MISS MOOX: HOPE

We spent the day amongst the flowers as a group of new friends, talking, laughing and making. We became better acquainted and pledged to do it again. I hope that we do. That evening I went home, felt lucky to have new friends and put Fleetwood Mac on the record player. The perfume of the flowers still fills my home, nearly a week later, making me inhale deeply and smile each time I enter the room.
Sunday past, Anna kindly invited us into her home where we sat in (what felt like) the early Spring sunshine and commented on how welcoming her home was; filled with the scent of delicious food cooking in the oven and her son's artwork adorning the walls. Anna is a warm and wonderful soul who I am so glad to have met since leaving London, making this town a little more friendly each day. Meanwhile Charlotte showed us how to work with flowers (in this case all British grown, from The Great British Florist) to produce some always pretty and undeniably feminine flower crowns. Charlotte is a natural teacher, I could listen to her for days while she creates and talks... funny, clever and talented.
Michelle dutifully (and without complaint) took all our photos while we tried to pose and seem professional, although it mainly ended in awkward smiles and embarrassed expressions. Ok, that was just me, but still... The photos above of Anna (top right), Charlotte (top left) and myself are all taken by Michelle. I really think she is an incredible photographer. She did not lose her patience once, even when I was clearly unbearable in front of the camera. Michelle is one of those classically beautiful and charming women that I am so happy to call a friend (and she carried off a stack of flower crowns like no other as evidenced in the photo of her above, taken by Anna). (All other photos are mine, taken with my iPhone.)
I truly loved meeting everyone else for the first time too. Jo, Natalie, Elena , Hannah & Katie; what a great bunch of ladies to spend a day with!

He's gone. The most beautiful, wonderful, happiest, most loving cat in the whole entire world, is gone.

"No longer with us." That's the phrase Julie, his owner used. She called me at work today to let me know. "I've got some bad news," she said. I immediately stiffened. "Are you ready?" "I don't know," I responded, holding tight to the phone. She went on to tell me anyway in a voice resigned with sorrow. "Mugsy's no longer with us," she said.

I knew when she said it was bad news it had to be one of the cats. Mugsy or Bruno, his brother, but I suspected it would be Bruno. With his more adventurous habits, we had more than once commented that he was in danger of being hit by a car as he crossed the road.

"You're joking," I said. She was not. She proceeded to relate the story. February 11, one day after her birthday, a woman came to the door crying and asking if they owned a gray cat because she had just hit one. It was Mugsy.

Julie said that he had looked perfect, completely unmangled, as if nothing had happened to him. They laid his still-warm body down on a grassy knoll and prayed over him for a long time, but he didn't revive.

Mugsy. "The joy of the farm, the most wonderful cat in the world," Julie called him, and it was true.

She hadn't wanted to tell me on Sunday when she saw me in church (I was in Canada the day that it happened). I had asked after Mugsy and she'd said, "He's fine, as ever," with a nervous laugh. And I'd asked how Bruno was. "With his habit of crossing the road, I keep being afraid I'll hear bad news about him," I remarked. I now wonder how she kept a straight face.

I can hardly believe that he's gone. I can hardly believe that when I go back to the farm (and I am afraid to now), I won't be able to call, "Here, kitty, kitty," and see his smiling gray face bounding toward me as he runs full tilt to throw himself at me, in the rapturous way he had that made you feel like the most special person in the world. I won't feel the gentle pressure of his wet nose and soft cheeks as he "kisses" me cat-style by rubbing his face against mine. I won't feel his sturdy squirming body cuddled in my arms, or hear his thunderous purr, or feel his ever-active claws pricking my skin as he kneads my arm. I won't feel the softness of his long fine gray fur, or watch as he jumps on his brother, tackles him, and bites his neck. I won't be able to see him crazily whirling and jumping after dragonflies or leaves, the former of which he rarely if ever caught. I won't hear his "miaow" from somewhere in the rafters as he wends his way through the tangle of the barn roof, or the scrabbling and thud as he falls off something. I won't hear his frantic and rapid paw-scratching on the glass door as he stretches himself up and works away in a desperate bid to be let in the house. I won't be able to watch the funny way he jumps off my lap and runs to investigate the sudden water stream released by the bathroom pipe outlet. I won't see his intense and love-filled green eyes staring into mine. He was always smiling, always happy, always totally in the moment, always the clown, always loving. The most wonderful cat in the world is no longer with us.

