Thank you for all the nice birthday wishes! I can tell you that only 4 days out of my 20s, I am already stoked to be rid of them. Somewhere in my mind changing decades was symbolic as it allowed me to shed an old comfortable persona that had begun to wear thin anyhow. Not that I woke up on Monday feeling any different, just completely aware that thankfully, I am not the same person I was 10 years ago, or even 5 years ago.

Bizarrely, as some of you know, it was only when I started getting involved with textiles (at 25) that my life started to go from completely chaotic to something resembling more peaceful. I wouldn’t go so far as to say “textiles changed my life,” but they definitely changed it for the better.

I have always had a numinous side, so starting with a medium that had connections to my ancestors makes sense to me now. My grandmother insists that somehow my textiles obsession is something born from my genetic history, and my frequent return to the UK is something I cannot escape for the same reason. Honestly, who knows? But secretly, I like to think she is right. That everytime I work on a piece of needlecraft I am continuing a chain established on lands other than this one, over a century ago.

Poppycock. That’s what my grandfather would say, but underneath it would be a smile. My family tree is hewn strong due to scores of soldiers in its ranks. This past week my cousin passed out a photocopied booklet he had compiled about the life of my great grandfather (my grandfather’s father). Proudly an Army soldier, proudly an Irish Catholic, proudly full of love and life. For several hours I was whisked away over 60 years ago, lost in letters written to my Nana (his wife, now passed on, who used to crochet afghans and paint and tell stories) of captures, the “strain of war” and the difficulties of leading others in battle. Entranced by newspaper clippings and photographs and descriptions of a rough-and-dirty fight that he was a part of.

I do a fair amount of reading regarding the women’s experience during World War II, so his letters from France were especially fascinating. When a newspaper clipping noted it was cold, I thought of the legions of women knitting balaclavas and vests to send the soldiers in the hopes that their love would be caught in the pockets of air between the stitches. Through his words, I was able to construct more of the story of World War II. Before then, I had only had intimate knowledge of the experience of women.

There was word that there might be more of these letters somewhere, bundled in a drawer or packed in a suitcase, and I am excited to learn of their existence. Because they allowed me to envision a period in time in a different way than my usual method of reading things from the women’s perspective. This slight reversal, brought about by the accidental discovery of love letters handwritten decades ago, reminded me once again that even though we think that we have covered all the bases, sometimes we overlook the most important pieces of the puzzle. And sometimes, those pieces only materialize when we are ready to see them.

That being said, my computer is all fixed! I pick it up this weekend, which means I get to start on the work/shop project and a project called vernacular, which will be up here soon and is loosely based on the sublime nature of modernity. Whee.