Driving down the I5, over the bridge, and into Portland, I noticed the turn-off to the airport. Last year, I stayed in a hotel near the airport and drove from there to Fabric Depot four times. I have a really good sense of direction and from my spot on the bridge, I knew how to get to Fabric Depot and that it was less than a ten minute drive. If you're as addicted to fabric as I am, you know the supreme self-control and discipline that was required to keep driving. Luckily, I did not give into my jumping, dancing, frenzied, demanding brain that attempted to rationalize by saying I would "just look". Yes. Right. And pigs fly ! ! !
Including the border, the detour for the bridge collapse, the detour on the detour, an accident, and road work, it took nine and three quarter hours to make it from home to the hotel in Oregon City. I was totally shocked to wait half an hour at the border at eight in the morning. Those people were supposed to be in bed and I was supposed to drive straight through. Apparently, I'm not the only early bird - LOL.
Detours are interesting things. They both take you out of your way and into new adventures, places you've never been before and may never go again but you'll have learned something from the experience. Like making a mistake... with your art... or otherwise.
A few weeks ago, when I cleaned the kitchen, I put a cup of my son's in the donation box. IMHO it was an incredibly ugly cup, he hadn't used it recently, I doubted he'd even miss it, and I didn't want it taking up space in the cupboard any longer. The box sat in a visible location for weeks and he never said anything. On the 6th, Howard and I dropped it off at Value Village. On the 14th, my son went looking through the cupboards for his cup and when I said it was gone, I could tell he was upset even though he said it was okay. It wasn't. When I followed him to his room, he was trying not to be angry with me but was obviously having a difficult time. It turned out that the cup had significant sentimental value I hadn't known about.
It was 100% my fault. I was completely in the wrong and did not have the right to donate something of his simply because I did not like it. I would not have appreciated that happening to me. I knew better. I did bad. It all makes sense in retrospect and at the same time it was one of those horrible learning curves we benefit from greatly.
He was so upset that I ended up an emotional mess. I had to do something to make it right so I called a woman I know - Connie - who works at the store and asked her what could be done. Since it had only been a week, she said the cup may or may not be on the floor yet but wouldn't have left the building unless it was discarded. I know Connie from church so I asked her to pray that I found the cup... and I called my husband and asked him to pray... and my son... and my daughter... and then I went down to the store and looked in the kitchen wares... and looked again... and looked again... and I didn't see it. I was getting more and more upset until I realized that I didn't see any of the cups we'd donated.
Walking up to one of the clerks, I told her I had a problem and she turned to me with such caring and concern that I promptly burst into tears at which point she went to find Connie who then said she'd need permission from the manager to allow me into the back. I was standing at the no unauthorized personnel beyond this point doorway waiting for the manager when I looked over at the stacks of items. My heart sunk.
The donations are boxed and placed in large rolling carts at least six feet deep, by eight feet wide, by six feet high. There were six or seven rows of carts, five or six carts deep. Knowing it was 100% my fault and not being able to fix the pain I'd caused was making me so emotional that I barely managing not to break out in huge sobs in the middle of the store and then I noticed one row, with only one cart, with a white box in the bottom row, facing toward me, that looked like it had a plastic container in it. My box had a plastic container in it and that box looked exactly like MY box.
When the manager arrived, I explained the problem, pointed to the cart, and said but I think that's my box. She walked over, felt the top of the box to confirm it was a plastic container, and allowed me to come into the room to identify the box. It had my husband's writing on the side so she moved all the other boxes from on top so I could look inside. With a hopeful heart, I reached down, lifted up the plastic container, moved some pot holders, and there was my son's cup, intact, not broken, retrievable. This is a God thing.
The pictures above were taken on the drive between Salem and Sisters, Oregon. The scenery varies greatly from lush growth, to lava rock from a long ago eruption, to the remnants of a forest fire, and finally to dust and dry pines. There's history, change, choices, growth, and evolution along the route. It reminded me of how we move through life, the experiences we have, and how they change us.
In the past several months, I've been experiencing tremendous amounts of synchronicity and divine intervention. It's exciting. It's scary. Even though I found the cup, I was extremely emotional for the rest of the day which tells me that I'm not totally healed yet even though I am MILES beyond where I was before. I can tell that God is leading in new directions. I'm curious to see what this retreat has to do with that leading - anything, something, something significant. I don't know. I do know that I have continued to learn all year from those five day last June and that I'm anticipating a similar - but not identical - experience.
And now... on a totally different topic.
Here are the rompers that my daughter sewed for her son. I'll admit that I am totally biased but I'm also experienced in teaching sewing and being around sewists of all levels. When Jessica suggested doing the top stitching in another color and said stitching it evenly around the edge was no big deal, I shouldn't have discouraged her because she literally sat down, stitched it evenly, and that was that - something simply accomplished that I know many long term sewists are still fearful of. I sent her home with corduroy for another pair of rompers and a pattern for a bunting bag since grandbaby is tired of being swaddled and needs new covers.
This was the first time my daughter had sewn in twelve years. It's an experience I've been waiting for for a really long time and one that I'm glad came at a time when I am a much more accomplished and patient teacher. That could only have helped. I loved sewing together. I hope she continues. She's a natural.
Talk soon - Myrna
Grateful - cups found