MAKING A LIFE FROM SCRAPS, PART 2

Prize Winning Quilt by Nina Naomi

Last September, lying under a quilt stitched by my mother, I got thinking about making a life from scraps (posted Sept. 6, 2021), more figuratively than literally since I can't sew.  Rather, about how we all have bits and bobs--family here and there, friends, treasures saved (a piece of baby blanket, a cracked vase), old photos, letters (if you're old enough), playbills . . . .  A kind of emotional quilt I called it.

At that time the pattern of my quilt was a furnished apartment in New Jersey where we spent the Fall.  A bit darkish, was the apartment--needed twinkle lights and candles--but a hugely rewarding change of scene with special family nearby. Aren't the best places to visit where there's family? Plus we could walk everywhere. 

Now the pattern is home in North Carolina and Springtime.  This morning I felt like the buds had waited until I went to bed to burst into glorious green.  The difference between yesterday and today was the difference between oh-it's-coming and a brilliance almost blinding.  Last night's rain had settled on each new leaf like a sparkling jewel.  

When I awoke today the birds were vying with eachother for the most melodic trills.  And now, near dusk, the sky is blue with tufts of white.  It is said that nature inspires our creativity and focus.  Surely that's so.  When I look at my mother's quilt I see appliqued tulips. I know she was living at the beach at the time she made it--retired after years of teaching in Missouri. Enjoying the splendor of the ocean and dreaming of tulips.  

There's so much healing power in nature.  If we're bleary-eyed from our screens, going outside makes all the difference.  We can feel the change in our breathing, in our step.  There's no brain-fog outdoors.  It's an anti-depressant with no bad side-effects, as simple as that.  We can become addicted to nature and be the better for it.  What else calms, soothes, inspires and invigorates and is free?  

Today is Maundy Thursday.  I went to a noon service where the altar was stripped waiting for Good Friday and the Crucifixion.  So, we have our faiths.  We have our fears for the world, foremost this Spring our fears for the brave people of Ukraine.  We have the gifts of God all around us.  My Easter Sunday will be with grandchildren.  Praise be for that. 

When I wrote about a life from scraps last Fall, I said that all of us are lucky.  We're surviving the pandemic and making our way, I wrote.  We're appreciating each day and finding moments of joy and contentment.  The older we get, the more scraps to gather and stitch.  But the quilt of us is coming along nicely. It's true. I love being where I am--no matter where that is.  I bet you do too.   

                       In peace, Nina Naomi

IT'S HOLY WEEK. THIS YEAR IT'S NOT THE SAME.

Duke Chapel, Durham NC

It's Holy Week.  Normally I am looking forward to Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday and Easter.  All good services.  Each a little different than the other.  The striping of the altar, the Crucifixion, a day of waiting, then the Resurrection.  A lot of silence during Holy Week.  A lot of contemplation.

This year it's not the same.  At least today, Monday, I feel like it won't be. Of course maybe I'm wrong.  Maybe when Thursday comes and I follow our service on-line it will actually feel like the day of the Last Supper, the day of the first communion.  "Take, eat.  This is my body.  Take, drink.  This is my blood."  Even though we can't take communion except from prepared packets available by drive-through.  

Maybe if I listen to the Friday service in the dark it will feel like Tenebrae, the service of darkness where candles are gradually extinguished, leaving only the Christ candle to be carried out of the sanctuary symbolizing Christ's death; followed by a loud noise, the slamming of a large Bible symbolizing the closing of the tomb. Maybe I can somehow replicate leaving the church in silence in my home.  

Of course on Sunday I can't parade around my home in my Easter clothes (today is the first day in 3 weeks that just for a change I didn't pull on jeans).  There won't be a congregation singing "Jesus Christ is Risen Today," though the organist I'm assuming will play it.  There may be some Easter lilies in the background of the video but we won't be able to smell them.  We won't share an Easter breakfast or watch the children hunt for eggs.  

Still, as I write this I am changing.  I can feel it.  Writing can do that.  I find I am picturing each service, each part that I will miss.  The foot-washing on Maundy Thursday, reminding us to serve each other in humility.  The pace of the Good Friday service:  hymn, lesson, candle snuffed, lights dimmed, repeat.  Slower and darker untill we tiptoe out in silence.  The hiatus of Saturday when Christ lies in the tomb.  The newness of Easter morn that matches the bright green spring leaves in my little part of the world perfectly.   


The self-isolation and my classes on meditation have brought me closer to God.  My Prayer Journal the same.  I read this morning that we bring our suffering to God and I agree.  I am more likely to think of God out of need than gratitude.  Gratitude takes practice.  Need doesn't.  Usually I write in my Prayer Journal because I have something I desperately need to tell someone; only God will do.  God keeps our secrets.  He listens.  Now when I open the Prayer Journal--take off the rubber bands, slide out the pen--my breath slows, I am focused.  I know what's coming.  God will be there.  Maybe that will be true of the services this week, on-line or not.  I can still hear the organ, still hear the words.  Maybe God will be there.  After all, God often finds me in this house.  

Perhaps this has been a prayer.  AMEN.              Nina Naomi

The Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemani