Need some help?

Still not sure on what your word of the year should be? Christine Kane just put up a cool "discovery tool" to help you figure it out. It's free to download, here.

In which I stretch.

Stretch. That's it. That's my word for 2011.

I love the literal and figurative idea of stretching. It's about reaching, pushing, and sometimes pushing through. It's about moving beyond where you are and going some place that might not feel too comfortable at first.

I want to stretch beyond who I am, which, admittedly, is someone who sometimes feels like she's prone to staying in a bit of a holding pattern. I want to push myself to try new things and learn more and generally be comfortable in a place where I might be uncomfortable. It's not about radical change, it's just about becoming more limber -- bit by bit.

For the curious: I'll take a big stretchy step in February when I take my first grad school class in spirituality at McCormick Theological Seminary. (Full disclosure: I'm auditing it, so it's not the world's biggest thing, but stretching is about baby steps!) Another one will follow in the coming weeks when I start lending a hand at my local quilt store on Saturdays.

Literally, stretch is also about committing more to yoga. I'm still sweaty from this afternoon's class (where, by the way, I rocked out the wheel pose), and I'm hoping to make it to at least one of two special workshops being held at my studio this week. One is on New Year's Eve and the other is bright and early(ish) New Year's Day. I like the idea of starting 2011 by fully embracing at least one form of the stretch plan.

Meanwhile, as I wrap up The Sparkle Initiative, I've also been thinking about way to commemorate a the year. I think I've settled on this, with a bit of tweaking.

I've been loving reading about your words of the year. (And, of course, all the posts on Christine Kane's blog where people explain what they choose and why.) Keep 'em coming.

Peace out.

Image via: Elizabeth-Mae Swenson

Word of the Year.

Last year, I decided to follow the footsteps of the inestimable Christine Kane and choose a word of the year as a way to set a personal intention for the next 12 months. After some wrangling, I went with "sparkle." (For background on the WOTY, click here. Or, better yet, click on over to her blog and see the other words people have chosen and why.)

Eleven months and 27-ish days later, I think I gave it admirable effort. There were moments of radiance and some definite moments of ... well, not. But like I said here, my goal with sparkle was simple.

"I feel like sparkle just ... fits. Everywhere. It encompasses so many of the areas of my life I'd like to improve. It's a reminder of how to behave. What kind of result I should seek from my actions. How to treat others. And how to be."

Now it's almost 2011 (gasp, wasn't it August like 3 seconds ago?) and I've got to come up with another word. And, of course, so do you. So if you played along last year -- or want to get in on the action, it's not too late to pick a word that defines your intention for the year.

Think about it. Feel free to post your word and your rationale below and on your own blog. And let me know how you did on your word for 2010. When I pick my word, I'll put up a post here. And, like last year, I'm happy to make little photographic presents for you guys to help carry you and your word through the year.

Happy thinking.

Lots of love,
Your Sparkler.

And to all a good night.

I know it's been quite around these parts, but live in my world certainly hasn't. I hope to return to being blogtastic in the new year. Until then, I offer you this lovely video of Jesse the Wonder Dog, decorating a tree. Because, really, there are few things more cute than a terrier, no?



Merry Christmas. May yours be warm, merry and bright.

Made to kick some ass.

There's a great blog post up on Jezebel about body image, weight loss, healthy, lady mags and society that is so amazing it just begs to be shared.

As someone who's struggled with weight and body image for the better part of my life, and is now trying to accept that it's not about how look, but I feel, I love the idea that exercise and eating right isn't about conforming to some size-six ideal that we think we should be. (Because, er, size six ain't never gonna happen with these hips.) Instead, it's about growing strong, and being strong, so we can do the things we love. Regardless of our size.

This paragraph is just full of awesomeness:

Your body was made for so much more than being looked at, deprived of food, and enjoyed by others. Your body was made for kicking some ass.


And so is this part:

Physical fitness doesn't have to be about anyone else but you or about anything else but becoming stronger. It's time we stopped associated exercise with a form of conformity and surrender, because do so is to deprive yourself of the potential that your body offers you.

And this part:

Maybe we should stop letting those things dictate how we see our bodies and start seeing our bodies as instruments of power rather than smorgasbords for others to feast on. Your body isn't a passive painting or a photograph, your body is a tool.

