Shared Loss

His grandmother heard it on the radio while lying in bed two Saturdays ago. Bombo Radio announced- her grandson's body was found under a bridge.  That's my grandson's name. It can't be. What happened? Why?

They call the radio station and the police to make sure.

His father, my brother, identifies his body lying in the morgue.  Yes, that's my son but he wasn't born with that bruise on his chest. Or those broken legs. Yes, I will sign that paper.  My brother's tears fall between the lines of the death certificate, mixes with the ink of the ballpoint pen.

They let me know. My stomach heavy, I ask the same questions.  Say the same things.  What? What happened? But he is only 20...? Why?  When?

We don't know, they say.  The police is investigating with questions of their own.

But here we are, they say, disbelieving.  He lies right in front of us in a casket.  So many young people, lining up outside on the sidewalk near the funeral home, like Cory Aquino's wake.

My cousin in Saudi Arabia burns a candle for my brother and his son. I light my own.

I wish I could be there, put my arms around my brother and my nephew's mother. Put my arms around everyone. Find comfort in being with my family.   I make a shirt but my mind and heart are not watching the stitches of the sewing machine.

I met him when he was a chubby 3 or 4 years old. Saw his pictures before and after that.  We were friends on facebook, chatted sometimes.  Last time, he was thinking about learning another language. Like my other nephews and nieces, I know more about him from his posts on facebook. Unlike the others, I know I will not see him again.

The candle makes the air in my studio feel like a chapel.  I share the grief. I share the loss of their son, my nephew.

I wish him a good journey.

Bye, dear Kelsey.

El Rompecabezas

El rompecabezas.  A puzzle in Spanish. Two words combined: "romper" is to break and "cabezas" is heads.

I kept thinking about "el rompecabezas" while sewing my shirt.  It was like putting a puzzle together.  Each piece had to be sewn correctly to fit into another. The edges of the collar stand should be sewn flush to the front to get a crisp finish.

Each step lead to another.  The back and front parts should be attached and finished before the collar was sewn to the neck.

My el rompecabezas for the past two weekends had the following pieces. The pattern was from the book Sew U by Wendy Mullin.  From 2 1/2 yards of cotton fabric, I cut the following:

2 collar pieces
2 collar stands
1 shirt back
2 shirt half fronts
2 front facings
2 sleeves
4 cuffs
2 bias strips for placket

To keep from going crazy, I took each step slowly. I forced myself to take breaks when the pieces were not fitting right.  I took time between ironing the fabric, laying out the pattern pieces,  cutting out the pieces, sewing parts together, finishing the seams, making button holes, and attaching the buttons.

I allowed for mistakes. If I had to, I ripped out seams and re-sewed.  Cussing was also allowed, alternating five different words or any combination as needed.

Voila!  A wearable puzzle.

Coming Soon

More cards.  I'm experimenting with the shiny fabric swatches a friend gave me.

A shirt. I'm sewing my 3rd shirt which will be better than my second, and more finished than my first. My sewing machine is cooperating with less thread snagging and breaking. Picture to follow.

A novel.  I've been writing almost everyday and most of the weekends. I'm learning how to focus and make scenes interesting.  My fourth character decided to tell me his story and stopped being moody.  If I finish two chapters a month I should have the first draft in the spring.

A better Spanish learner. I'm still teaching myself Spanish and learning with my co-workers.  I try to do something Spanish- related everyday. Watch BBC Mundo videos, listen to a song, read a children's book, have a simple conversation with one of my fellow learners, learn a new word, or do some exercises in my workbook.

A person at home in Iowa.  Although I still wish for sunny and warm weather, I'm learning to handle the change of seasons. Not to get caught up in the cold and cloudy days of fall and let winter come when it does.  I still miss the Philippines but I claim the spaces I have now.  Digging into the dirt in our backyard to bury bricks for our labyrinth must have helped.  Yesterday at work, I decided I'm privileged to have a key when I unlocked our office at 7:30 in the morning and made my way to my gray cubicle.

 I'm truly understanding what "glass half-full" means.  It's that one small effort everyday. One new word. One part of the puzzle piece. One sentence. One paragraph. A drop. A thought.

Awake at 2 a.m.

I woke up from a dream, a friend was visiting with his wife and they decided to leave while I was getting a card and some presents ready for them.  I ran to the living room before they go, talking with my mouth full of bread, and gave them their share. They stayed and stood eating the bread as fast as they can. Their mouths greasy, crumbs on their faces, worse than Cookie Monster's mess. I could not figure out why they wanted to leave so soon.  There was a pain on my side, I had to pee. I was glad to wake up.

I went back to bed, hoping to get back to sleep.  The AC was running but its noise could not silence the monkeys in my head that got excited to realize it was Saturday.  So after about half an hour of trying to lie quietly while my mind roamed through the weekend and rehearsed what I should write in my application for a writing residency at a place in Washington State. I decided to get up and look at the application guidelines.  The questions require some thought: writing influences and inspirations, possible contribution as an alumna, project plan during the residency, and writing sample.   I worked on my writing sample last week, a chapter in my novel.  I will get my application done by Monday (deadline is September 8th). The residency is a 2-6 week period next year.

