I’ve happened upon this woman hiking in the Spotsylvania Battlefield several times. On a few of these occasions we’ve exchanged greetings and she’s told me she walks these trails every morning. Everything about her makes me want to be a better person. Her countenance is calm. Her hair is silver and and her smile is bright. She carries a water bottle. She wears fashionable hiking clothes. She is a mature older hiker. She makes hiking look fun. No counting steps or tracking miles. No headphones for music or podcasts, just the sounds of nature and the occasional shout out from fellow hikers. Forest bathing.

I don’t like gyms. And this looks like such a good way to take care of myself on multiple levels. I complain that it’s too cold to hike outdoors in the winter. Yesterday I bought a pair of insulated hiking leggings. I can’t wait to get started.

Sometimes I forget to be happy.

From a young age, I loved handmade quilts. I wanted to learn to sew and quilt. I took classes in my twenties and quilted for over 30 years, making and giving away many quilts. Along the way, I dabbled in applique and machine quilting and even tried my hand at a few art quilts. But my happy place was always the sweet spot where form and function meet up. The quilts I loved to make were simple and functional with an emphasis on quality every step of the way. I stopped quilting when it became too hard on my body. Too much sitting. Eye and neck strain. I don’t miss it at all. But I still live with those handmade quilts, as soft as butter, warm yet light, textured by stitches 10 to an inch.

I see parallels between my quilting and my photography. I’m still physically able to carry the camera and move about to take pictures (though I require a lot of maintenance!) When I began taking pictures, I aspired to reach the stage where I could see the beauty in my every day, ordinary life. I never wanted to create something original, only to appreciate what I already had. I didn’t need to learn any fancy techniques or buy the latest gear. I only had to dig in and do the work. And here I am again, at the sweet spot where form and function meet. The arrangement of things in the frame, making order out of chaos, pleasing to me.

It washes over me . . . that happy feeling . . . of being exactly right.

When I read these words from Sean Tucker, they sounded like a Thanksgiving prayer.

That’s my abiding hope for you, and for me: that we learn to separate out our need for affirmation from the joy we derive from making. That we learn to love ourselves first, to deal with our pain well, and then make for the joy of making and perhaps bring a little Order to someone else’s Chaos.

I am thankful that I’ve learned to deal with my pain well. A big part of that healing I owe to my little sister, who will be 50 this month. Talking to her about our shared story has released me in ways I could never have imagined. I sat across the table from her in a coffee shop yesterday, and we talked non-stop. In her I see the parts of me that I love the most. I don’t have to hide any part of myself with her.

I read a little further in Sean’s chapter Attention . . .

What if the very best that happens is that your work touches the lives of a precious few, but that ends up giving you a deep and abiding sense of fulfillment? Well, that seems like a great way to spend a life.

  • I prefer a one-on-one chat, a quiet place, and focused attention.

  • I plan my daily life so as to avoid crowds.

  • I hate to be busy or rushed. I like to take my time.

  • I love to walk the empty streets of neighborhoods during the day when most people are at work.

  • I am most at home, and create my best work, in solitude. In places nearly empty, wide-open or untamed in some manner.

“Sometimes, as makers of things, our direction and intention are clear to us. However, the rest of the time we rely on a gut feeling and have to work out what we’re doing as we go.”

—Sean Tucker, The Meaning in the Making