Sewing Bug

The Sewing Bug got me yesterday, so I plopped myself onto the couch and watched a couple of movies while I made a new bag.

Now, the history of this bag is that my brother went to Scotland and brought me back this gorgeous wool scarf in my family tartan colors.   And despite how very wonderfully soft this scarf felt to my hands, it’s still just too darn scratchy for my neck, which is apparently overly sensitive to this kind of thing.

So rather than tuck it sadly away, never to be used and possibly forgotten, I decided to turn it into something I can carry around with me all the time, even if the weather is warm!  So I made a bag!

Both sides have the wonderfully fringey flaps to them, the ‘front’ has the tag which looks really quite slick on the front there, *almost like it was meant to be*.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

 

The inside has two full pockets, one open, and the other closes with a zipper to keep important things from falling out.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

And if I want to close both sides, I flip the back flap all the way over!

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

There’s also a secret pocket, not shown, but its hiding under the front flap on the outside of the bag.

The whole thing was made simply by folding the scarf back and forth to create pockets, then sew all around the outside to hold the edges and bottom together.

Now I’ll look right at home at the next Scottish Highland Faire :D

Merry Christmas

© 2013 Eliza Murdock

© 2013 Eliza Murdock

So I’ve been quiet again lately, but that’s only because we’ve been working 12 hr days/6 day weeks for… weeks now.  Which sounds like I’m working 72 hr weeks, but It’s really closer to 60 because if I work 7 to 7, that’s 11 1/2 hrs because I have to take a half hour lunch, and then Saturday is always a short day, so I usually use it just to make up about 4 hours and that’s it…

But still, it leaves me utterly exhausted and entirely uncreative, except for a few doodles one of which I decided to turn into a Christmas card, above.

The scan didn’t capture all the colors, the eggs are actually brown, white, and blue, because those are the colors my sister’s chickens lay, but whatever.  At least you can tell they’re eggs!

Hope all of you are staying warm and comfortable this Holiday season, and blessings for a very happy New Year.

Hopefully I’ll be back with more creations next year! <3

Writing Prompt: Describe Being a Writer

Creative Metaphor:

To dream about what isn’t and make it real; to see what is through a lens of what should be, or perhaps what should never be. To paint an image in your mind and weave invisible threads into your feelings to tug and tease at will.

To be blindness to the sighted, poverty to the rich, womanhood to the man; to impart an experience through a commonality which diverges and takes you with it to places you never thought possible. To make sacred the mundane and make known the hidden. To whisper in your ear of how good a sunset tastes at dawn and breathe in the waters of life and death and see which one I become. To be a bridge, to bear your weight as you tread across my back and see what I’ve carved into my hands for you.

And at the last to bare my soul and let you step inside me for just a moment to see the world through my eyes, and in doing so, to see the world through another’s eyes as well.

Originally posted on Love Is Dope:

1456594_10151822977046336_1585467513_n

 

Writer’s Relief posted the above picture on Facebook with the following caption: “Describe being a ‪#‎writer‬ without using the words ‘writer,’ ‘write,’ or ‘words.’ ‪#‎writingprompt‬ ‪#‎writinglife‬.” I’m always down for a good writing prompt, so I decided to share my (short) response here.

A somber-looking stranger on the train. The bewitching pre-dawn hours while alone at my desk. A long-abandoned building with “beautiful bones”  observed during a walk in the neighborhood. Any and all of these things could be the catalyst for my muse to alight upon my shoulder and whisper into my ear.  My mind starts churning, thoughts fill my head beyond capacity and I must (no, I really must) transfer those thoughts to page or screen. Sometimes those penned or keyboarded thoughts make it to a wider audience than my own two eyes.  In some bizarre corner of the universe, a company or a person…

View original 73 more words

A simile is like a metaphor…

A simile is like a metaphor….

Wearing high heels is like drinking until you throw up.

There are many reasons you do it: peer pressure, an attempt to fit in, maybe you just think you like doing it… but it always ends the same, face down in the toilet swearing to yourself you’ll never, ever do this again.

And then a little bit of time passes… the headache goes away and the nausea subsides and you can eat normal food again.  And a bit more time passes and you sort of forget how bad it was.  And then you find yourself toying with the idea of doing it again.

Only to end up remembering – when it’s far too late – exactly why it is you promised yourself last time you were never going to do it again.

Wearing heels is like that.

There’s the pressure to be ‘fashionable’, or maybe to add height, or you just like the ‘click-clack’ sound of walking on linoleum flooring in them.

The day wears on, and you’re walking a little slower, a little more gingerly.  And soon you realize your little toe has that really painful blister forming on it, and you have to run hobble to the first aid kit to get a bandage.

By half-past lunch you’re cursing whoever made these shoes and wondering what possessed you put them on that morning, and why on earth didn’t you think to bring a simple pair of flats to change into after that big meeting?

And yet what happens?  You go home, and kick them off and oooohh it feels so good, and maybe you give yourself a foot bath and drink a glass of wine and even as you swear you’ll never wear them again, you find you’ve put those shoes back into your closet… where they’ll lie in wait, lurking for the next time you forget, and slip them on…

Tonight when I get home, these things are going in the ‘donate’ box for the local thrift store!

My Red Mother

Pain, a herald of her coming.
I prepare with clean wrappings,
Fresh linens to swathe her in.

The gift of life, so often cursed,
The banner unfurled, guarded,
Hidden in the womb of woman.

Send the men away to be men,
Let the women gather instead
For this is the time of sisterhood.

My red mother comes,
A blessing and a mourning together:
Another month without child,
Another month without child.

Continue reading

Exhale

© Suzanne Miller

The mountains exhale.

Pools of mist ebb and flow among the trees, obscuring the path.  The air, thick with pine and green tea, awakens the senses and beckons toward enlightenment.  Every breath a renewal of spirit, a coaxing of the waters of life which glisten from gossamer designs.  Hands unseen paint ferns of frost upon nature’s canvas, the eternal persistence of night to create that which daily is lost.

Purification by ice.

The cold sun has lost its power.  Indigo hills float against the sky, seduced by freedom’s lure.  A single crane calls to a mate unseen, perhaps absent.  Symbols turned from their meaning, to mingle hope and sorrows in the warp of life.

Aloft on red pillars.

The temple stands at the gates of heaven.  Dharmic harmonies resonate from prayer wheels, turning turning turning: the spin of earth, the passage of seasons, foot following foot.  The journey undertaken is a sacrifice; a thousand steps ascend among the echos of chanting, the singing of bowls, which compel the traveler onward.  Until, at the end of the corridor, the curtains part, opening onto a balcony which stands upon the precipice of the world.

there at the summit
the universe is revealed
as breath is lost

Continue reading

Memories

Washed smooth by nature’s caress, the jagged edge is eased.  Beside lapis waves which kissed the ocher shores we plucked our wind-worn memories from the sand to leave in our wake a mark of passing.  A tenuous journey across time where two paths cross – the wanderer and the placer.  It takes a steady hand to find the balance; unsettle even one, they fall.  The strength of the offering is in the leaving, an act of faith in defiance of gravity.   Poems precarious, they stand as testaments to the impermanence of creation.

silent words of stone
whisper to the next who pass
you are not the first
follow in my footsteps and
for a moment we are one

Continue reading