canyon floor. The ancient ruins stood as witness to the passage of time and I felt that somehow I was a small part of this history too.
By chance, I walked out of the canyon just before sunset with a young Navajo woman, age 26 and the mother of four young children. She had been selling her jewelry as she did every day in the canyon, and her slow, determined walk reminded me to pace myself and to be present in the moment. We talked about the difficulties inherent in balancing the roles of wife, mother, and artist.
The next morning I was at the canyon edge at sunrise and sat for over an hour in the silence. A young Navajo man approached me with a warm smile as I turned to leave. “Would you like for me to take your picture with your camera?” he asked. “Of, course,” I replied. I had not documented myself on this adventure yet and was pleased that he had asked. After he snapped my picture we started to talk. I asked if he was available to show me part of the canyon that I would not ordinarily be able to see (the canyon is on the Navajo Reservation and strictly regulated). He agreed, and as we continued to talk, I showed him postcards of my artwork. He said, “You need to meet my mother. She is a weaver. And my grandfather who is 80 years old and known for his knowledge of natural healing and shamanic ways.” “Yes!” I replied, “I would love to meet them both.”
The young man’s name was Dalton and his mother’s home was a small one-room house surrounded by desert. She had a youthful walk, kind eyes, and greeted us in a warm and open way. I hesitated to enter her home, but Dalton insisted. Everything was simple, tidy, and necessary. No television, no gadgets, and no clutter. We talked about her weaving and she showed me her loom stored behind her home, just a few simple sticks waiting for her next creation. She gave me one of the necklaces she had made for the market and took me to the top of the hill behind her house where we admired the colors of the desert in the world where she lived. Imagine, living every day so close to the earth!
Dalton’s grandfather lived just a short walk away. As we approached, I could see his dinner cooking outdoors on the open fire. His home was round, a traditional Navajo hogan with a single door, no windows, and a smoke hole in the center of the cone-shaped roof. My imagination conjured up images of this 80-year-old Navajo elder, and it increased my anticipation and expectation. We entered his hogan and there he was, sitting on a pile of blankets, wearing a “Braves” T-shirt and playing solitaire. I laughed inside at what I had created in my mind. How perfect! I had wanted to romanticize the unknown and there it was in front of me, as profoundly ordinary as I. That is the Great Mystery, the hidden truth behind all creation. It is here and now and probably wearing a Braves T-shirt! He only spoke the Navajo language, so I turned to Dalton as his grandfather laid the cards down for a new round and said: “Watch him. I’ll bet he is going to win this game.” In less than five minutes, he had won!
It was time to move on. Dalton asked me to select a piece of petrified wood from his collection and his mother gave me a long hug with a blessing to love Jehovah. We took more photographs before I climbed into my car to leave.