Thank the Farmers for Iris and Cosmos

Oh, sweet friends. I had hoped to share some new projects this week but they are still in-process and not yet ready to be shared. I must admit--last week was something of a train wreck. The flower booth at the farmer's market boasting, "5 bunches for $10 dollars, really!" was most certainly the highlight in my week. Iris. And cosmos. And more iris.

Someone very dear to me lost someone very dear to her and I am reminded of the circles of grief. The family. The friends. And then the friends of friends. And how so many people feel that cool weight coil heavy around unexpected shoulders. How the stones pile in the belly and there is an extra weight that can be recognized in nearly every movement. Eating is heavy. Walking is heavy. Climbing the stairs is heavier than it was just the day before. I keep thinking of her and feeling that serpent on the shoulders and also the stones in the belly and wishing that there was just about anything I could do to make it feel lighter. Oh. Grief. You.

My little one is sick. Feverish. We are assured from our doctors that, "Everything is going to be okay," and I'm quite certain that it will be. But when an infant rests his fevered head against your chest and refuses his favorite toys and his favorite songs, well, there is not much the heart can do but pull that tiny fevered body closer and sway and soothe and sway. It makes the days very, very long.

There are other details of "A Very Bad Week" but I am going to stop at these. I am hoping that by next week I will be fixated on the pleasant mundane details of a studio life that include such things as keeping vintage paper from ripping in the teeth of my sewing machine, folding and pressing quilt binding to cover seams, and choosing ink colors for linoleum block prints. Perhaps a blue whale print. Maybe a yellow.

xoxo,
k.

My Studio Table and Summery Things

It's suddenly summer. I'm not sure how it surprised us this week but it simply did. It arrived. It stormed the farmer's market with peaches, strawberries, apricots, basil, sweet peas, and fava beans. It even brought cherries. And I've found myself speeding down the block in sandals exactly twice. My floppy straw hat has been called to duty. My little boy has been squealing and squirming across the hardwood floors in nothing more than his onesie. Did I mention the cherries?

My studio table has seen one small project after the next: a new soft sculpture chickadee, a slow-going binding on the baby quilt, and an impromptu coin pouch. Slow seems to be my new work rhythm. So be it. I've given in. I've surrendered. I've decided to waive my little white flag of time management desires and do my damn best to Be Here Now. I've been told this is the marker of adjusting to new parenthood? The surrender? Maybe so.

My new rhythm sometimes means staying up too late in those precious quiet hours to finish a project, write a proposal, or respond to a batch of overdue emails. And other times it means sitting down on the floor and cheering the little one onward as he coos and clucks and creeps and flaps and fumbles through his sixth month with us. Six months? My goodness, yes, six.

We are bursting with the promise of a bustling summer and I am configuring ways to soon make a trip east to a cherry picking orchard for the goods for homemade jam. Jam! Cherry jam! I cannot apologize for my excitement for summer. No, I simply cannot.

xoxo,
k.

Reminiscent Cross-Country Road Trip

I can't shake the wanderlust of a long dusty road trip. Full of promise and daydreaming and faraway stares over faraway horizons and strange new landscapes. I suppose it's the bohemian desire to follow in Jack Kerouac's footsteps and experience On the Road firsthand? Or maybe it was the hippies a few decades later traveling in their dreamy VW buses with beads around their necks and sandals underfoot? Or maybe it's just been passed down through the East Coast generations to "Go West, Young Man"? Regardless, I've found myself weak in the knees and traveling the 3,000 miles across the country exactly three times.

Growing up in rural NY there was nothing more romantic than dreaming of life in CA. The beaches. The surfers. The skaters. The sunshine. The beaches. (The beaches.) And graduating from college there was nothing more romantic than packing my worldly possessions into my little red Ford Escort and heading west. I wanted to see the ocean roll into mountains roll into grassland roll into desert roll into mountains roll into ocean again. Along the way I fell in love with the Rockies. I fell in love with Northern New Mexico. I fell in love with San Francisco and stayed for three years.

So three big and beautiful years in San Francisco and my then-boyfriend-now-husband and I packed up my little red Ford Escort and drove back to NY. We fell in love with the California coastline. We fell in love with the Rockies. We fell in love with Northern New Mexico and stayed on a commune in the mountains just outside of Taos. My little red Ford Escort made it all the way to my mother's house and died just a few miles outside of town. Like a homing pigeon, it had completed the trip.

