II,16
Rilke’s Book of Hours, Love Poems to God- translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy
I
am making a dress. It is hand-stitched in its entirety and composed of deep
violet fabric, gunmetal grey beads, and blue and grey threads. Coral and
circular shapes serve as its embellishment. The pattern is drawn from another
woman’s soulful, creative work.* The techniques are hers as well, reminders of
the handwork I loved as a child. I will wear it during two self-crafted
occasions, one at the ocean and the other by a river. I believe the dress
symbolizes both an ending and a beginning---or perhaps neither one. It’s
possible that it is an attempted reconciliation of all the endings and
beginnings that came before it. A present act formed by a past memory.
There
was a large seashell in my grandparents’ farmhouse. It was creamy white in
color, tinged with the palest pink. It
often resided at the foot of the staircase, where the banister railing
ceased. It was on days similar to today,
when the summer heat was almost unbearable and the chorus of cicadas nearly deafening, that I would pick the shell up, hold
it to my ear, and silently listen. As the quiet rush of air issued forth, I
became mesmerized by its hushed, continuous tone. I don’t know why the sound resonated so
deeply within me, whether it represented a respite from the brutal summer heat
or a haven far from the small town where my existence seemed awkward and ill
fitted. Nevertheless, I longed for the imagined body of water from which it
came, a place far-removed from my daily reality.
At
the time, my visits to the ocean were imaginary ones, supplied by the books I
read and films I viewed. In my mind, I would reside with the characters in
oceanfront cottages, adopting an illusory life played against the backdrop of
the sea. As years passed, my imagined life was interrupted by increasing adult
realities, dotted with a few brief sojourns to the ocean. It was during one of
these, a trip as rushed and chaotic as the life I was living, that I found what
I had long sought. Amidst a living canvas of glistening grey, blue, and violet,
I discovered a still point, where my frenzied thoughts became quietly
suspended, replaced instead by a seemingly sacred silence. From this simple, evocative
moment has come the making of this dress, a return to the ocean, and a sacred vow
renewal.
I
sometimes wonder if, as children, we are given allusions for our future growth
and healing. Perhaps they are scattered before us, in the simplest of forms, like
a creamy white seashell at the foot of a staircase. Then later, when any trace
of their remembrance is dimmed by adulthood, they reemerge in their truer
guise, imparting their intended message. Conceivably, the only requirement made
of us is our own attentive desire.
*The woman I refer to is Natalie Chanin,
founder and head designer of Alabama Chanin, (www.alabamachanin.com). From the
moment I stumbled upon her first book, I have been an avid admirer. While my
current efforts will not approach the artistic beauty realized by this
company’s artisans, I am most grateful for their inspiration and spirit of
sharing.
Comments
Post a Comment