Growing up in Los Alamos, I often heard the phrase, “Good enough for Government work.”

What that meant to me was, the low bid won, and sub par was A-okay. Basically, if you get tired or frustrated, it was totally acceptable to move on.

I am not a perfectionist, I never have been. While I strive to be skilled at some things — perfect is rarely on my plate.

I like to participate, and I’m more of an enthusiast for the things I do. I will admit that, in one or two instances, I’ve worked for, and achieved, expert status. I’m pretty good at some things, but I’ve master nothing.

Ask Ken, and he will tell you, I like certain things, a certain way. But this is not perfectionism – I like certain things a certain way, because certain things, should be done a certain way.

I’m also totally fine with moving on, and saying — that’s good enough.

Perhaps this is why I can easily quit reading a book half way through it, or continue making something that is far from blue ribbon quality. I’m also quick to give up on math problems, and I don’t exactly follow a recipe when cooking.

This is also why I’ve been trying to lose 10 pounds since 1973.

Things usually turn out okay and if they don’t — so what? I’m not a rocket surgeon.

When I do complain about things not “being perfect,” it has more to do with my comfort, than my skills.

For instance, we have a great view, but, it’s not perfect. There are power lines in sight, and the neighbours employees park their cars in front of the house all day long. It drives me batty.

This does not mean I’m not grateful for what we have. I am!
It’s just not “perfect.”

This brings me to the experimental quilt I just finished.

I’m learning a new technique. I wasn’t that invested in the fabric or the story, so when I noticed a mistake, instead of ripping it out, I kept sewing. I wanted to move on. I knew it was crappy, but it was good enough! I continued sewing. I can quit a book, but not a quilt.

But, as I continued on the experiment, I got lazier and lazier. Since I screwed up one part, and moved on, I started taking less and less care as I continued.

I started thinking of the next quilt. I knew I had learned from this one, and thought I wouldn’t make the same mistake or be as careless going forward.

Like a horse heading for the barn, I just wanted to finish this one. I wanted to move on to the next quilt I have in mind.

Now, that it is finished, I look at this experiment and have to say, I really like it. Truth be told, it is hard to ruin a quilt!

Oh, I’d be embarrassed if another quilter ever saw it. The workmanship is shit, but the quilt itself is lovely, I slept under it the other night. It would also make a fine dog bed!

I guess it’s good enough for government work! And after an email exchange with a friend, I realize, while it won’t win a prize — it is good enough to be a prize.

Being authentic in life and in art is important and hard. I’m just being me when I say “that is good enough”.

I am a maker.

I like the process of making stuff. I like it more so than the finished product for the most part. Still, at times, I get attached to the whatever I made, and even though I have plenty – I think I want/need to keep it.

The quilt I made for Kim, for instance – I know her son would love it, but, so do I. So for now, I’m sleeping under it and am happy to do so. One day, Jason may get it, but then again, maybe not.

I do not understand this feeling at all. I’ve happily given away a lot of quilts, and other creations over the years, yet for some reason right now – I’m feeling stingy, and that’s not good!

In our house, there are three quilts on one bed, and three on another. As I look across the room, there are five quilts folded up all nice and decorative on a chair. In our living room, quilts are folded up all pretty, in the display case. The quilts my mom made, are hanging on our walls. Even Boze sleeps on a quilt I made.

The problem with creating stuff — is you have stuff.

The past few weeks I’ve alternated between working in the sewing room and sitting at the spinning wheel.

I have a butt load of fleece in our cedar chest. I’ve collected it since we lived in Oregon, because I can. And because, over the years, I do sit and spin.

Again, I love the process, much more than the product. Yet, with this latest batch of homespun, I’m attached, and think — now what?

I’ve given away most all the wool I’ve ever spun up. Wanting to keep this is a new feeling for me. I know it would make a nice warm sweater, but with my lack of skill as a knitter, I know I’d just ruin it. So… what?

In the past, I’d give the yarn to a knitter in hopes that something would come back to me. A few times something did, but for the most part, the gift was freely given and is long gone.

I haven’t made a bead since we lived on Bowen Island, because this house doesn’t have a glass studio space. While I miss playing with fire and melting glass; I’m beginning to think it’s a good thing, otherwise, I’d have a butt load of beads again.