I think that's one of the many reasons why I'm loving yoga. I took a beginners' workshop this summer and have been going at least once a week, almost every week, since June. I'm not the most bendy person in my class, in fact, I'm far from it. But I love the way I feel when I'm doing it. And I love that I can feel myself growing stronger each week, holding tree pose higher or longer than I have, making my way -- wobbly arms and all -- through side plank.

So, amen to Morning Gloria for her post. And here's to all of us being strong. And kick ass.

Soupapalooza

Hello, blog peeps. Fast question:

What's your favorite soup recipe? May I have a copy?

(More explanation to come later.)

Lots of love (and soup),

Noodles

A little help from my friend. (Or, my new goal.)

Ahem, ahem. Attention. Is this thing on? I just wanted to let everyone know that I now, officially, have a new goal in life. What is it you ask? World peace? A cure for AIDS? A business model that finally makes newspapers profitable again?

Hahahaha. Of course not. My new goal: To get the Macy Mutt to take over all chore-related duties at home.

Hahaha, you say. IMPOSSIBLE. There's a little thing called opposable thumbs standing in between you and your goal, Noodles.

Pawshaw, I say. Just watch.

Love. Love. Love.

Written by Katie at Y our Courageous Life and posted on Kind Over Matter.

Awesome sentiment, don't you think?

Christmas Quilt. Redux.

I started working on this in August. Got sidetracked by life. Picked it up again briefly in September for a few days. Got sidetracked by life. Blogged about it. Got sidetracked by life. And finally just sat down for five hours this weekend to piece the top quilt together.

I'm planning to back it with a thin teal fleece while quilting it with a warm red thread. Here's a few pictures of the quilt, outside my church on Sunday morning.









The pattern, in case you're curious, is an improvised In and Out quilt by Blue Underground Studios. I added sashing (the white bits on the side) and tweaked the dimensions. I'm still debating the best way to quilt it.

Thoughts?

P.S. One of the cool things about the original quilt pattern is that it was inspired by Chicago's urban architecture. It's a reflection of the windows in downtown building. Click on the "in and out" link above to visualize.

Summer fades to fall.

The leaves are changing. I smell fireplaces burning at the huge houses down the street. The air is crisp. (So what if it was 80-something yesterday?) It's fall in Chicago. And fall is, by far, my favorite season. Sure, sure it's my best wardrobe. And who doesn't love the return of boots and sweaters? But I love the circle of life that comes with fall. I love the idea that just like leaves, we shed the things we've outgrown and no longer need, take time to hunker down and be and rejuvenate, and then bloom, renewed when we're ready to shine. It's corny, I know. But to me, fall is powerful. It's always been.

Of course, in Chicago fall lasts approximately 3 weeks before winter sets in. (Truth: my first year here I was at work and got sent out to cover an Oprah taping with Bono on Michigan Ave. for the kick off of Project Red. It was Oct. 6. And it snowed while we were waiting in a scrum outside the Gap.) So when it's this gorgeous weather in between the stiffling heat of summer and the too-cool-to-sleep-with-the-windows-open of late fall and the early hints of winter, one of the single purposes of my life in the Windy City is to be outside.

Which is why I found myself in Oak Park three weeks ago hanging with some of my best friends in the world, cooking out, sipping wine, letting the puppies go nuts and basking in the awesomeness of the changing seasons.

Here are some pictures of a simple-yet-lovely afternoon.






And so my bloggy peeps, what about you? Is it fall in your world yet? What do you do as the temperature changes? What do you love about the season?

Fa-la-la-la-laing

My calendar says September. My mind is on late December and the Christmas holidays. The season sneaks up so quickly, especially when I have the comical idea in my head (and with the best of intentions) that I'm going to try to do handmade gifts for my best girlfriends.

So what am I doing right this very moment? (I mean, other than typing this blog, smartass? Don't make me come over there.) Making up my holiday shopping list. Relatives, 'rents, girlfriends, and church friends are going on there and everything from fresh-baked bread and cookies to something Amy Butlery and AWESOME are on my list.

