Listening to What Matters

I have been reading again this charming and deep-felt book by Emma Hooper: Etta and Otto and Russell and James. A book that makes me want to get up from my chair, put down my laptop, grab my backpack and a few clothes and beloved things, and start my walk east towards the ocean. To be that free is something this book gives me permission to dream about. Most of us would say "I could never..." I often say it to myself: I should not, I could not... " but Etta bravely does. She gets up one day and listens to how her heart encourages and inspires her, and so she leaves her long-time husband Otto a note on their breakfast table, and off she goes on her journey towards a beautiful body of water:

"Otto, I've gone. I've never seen the water, so I've gone there. Don't worry, I've left you the truck. I can walk. I will try to remember to come back. Yours (always), Etta."

Etta makes us think about what is stopping us from doing the things we dream of, the things we need for healing and making sense of our lives. And along the way of Etta's story, we learn that part of the answer is learning to listen differently. For Etta, she learns to listen differently to what is both inside and outside of herself.

This book reminds me of my own attempts to listen differently. Over the years I've been learning to listen, but sometimes I can be a slow learner. How to notice that which seems so subtle, even unnoticeable? The world, the city, nature is teaching me. When I was a child, the call of a killdeer was one of my teachers. A mama killdeer near her nest of babies, in the long row of tall pines that lined our driveway to our old stone farmhouse. I wandered along the orange sun-glowing pine needles matted under my feet, and followed her as she called killdeer--killdeer--killdeer and pretended her wing was broken. I listened and followed her down the path as nature would instinctively have me do. Her babies were safe as she led me away from the nest.

I remember, years later in Fredericton, the beginning of my own journey, listening to the sharp sound of ice breaking in the Saint John River. The call of the deeper winter river with its watery dark secrets and moments of death moving into the breaking-open of ice and the crack-crack of my heart with each large white ice-raft floating away from another. Breaking open to make room for new life in spring and being astonished by the poems that found me there. The wind so strong and sure that my pink-stone earring was lost somewhere along the walking bridge with its huge truss design built of steel and the night overhead howling songs from the stars. Other years, the sound of wind jostling branches of the blue spruce outside my window--the tree that was planted when I was 8 years old, that grew up with me, until it was left behind, and I kept moving forward. Forward to the East Coast and Atlantic Ocean, just like Etta. Something called me--I didn't know what--the sea, the creative heart in me, the whales I longed to see and hear perhaps, the salty wind saying come, come--and I left my job and life to move there.

All of this listening was part of my journey. And as I write this story, it's the almost inaudible sound of hundreds of tiny red bud shells falling all wet and shiny in the wind like confetti onto our backyard garden and patio table. It's the hot snap of thunder, kettle boiling for tea, soft whoosh of a candle lighting, sound of seeds cracking open under the soil. The clinking of dishes downstairs on the kitchen table and then I realize that while home can be the ocean, it's also right here in this very present moment. For Otto, home is their kitchen table, the sound of Etta's voice in her letters as he opens the envelopes with love and her words fall on the table. As he listens for her differently than he ever has before. For sounds of her. For sounds of life. We all have a kitchen table.

Musicians would call these sounds music. Meditation experts would call this mindfulness. The poet Mary Oliver would call it 'paying attention' to the world: “Instructions for living a life.  Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”

Etta pays attention. She allows herself to be astonished into a 3,232 kilometre walk from rural Saskatchewan eastwards to the sea. She learns to listen differently and she follows where the sounds of the present moment call her, and where the sounds of her past and memories propel her:

"Etta in the new openness that surrounded the schoolhouse and teacher's cottage, learned to listen differently. As the months passed, her ears learned to distinguish shapes, patterns, life, in the big silence of this place. Smaller sounds, broader sounds. Insects calling against or with the wind, the conversations the wooden walls of her room had with the sun, the tread of boots on gravel miles away. And, of course, the calls of children and their dogs across the fields as they made their way toward her, toward the school. The brushing of the grain away from their bodies as they passed through" (p. 99).

Later it would be Etta brushing the grain away from her body as she passed through fields, starting her journey towards the ocean. She listens intently to shapes and sounds and voices and memories. But mostly, it is about the sound of choices that she makes, that Otto makes, that Russell makes. It is the sound of words from her wild coyote friend James. Is he real? Does it matter? Etta learns to listen differently--James is a wonderful example of that.

What is journey made of, I wonder? What does Emma Hooper teach us? Perhaps journey is simply the sound of walking towards the sound of something we have never heard before. Towards the direction of an ocean. Towards the unexpected voice of a coyote. Towards regret, and then towards new choices. Perhaps it's about listening differently to our hearts. Perhaps it's the courage Etta listens to, before she gets up and goes. In this story, it seems that journey is about not being alone in the world. Think of the title: Etta and Otto and Russell and James. The journey is in the 'and' between names. This connection that comes... from listening to others and the self and the world differently. The journey that comes from noticing what matters. From having the courage to pay attention, be astonished, tell about it.