Julie said they kept him for a few days while they waited for warm weather to bury his body. She didn't want to burn him. She hasn't yet found a good stone to mark his grave.

Why is it always the best ones that go? And why did it have to be by car? Mugsy always (I thought) stuck close to the house. He was terrified of cars. If one started up while he was in the vicinity, he would run. If you were holding him and a car went by on the road, he'd tense to flee. If it was in the driveway, you'd have a very tough job holding him as he scrambled desperately to escape. Bruno, his gentle brother, was the one who crossed the road. If either of them got hit, we thought it would be Bruno. In fact (ironically now) I always consoled myself that at least if we lost one, it would be Bruno (not that I didn't love him but I had a fiercer affection for Mugsy).

In the end it doesn't matter. Mugsy's gone, I hope he did not suffer and never knew what hit him. He will never adorn the farm anymore as its liveliest and lovingest denizen. Its smiling sunny fields and (to him) endless possibilities for amusement and play will be emptier and sadder now.

And I have lost a dear and wonderful friend.

I do hope cats get to heaven. Because if they do, the first one I want to see there is Mugsy.

RIP, little friend.

Hello, My dear family & friends,
Valentine's Day is past but for me it lingers in my heart and throughout the entire month of Love...
I love February.

"The man or woman you really love will never grow old.
Through the wrinkles of time,
Through the bowed frame of years,
You will always see the dear face
and feel the warm heart union
of your eternal love. "
A. Montepert

Sweets for the Sweet!

True Love
Mark & Carolynn

"Us"
Our 12th Wedding Anniversary
1998
Mark and I have been happily married for 27 years.
We met in San Diego in 1985...
and it really was love at first sight!

"Grow Old With Me
The Best is Yet to Be."

My Sweetheart
"Then"

My Sweetheart
"Now"

Is your mouth watering, yet?

"His and Hers"

Whenever we visit San Diego we always make a trip to See's.
This year as Valentine's Day was approaching we indulged just a bit.

Two Hearts Beating As One...

I'm so glad you stopped by...
I know that most likely several of you are on
Post Valentine's Day diets...
BUT
I think you'd agree...
We all need a little sweetness in our day!

Blessings to you!
Carolynn xoxo

"Now these three remain:
Faith,
Hope,
&
Love
But the greatest of these is Love."
1 Corinthians 13:13

Each week I love joining in my favorite blog parties. I'm linking with:
Boogie Board Cottage
www.boogieboardcottage.blogspot.com
Mockingbird Hill Cottage
www.mockingbirdhillcottage.com
Sunny Simple Life
www.sunnysimplelife.blogspot.com
The Dedicate House
www.thededicatedhouse.blogspot.com
The Little Red House
www.dearlittleredhouse.blogspot.com
Etsy Cottage Style
www.etsycottagestyle.blogspot.com
Cozy Little House
www.cozylittlehouse.com
Knick Of Time
www.knickoftimeinteriors.blogspot.com
Lavender Cottage Dreams
www.lavendergardencottage.blogspot.com
Have A Daily Cup of Mrs Olson
www.jannolson.blogspot.com
My Rose Chintz
www.sandimyyellowdoor.blogspot.com
Common Ground
www.debrasvintagedesigns.blogspot.com
Farmgirl Friday Blog Hop
www.deborahjeansdandelionhouse.blogspot.com
I Gotta Create
www.igottacreate.blogspot.com
Rooted In Thyme
www.rootedinthyme.blogspot.com
The Charm of Home
www.thecharmofhome.blogspot.com
Meet and Greet Blog Hop by Laurie
www.createdbylaurie.blogspot.com
Show-Licious Saturday's
www.sew-licious.blogspot.com

Won't You Be My Valentine?