Of course, I'm me. So I'm freaking out about how I'll get everything done in time. And budgeted accordingly. But, whatever. I LOVE the holidays. I love the smell of the kitchen and the way my condo smells when I come home to my fresh(ish)-cut tree. I love the colors. The smiles. I love the time together with the people I love the most. I love caroling on the church porch. I even like the snow and the cheesy animatronic window displays at Marshall Field's Macy's.

Mmmmmmmmm.

So before I get it in my head that I'm going to bake some sugar cookies RIGHT! THIS! SECOND!, I thought I'd ask where you are in your Christmas planning? Are you one of those obnoxious people who's done by July? Are you a Christmas Eve at the mall type person? Handmade? Latest gadgets?

Scene from my life.

Who: Me and my across-the-country co-worker bff.
What: A scene from my life. Or, why you should never get between me and my coffee fix.
When: Today, roughly 2 p.m.
Where: My desk.
Why: Because I'm an asshole.
How: IM conversation.

And, scene!

Me: So, I know I'm trying to be all mindful and not material and shit, but the effing coffee shop didn't give me my double-tall, extra-hot, non-fat latte.
Me: Instead, I just walked back to my desk and found out that all I got a regular Chai.
Me: Fuckers.
Her: So you're being the opposite.
Me: Yes. And I want my latte back. I'm bitter.

....
(At this point, we veer off topic. And I continue my amazement/bafflement/ashamed-at-my-own-materialism rant after discovering our church's young adult volunteer and his five housemates live on a $550 monthly household food/toiletry budget and they each get $100/month to cover ALL their incidental expenses. While living in Chicago. Then we talk about her two friends who've been laid off. Then we feel shitty. And grateful for what we have.)
...

Her: We really are lucky. This isn't shit to complain about.
Me: I know. But I'd be EVEN LUCKIER if I had the caffeine I needed.



This is why I'm an asshole. A tired, uncaffeinated asshole.

Fancy pants.

Discussion time.

My big summer accomplishment, other than not killing myself while hiking in Hawaii, was getting into yoga. I'm loving the practice, even though I have to remind myself that it is about the discipline of practice not perfection. While I go to a super low-key, not pretentious studio, I can't help but notice that practically every chick in the freakin' room has a Lululemon logo some on the back of her pants. Or on her top. Or both. Or sometimes on other items, too.

Which brings me to this question. As these pants really so magic as to justify their roughly $100 price tag? Because, I've gotta say .... Unless they're going to clean my house, walk my dog in the snow, do my dishes and pour me a cocktail as I walk in the door at the end of the day, I'm not entirely sure why I need $108 stretchy pants. Even if they *DO* make my ass look magic. (Especially when my $20 pair of Nike pants that I bought at Nordstrom Rack appear to be doing just fine. Thank you very much.)

And so, I offer this up to you. Beyond their trendiness and the cachet that comes with wearing that Lululemon curlicque logo, what's the deal? Worth the price? Are they made by magical yogic elves? Or do we just love their super-awesome bags so much that we need to buy the pants to justify carting our lunch around with their fancy-pants logo?

Operators are standing by.

WHEEE

Thanks to my love of my DVR, and the fact that I haven't regularly watched live TV in probably three years, I'm way out of the loop when it comes to commercials. Like... waaaaaaaay out of the loop. Which explains why when a coworker showed me this video at the office this week, I about peed my pants.

For the record, I hate to be the dumbass who sends some link that everyone saw three months ago. But at the risk of being that person, OMG. WATCH. THIS.




You are welcome.

Christmas. In September.

Sometime in late August I was standing in my dining nook sewing room wearing thread-covered yoga pants and a ratty sport bra, hair askew, while I was sweating like I'd just finished a bikram class. I was plowing my way through a bottle of wine and slicing Christmas fabric (yes, Christmas fabric. Bite me.) while the mutt princess stared at me.

At that moment a single thought flashed in my head: this, right here, is why I'm single.

Relationship woes aside (and, for record, that moment was sort of perfect. Or would have been if it involved a better cutting table and some cheese. Preferably brie. Or gouda. Or really, anything. I'm not picky when it comes to my favorite food group.), I'm plowing my way through a Christmas quilt. Because, what says August September -- like sleighbells and shit?

Here's a sneak peak.



P.S. If someone hasn't already, I'm declaring turquoise as a Christmas color. Don't even try to disagree with me.