'Maple & Ruby': Falling Into Something Natural

Ruby: an imagined name for a daughter and then a name for a new creative business, which started here in London, Ontario. Maple, a beautiful name from a children's book about a sweet girl involved in nature and play. Together these names have shaped an up-and-coming business started last year by Krista Rathwell: Maple & Ruby, a natural, creative, and life-giving journey.

If you love kids' clothing, organic locally-made cottons, and love the colours and fashions of this talented sewing artist, then these clothes are for you. Krista, creator and owner, shared with me that as a mom of an active baby and toddler, she makes her clothing to suit her girls' experiences in areas of playability, comfort, chemical-free fabric, attractiveness, and ease in putting on and taking off. She has a "baby and toddler who play a lot and play hard, and need durable and comfortable and fun clothes. At a time when Canada has few organic cotton fabric stores and distributors, Krista explains that more of a trend is growing, and she is finding some favourite places to buy her fabrics.

Earlier this month, I sat down with Krista over tea, and talked with her about the creative shape her new business was taking. We were in a coffee shop on a rainy Sunday night after her children were in bed--a quieter time when she would normally be at home sewing. As we chatted, I wanted to know everything about how she first began sewing, how her business was born, how she becomes inspired, and how her daughters, family, and new business weave together into a colourful life.

My first question: how did you learn to sew? Krista shares that it was from her mother. "My mom tried to teach me on a piece of paper. I was not very good at it, but she persisted." By the time Krista was a teenager she had basic sewing machine skills, and then after some years off, she really picked up sewing again when she was pregnant with her first daughter, Lena. Baby clothes, bibs, and other items until, "when Daphne came, I really fell in love with sewing. I felt like every day was a similar routine, so being able to create something meant I was accomplishing something new."

So where does her creative inspiration come from? Krista's answer is 'fabric first!" Once she has the fabric, then the pattern or images follows; she describes herself as "loving the dreaming stage." She shares that "after Daphne was born, I started reading about organic fabrics and how important it is for babies, because of their skin sensitivities, and then I found there were not very many options for organic cotton fabrics in Canada." Now she gets all of her fabrics online, and finds herself excited to find a trend shifting towards people sewing more again.

"Life changed after my first baby was born," Krista shares. The last four years have been "a bit of a blur with two daughters, but I loved the design aspect of sewing and found so many beautiful fabrics out there that I just wanted to buy them all." She laughs. "Sometimes I see fabric and have an idea and vision as soon as I see it, for what I want to make." Other inspiration comes from groups on Facebook, online stores, and an online sewing community where she is accompanied, learns, and can ask questions and exchange creative ideas.

Krista's clothing sewing business began quite naturally after the birth of her two beautiful daughters. She started sewing more when she was pregnant with her first daughter, and then even more when her second daughter was born. Bibs, baby clothes, then little dresses and comfortable play clothes. As someone who had been an artsy student--studying English Literature and playing flute and piano--creating a new clothing line wasn't far from her creative dreaming: "I love doing colour blocking... and choosing fabrics, trim, ribbons, and other ways to dress up something simplistic and classic.

I asked Krista how her sewing fits into her life as a mom of two beautiful girls four years and under. First, she has an outlet for relaxation and re-energizing: "Sewing is my way to wind down, and is good for reducing tension. When the days are long, especially in the winter, after the kids are in bed, I have a chance to focus my mind on something entirely different. Otherwise evenings can tend to aimlessly drift away."

As a mom, Krista finds she is offering her girls a sense of creative choice for their clothing, and hopes she is a positive role model as an entrepreneur. They see Krista designing and making new things. They see her having something she loves in addition to parenting. And Krista shares that the girls love the fabric most, particularly ones with animals such as swans, bears, foxes, tigers, dinosaurs, and unicorns. My oldest daughter "requests certain patterns by herself and is part of my dreaming stage... She loves to hide in the clothing racks when we go shopping for fabric, loves the button wall, and tries to convince me to buy pink, purple, gold, sparkle, and more." And they are learning to shape their own creative styles and find confidence in  their own fashion sense for what they want to wear.

Recently Krista and her family took a leap of faith and made a bold step to move their life and her business to Owen Sound. This has required trust, and she is looking forward to getting settled in, living closer to extended family, and working on the colour palette for her Spring/Summer line.

Creativity is key for Krista, and as many of us have experienced in our own lives, she names some of the personal benefits of making children's clothing. As she is in the busyness of unpacking and settling into Owen Sound, and as she continues to be a mom and wife, Krista shares that creating clothing has shaped something beautiful in her.

While she loves her days, she also looks forward through the day to sewing and enjoys having her sewing machine on her dining room table in the midst of family space and shared activity. Coming out of years of such intense family focus where so much energy was involved in birthing and raising her girls, Krista shares that "sewing and creating is life-giving," and that she is definitely a "lover of the dreaming stage." Most of all, "it has felt very natural to fall into sewing at this time" and has been part of Krista and her husband's overall dream for their lives.

