Stitches and Carmel

           I finished Bear 234 and Bear 235 today. It shows that a stern reminder from my imaginary shrink works. Unfortunately he didn't pay attention when I bought one of those little chocolate bars that are displayed prominently on the counter of my craft store. Medium Thyme Red Heart Super Saver and "this" (points to the chocolate next to her yarn.) By the time I opened the car door I had inhaled it; only the packaging was left. I stuffed it into my purse.
          Already my mind wanders to the next color scheme. It has to do with Basil and Beets and Brussels Sprouts. Back to the B-List.

Taking Care of the Loners

Bear Yarn Wound into Balls

 

 

 

During a yarn ball winding session this morning Dr. Steinfeld said, “Take care of the Loners first.”

I didn’t answer. Winding yarn balls means that I am restless; I am searching for a new line of bears. It is a mindless distraction, like counting steps to keep from shivering on my walk when the wind blows. Letting the yarn run through forefinger and thumb of one hand; circling the hand through the air in record speed; slowly turning the growing ball with the other hand without taking my thumb out of the hole at the top; occasionally shaking tangles until they fall apart – I can’t think of anything less creative or more absorbing. 

After a while I tired of the task and began to stuff leftover woolly ends into a plastic bag for my teddy bear DNA project. I flicked a tiny cloud of polyester fiberfill off my black sweater and watched it sail through the air.

“I was talking about the bears you started last month and never finished.” My imaginary shrink is persistent.

Yes, I try not to think about them, those two unrelated bears whose flat bodies, sealed into their individual zip lock bags, rest next to the group of Spring Babies in my sewing room. The first one I had started on the Light Rail ride to Stitches West on February 18. I knitted half the body sipping latté and waiting for the doors to the Fiber Paradise at the Santa Clara Convention Center to open. I was working on the head while I volunteered at the Mother Bear Project Booth. It was a convenient conversation piece and teaching object when somebody had a question about Bear construction.

“See! One piece! Very easy to make. I can knit while I walk around and talk to you.”

The problem with this Bear – I call him Stitches – is…….hmmm….. the problem is: he doesn’t belong in a group.

The second loner Bear began in Carmel, (I named him Carmel) the next day, a Sunday, while I visited Mother. He owns his existence to two “emergency balls” I had left in the closet of the guest room in case I ever ran out of knitting stuff. He didn’t make it to the sewing, stuffing, face-embroidery phase either. By the time the weekend was over I was fully engaged in “The Sound of Music” Bears. Mentally engaged. Drawing was in full swing. I had become obsessed with googling Lederhosen and printing Dirndl images.

But Dr. Steinfeld always nudges me when something bothers my conscience. He hangs around until an issue is resolved.

There is only one thing to do: finish the loners. I flashed a few shots before I packed the Spring Babies away. Then I grabbed the polyester fiberfill bag and the two Bear shells. Stitches and Carmel will be ready for their mug shots by tomorrow. And I promise to give them a few good words for their journey to Africa.

PS. I wound 25 balls today. My left hand is still spinning in a counterclockwise circle.

Spring Baby Bears - One by One

Bear 230

Bear 231

Bear 232

Bear 233

Happy First Day of Spring to all the Mother Bear Project Knitters

Cat and Crows

Georg von Trapp

Maria

While I was in Germany in January I saw a play by Michel Lengliney entitled “Who Are You?” The play is about a woman with dementia, her interaction with her son and daughter, and her declining grasp on reality. In the brochure accompanying the ticket I found a very short poem by Mascha Kaléko that had a strangely soothing effect on me.

The Night

In which

Fear

Lives,

Also has

The stars

And the moon

In the phone calls with my 99-year-old mother-in-law I try to end the conversation in the safety of her moon and stars - her cat sleeping in the armchair and the crows pecking at birdseed on the porch. Until a few months ago Mother loved to discuss politics; she still reads the paper every day at her reading machine, but she no longer remembers what she has read. This morning her fear was that nobody would be able to come stay with her because the highway is closed. I tried ten different ways to make her understand that the highway is closed a few miles south of her and that we all live north; that her son had just been with her, that her daughter would come on Wednesday, and she would see me next weekend. She insisted that she is better informed than I am because she just read the local paper. She wouldn’t let go of the fear; even though I reassured her several times that a caregiver is with her until one of us arrives. I gave up on the subject and asked how the cat is doing. She said she wouldn’t leave her cat, even if they wanted to evacuate her (which “they” don’t) and besides, who else would feed the birds in this rain. The tension in our conversation eased and we talked about crows and blue jays and redwing blackbirds. For a while everything seemed like old times. Until I talked about the Mother Bear Project.