Me. With jazz hands.

There's a lot brewing in my world right now. And so I thought I could best illustrate how I feel with the help of one Laura Bell Bundy as the inestimable Elle Woods.






The most prominent change is a probably a new job at my company. I'm super psyched, even though it comes with pre-dawn work hours. (Also, since I am eternal cynic, I should offer the caveat that it's still early, but so far all systems are go.)

So that's me. What's up in your world?

A prayer for peace.

I mistakenly thought it was my turn to offer a prayer for peace during today's church service. So I spent a bit of time last night trying to put pen to paper (or in this case, fingers to keys) to come up with something to say about the topic. Given the past events of the week, I wasn't exactly lacking material.

Since it's an ungiven prayer, I thought I'd offer it up here. (Apologies if prayers aren't your thing.)

God, if ever there was a time to pray for peace, it’s now.

We’re too easily swayed by voices that seek to divide us. The news this week has been filled with daily reminders that all too often our society defaults to hatred and separation, instead of remembering Jesus’ mandate of love and radical inclusion.

We are too eager to separate ourselves. Us and them. The haves and the have nots. The right. And the unrighteous.

And so today, we ask you to help us remember the importance of peace -- in all its forms. Within ourselves, in our homes, our communities, between orientations and nations, races and religions.

The Psalmists remind us that we are fearfully and wonderfully made. So we ask you today to help us honor that gift, and make sure peace stays with us during every step we take, filling our hearts and our minds as we walk in this world.

Amen.

Please pass the peace to your neighbor.

Exercise pains

Visual representation of me. While exercising. Complete with Rocky music.




(Via gawker.)

Underpants conundrum.

Unless you're one of those twig girls (at which point, there's an above average chance that we are not friends unless you are fabulously cool), you've had this great Bridget Jones-type dilemma.

You have a date. You're getting dressed. Do you choose the underwear that makes your outfit look good, or that looks good when you're out of your outfit? (In case my mom is reading, er, this is something I have NO EXPERIENCE WITH. WHATSOEVER. Or something.)

I tried to find the clip from the movie where Bridget wrestles with granny panties or a black thong, but the Interwebs didn't want to to cooperate. But I'm going out on a limb to say you get the dilemma.

All of this is a set up for this fab totally-humiliating-because-we've-been-there blog post about forgetting about Spanx. In it Vanessa raises a fairly interesting question after getting caught with her spanx on:

This makes me wonder what guys really think about our undergarment arsenal of
push up bras, chicken cutlets, wired and boned full-body contraptions that make us
look oh-so-much better.

So, riddle me this, peeps. What DO you think? Been there? Got a story? Does it even matter?

Discuss away.

Books to live by.

I'm a word nerd. A book addict. A bibliophile. But there's one book that I will always and forever (and once more, just for feeling) give people as a gift.

It's The Alchemist by the amazing Brazilian author Paulo Coelho.

It's not my favorite book by him. (That honor goes to Veronika Decides to Die.) But I can't help but feel like it's one of those books that sticks with you and finds a way of being pulled off your shelf when you need it the most. The ideas of following a journey, personal legends and the decisions that come with marching through life _ not just as a passive participant but as an actor _ are just so, so poignant. And powerful.

Some of my favorite quotes come from this book:

"When you want something, all the world conspires in helping you to achieve it."

"He had worked for an entire year to make a dream come true, and that dream, minute by minute, was becoming less important. Maybe because that wasn't really his dream."

"We are afraid of losing what we have, whether it's our life or our possessions and property. But this fear evaporates when we understand that our life stories and the history of the world were written by the same hand."

"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself."

I love this book so much I made my friend Sebastian, who is currently kicking it in New York City for a few weeks, buy it immediately. Or else face bodily harm.


As you can see from this picture he sent me today, he wisely obliged.

So, tell me my dear blog peeps... What about you? What's your favorite book to give people? Why?

Intolerance.

Because I can't stop hitting "publish post" tonight... (It may be the wine.)

And because I can't get certain news stories out of my head ... (It may be the job.)

And because I think this is worthy of some good debate... (It may be the Presbyterian polity wonk in me.)