She also aims for clothes that spark the imagination: "childhood is a time for dreaming and imagining... and part of kids' play and their world of discovery is their love for the freedom to choose." Children know what they love in clothing, and they enjoy being part of the process." For Krista, it's been a very satisfying time: "we have been dreaming about our move, and the sewing has just fallen naturally into place. It's a really nice balance for myself and my family." Sewing and creating nurtures and gives life at a time when their baby stage is passing and childhood years are coming.

Most of all, in concluding out interview, she shares: "I love it most because I love the idea of seeing children wearing products that I have created. It's awesome to see them on my own girls, but especially exciting to see other children loving them. This makes me so happy!" A beautiful win-win situation for Maple and Ruby.

Check out Krista's beautiful kids' clothing products, 12M to 5T, all handmade in Canada from organic cotton fabrics, in the links below!

How can you find out more about Maple & Ruby?

Facebook at Maple & Ruby

Instagram at mapleandruby

Etsy at https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/MapleAndRuby?ref=ss_profile

Weather Or Not, They Go

They say the first game of darts was imagined during the rain. A group of archers gathered indoors in a pub while waiting out the rain, and started aiming their short arrows at a point on the wall.

Someone told me once I am a pluviophile: a lover of rain; someone who finds peace of mind during rain. Last Sunday morning, this felt about right. I woke up to the comforting rain, being lulled in my sleep. Pretty sure I heard it before I ever woke up... I was somewhere between dreamland and awake, listening to the tussling of water on the windows and roof.  I had gone to bed the night before with the rhythm of rain pelting and sliding down my window. The wind against the house rattled the wires and the leaves chattered the hours away. Then, all day, it rained, it rained, it rained.

Through my bedroom window, I watched the rain fall onto the street, and cars splash up water, and I was reminded of a poem I have loved for years, by matt robinson from his book A Ruckus of Awkward Stacking: a poem gathered together inside snow, rain, sadness, mourning, and remembering, and one that I have read many times over the years. Referencing the deep loss through death of a mother to cancer, here are a few of the unforgettable last lines of the poem: "I've come to realize / people die weather / or not; whether or / not it's rain, sun, or / snow, they go. they go."

There is something about rain and how it makes room for sadness like nothing else can. If anyone has seen Four Weddings And A Funeral, you will remember the scene of the funeral, the solemn reverent sadness in losing their beloved friend, and the rain falling as they bring the body and say goodbye, the grass wearing the tears of the mourners. The eulogy includes the famous poem, Funeral Blues, spoken into a narrow and wide space of grief, by W. H. Auden:

"The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good."

The thing is, the poem talks about packing up, dismantling, pouring away, and sweeping up, but rain comes when it wants and it goes when it wants. With it, sadness that accompanies us or days of depression, or making space for tears at funerals. There is also something about rain that celebrates, washes away and brings about the new: wedding couple under an umbrella, a quiet rainy morning of writing, misty rain at the ocean, city rain bringing people together in a dry bus shelter or restaurant lobby; rain watering the earth so new seeds can sprout and grow. 

I remember as a child camping in a tent trailer. We were at Emily Park. The rain was pouring down... I'm maybe 7 or 8 years old. My mom and dad and brother and me are all sitting inside the tent trailer listening to tin rain on the roof. We are playing Go Fish. I am colouring inside my colouring books, mostly with bright red, and my brother is reading the Hardy Boys. Outside, we hear the odd voice or bark, but otherwise everything is quiet and cozy. The rain feels safe. The rain comes when it wants and goes when it wants. I cannot control anything.

Also, early morning canoe trips with rain falling softly on the water, on our cheeks, on our life jackets. And chasing the bottle-blue umbrella across the beach into the shallow water after a gusty stormy wind took it from the back patio of our cottage. My dad out in the garden during the beginning of a rain storm. My windows covered in sliding-down rain. The sounds of cars and their wheels pulling through rain, the hiss-iss-iss. The heaviness of clouds pregnant with rain. Horses in rain, their noses turned upwards to the fresh wet air of the bright green field.

The rain washes away. The rain takes with it remnants of memory. 

Footprints, fingerprints, moments of mud, chalk words and hearts on the pavement. The rain in some places bringing so much loss. Rain reminds us of what is gone, lost, washed away. It mimics the inevitable release and letting go.

That smell after rain, called petrichor. Through the window screen in the morning from the red-blanket chair. That lingering smell of woods, dirt, wet grass, gardens, moss, damp forest walks.

When I walk in rain, I remember that I am so much smaller than everything. I remember that rain, in the end, always seeps into soil and disappears. I remember how much I long for the rain coming in those moments when the wind picks up, and leaves stir, and you know the rain is coming before you see it. You know it by smell and by your skin, you know it by the sound it has made every year of your life.