I am more than a little bit obsessed with the sky.

Gary went to the Post Office yesterday and we received a “limited edition” 2021 calendar from a nonprofit. He considers this an act of optimism, not merely because they hope we will give them money, but because they think we will need and use a calendar next year. That seems almost naive. In the mean time, I now have three packages temporarily missing if not actually lost in shipment. The painting is still lost (for two weeks) and now also a small yarn shipment I wanted for my next warp seems to be misplaced, both carried by UPS and last seen in Hodgkins, IL; the third shipment is from an artist-friend in Russia, so that would be Russian mail or a ship sank or a plane went down, or it burned in New York. And Gary has a CD that will get here eventually from Estonia. I wish I could explain why all this is so funny because we both think it is hilarious.

My novella was shortlisted by a very good magazine and rejected three days later. They would like to see more of my work, and I wish I had more to offer. I have sent the novella off again to another magazine. Assuming it is also rejected there, I will submit it at least twice more. If no one chooses to publish it by then, I will stop. These are carefully chosen markets with smart editors and if they do not find it publishable, I will accept their judgement. I was telling a friend that I have submitted one story at least 58 times and received some quick rejections and some very kind ones. I revised that story after each rejection, and many other times besides, starting it different ways, altering chronology and point of view—hundreds of hours—so you see how I have over-invested in it. However, whatever is wrong with that story, I still love it though evidently I am the only one. Enough already.

The lost packages will be found, or money refunded, or some combination, or not, and my novella will find a home or not. I am entirely resigned about publication. Instead, I will create my own little book with a spectacular cover illustration, print off ten or twelve copies, stitch the binding, and give them away. Sometimes I just need to see the process completed. Maybe I will write more of the story as Tula sees it, or Rosetha, or the Daughters. Or maybe I will just be done. It is good to finish things.

Just a bit of the pieced top in progress—you’ll have to trust me that this photo does not do the fabrics justice.

Since I do not have the yarn I need, I turned in another direction for the sake of sanity. Mid-March I ordered vintage Indonesian cotton from Cargo Inc. in Portland, hand block-printed and batik fabrics. I wanted to visit the store, but we were already self-isolating “in an abundance of caution” as people were starting to say then. The fabric came quickly by mail with a lovely string of little bells. I wanted to piece the front and back of a quilt. They had sold out of one fabric, and another was too blue so I thought for a while, sorted and arranged, pre-washed and ironed twelve yards of fabric, fiddled and rearranged. I had what I had and could not get more. I dug through my grandmother’s cotton threads and decided to sew with red. That was a happy choice. Piecing the black-and-cream backing took only a day and I was satisfied. Then there was the long period of staring at the rest of the fabrics, of accepting that the original vision would not fly and seeking an alternative. Eventually, pieces began to settle in my mind’s eyes. Yesterday morning I started working on the front, cutting and sewing. It is a center diamond pattern, a simple and classic America design. Two frames in red, an inner and outer border. When I ran out of red thread, I used pink. Strangely, no major glitches along the way. I work fast once I figure out what I am doing. The top and backing are finished already, the top in one day, and are pressed, folded, and ready for quilting. I began this task before eight and kept at the task unsteadily for the next eight hours. This morning I ache all over from my efforts and am grateful showers and downpours will likely keep us from a long walk. It is currently pouring rain, a great dark cloud moving in from over the ocean.

[Gary has stripped the bed so that there will be no question of going right back to bed after we eat our oatmeal. Tempting.]

Emails have carried many messages of solidarity from museums and news agencies, social activists, and yarns stores—from virtually everyone I know virtually! It is heartening.

“As always, we hope you’re well, and we hope you’re safe. We took a break from knitting this week, to speak from our hearts about the deep-seated problem of systemic racism and anti-blackness. We just haven’t had the heart for our normal chatter about knitting.”

And perhaps heartening of all, the NFL has finally reversed their stance on players taking a knee. A white player has apologized for his wrong-headed condemnation of protests over racial injustice: “Through my ongoing conversations with friends, teammates, and leaders in the black community, I realize this is not an issue about the American flag,” New Orleans Saints quarterback Drew Brees wrote. “It has never been. We can no longer use the flag to turn people away or distract them from the real issues that face our black communities. We did this back in 2017, and regretfully I brought it back with my comments this week. We must stop talking about the flag and shift our attention to the real issues of systematic racial injustice, economic oppression, police brutality, and judicial [and] prison reform.”

One of the greatest accomplishments is to change our mind.

Eyes gone but the teeth . . .

Seriously, anyone recognize that mostly-eaten fish up top? Teeth! What looked like a dorsal fin. The eagle got most of it. I think our resident pair have eaglets they are feeding. We have seen a great deal of them. Seagulls had dragged the tail off to a safe distance.

The osprey has been fishing in front of our house.

The ravens do a fly-by just to be sure they aren’t missing anything.

Most of the tail with the toe of my shoe for scale.