My Red Welsh Cupboard all dressed up for
Valentine's Day

How I love red and white!
I made this Valentines miniature quilt in 1995.
I enjoy bringing it out each February.

My sweet sister, Sherry, gave me this darling tea set many years ago.
Isn't it adorable?

Brrrr...It's cold outside!

Happy little Play Pals straight from the heart of my darling adopted daughter, Paula
Thank you, dear. I love them!

Happy Heart Day!

Thank you for visiting me, my dearest friends and family.
I hope and pray that each one of you have a wonderful Valentine's Day!

Blessings and Fond Affection,
Carolynn xoxo "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices in truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.Love never fails." I Corinthians 13:4-8

I'm linking with all my favorite blogs and parties. I have listed them all on my sidebar. I hope you will stop by each one and say hello. I'm sure they would love to meet you!

I am so excited to be participating in Sandy's Easter-Spring SWAP at www.521lakestreet-sandy.blogspot.com The last day to sign up is February 18 Hurry...You don't want to miss this fun swap!

So, this has always been a strictly design based blog. I've never been very personal on here. I find that difficult. I'm shy, private by nature, my sense of humour is bone dry, and well, I'm British. However, I want that to change (not the British part, naturally). Don't worry, I'm not suddenly going to get all over sharey on you (sharey?) but towards the end of last year and now this year, things have started to change with me and while it's a long and complicated tale which I will save for another time, I felt the time was right to try and make a change.
When I started this blog (I had a previous one back in '08) it was to aid my new business and to get a sense of what the community was all about - was this something I wanted to pursue? Could I keep it going etc. Since then, blogging has become more than a way to keep my business going. I won't lie and say it has no place within my business because the truth of the matter is that it is my main source of work and for that I am always truly grateful. However, the more I get to know people through blogging the more I love it for that very reason - getting to know like minded people. The world has changed in the past decade. Ten years ago when I was in my early 20s I would never have guessed that I would be into chatting to be people on the Internet... God forbid! But now with blogs & Twitter etc it's totally normal and I like that. I've met so many great people through blogging, that I feel my world both socially and professionally has changed irrevocably for the better. I've met lots of people in person and formed real friendships. Then there's those people who are too far away geographically to meet, but who I still have real tangible friendships with and who I genuinely know will be in my life for a long, long time.
But the fact remains that I feel as though I need to redress the balance on my own blog to reflect how it has changed as a platform for me and my work. And, how I have changed as a person. One thing it has given me which I will forever be grateful for (and which I continue to struggle with on a daily basis) is increased confidence (which is going to be the subject of another blog post soon - it's all too much for one post).
The thing is, I could go on about this subject for hours. Literally. But to cut a long story short, I intend to make my blog more of a place to come and chat alongside all the design stuff (that's not going anywhere!) and I hope you'll join me, still. I really do love having you visit here and it means so much to me to know you're out there. (See, I'm doing it! But, while it's still a bit against my nature, please bear with me!). After all, your support has made it possible for me to discover a career I never thought I'd be able to achieve... going it alone and freelancing and sustaining myself. The past two years have been unbelievable (both with highs and lows) and a lot of that is because I started this blog.
So, onwards, friends... thanks again and as always, I'd love to know your thoughts.
(I know, how utterly un-British of me! *waves Union Jack, makes a cup of tea, sings God Save The Queen and complains about the weather* Aaaand, relax).

Yesterday I heard from my immigration lawyer that Citizenship and Immigration Canada is requesting a medical exam.

My application to immigrate to Canada was submitted a year and a half ago. During that time, I moved to the States, adjusted to a totally new and different place, lived in six different houses, had three jobs, suffered severe depression, went through a whirlwind romance and heartrending breakup, and got healed by God. I've been knit into the joyous and glorious dance that is my church, and ultimately, the kingdom of God. I've come to love people here and form good friendships, some of which I hope will last a lifetime. I've learned to appreciate the unique beauty of the New England seacoast. I will miss it here, in many ways, if I go back to Canada.

Apparently, once a medical exam is requested, you are all but in. CIC only requires medicals of those they have intent of accepting; with no other problems on the application, a clear medical is a green light. Only if I exhibit some severe mental or physical condition or communicable disease requiring hospitalization and dependence on social services, with unlikelihood of being self-supporting, will they refuse me. Apparently.