Attachment is a horrible thing when it comes to stuff. Buddhist shit aside, my fear of hoarding is real. (Apples falling close to trees and all.)

Usually, I like to err on the side of generosity, and when I do, it’s easy for me to give stuff away. Right now, I’m embarrassed to say, I’m clinging to my creations.

I know my mood will change, and when it does I’ll jump on it, and be able able to give away stuff again.

But today I’m attached.

There is nothing better than watching an expert in their element.

I had the pleasure yesterday of seeing a sheep shearer with amazing skill.

Taking 14 pounds fluffy fleece, in one piece; this woman sheared the coat off this huge sheep, in no time at all.

I’m sorry I didn’t learn the woman’s name, and I could be wrong, but I thought, as she was sweet talking this big fella, that she called him Moser!

I really wish I knew her name now, because I want to say her name out loud. I want to say________ was incredible to watch! That ________ has some serious chops. And that _______ inspired me.

At first, I thought, she must have some judo or jujitsu training, but there was no joint locking; she used no force to wrestle this beast. This woman had a gentle touch. (I know, I know, true masters of judo and jujitsu have gentle touches too.)

________ spoke softly to the big guy, as she clipped. To me it looked like she supported this giant, allowing him to rest into her structure as she worked.

Also, she did this in front of about 50 people, all standing within a metre of her, all saying ooohhh and ahhhh.

This isn’t a flattering photo – but you get the idea.

Watching a master at work is a joyful experience. It doesn’t matter to me what anyone does, if they do it well – I stop and watch.

________, I salute!

On my reading challenge list – I needed an award winning book. By chance I came across In the Darkroom by Susan Faludi.

Faludi is a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist, but this book won the Kirkus Prize. A prize I’ve never heard of and might google later.

I listened to this book. I like an audible book when I sit at the sewing machine. I also listened to it before I went to sleep. Sometimes, I had to play the chapters over again the next morning, because I fell asleep listening to it. The reader uses a monotone voice.

This book is the story of the coming together of a daughter and her father. But what shines through is the larger riddle of identity.

“In the summer of 2004 I set out to investigate someone I scarcely knew, my father. The project began with a grievance, the grievance of a daughter whose parent had absconded from her life. I was in pursuit of a scofflaw, an artful dodger who had skipped out on so many things, obligation, affection, culpability, contrition. I was preparing an indictment, amassing discovery for a trial. But somewhere along the line, the prosecutor became a witness.”

When the writer learned that her 76-year-old father long estranged and living in Hungary, had undergone sex reassignment surgery, I think Faludi in her role of journalist; not— daughter, was the curious one. The story teller went to meet her father and hear her story.

Faludi wanted to see how her father who identified as “complete woman now” was connected to violent father she had known.

For me, this book is all about identity. Today, as always, there’s so much judgement around identity.

Questions rose about who we are, and how we find out. The big question for me is why someone thinks it matters. And how we treat people if we find them to be “different”. It’s weird to me.

I can’t say I enjoyed this book, it’s not a feel good book or the best book I ever read. However, it kept my attention. (except when it put me to sleep) More than anything, this book made me think.

I thought about the relationship I had with my father and why he was the way he was. I know his public identity was so very important to him, and so very different than his private identity. I have my theories of why – the war, and his father being two huge pieces of his puzzle. But, who knows anyone really?

I thought of the transgendered people I know. I thought of how we judge others so quickly.

You know — those people. The people we think are different — People with a religion, gender, or a mind set that is different from ours.

It made me think about why anyone gets all upset about “those people?” Why? Why? Why? Why do we care that someone is different?

Identity – do others tag you? Do you tag yourself? Can you change it? Does my identity matter if I only show you a part of me? What’s in a name?

Like I said, I like a book that makes me think. In the Darkroom by Susan Faludi gets 5 stars for that reason alone.

The second day of April is finally showing us some spring like weather.

It has been cold and crappy here, but yippeeeee — the sun is out and today looks delightful.

As spring comes on — the birds come out.

We are lucky enough to see bald eagles every day. We also see a plethora of song birds, all twitterpating and enjoying Spring.