Mother is a major contributor to my “bear fund.” In February she wrote a check for $60.00 for the last 20 bears I had knitted. Her handwriting was very shaky and it took great effort to put the right amount and words to paper. This morning, when I told her that I had finished “The Sound of Music” bears and would bring a picture with me, she had no idea what I was talking about. Suddenly she remembered that "you always stand around with needles in your hands.” But it was only a flicker of recognition, no trace of previous conversations about bears and Africa and knitting. It is this “dimming of the light” that makes me so very sad. I think of it as a gradual sinking of spirit, grace, dignity, intelligence, care, love – all drowning in a big dark pool of muddy thoughts. Mother used to talk about memory loss; she doesn’t any more. And so, quickly, before I hang up, I try to erase fear in my own heart by promising a sunny day and a large gang of crows perched in the bare treetops, awaiting my arrival.

And here is the von Trapp Family in no particular order (that's how they loaded). Eventually, if and when the rain stops, I will take them out in the field for a proper group photo. I sing to that!

Captain Georg von Trapp. Bear 229

Liesl, Bear 221

Kurt, Bear 223

Brigitta, Bear 224

Marta, Bear 225

Gretl, Bear 226

Louisa, Bear 227

Maria, Bear 228

Friedrich, Bear 222

Moving the Sky

How well I remember last April’s three in the morning tui tui twees. The musically impaired mockingbird, though trying very hard for a long time, never learned new melodies. My morning hours this March are quite different.  A mastersinger has taken residence in my pine tree and entertains me at just the right time – seven a.m. – with his endless repertoire. His song accompanies me into the kitchen and to my desk as he takes a seat high in the redwood tree in front of the house. He is an “early bird” and the only one I have heard so far, though I can’t be sure until I actually see him fly from one tree to the other.

Today my mind is preoccupied with Bear number 226, little Gretl from The Sound of Music, and the mockingbird offers a sweet harmony for my thoughts about knitting, about the factors that guide the fabrication of a group of bears from concept to shipping. I sort through metaphors, chase symbols, wade through considerations and convictions as I jot down Gretl’s finish date 3.5.2011.

I’ve found in the Mother Bear Project a perfect vehicle for artistic interpretation. I see a little gift box, wrapped and stored on a shelf in my mind’s storage room, for each group of bears. Looking at these boxes I realize how much fun I had and how much I learned from the Blues Brothers, Carrots and Guacamole, Mango Salad, Pigging out on Pink, Melonberries, B-List, Purple Rain, Rainbow Kids, and now Sound of Music. I muse about my involvement with loose ends and my determination to draw a baobab tree. I grin when I think about the time and money I spent shopping for as many browns as I could find; I still have the chart and the piece of cardboard with yarn samples.

In The Sound of Music I added two new considerations to the gift box: imitation of leather with ordinary yarn and addition of human hairdo to an animal face – I had resisted both at first, but now I am happy about the experiments.

Photography is an integral part of my bear making, and since bears don’t photograph well I stash these experiences in the gift box too. Bears are not easily poseable, the way my fashion dolls are, and they are more or less expressionless. But yesterday, as I was photographing Gretl, an interesting incident made me pay attention. I had noticed that my background – a poster board sky – was too narrow. Shortly after I moved the sky Gretl tumbled down because I had also moved her support. When I printed the photos I saw that I had caught the instance in which Gretl started to fall. She looked different – she looked surprised. I laughed. That’s when I had the thought that “Moving the Sky can cause your image to change.” A rather symbolic gesture – sliding the sky into place - considering the implications for the self. The picture quickly became my “artistic journal of the day.” Journaling is just another aspect of the gift box, a kind of packing list and timeline, though sometimes it looks more like a letter to my favorite psychiatrist.

But the most important part of the gift box is the journey the bears take after they leave my home. As I say farewell I sprinkle them with a final dose of good wishes and hope that they will bring a bit of happiness to a child in a far away land. Occasionally a bear’s image pops up again on my computer screen – in the arms of a child – and this, of course, is a special treat. The gold ribbon on the memory box.

I give little Gretl a hug before I confine her to the plastic container that holds my finished bears. The mockingbird must be taking his mid-morning nap; only a hum from the freeway enters through the screen door. A neighbor’s cat peaks in, then she runs off to chase a squirrel on the lawn. I pick up Louisa to give her a face.

For now the sky is in the right spot.  

Bear 225 - Marta from The Sound of Music