Sun and clouds reflected on the surface of the Delaware River, Feb. 24, 2020
Monday Morning Musings:
“It may be the only mark we make. Sic parvis magna … From small things, greatness.”
–Tracy Chevalier, A Single Thread: A Novel
Spring enters in a gavotte
to finish with a sun-kissed flower finale,
but winter interrupts the dance
grabbing the dancers with icy fingers
and thrusting them apart
this dance is the thread of life,
the world wakes again
the birds are beginning to sing–
just before dawn I hear them
rehearsing for early summer’s concert
Later, they perch like fruit on trees
gathering in numbers
to sing farewell to the sun
and the day, old friends perhaps
who can finish each other’s sentences
threading them with references
that bind them together
a single thread, and another
woven into the fabric of the season
unraveled, threaded, woven again.
My sister-friends and I drink tea
we drop story-stitches, pick them up again,
single threads joined together
made stronger by overlapping
knotting them in love
nourishing them with food and drink–
the sandwiches are delicious
and so are the sweets.
We talk of #MeToo, politics,
of scary and stupid people
who sew all the wrong threads
into a horrid designs–
and then we sigh,
change the subject,
pour more tea
into the lovely cups. We drink.
The room is full of women,
and I wonder why
is this a woman’s place
This sorting of masculine and feminine,
of black and white threads
of Christian, Muslim, Jew,
and places we’re afraid to go (my friend says),
these are knots that need unraveling. We sigh. Again.
The wind blows cold,
My husband and I stay inside
I make soup
we watch movies and TV.
I watch my cat,
he is sick,
I wish I could heal him
with bread and soup–
he watches birds and the sun.
My cat is better, but the world is sick
I wish I could heal it with bread and soup
we could talk, women, men, children
weaving our stories together,
each of us a single thread
stitched into a blanket of time.
Does one stitch make a difference, or not–
I watch the sun rise and set,
tomorrow, I may see a flower bloom
small things that make a mark,
the tree that grow from a single seed
the egg that hatches into an eagle
the things that change the world,
single threads, woven together.
Crocuses blooming, and daffodils coming up.
My friends and I had tea at Mademoiselle Macaron in Mullica Hill, NJ. I’m actually more of a coffee drinker, but going out to tea is something special. I’m about halfway through Tracy Chevalier’s A Single Thread. It’s a historical novel that discusses the “surplus women” in between the two World Wars, and focuses on one who joins the embroiderers who embroider the kneelers at Winchester Cathedral. Any readers who go to my local library, I’ll return it for you soon. 🙂
Merril’s Movie Club: We missed it in the theater, but Honey Boy is now streaming. It is Shia LaBeouf’s autobiographical story (he plays his father)–sad, funny, and moving. I thought it was excellent. My cat was a bit alarmed by Bob Dylan’s harmonica music at the end.