I confess I am divided, with the heaving thoughts and emotions associated with such a big step. When I first moved here, all I thought about was going back to Canada. I strained toward the day when I could return and resume "normal life". More recently, the connections I've formed here have caused such an attachment that I've wanted not to go back to Canada, but to stay here, remain a part of the church, keep up with the relationships I have, be a part of what's going on. I thought that if I was accepted, there'd be a long and difficult decision about whether to stay or to go.

But when the news came yesterday an exultant flood of joy welled up in me that I couldn't suppress and didn't expect. "Canada! Canada!" was all I thought. The country I lived in for six years, came to love, became a part of, now could be mine! The city I lived and played and worked and studied and loved in, Toronto, could be my home again. The multiplicity and diversity of the ethnic makeup, the bustle of the city, the multitude of opportunities and the palette of crazy life on every corner: mine to inhabit. For real this time. As a resident. Belonging.

All my reasons for staying here in a moment were torn away and I realized: there's nothing here I can't leave. No defining ties. Sure, there are lots of people I love. There's a fantastic church, the best I've ever been a part of, a leadership team I'm proud to support and exciting things that are happening.

But when I gave my life to God, I meant it, and, as someone in our church likes to say, he took it. It's not mine to direct. It's his. And I sense he's saying, "Go."

It will mean another rending. It will mean another ripping up of little roots that cling to the soil, leaving bits of me behind. It will mean the hardship of adjusting, once again, even to a familiar environment. It will mean the pain of missing what I have here. It will mean relationships which will have to be maintained long distance, and people I can no longer drop in to see once a week.

But can I not do it? No. I heard God whisper to me, "Don't ever say you can't do anything I've called you to." And I believe it. And I know, if he wants me to move back to Canada, that he's got greater things there for me.

But this place, will always be a part of me. It will always have my heart.

I'm so thankful, as I was thinking last night during worship at homegroup, surrounded by some of the most precious people in my life: this life is so temporary. The rendings, the partings, the pain and the sorrow, are only for such a short time. We will be together again for eternity, united where no death, no move, no animosity or hardship, will ever part us again. United around the one who makes us one, the reason for our being: Jesus. And it will be forever.

So that in mind, I can do this. Yes, it will be hard. But I can never say no. It's not my life. On to the next adventure.

I've heard about photographers getting into trouble for photographing buildings and other public spaces under the Homeland Security Act. Some have debated the actual legality of this. I always wondered if it would ever happen to me. Well, today, it did.

About two or three miles down the road from where I live is a spectacular power station. Apocalyptic buildings, a railroad track running into it, steel structures, towers, multiple lines—the works. I'd often thought while running past it what a wonderful photo opportunity it would make, particularly at sunset as it's silhouetted by the gorgeous colours of the sky.

Today, boredom (due to lack of a job, again), looking through some of my old film scans, and a brilliant sunlight combined to hatch a plan. I'd buy some colour film and take my lovely old Canon AE-1 out for a long-overdue expedition to the power station and shoot in the hour or so before sunset. I was a little wary of shooting in the area, realizing that I might get into trouble, but as there were no signs up forbidding photographs, I figured that I could always plead ignorance.

So the plan was executed; I bought the film, headed out, and got several shots which hopefully will be as fantastic as the viewfinder promised. I worked my way down the road, shooting various vantage points as I went, all the time half-expecting some public service employee to zoom out in one of their official trucks, bark at me, and confiscate my camera.

Sure enough, I'd gotten to the point at which I couldn't go any further without trespassing, when a grumpy gray-haired woman guarding the gate shouted, "You're not allowed to take photographs." Figuring my time was up, I shot one more and started walking back to my car. I'd gotten all the shots I wanted anyway.

As I walked back down the road, a car approached, slowed, and pulled over to the side of the road. A big, pleasant-looking man in a green uniform got out.

"Hello!"

"Hello."