Fast-forward through three big and beautiful years in Brooklyn and then we packed up my father-in-law's little gray pickup and headed back to California. Grad school in Oakland was calling me back. So we packed up the little gray pickup and headed west. That was seven years ago. But that's how we came to these photos. August 2005 and heading back across the expansive states to our beloved San Francisco Bay. My West Coast version of home.

Rediscovering these photos is enough to make me long for another trip. To capture the requisite out-the-passenger-window-landscapes. Our photo shoot traditions on desolate roads with some seriously silly posing via my husband's acting skills. The dusty windshield splaying sun rays across the dusty dash. The sunsets. The mountains. The desert. The dense lush green of the East Coast in warm firefly weather. The long windy roads from here to there. The quest for what might be new. The wanderlust. Yes, the wanderlust.

xoxo,
k.

Patchwork Quilt In-Progress

There is something so satisfying about quilt work. It's like making a pie complete with homemade crust and homegrown fruit or handpicked fruit carefully plucked and piled into that pretty straw basket, piece by piece. It's slow design. (You might remember this post I wrote about slow design, it changed my studio thinking.) It's the heirloom. It's the knowledge that there is absolutely a quicker way to achieve a finished product but that you have chosen the slower handmade route instead.

I started this crib quilt for my son just before he was born. I put it aside for those all-consuming newborn months and for the smaller projects that could be finished in just a few hours. But the pace of the quilt is something unique and I've just started working on it again. Slowly. I'm working slowly block by block and stitch by stitch. Now, the top is stitched and all three layers are stitched together--quilt top, flannel lining, cotton backing--and I'm working on the finishing binding. (I found this great tutorial on making binding, FYI.) 

So what is it about slow-making? About homemade pie crusts and handmade quilts? I think it's about reaching back to honor the techniques of our grandparents and our great-grandparents. But not just reaching back but simultaneously reaching forward. At best, a way of honoring the traditional while making it modern. Honoring the slow-making. Using our hands to make the object and to have the satisfaction that we took the various elements and made the whole. That we chose the long route.

By hand. That we chose the long route and made the whole by hand. Yes, I think that is the point.


xoxo,
k.

Instagram, Instagram

I admit it: I'm hooked. I was skeptical of the smart phone addicts until my husband convinced me to "Come into the 21st Century" and generously put an iphone in my hand for Christmas. (Thank you, dear Husband.) After a few days of fumbling and furrowing I was suddenly hooked. And then add the endless apps for all things creative, the beautiful built-in camera, and the ability to join Instagram and I was a goner.

Instagram has quickly become my favorite place to connect online. There's something so irresistible about the convenience of the phone camera--always willing to capture the moment without the weight and careful planning of my beloved DSLR. And the Instagram steps are so succinct and satisfying: Take a photo, select your filters, add just a few words, post to Instagram and voila! The feed of photographs is stunning--many of your favorite bloggers and artists and designers are updating their photo streams all day long. Swoon!

So if you're already over there and we haven't connected yet let's connect soon (my username is the usual, "katrinarodabaugh"). And if you aren't over there yet, that's okay too because you can follow along on Followgram. But if you do decide to splurge for a smart phone, don't say I didn't warn you about the Instagram addiction. It's a visual feast of photographic pretty literally at your fingertips all day long. Sigh.

I wanted to share some of my favorite Instagram photos with you here. (Hi friends!)

xoxo,
k.

Just a Few Days in the Forest

 

Last week was our anniversary. We went to Point Reyes and rented a cabin in the woods to celebrate our special occasion. We've been married for 3 years though that's a bit of an unfair number as we celebrated our first 10 years together with a wedding. So it was our 13-years-going-on-3-years anniversary. Yes, it was.

I was tentative about traveling with the little one but my husband was starry-eyed and also optimistic and so I agreed. We rented a cabin in the woods. We made fires in the wood stove. We drove into town for breakfast at the local diner. We sat on the couch with cups of hot tea and watched the cold rain. We sat on the porch in our pajamas and read books while our son took unusually long naps.

And for just a few days it all fell into place. The leaf on the wet deck in the early morning light suddenly made the difference. The cobweb in the trees. The hawk perched in the limbs high overhead. The steam from my tea rising in the window and curling in the thick air as it stretched for the heat from the woodstove that was also stretching for the air overhead. The way I took the time to watch the steam curl and unfurl and curl again.

The way I simply took the time. The way the time was there for my taking. Yes, it was.

xoxo,
k