I want to go back to sleep but I'm not feeling tired enough.  I hear the crickets through the closed windows. There might be a nap in my future, probably after we get back from the Farmer's Market to pick up some corn, watermelon, and veggies for the brunch this weekend.  From month to month, we are unsure who and how many are coming. I guess that's how it is with recurring events (the brunches are on the first Sunday of the month).  One time, we had 23 people in the house, other times we only had 5.  After our August brunch, we ate left-over bagels and cream cheese for a week.  We enjoyed the company of those who made it. We decided we were going to end our brunches in December.  We'll find another way to get together with friends (without having to clean the house and get ready for a monthly party).

My mind jumps to other projects. On Tuesday, which I took off, I might start sewing a shirt.  I will at least get the pattern and fabric ready.  I had been thinking of going shopping and reminding myself how hard it is for me to find clothes that fit.

I realize something pulls me out of bed early in the mornings. I compensate because I could not be in my studio during the day, unless its the weekend or my day off.  I'm taking some writing time before I go to work.

I wish, though, that I could at least sleep in on the weekends.

Happy weekend!

Sewing, Writing, and T'ai Chi

Sewed this skirt over the July 4th weekend, after trying three times to make my own pattern from instructions I got from the internet.

I bought the blue and yellow calico fabric at a store in Boston's China Town when we visited my in-laws  a few weeks ago.  I got two more fabrics to play with.  The book I ordered on pattern making arrived.  I'm tempted to jump into making shirts and blouses but need to be more patient and make another skirt. Make easy projects to feel success.

Two weeks ago, I attended a week-long writing workshop at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. I learned how to edit, remembering to be original, clear, specific, and put just enough to make a good story.  I'm more motivated to keep writing every day.

 Like in t'ai chi, it's the doing that counts.

Keeping It Simple

I've had six months of thinking about sewing pants because other projects  took precedence: making scarves for holiday gifts, 20 sets of cards for my mother-in-law's fundraising donation, the ambitious backyard labyrinth project, planning and having our monthly brunches, and weeding the labyrinth.  But what really set me back was my frustration over not succeeding to sew the perfect pair of pants.   The back and front pieces, fly guard, zipper, and waistband from my last attempt sat on my sewing table for months.  But picking up from where I stopped,  figuring out how to sew the parts together from my last fitting and adjustments became intimidating.  Though I was proud to sew my previous practice pants, I didn't want to add to the pile  I don't wear because they were loose or tight around the wrong places. Their waistlines gaped, hips and thighs a little tight, zippers did not lie flat.
Feeling of failure kept me from starting my Janome again.  I haven't given up on sewing but making pants might be way over my skills. For now.

So I decided to build on success and start simply.  At my job, I suggest to use what kids already know and can do to build up their skills. Could the same principle apply to sewing? Sewing books hinted on starting with easy projects, building up skills to higher level and more complex ones.  From skirts to shirts to pants.
Step by step.
Slow by slow.
So today, as the thunderstorm brought lightning, thunder, and rain that went down the street faster than the speed limit in our neighborhood,  I kept it simple.  I made two pillow cases from cotton fabrics I bought a few years ago from an antique shop downtown.  I practiced measuring at least twice before cutting the fabrics, deciding on the simple design, sewing the pieces together, seaming,  ironing the seams flat, and handsewing the closure.  My sewing lines stayed straight and clean. My foot controlled the machine evenly.  It was easy.  I nearly sang while I sewed.
The pillows turned out pretty.  I feel successful and  motivated to sew more.
Next project: more pillowcases or skirts.

Auntie Cian

Auntie was Papa's half-sister.  She lived with us and took care of the household while my parents worked as full time teachers.  She took care of  the children while doing chores.  I was usually by her side, which meant I was doing whatever she was doing.  My hands in the laundry water with hers, rubbing snot off Papa's hankies as she commented on how slippery they were, we laughed how it made us cringe. We bleached whites under the sun on top of gumamela bushes until we were ready to rinse them.

She taught me how to use the first crease of my middle finger to measure rice water.  I learned how to arrange firewood to build the best fire for the pot of rice.  I followed her in the garden when she picked Queen Anne's lace. She bundled a dozen together and sold them to the flower vendors in the market.

  

I went to her when I got hurt or scared.  She worried as she dug out an ant from my ear.  She inspected my head when I fell from the steps, my hair and face wet with sweat and tears.  During an earthquake, she looked for me,  walking with her hands on the walls to keep her steady.  Over my sobbing, she cussed out the boy who stepped on my toe when I came home from school,  my foot bleeding in my shoe.  I cried not because I got hurt but because I had a crush on that boy she was mad at.

When I was a teenager, I pouted, argued, and dragged my feet, even when she pleaded for my help. I pretended to sleep when it was time to do the dishes, or when I did I banged them and made as much noise as I could.  I argued against scrubbing soot off  pots because they will get dirty again anyway.  I was envious of my older sister, who she didn't ask to do chores.  She had standards I could not seem to meet, and I told her so.  But she was patient with me.

One time, I went with her to the market but refused to carry the  shabby woven market bags.  She said something in the sense of "it isn't what you're carrying but what you have in your heart that matters."

Through the years, I  wondered what made her stay. Was it imposed upon her, an extension from her taking care of my father when he went to college?  She got stuck with him so his family became her own.  What  would she have done if she had the chance to go to college herself?  Was she happy devoting her life to us? Had she wanted to be with someone? 

Because I moved away, I couldn't make up for my selfishness but I suspect she did not hold it against me.  I also didn't get the chance to ask her my questions.

She passed away a few years ago.  I think about her every time I cook rice

Auntie, my heart now feels secure enough for me to carry a shabby market bag.

Happy Mother's Day, Auntie Cian!