The spiral as symbol in Amara's quilt

 As symbol of renewal, the ancient spiral form invites a sense of hope through completion and return, as do the phases of the moon. The name chosen by Mel and Leo for their little girl was Amara, meaning ‘moon’ in Arabic, and if anything is symbolic of life renewing itself the phases of the moon are a very real monthly reminder, tied as they are to women’s menstrual cycles.  It hadn’t occurred to me before that the umbilical cord takes the form of a spiral, a physical connection to the Great Mother, She who gives life and takes back in death, ready for the next manifestation. Though feeling completed now, this little piece was very much a work in progress, took on a life of its own as I felt my way through what will be a healing for us all – a shape shifting into another phase as the Wheel turns. 

Shapeshifting is brought about by the Goddess energy - or that of the Great Mystery spiralling through our lives. In Eastern Europe it was personified in the playful faeries known as Vila, women who showed up unannounced in forest places – maybe even natural bush landscapes! When I first heard this term in relation to the Goddess stories and legends of old, it had literalness about it. Now that literal understanding has shifted to another realisation applied to our personal lives, when we are pulled up short by a sudden, unexpected, harrowing, or maybe joyful event. To learn the art of shapeshifting is how we find our personal pathways through life’s shadows, and access the means to gain new insights, to encourage new growth. It brings the gift of an expansion of awareness that Life is our lived experience and everything comes into being through us, and what it is to just ‘be’ with that process.

The triple spiral, found on the kerbstones of the building at Newgrange in County Meath Ireland, was carved into rock deep in the chamber at the centre of this pre-Celtic mound, and is believed to be the oldest ‘sundial’ in prehistory. At the dawn of the Winter Solstice the sun shines down the length of the underground tunnel, similar to the birth canal, to reveal an intricate, beautiful triple spiral lit up by the rising of the dawn sun. It heralds the sun’s traversing over the seasonal year, and the return of the life cycle in nature, agriculture and animal life. It is also a reminder to be open to change as the most constant quality of Life: change, as demonstrated by the seasons, is the most essential quality of Life, and is part of coming to terms with and making meaning of the many seemingly inexplicable events that inevitably crop up and transform our lives. 

The spiral form is found in other ancient dwellings and sacred spaces, such as the underground Goddess Temple, the Hypogeum of Malta. Estimated to have been built about 6000 years ago, it is one of the world’s most prehistoric sites, only recovered in 1902. Much like Newgrange, its purpose tended to be described as a burial chamber for those awaiting rebirth. Other ideas, based on small clay figurines of reclining women found within the red-painted caverns of Maltese temples, suggest the temples may have been where women gave birth, in safety and with blessings from the being in the womb of Mother Earth. The spirals at this site are two-fold, that is one links back into the other, and has been interpreted as an emblem for the tree of life, its branches and roots deep in the earth, and the return to the womb of Earth after death. 

Then there is the labyrinth, another prehistoric, but well-known spiralling form because so often embedded in the floors of large Christian churches. Chartres Cathedral in France is one very well known example, walked by many a pilgrim and visitor. It reveals the path of the spiral to wind our way into the centre and then return, though changed, by the same path, inviting contemplation and with the intention of changing, of renewing and revitalising our inner self, a magical path to insights, healing and growth – of shape shifting by bringing together the rational and the other intuitive level of consciousness.

After weeks of uncertainty and searching for the best technique to attach by stitching the cut-out triple spiral motif I finally took the plunge, deciding that whatever approach I took it would not be perfect. To hand stitch or machine stitch these small, closely spiralling circles was the question, long pondered for the difficulties and effects of different

methods. Even though each of the symbols has been attached using fusion fabric it is necessary to secure them by stitching. I was finding it difficult to make the decision, partly because of uncertainty about my skills, and probably more so because I was still in the process of mourning, grieving, remembering the first time I heard Leo utter those words. 

Sig Lonegren wrote a very comprehensive, hands-on book on labyrinths in 1991 (Gothic Image Publications,UK) - not to be confused with mazes:  "Labyrinths: ancient myths and modern uses" - complete with instructions and work pages on how to design one!

Next post: the butterfly over the moon!

Symbols for Amara's quilt: flowers and leaves

When the willy-wag-tail came to visit my garden, he made his presence felt by flashing that tail, fanned out as he flitted from branch to branch very nearby. I remember reading to Leo as a child the story of this little black and white bird as the messenger of a death, one of the stories of the Dreamtime. Our little girl, registered as Amara Kheir Solomon has been peacefully laid to rest in the ground surrounded by gum trees, colourful chirping birds and no doubt laughing kookaburras for company. Her resting place backs onto a farmyard, comforting for Mel who spent her young years living on a nearby farm, and near where Amara is 'nurturing the Earth', as Mel said to me.