I'll pose this question that I'm currently wrestling with. (And yes, I know I ended my sentence with a preposition. Shut up.)

Am I allowed to be intolerant of intolerance? Because I am, but then I feel hypocritical.

Discuss.

Kindness

One of my favorite blogs is Kind over Matter, which is like a daily dose of feel good moments. When The Modern Gal and I were talking about it sometimes feels like the world is going to hell in a jerky-mean-asshole of a handbasket, it's the kindness of the things like the card drops on that Website that make me feel better.

This video exemplifies so much of the philosophy that I love and I wish we, as a society, embraced more often.

Pour Kind Over Matter from Kind Over Matter on Vimeo.

Peace.

In which I eat scallops and die happy

Every since I came back from Hawaii I've been fighting a losing battle with a newly developed food craving for scallops.

SCALLOPS, y'all. Yes. Scallops.

Not, like, coconut. Or chocolate, or fresh fruit, or any of the normal things people crave. Me? I want scallops. (For the record the last Great Noodles Food Craving was kale. But leafy greens don't have the staying power that the NECTAR OF THE SEA DOES.)

Specifically I want sea scallops finely seared with a bit of clarified butter, Tabasco sauce, and salt and pepper to taste. (Also: scallops? BAH. Crappy. Knock. Off. Food.)

And no, I'm not pregnant. I'm just a Maryland girl at heart with seafood running through my veins. If anything, I blame genetics.

So on that note, off to go sear me some dinner. Y-U-M.


P.S. Of course, one of the many problems with this new addiction of mine, aside from its apparent weirdness, is the fact that sea scallops are effing expensive. At Whole Foods, a pound will run you $19.99. I know, I know, it's Whole Foods. But they're SO DAMN GOOD. I'm currently plowing my way through a pack of frozen sea scallops from Trader Joe's that I bought for the lovely price of $12.99. SCALLLLLLLOOPS.

P.P. S. What are you craving lately?

Being a grownup. And puppies.

In light of great recent conversations with The Modern Gal...
And the fact that I didn't win last year's Real Simple Life Lessons essay contest...
Which means I can now publish this little not-winning essay entry of mine...
And because with every passing day I'm increasingly convinced that maybe, just maybe, my life is one that's meant to be filled with fur babies instead of not real ones...
Which is totally fine and dandy, despite what society says... (For a great post on that, click here)
And because there hasn't been a post about the Mutt Princess in a while ...

I give you last year's essay for Real Simple on the topic of when I knew I was finally a grownup. Feel free to add your own "eureka" moment below. (With apologies to my mom, who made me promise I'd never write about her on the blog.)

___
My parents preferred a purebred. My heart was set on a mutt.

It was a few weeks after my 24th birthday and I was still unpacking boxes from my recent move to Indianapolis _ a new and thoroughly Midwestern place where I could hear the roar of the engines at Speedway if the wind blew just right. This was corn country, far from my East Coast roots and the lush mountains of Tennessee where I’d spent the past three years soaking up southern culture (and some moonshine) as a newspaper reporter.

I’d moved to Tennessee right after college, loading my little Civic with whatever it would hold and renting a furnished apartment in a falling-down Victorian house from an elderly man who recited Bible verses and made me promise not to let men stay the night. I didn’t intend to stay longer than six months. But I fell in love with the place and the people, and somewhere along the way it became home.

When the offer came for a bigger and better job hundreds of miles north, I knew turning it down wasn’t an option. But after three years, uprooting my life seemed almost unimaginable.

In Indianapolis I had a house to call my own. Two whole bedrooms _ and a fenced-in yard _ that I could decorate however I wanted. But new places can be impenetrable when you’re young and unattached and unconnected to the community. My office was small and my coworkers were older. I didn’t have any friends there or know where to find new ones.

I was alone, and bored, and 100 percent homesick for the life I’d left behind. So, I did what any girl would do. I decided to get a dog.

At the office, I alt-tabbed my way through Petfinder.com. I wanted a small female dog _ not small enough to ride daintily in a purse, but small enough to comfortably sit shotgun in my aging car.