I thought this would be a good time to revisit a qigong lesson, that I learned from a fowl instructor.

Bird smashing into a window qigong.
1. If you hit something really hard with your whole body, head first.
2. Lie down for as long as you need to.
3. When you feel like it, slowly stand up. Use any prop you need to for balance. Take your time.
4. Just stand there.
5. Stand as long as you need to.
6. Settle into yourself, and wait until dan tien is found. (this may takes more time than you think.)
7. When things are smooth again, shake it off.
8. When you feel like it – go about your day.

How long should one practice? The whole of your life, is my answer.

Years ago-
I wanted to learn how to weave.

We lived in Oregon at the time, and there was a wonderful store near the university, that sold yarn, looms, books, lessons, and all things I thought would be needed to for me to get going.

We had a bit of extra money at the time and with credit card in hand – I went to the store excited to see what would come of it. I fully planned on spending a wad of dough that day.

The lady at the store asked if she could help me and I said, “Yes! I want to learn to weave. What do I need?”

She looked at me funny, then asked, What do you want to weave? A scarf, a blanket, a vest? What type of yarn do you want to work with, cotton, wool, poly? Do you want a to sit at the loom or stand? What do you want?

I didn’t know the answers to her questions. I thought she might. I only knew I wanted to learn how to weave.

She was frustrated with me; telling me I needed more information. That I needed to know what I wanted before she could help.

I said, I didn’t know what I wanted and that was why I was there. Was there a book or a class that could help me figure it out? I had no information — only desire.

I was waving my credit card in the air – I want to do this! Sell me something!

Nope – until I had a clear idea of what yarn and style and design of weaving I wanted to work with — she could not help. She sent me away with nothing.

I left defeated. I never have learned how to weave.

Yesterday, the same type of thing happened to me. Only this time I want to learn to knit.

I’ve been spinning wool for years and have quite a stash of yarn. Usually I give this yarn away, to someone who can knit or weave. But now, knowing I’m teachable, off to the store that sells knitting supplies, I went.

Unfortunately, they offered everything but help.
I saw loads needles made of bamboo, wood and steel. There were small ones and fat ones, some were long, most were circular. There were kits selling for over $100. and individual needles for $10. but again — the lady wanted more information out of me than, “I want to learn to knit.”

What kind of yarn would I be using? Did I want to make a scarf, hat, sweater? Arrrrgggggg!

I left with nothing! Not a book, or needles. Worst sales person ever, I thought as I walked out not even signed up for the beginning knitting class I saw offered.

I used to smile when people came to my qigong or tai chi class, and said, I’ve never done this before — is that okay? I mean, isn’t that why they were there —  to learn? And, wasn’t that why I was there — to teach? If you already know, you don’t need to learn.

What is it with yarn sports? Are they the one thing in life a person needs to know all about, before they are able to learn anything about them?

Sometimes, shaking a credit card high in the air, just isn’t enough for some people.
Communication is hard.

Before Boze – we had another Portuguese Water Dog named Cricket.

We actually got Cricket in much the same way we got Boze. Our friends Linda and Ford gave her to us.

Much like Boze, Cricket was a pure delight. Cute, funny, sweet, and unlike Boze, Cricket did not have a brain in her head. Her cuteness and personality made up for the fact that she just wasn’t very smart.

Oh, how we loved her.

Something happened to Cricket though and it’s made me think and ponder about it for a while now. If I was Art Baner, I’d get the pondering pipe out on this one. But, since I’m not Art Baner, I’ll do my pondering while looking out a window.

The story:
Cricket was 8 years old when we got her. Like all other dogs and living things, Cricket ate out of the same dish everyday and was just fine doing it.

Then one day, the tag on her collar got caught on the lip of her dish. When she went to move, the dish flew in the air, and food went flying everywhere. This scared Cricket beyond anything I’d ever seen and from that day forward, she was terrified of her dish.

Actually she was terrified of all dishes for a while after that. We had to hand feed her to get her to eat. Finally, with the help of a few hotdogs, a food trail, and a brand new dog dish, Cricket was slowly able to eat on her own again, but it took some time.

Everyone could understand her fear of the “the dish.” After all it did jump at her, and for all she knew it might again.