"I'm sorry, but you're not allowed to take photographs of the station. Homeland Security and the Coast Guard regulations. You can shoot down the road and that way, but I'm going to have to ask you not to take any photographs past this point." He was kind and almost apologetic, touching my arm placatingly at one point as he spoke.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know, I won't do it again," I said sincerely. It wasn't really a lie; I'd already gotten the photographs I wanted and had no need to go back.

"I'm going to have to get your name," he continued, pulling a piece of paper and a pen out of his pocket.

"What are you going to use it for?" I asked warily.

"I have to write a report," he replied. "Don't worry, we're not going to use it for anything but that. I have to show it to PSNH, and they're the only ones who are going to see it."

I've never been tempted so strongly to tell a lie in a long time. But I told him the truth, and watched as he scrawled it in faint pen lines on the graph-lined paper.

"OK, you're all set, just don't take any photos here anymore," he said as he went to leave.

I babbled apologetically, "It's just an art thing, I didn't mean any harm by it, I promise I won't do it again." All of which is the truth.

"It's OK, don't worry, just don't do it again."

He left and drove off, but not without driving by my car, turning around, and driving past it again. Getting the license plate number, maybe? Oh, well, I won't be back there again taking photos. I just have to hope the ones I got today will be good enough that I'm not tempted.

But I'm left wondering about the actual legality of forbidding people to take photographs of public places, particularly when no warning signs to the effect are posted. Maybe I'm going to have to look that up...

I spoke to a friend on the phone last night, a recently-made friend met at my last job, with whom I instantly connected before he announced that he was moving cross-country. He confessed to me in broken tones that he was seriously depressed. A week before, when we'd spoken on the phone, our conversation was the only thing that kept him from harming himself. His life seemed like one endless panorama of suffering, a constant uphill battle which was dragging him down with no hope and no light in sight. Our friendship, he said, was the one good thing in his life.

It's at times like that when I'm so thankful, in an odd way, for what I've gone through in my life. My life, too, seemed like one unbroken record of suffering; at times, I felt that God was seeking to make me an example of suffering, an experiment to see how much pain one human could endure. I felt hopeless, despairing, with no end in sight. For much of my life, I sincerely wanted to die.

But the difference is that I've come out the other side. I've been healed. I'm walking in freedom. I've known and tasted God's love and power. And now, I can turn to someone like my friend, from the other side of the darkness, and say, There is hope. It doesn't have to be this way. You, too, can be free.

At times like that, I wouldn't trade my life for the easiest, most pain-free existence imaginable. For then, who would reach out to the suffering? Who would tell them that there is hope? That the impossible, is possible, with God?

I feel a bit like Paul:

"Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst. But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his unlimited patience as an example for those who would believe on him and receive eternal life." (1 Timothy 1:15-16)

For "worst of sinners", perhaps substitute "most hopeless of depressives". But even that, too, he can change. And I'm so glad, that I can be an example to those who are walking in those same shoes.

Had a rather unpleasant incident happen today which reminded me briefly of too many similar ones from my childhood.

Driving back home from small errands, the bank and the library, I suddenly noticed something startling at the side of the road: a cat, lying in a way no cat normally would, stretched out on its side in the gutter, just by the curb and behind a parked car. It was a very white cat, with few light gray markings, making it stand out brilliantly and rather garishly in the gray street.

I had only a second in which to see it, double take, and react. It was a second that resounded as an unpleasant shock. I swiftly pulled two cars in front, parked, and went back. If the cat had only just been hit, I could get it help, I could call an emergency vet, I could find and alert its owners to prevent a family's small, sad sorrow at the death of a beloved pet.

But as I approached it, hope quickly fled. The cat was completely motionless, not even the shadow of a breath, and its appearance led to the conclusion that it had been there some time. Determined to be sure, I prodded it gently with the tip of my foot. It was stiff like a board and its fur was sodden with last night's rain and streaked with the grime of the street. It was clearly male and lacked collar or other identifying marks.

Apart from the signs of death, the cat looked for all the world like any normal cat which had stretched out on its side for a long, lazy nap: eyes closed, one paw extended out in front, only the incongruity of its surroundings and its un-catlike filth and damp detracting from the picture. No blood, no broken bones, and no bloating marred its body.