I thought about including some lovely white flowers within the glowing full moon, having bought a mini version of Magnolia Grandiflora “Little Gem”. Not only a lovely botanical name for our girl, Mel and Leo have an avenue of these gorgeous plants along their driveway, with their full moon and beautifully scented flowers, their dark green leaves and velvety brown undersides. Either it has been difficult to make decisions about the placement of the floral symbols at the edges and corners of the square – or I need time to cherish our little gem, loved so much and missed so dearly. They will show the way in time.

Waratahs are at each of the four corners, placed there to keep Amara bright company under the gum trees. My indigenous friend Cheryl has told me that the Eora word ‘warada’ has the meaning of ‘seen from afar’, so beautifully relevant here. Roses are there to carry the love that so many of us have for her, especially her beautiful parents, Leo and Mel, and grieving grandparents. Another dearly loved friend, so present in Leo’s early life is represented by the roses, which had featured in her personal story quilt. Rob was my antenatal support person and present at his birth 33 years ago. Positioned at the Cross Quarter points, they are also the cycle that is birth, blossoming into life, coming to fullness and then manifesting renewal. There is a group of four roses at the base of the of the leaf circle for Mel, Leo, myself and Amara's bud.

Gum leaves, retrieved when one caught my eye while wandering through the garden, have become a fascination for me over the years with their different sizes, shapes and colours – ‘leaf litter’, as it’s called. I have been picking up those that have called to me, attracting me to check them out by their colour, size or shape. Australian eucalyptus trees are famously not deciduous in the autumn. They lose their leaves all year round, leaving a deep litter of multi-coloured, misshapen and chewed leaves on the ground. Some just fading back to feed the earth, some get eaten away and others are still quite green and young, all of which seems to be so analogous to the human condition.  

I have been collecting these natural items of fascination over time, tracing and cutting onto various home dyed fabrics with a fusible backing attached, ready to be used in the next creative venture. Little did I know that they would be used in this tiny memorial wall- hanging. Both lovers of our beautiful natural environments, it is heartbreaking that Mel and Leo could not share their love for the beauty of our Australian bushland with their little daughter as she grew through them. Trying to move on, while feeling devastated and vulnerable, I’d seen a very sweet photo of the eyes of a baby possum peeking out through a nest of leaves; she looked very safe, secure and comfortable. It also brought to mind a drawing in my visual diary of what we can to be grateful for. My shoebox ‘gumleaf’ collection was a resource to form a circle of protection around Amara's moon motif at the centre. And most significantly, it represents the wider circle of friends and family, those who are saddened by her loss.  Another nest will be built.

This work is "Possum dreaming" by indigenous artist, Molly Peterson (Coral Street Art Space). It speaks to me cross culturally,  marking the four directions, holistic environments, seasonal changes, all brought together into the central circle that unites them/us all. Ironically, I had searched for 'possum' hoping that the image mentioned above would turn up. This one did instead....not complaining! Such a wonderful painting, and so resonates.

Amara's memorial wall hanging

 Nearly five months ago I lost my first grandchild. What follows is the making of a memorial quilt for our little Amara, stillborn on 3 July 2021. In the time of making the little wall hanging my grief has come to terms with the Mystery that is Life and Death, even in the very young, and it has brought it home with great grief. Amara means moon in Arabic, and I was so looking forward to meeting this wee new moon.

I had bought some lovely Australiana style fabrics featuring kookaburras, possums and of course koalas for the purpose of making a cot quilt and floor-throw for our little baby girl, due later in the year. Beside the possums, koalas, kookaburras were all sorts of native bush flora, grevilleas and eucalypt leaves, seed nuts and flowers, flannel flowers and banksia, tea tree and proteas. Work on it was about to begin, as I imagined pointing out the different creatures: “Where’s the possie; and can you see a kookie?” 

On that Monday night there was a phone call from Leo. “Are you sitting down, Mum? Maybe get a glass of wine.” I was familiar with that type of introduction to our conversations and knew it portended some sort of news, but I was not prepared for what was to follow.  After some small talk in response to his query about my state and the annoyances of living in a Covid-19 world, the words he uttered left me speechless and broke my heart. He continued by telling me they’d been to the clinic at the hospital, “…they couldn’t find a heartbeat.” With that small clinical phrase, everything fell apart, and the unrealistic hope that somehow they were wrong stayed with me until I heard my dear son whimper, as I desperately searched for words that would not come.

Talking to the oncology nurse this morning, I told her our sad news, and that making a memorial quilt was helping me accept our tragic loss. She is a quilter too. She said “Ah, that’s lovely – and it will remind them of their little girl whenever they use it.” I didn’t quite get her comment until it dawned on me that she was probably thinking of a bed quilt, not a wall hanging, which is what I am working on. It began as a simple, small cloth intended for Leo and Mel to hold little Amara in their arms after the 22 week gestation and her birth as a stillborn, and perhaps to be used as a burial cloth later. It was a mourning cloth, but has now become a wall hanging that I hope brings peace and comfort to Mel and Leo – and a memory of their first pregnancy. It’s devastating to lose a child, especially the first, in utero and for no apparent clinical reason.

