The year is 2020. Â I spend an inordinate amount of time making cloth masks on my 1930s Singer. Â I’m hooking a Pandemic rug. Â It’s snowing in May. Â My hair is purple. Â Life is different. Â Worse. Â Better. Â Changed. Â Evolving. Â To be determined.
I feel like we are living in a Snow Globe. Â Shake it to enhance the innocence, naÃ¯vetÃ©, denial. Â Hide behind glittery objects. Â Oh, so sparkly. Â I can’t explain what’s going on. Â Why is data (science) a four letter word?
Still, I find joy in the garlic–planted last fall during more hopeful times–persisting in pushing through its straw mulch. Â The seedlings that lay in wait to put down roots in the garden until this snow and minor league temperatures pass. Â Â The patio slowly taking shape as I lay it down stone by stone. Â We have a home, a garden, a patio. Â All of them riches, by any measure. Â We are still trying to decipher the world and determine how to help make it a better place for everyone. Â And, yes, Â I entirely acknowledge there’s not much in the way of grammar going on.
Like many of you, mask making has become a significant part of my daily tasks. Â When I finished yesterday’s allotment, I realized a low grade fury had been building as I worked over my sewing machine. Â I grabbed discolored and worn antique flannel and a scrap of quilting cotton from the late 1800s and made my Vote mask. Â Born of scraps and anger.
Stay safe. Â Be well.