My parents always had purebreds. First, it was an English foxhound who, according to family lore, anchored herself firmly underneath my crib and let out a headache-inducing howl the second I began to whimper. (Bonus: no baby monitor for me.) Later, it was a small, scruffy border terrier whose breed was selected through a multiple choice questionnaire devised by my mathematician mother. I wasn’t convinced one way or another what breed of dog was right for me. But I knew there were dogs that needed a home. And I was ready to open mine to one who did.

She was honey yellow, with a curly tail and mismatched ears, and her name at the time was Sasha. She was a puppy, but housebroken. She could fetch. And, when I first saw her at the pound, she snuggled on my lap like it was the softest pillow ever.

It was love at first sight. My heart melted. I named her Macy Mae, loaded her into my car and headed home to begin life as a team.

Twenty-four hours later, I knew something was wrong. My new sidekick wasn’t eating and couldn’t keep food down. By the next morning, she wobbled when she walked. I held her in my arms when the vet told me the bad news. She had parvo, a usually fatal intestinal virus. By that point she was too sick to even stand.

If Macy could survive _ a big if _ getting her healthy would be expensive and cost far more money that I had, especially after such a big move. They told me to consider putting her down.
I knew a dog was a responsibility _ financial and otherwise. But I wasn’t prepared to pay $2,000 for a furry little critter who stumbled into my life two days before. I was sobbing by this point, as I held her and looked into her big, brown eyes. I did the math, said a prayer, and gave them my credit card.

I was her only chance. And in a way, she’d turn out to be mine.

The fight that followed with my family was one I’m not sure I’ll never forget.

“You should have gotten a purebred,” my well-meaning mother said on the telephone a time zone away. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d gone to a breeder.”

That was when I hung up the phone. I probably blamed the dropped call on a bad connection. But I was angry. Furious. How could she think that? I loved this dog. She was my responsibility.
More than that, she was MINE. And I wouldn’t let her go without a fight.

It’s strange how some moments _ milliseconds, really _ completely change who you are.

Somewhere that day my reality shifted from being a girl alone in a strange place, who still asked her parents for permission, to being an independent woman who was firmly in control. Through my tears, I realized I was the one in charge of my life. I didn’t need an OK from my mother or my father. Or their validation. I just needed me.

Some people say they don’t feel grownup until they buy a house, get a 401(k), grieve the loss of a parent, or hold their newborns for the first time. For me, my first twinge of adulthood came that first time I realized that I was responsible for a something that depended totally on me, even if that something was a funny –looking pound puppy who most likely wouldn’t survive the night.

One week later, I brought her home. Wrapped in a blanket and shivering, Macy’s ribs traced an outline through her fur. She still wasn’t healthy, but she’d eventually recover. My credit card balance never did.

Four years (and three rounds of yet-to-be-successful obedience training later), Macy and I are still a team. She may be genetically incapable of learning to stay, but she’s still managed to teach me a lot. She’s licked away tears cried over breakups and shown me that there’s such a thing as unconditional love. She’s taught me pet people are, for the most part, kind and generous; that dog parks are great ways to make friends in a new city; and any bar that lets you drink a pint with a furry friend in tow is going to be, unquestionably, fabulous. She’s taught me that the world feels like a better place after a game of fetch; that there’s beauty, even at 5:30 a.m., walking through snow drifts with a dog by your side. There’s bigger things too, about how you can surprise yourself with strength you never knew you had; that learning to be comfortable with who you is never easy and never quick, and that being a grownup means putting others first.

She's a constant reminder that someone’s pedigree isn’t what matters; it’s who they are today that counts.

As an adult, profound moments come when you least expect them. Mine just happened to come with a cold wet nose, a curlicue tail, and lopsided ears.

Wedding Quilt. A Tour.

One month shy of the Emily Post wedding gift limit, I was finally able to send off Currer Bell's wedding quilt. I've written about the super-slow progress on the project before. It kept getting sidelined by baby quilts and other assorted projects that I could power through. In this one, though, there was no powering. It was just lots of work all the way through.

But I'm so, SO glad I did. I think it looks great and I really like the totally different double sides of it. They have such alternate vibes, but yet they fit together. A fitting metaphor for a marriage, no? (Note to self: existential thoughts about quilts and quilt design makes you STRANGE.)

Anyway, because I am a strings-attached friend, I made Currer and her man, Hot Pants, send me pictures of the quilt once they'd received it. And they totally delivered.