The 24” square of backing cotton depicts the pale white petals and golden-centres of the Tasmanian blue gum species of eucalypt. I’m reminded that the botanical word is derived from the Greek to describe the calyx of gum flowers, safe and protected from the environment, before they burst open into full bloom. But even what has not come into full blossom brings beauty to the world – and our lives. I brought my sister into the cloth by stitching a finely crocheted necklace of flowers and leaves that she’d brought home for me from Turkey, stitched into place at the corners and mid-points of dissection in quilting the two layers: the wheel of the eight seasons of Earth’s annual cycle. The double orange flowers overhanging the edge seem to bring the flatness of the square to life, and there’s a little sparkle from the clear glass beads incorporated into the crochet.

More to come in the designing of this little memorial quilt.

Still waiting and surviving!

Still waiting for the Survivorship/writing process of the Klimt-style quilt to come fully into fruition. Maybe it’s about the spring, forthcoming in a few weeks, so again it’s about waiting. It has now been bound, after being held together with very simple ditch stitch through the three layers. Having decided to use felt as a wading between front and backing fabrics, an easy solution, but creating a less than ‘flat’ connection between them. The result has me a little concerned, since there are sections less ‘flat’ on the surface than I’d like them to be. (Always seeking perfection according to the rules!)  

The twelve blocks have only been ditch-stitched to hold the three layers together. Stitching the fused pieces of fabric has ben on the edges, through the top layer, stabilised with a fused-on cotton backing.  So I devised some ways to try to deal with the dissatisfaction of an uneven surface. One method has been to add extra small pieces fused and stitched to the outer boundaries of the quilt. It seems to have helped in pulling the border fabric more taut for those blocks on the outer edges. I then have added more surface strips to help in that endeavour. It has also allowed me to include the border fabric that I’d not chosen, by adding these small strips. 

Feeling somewhat satisfied by these approaches at smoothing out, I decided it was time to apply the binding, again not before a lot of soul searching about which of two fabrics to use. I have always been used to using a dark border as a ‘frame’, because it does to take away from the image, rather throws it forward. However in this situation I’ve overlooked the rules in order to reinforce the theme. I chose to use the very bright, white-backgrounded and gilded fabric, rather than the more sombre greens of a William Morris I have on hand. I came to the decision thinking of Klimt’s propensity for outlandishness, and I think it works. It also hints at those huge gold frames used for artworks of the time.

Even though ‘framed’ and hand-stitched into place and seemingly ready to hang, with the hanging pocket attached, I feel there is more to come…more gilding of the lily. But that will be surface applications, and requires no more than a few stitches – or the gentle application of gold paint in the form of Klimt “tree of life” spirals. If I get brave...

Creating while waiting

 

Is this the ‘survivorship’ quilt, or writing quilt, a waiting time quilt – or a metaphor for all three? 

As I think about the piecing of this quilt from leftover squares from my William Morris ‘layer cake’ collection, I am reminded of the story of Penelope. Her story underlies Homer’s epic of the adventurers in the Odyssey. In brief, while waiting for the return of her husband Odysseus she undoes the weaving done during the day so that her tapestry will never be completed. She does this to delay demands by the many suitors who continually pester her during her husband’s absence, with the argument that he must be dead, so she needs to remarry. She resists their demands by saying she will consider proposals when she has finished the tapestry. So what does this have to do with my quilt here? I don’t have any suitors knocking at the door. Nothing quite so romantic, thankfully! 

Like Penelope’s weaving, it’s to do with the art of waiting, ever present to so many of us living in ‘lockdown’ because of the global viral pandemic we call Covid-19. Waiting is also part of the creative process, both in continuing with my memoir writing, and in this case to finish off this ‘survivorship’ quilt. My first concept for this creative venture had me questioning what it means to be living as a survivor of Stage IV metastatic melanoma cancer after nearly three years of treatment and disrupted living. What does it take to be resilient, find peace and regenerate? It’s about creating connection through reciprocity, giving and receiving and then giving again. For me, waiting brings with it the need to satisfy myself of the unpredicted outcomes for being creative, as I do in the process of designing, thinking about and putting a quilt together to bring it to its final form. It’s not necessarily a linear process, particularly as it might become necessary to unpick an aspect of detail, or to add more. This requires gentle listening from the heart and to the creation beginning its manifestation.

