The year is 2020. I spend an inordinate amount of time making cloth masks on my 1930s Singer. I’m hooking a Pandemic rug. It’s snowing in May. My hair is purple. Life is different. Worse. Better. Changed. Evolving. To be determined.
I feel like we are living in a Snow Globe. Shake it to enhance the innocence, naïveté, denial. Hide behind glittery objects. Oh, so sparkly. I can’t explain what’s going on. 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. The seedlings that lay in wait to put down roots in the garden until this snow and minor league temperatures pass. The patio slowly taking shape as I lay it down stone by stone. We have a home, a garden, a patio. All of them riches, by any measure. We are still trying to decipher the world and determine how to help make it a better place for everyone. And, yes, 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. When I finished yesterday’s allotment, I realized a low grade fury had been building as I worked over my sewing machine. I grabbed discolored and worn antique flannel and a scrap of quilting cotton from the late 1800s and made my Vote mask. Born of scraps and anger.
Stay safe. Be well.