What to do? I couldn't just leave it there. I have had too many animals die this way, on the road, not to pity someone else's loss. I looked around, decided on the house closest to it in my side of the street, went up the stairs and knocked on the door.

It was a long time before I heard footsteps coming and the door opened. It was a small, pleasant-looking girl about my age. "I saw you—is it about the cat?" she began. I nodded.

"We don't know who it belongs to," she said. "We've called police and animal control and they still haven't come to pick it up. There's a guy who lives here who's coming home later, and he said he'd help us with it. I don't know what to do with it, I guess we'll have to bury it or something." She shrugged.

Suddenly another door flung open and a very tousled-looking, sleepy-eyed girl with clothing in disarray looked out. "Is it about that cat?" she asked. "Is it still there? We've called the f***ing police and they still haven't come to take it away. It was there at midnight when we got home." I said nothing, but by her appearance I could guess that her night hadn't ended at midnight.

An equally tousled- and sleepy-looking guy soon appeared behind the girl to corroborate their story. The gist of it was that the cat had been lying there all night, they'd called police and animal control and flagged down a passing patrol car, and the police said yes, they knew about it and they'd remove it but they hadn't yet. Animal control was only open Monday and Friday. No, they didn't know who it belonged to, but Andre (which seemed to be the name of the tousled guy) had seen it around the neighbourhood. Yes, it was a shame and very sad.

There appeared to be nothing more I could do. We commiserated about it for some time and I offered help but the situation seemed to be as under control as it could be. They thanked me and I got back into my car and went home.

I guess I wanted nothing more than for the pitiful sight of the dead cat, somebody's pet, to be removed from the roadside. It was almost obscene, like a person had died there and been left for all the world to see, no dignity granted it in its final moments, nobody caring enough to remove it from the public eye. It is odd the difference between a domestic animal dying and a wild animal, like a squirrel or a deer. Both are sad, but I suppose the shocking element in a cat or dog's death is the fact that there have been so many cats and dogs that I have known, that have been part of my family or others' and dearly part of my heart. They have a way of working their small and infinitely unique personalities into your affections to almost the same degree as a human friend. I suppose it is the way God created it: cats and dogs seem uniquely designed as human companions and, I firmly believe, have high capacity for genuine love.

I hope this cat doesn't represent somebody's heartbreak. But I equally hope that he doesn't die unmourned. I hope they are able to find his owner, and I hope the owner is worthy enough to be sad at the loss of such a handsome cat. Cats have long been counted among some of my dearest friends. I was sorry to see one die this way.

This is something I wrote on New Year's Day, 2006. I found it this new year, and could not believe what a difference a year has made. I could not write this anymore. I post it here just to show what my life and my thinking was like a year ago, what it was for years, and how profoundly changed it is now. This was not written for publication, obviously, but since I'm not living it anymore I can publish it without fear:

Alone. I’ve been alone all day, since coming home from church. I left early. It’s to be questioned if I really wasn’t alone there either. I went, took in the service, talked to a few people and said the expected “happy new years”. The profound sense of not belonging, not fitting in, finally became overwhelming enough to make me walk out, long before the social hour afterward ended.

The service was jubilant. The church was celebrating those who’d come to Christ in the previous year, and showed a video with highlights of 2005. The worship was exuberant, excited, and many people were dancing uninhibitedly, clearly enjoying God. I watched, the acute pain of feeling like an outsider in the midst of the celebration overridden in moments, but coming back with twisting sharpness just as inevitably. I watched with a smile on my face as Russell and his brother jumped, whirled, and clapped with fists raised in the air, totally abandoned to God’s worship at the front of the church, completely unconscious of what anybody thought. I watched as Megan worshipped God with arms spread outward and a smile of pure joy on her face. I watched as Seth received prayer from a group so large they were jockeying for position to lay hands on him. His hands were upheld and a peaceful smile of bliss was on his face as he received from God. How God must love that, I thought, and the whipping pain of realizing, “I’m not like that,” hit sharp as a fist. Why can’t I be like that? I wonder. How do some people sustain that? Why do some people have such tender hearts? Why do they have no problem allowing God to penetrate them? Why do they so easily bear fruit when I don’t? Hidden and shut away in loneliness and pain, I weep silently and nobody sees. I cry out to God but it seems to make no difference. Hidden from my sight, any prayers for help seem to be met with answers that cause only more pain and don’t bring the solution. Why, I wonder? Why?