What I couldn’t understand, but am beginning to, is this.

Why after 8 years of eating out of the same dish, with no ill effects, did this one mishap, put an end to her ever eating out of the dish again. Why couldn’t she call on the many times it served her well?

I’m slowly getting it.

We can all be just fine and then one thing that has served you well for years, goes awry and Bam! Something we never thought would happen, happens, and now what gave us great joy and comfort is on the list of — nope. Not going there.

Life is weird. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

By the way – as I look out the window, it’s still cold and raining here.

I’m reading A Room of Her Own by Virginia Woolf.

Published in 1929 – this book makes me think, and I like that in a book.

Woolf was asked to talk about “Women in Fiction” and concludes, that the best way to have more women in fiction, and in any other place for that matter, is that — a woman must have money and a room of her own.

Basically, she must not be beholden to others in order to create.

How does a women find time, resources, or space to write anything, if they are not educated and opportunity is withheld? Historically, marriage, children, household chores, and being told of their place in society, hinders a woman’s pocketbook, and creativity.

I’ve always said, we must support our poets and artists, or we can count on two things:
1. We will not have poems or art, or
2. We will have shitty poems and crappy art.

If there is no opportunity, money, place, or support, there will be no great works, much less a strong voice.

The ways of the world, and women, have changed since Virginia Woolf wrote this book, but not really.

This week, we saw the photo of a room full, of white men, discussing women’s health. I mean really. Women it seems, are still not welcomed in the room, no wonder they need a room of ones own.

I admire the women who step up. Those, who instead of finding themselves in a hand-basket; wondering where they are going — are doing this!

I not only admire — I fully support.
I Salute you Michelle!
Go get’em!

Learning to cook has been a fun challenge for me.

What I find super fun though, is discovering all the much needed, kitchen accessories that make cooking easier.

Martha Stewart makes it very clear — the right tool is needed for the right job. For example she swears by a lemon squeezer and says no kitchen is complete without it.

I admit I am a sucker for most things kitchen — but my old fashion, hand held, juicer, squeezie thing, works just fine. So I’ve not rushed to the store for that Martha must have. Yet.

Years ago — (there it is) before I even dreamed of cooking a meal – I was fascinated by the Kitchen Aid Stand Mixer. Oh, how I wanted one on my counter. Not that I would use it, but that it just looked so cool. The problem was these things are mighty expensive and as a non-cook, I wasn’t about to spend the dough to make the dough, so to speak.

Then, one day, Jim shows up, with a beautiful Kitchen Aid Stand Mixer, for me!

Best present ever!

He saw it at a yard sale, and knew of my dream. Jim is generous in making dreams come true. This was a fine gift.

The stand mixer took its place on my kitchen counter, and stood there for years. It looked so cool.

Then — slowly — I began to use it.

First I made a cake, then some cookies. I made bread!
Fan-fucking-tastic! This thing not only looks cool – it works!

Today, I spend quality time in the kitchen, and the stand mixer has become my go-to appliance.

I make bread on a regular basis now, and that mixer is the bomb!

Now, when I say bomb, I mean it. Because, when I add the final cups of bread flour to the bowl — flour flies —  every where!*  The flour explodes, out of the bowl, and the dough hook turns, the counter top, floor, and I get covered with flour. *Side note: I make bread on Wednesdays because Patti comes to clean the house on Thursdays and usually there is a heck of a mess for her.

The other day I notice Martha Stewart has a pour guard on her stand mixer. Hmmmmmm.

I start to do some research. I find that the stand mixer Jim gave me was made in 1969! There are several attachments still made for it, and low and behold, London Drug in Gibsons has them on sale!

Ken and I call road trip!

Yesterday, I came home with a beautiful pour guard for my mixing bowl! I also went a little nutty and bought a larger bowl for the thing as well.

It’s Saturday, and I’m feeling courageous. I think I’ll make cinnamon rolls.

I’m hoping Martha is correct, and this right tool will keep most of the flour in the bowl.

Thanks again Jim. I love this mixer! It is almost 50 years old, and not only looks cool on the counter, it works just fine!

I must say, my kitchen is pretty tricked out now — even without one of those lemon squeezie thing.