To start with, I should note that the theme of the quilt was birds. They used a bird theme prominently in their wedding decor, and I wanted to use this awesome Alexander Henry "starling" fabric as the centerpiece of my blocks.


From there, I modified this pattern by Oh, Franson and built four concentric color-themed squares (with four different fabrics per square) around the piece of the Starling fabric. (Incidentally, this quilt pattern is where I learned about the Starling design.)

From there, I added white sashing (borders for you non-sewer types.) And the front winds up looking like this.


Here's another view:


The back is totally different. It's a scrappy Urban Amish quilt, a pattern designed by the always awesome ladies at Quiltology.


Next I added two borders _ one white and one in this kelly green fabric by Denyse Schmidt.



The quilting is done in a kelly green stipple pattern and I did the binding in something that for the life of me I cannot remember. What I do remember is sitting in a rocking chair in the back of our unairconditioned church sanctuary with the quilt in my lap working on the binding during a service. And loving every sweaty minute of it.

The quilt winds up be a solid snuggling size for one person, or two people who just want a light blanket. Here's Currer Bell holding it up.

Front:



Back:


Crazy view:


Woot!

Hawaii Pictures. Part III.

.
Sunset over Hanalei Bay.

Wise words

"You drown not by falling into a river, but by staying submerged in it."

As tweeted today by Paulo Coelho.

Quilted baby goodness.

Or maybe it should be baby quilted goodness? Either way, behold this gender-neutral baby quilt I made for my friend Sara and her little boy Ben. (Who, at the time, we did not know was a boy.)

I don't know who's cuter! The quilt, the kid or the onesie (which is a gift from my awesome friend Emily.)


Here's a look at the front of the quilt, sans baby.



And the back:


The quilt is less scrappy than my usual ones, although I made it entirely out of stuff already in my stash. Also, it's the second-ever quilt I quilted by myself. Hell to the yeah.

Hawaii Pictures. Part II.

I'm sure you're SO excited to see more of my Hawaii photos -- none of these are super impressive, but are all little snippets of what it was like to be on the island. In case you want more eye candy, Part I can be found here. Hoping to finish editing the massive collection this week!


Sign for a sort-of hidden beach off the beaten path.


This is what the beach looked like when you got there.


On Kauai, the Kilauea Lighthouse is famous. It's the most northern part of the state's most northern island.


Isn't the sky amazing? Speaking of amazing sky (or really, an amazing shade of blue) check out the color of the water here.


On my last day, I tooled around and saw a small sign pointing me in the direction of the oldest Catholic church on Kauai. St. Raphael was founded in 1841 and since I'm a sucker for churches, I stopped to take a bunch of pictures.


There were great icons and statues inside.


And there was also a great little cemetery nearby. Yes, I did type the phrase "great little cementery." What of it?


On Kauai, everyone said "mahalo" instead of thank you. This was possibly my favorite use of "mahalo" in print.


One of the places I wanted to visit was Lumahai Beach on Kauai's north shore. It's where they filmed part of South Pacific ("I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair!") It's a hike to reach the beach, and it's also one of the islands most dangerous in the winter time. That's because the steeply sloping sand create a strong undertow and the waves crash right on the shore. You actually have to hike down a pretty steep dirt trail to reach the beach and along the way, there's all sorts of signs to reminds you that you're about to risk life and limb. At least three of the six signs ended with "you could be swept out and drown." Noted, Kauai. Noted.


But Lumahai is actually pretty awesome in the summer time when the waves are gentle. We saw an amazing beach wedding take place on the sand. It was just the bride, the groom, and officiant, a photographer and a guitar player. No guests. No family. No ridiculous party full of details no one will remember, but that probably overshadowed the point of the wedding -- you know, to be MARRIED. It was, quite honestly, one of those moments that restored my faith in people. It was a ceremony that was just about the two people and not about what other people thought or what other people wanted. Somehow, the bride hiked down the path in her dress. When she got to sand, she tossed off her shoes.


And last but not least, this is a picture of the sidewalk at the Kauai Coffee Company. With more than 3,100 acres, it's the country's largest coffee plantation. And note, to travelers: unlimited. free. samples.


And last but not least, a bird of paradise flower.