And I know the answer is nothing. I don’t know what the answer is. I bear this pain with a silent grimace and cries inside too stifled to be heard or even felt. I buckle under my pain and settle for enduring it because it seems no help is to be found, no answer is to be had, no solution is at hand. Wretched and hopeless endurance of what I feel that I cannot endure is my life. No amount of prayer, no amount of prophecy, no amount of “inner healing” seems to make a difference. I know that the problem lies with my stubborn will and my refusing to allow God in. But even realizing that makes no difference. I can’t overcome it.

I live in pain. My days are spent in misery. I am eaten up with loneliness, with the longing for someone to see me inside as I am and care. I wish that someone could help me. I fear utter abandonment, total loneliness. My social encounters are meaningless and bored. I can’t recall the last real or memorable conversation I had with anyone. Glib exchanges focus on appearing as normal and happy as possible. Never do they dip beneath the surface because my highest value is self-preservation, my worst fear being found out. I keep polite conversations as short as possible, to minimize the length of time I have to make the effort to pretend. I hate parties, groups of people, and conversations where people ask about myself. Which is most of them, since all of us are polite enough to play that game.

Whatever. Even writing this provides no catharsis. I will go to bed alone, in sodden and sullen pain, and wake up in the morning, and go to work at my meaningless job, and come home and go through the routines of eating and cleaning and checking email and talking on the phone and getting ready for bed and going to bed and I’ll get up again the next morning and do it all the same. No light breaks into this darkness, no respite from the pain. Where this will go or I will go nobody knows. Stay tuned.

Update...Still Waiting For Our Little Grandbaby to make his debut. He is one week overdue and we are praying for his arrival in the next few days. Thank you for your prayers!

Welcome To Little Quilts Around The House...
My favorite quilt shop in the southeast is "Little Quilts" in Marietta, Georgia.
A favorite quilting book of mine is one of their delightful publications.

"By The Light Of The Silvery Moon"

I made this little quilt for my Mom for Christmas a few years ago...
Do you see the hand carved red cardinal perched in the antique bread making bowl?
It was crafted by my husband's Grandmother, Annie Grant Keeling.

"Little House In The Big Woods"For several years I taught classes at my local quilt shop.This is the sample from the first miniature quilt class I taught.

"Aunt Jenny and Uncle Pink"My sweet husband gave me this pair of hand carved, jointed wooden dolls.
They were made by Polly Page...a primitive artist from Pleasant Hill, Tennessee.
Polly was a school mate of my husband's grandmother, Annie Grant Keeling.
When they were little girls they were taught hand carving in their little country school in the early 1900s. Polly's dolls are sought after by collectors from around the world.
When my husband was a little boy he would sit and play in the woodshavings
while his Grandma and Polly spent hours together happily visiting and carving.

I love adding lame' to many of my miniatures. I think it adds a bit of warmth and interest.

"Christmas Kitties"The whispy whiskers are stitched with DMC floss.

Sorry...I'm a little late at sharing a few of my Santa Quilts...

I had so much fun making this Santa Quilt. It is one of my favorite little quilts.
The authors of the book "Little Quilts All Through The House" are
Mary Ellen Von Holt, Alice Berg & Sylvia Johnson.

Thank you for stopping by and visiting my home.

I love to quilt and find sewing miniatures right up my alley.
They are inexpensive and easy to finish.
I love sharing sewing projects and hope they serve to inspire you to create.

Blessings,
Carolynn xoxo

We're still waiting for our grandbaby boy to make his appearance...I will post when he arrives!

"Create in me a pure heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me."
Psalm 51:10

I'm linking to my favorite blog parties and giveaways this coming week.
I invite you to visit my sidebar and link up with each one.
I know they would love having you as their guest.