Twelve blocks have been sitting on my design board for a few months, formed from the leftovers from nine-inch squares of William Morris inspired fabrics. Each one has been embellished with other smaller, brighter patches of contrasting geometric commercial patterns in oranges, fused onto each of the blocks in a reverse applique technique. After I joined the blocks the need for further lightening up, and my memories of works by Klimt came to the fore. Although his works are so graphically fluid, the colours in the fabrics seemed to be calling for strips of ‘gold’ ribbon, to unite and overlap the individual blocks into a more holistic nine-block wall hanging. 

Next step will be finalising with the backing and binding – but even then it won’t be finished. The waiting now will take the turn of deciding on how to do the quilting. I can quilt in the ditch to stabilise the nine blocks. Then, following the Klimt legacy, tree of life spirals provide inspiration. But their execution by machine may also present a challenge, though perhaps I could have them done commercially. A DNA spiral has also come to mind - another challenge there! Time to wait for a decision to emerge, deriving from the interplay of these various factors – and next post! I am also toying with the idea of adding a few golden spirals, of a different sort!! Next post will be the finished manifestation…not sure how long I’ll have to wait for that, but beginning to feel a sense of urgency to complete the quilt...the writing will take much more patience...

Kawandi quilting

 I’m looking forward to trying one of these hand-stitched quilts, called Kawandi. They are built up gradually from scraps, starting around the four edges, with the middle wadding and backing already in place, turning up the backing raw edges to be covered by first row of fabric and stitching.

Next you start by stitching with an embroidery thread through the three layers using a small running stitch, spiralling in towards the centre with stitching lines of a finger's width and folding in raw edges as you go. No real planning - apart from theme maybe - very random!

The one shown here was made by my friend Val Nadin, in which she used her scraps of African fabrics. Although coming from India, the quilting process seems to be a blend of Indian and African processes transported to India by emigrants from Africa. The name is of African origin. Below that there’s also one made by Val using scraps of Indigenous related fabrics. So vibrant and exciting. Cool hey! Check the technique out on Google!

Quilting, writing and being a survivor

  I am a strong and powerful woman, 

using the stepping stones I have put down to take me into my future. (note to self, Annabelle 1992)

As I'd been advised for the writing process, I decided just to let the stages for making this tablecloth flow - no measurements to act as a guide, just going by general feel. It all started with the inspiration provided by a rectangular piece of fabric in ochre tones showing distinctive symbols that could be construed as being Indigenous in design. This was to be the centrepiece and starting point. To give it emphasis, it would be framed by strips of an already cut fabric in small read and beige squares. It has been one of my favourites for borders.  But when I attached the pre-cut strips, there were shortfalls on one or two sides, so small squares were cut for the corners in black and white squares. The third fabric would provide a sort of backgrounding for the centre, having a clay brown randomised cross hatching. It had to be joined, but the randomisation of the fabric pattern made that less detectable. All too easy, except...

I had stabilised the whole cloth by ironing on a simple cotton backing and then started to attach the backing with a spray on glue. Before putting the binding on around the edges, I quilted through the three layers around the frame, then attached the binding to finish it off. When I hand hand stitched the binding in place I threw it onto the table top triumphantly, expecting a fete accompli. 

But when on the table, I noticed that there were 'buckles' on the edges of the quilt. It did not sit flat and the lines that I thought were straight lines looked skewed. So, then came the unpicking in an endeavour to straighten out the buckles and wavy lines.  It also meant re-attaching the backing fabric. Of course, to do this the finished binding had to be removed! Frustrated, rather than unpicking, I took my scissors to it! So much for trying to 'wing it'!  All of this meant more time, and more actual top quilting than I'd thought to do and rebinding. After finishing off with a new binding, the tablecloth is sitting flat on the table, as a tablecloth is expected to do!

I have to ask myself why such a simple thing as putting a flat tablecloth together from three main fabrics has caused so many complications along the way. It came to me that it was a metaphor for the story I am wanting to tell of my life's journey. That I've been trying to put into words the recent years my experiences, feelings, observations and learnings while confronting the diagnosis and living with the treatments for advanced melanoma. It is a limited lens, especially since I have reached a turning point on the journey with melanoma, by having come to what is arbitrarily known as being in, living in 'survivorship' mode as the five year mark since starting treatment passes. 

What has this creative venture revealed to me about writing, and this next stage of my life as a survivor of metastatic melanoma? I'm not really sure, other than I had been trying to use existing journal writing of the time of treatment as you would base fabrics, and squeeze excerpts into a prefabricated framework of themes. It has been a useful process for sorting and gathering. But in coming to realise that those writings are the raw materials - the uncut fabrics - that can't be forced into a particular part of the overall narrative until they are carefully chosen, and in the process unpicked and re-discovered as part of the process of creating the story of who you are becoming. As a 'survivor' it is about finding out who you are continuing to become through adapting to and learning from the richness of your lived experiences. This is what I'll be writing.