Pockets, Patches and Pins

It is not uncommon for me to lose something ... my keys, the old fliptop cellphone -- in one of my pockets. I mostly wear things with pockets because I feel lost without them. On a cold day I could be wearing a pair of pants with two pockets; a hoodie with two more pockets; an extra jacket with two pockets; and a windbreaker with four pockets. 

If it is a usual day my busy mind and long-distance treks that take us from wagon to kitchen, or kitchen to cubby, or wagon to chicken coop easily forgets that I have tucked my key into one of those pockets. Like shifting your glasses onto your head and forgetting. The hunt for something safely stowed into a pocket can be material for a silly everyday comedy. Or, on one of the dark and dastardly days when rain turns pathways to streams, on days only a duck could love things lost in pockets could be a form of damnation. Oh woe. Oh no.

But I have been rescued from any sort of mash of guilt about stowing goods or keys in pockets: I have found Mrs. Noah's Pockets. The beautifull pictures and comforting words of this book are a gift of such delight, and hope.

Give a look, and listen to Jackie Morris tell and read part of her book.

I too aspire to be like Mrs. Noah.

It's a good thing there is room for needles, pins, threads and scraps of fabric in my life. Mrs. Noah knew about the importance of work women do, making spaces and places for those more troublesome creatures. Piecing together a pair of soft corduroy pants I bought the same year we began building our Vardofortwo but never wore because they didn't fit, this winter I pulled those pants out of the scrap bag. A long strip was missing from one of the legs. I'd cut that out to add to a vest that I had outgrown (grown too thick in the middle). The vest has since been handed down to Pete who does not need the extra girth. But now? Now I needed the soft and warm corduroy pants for those dark and dastardly cold and wet windy winter treks.

A length of wine-sort wide wale corduroy has patched many other good-enough-to-save pants. If you know me you might have noticed them covering knees or trimming the wallet Pete carries in his back pocket. Here it is again covering up the slice of leg on my right side.

The smaller pieces are whimsy. Small blocks off of a very old and favorite curtain that hung in our Manoa Valley cottage. Since then the cotton print has been cut down to be the window curtain over the golden wagon's French door window; cuffs of still another worn but still usable shirt are trimmed with memories of wavy lines and pieces of swimmers (fish) still making their way onto patchwork.

As I piece together this post my long-worn turquoise coat is held together at the front with a safety pin. The zipper no longer functions as it used to and I have chosen not to replace it for that is a major work of disassembly to replace it. Instead, my mother's fastener of choice works just fine. And, since I'm on a thread that leads to my Ma's bit of common magic it's fun to revisit the medicine and story that begins The Safety Pin Cafe.

"In letters like liquid copper I read The Safety Pin Cafe. Ravens black and shiny as if dipped in wet ink sat in the panes of the windows out-lined and sparkling with fairy lights. "Against the seasonal darkness, the trick is to tickle the light from its hiding places," that was coming from the woman on the other side of the window panes. I smiled as I recognized a Muse and reached for the crystal door knob and pushed the front door open. The smell of warm cinnamon toast and hot milk filled my nostrils."

I'm really on my way up the hill and into the golden wagon to another little writing space where I have begun to patch work a long story begun many years ago. I'm really telling myself this little tale and being fed on Mrs. Noah's Pocket so I can pull the troublesome and oddly beautiful stories that want to be stitched together. My cup of Irish Breakfast tea is cool now; the oatmeal mixed with nourishing pumpkin seeds and chunks of pear still warm enough to gift me smooth comfort.

I'm really warming up to the task priming the pump and the joy factor of the work of an artist-in-residence, tickling the fears out from hiding with gentle coaxing. My pockets are ever ready for filling with nonsense and passing thoughts that may get lost, or maybe not. Between here and there the patches make a story new and old, together. Safety pins? They show up when you least expect them and aren't we glad for their efficiency.

We're all artist-in-residence I think, don't you, too? I'd love to hear how you fill your pockets, patch your life or your still wearable masquerades over a cup of tea, while nibbling something delicious or sharing email conversation. Please leave a comment, tack on a message or send a note in a bottle or around the leg of a carrier pigeon. I do so love the company of your art!

xo Moki

P.S. They're calling for a big storm coming through: wind, and maybe rain. The rain is here so best I send this story out and tuck it into one of Mrs. Noah's pockets. ~~~💖