The thing that I love about quilting is that although it is in its simplest form – a blanket to keep us warm against the nights cold air. In its more complex form, it is art. It can be controled, perfectly aligned art or contemporary and expressive with no clear bounderies present in its makers mind as she begins. I had no idea of what I might do when I was given these pieces of fabric. I knew I was creating two quilts that would cover children in the night in its simple form and in its complex form, it would provide a platform of contemporary expression in a jungle themed children’s room. This is what took shape from the little piles of fabric that sat upon my table.

Two Quilts nearly the same yet vary in the placement of their colors.

Blending in their jungle palette….

Keeping warm a little girl’s night…

and her baby brother….

Thanks for visiting


..as fingertips caress the woven threads before me..

I adore fabric. I love its variety of textures, its courseness or silkiness, its softly fallen drape or its stiff as a board stubbornness. I adore the brightly colored cottons and the faded, muted tones of old linens. I adore the heavy weight fabrics that land with a thud onto the cutting table and the soft silks that blow away on the breeze that sneaks in through the window. As a designer, I love to blend them in their many weights and tones, like the sum of parts, like an artists palette, I blend and paint them into a new choir of voices, more beautiful together then alone. I hope I have given each piece a richer voice then it would have had alone.

Thank you for visiting. I hope you find peace in your day and the nightime to come.

I was Ballerina Once

I was a ballerina once, long, long ago. The sky was either blue or rain, the ground was green or snow. I was a ballerina once, with hair down past my knees, silky soft and curly too, at least I felt it so. I was a ballerina once, in the pinkest shoes I knew, I also wore my Mickey socks as well with the cutest bow. I was a ballerina once and the crowd cheered loud and long, while they sat in all our dining chairs, lined neatly in a row. I was a ballerina once my tutu couldnt be found, so I used my silky dressy slip and was so pretty just the same. I was a ballerina once, even though my brother laughed. I spun and bowed and walked tippy toe, so proud of what I was. I was a ballerina once when the sky was bluest blue, I was a ballerina once when when all my dreams were new. I was a ballerina once, that once so long ago, I miss that little piece of me, that never got to grow.
~ written by Susannah Allen


What is wrong with being crooked?. …..Why do lines need to be so straight? Roads are never straight, they meander along the rivers and homes that lay upon the ground. The road simply travels amongst what lays. Straight lines are not a product of nature, rivers, streams, and the earth itself is round. Plants never grow in straight lines, they pop up wherever they want. Even the earth takes its toll on what we build, time and age are the natural processes that remove our linear lines and create graceful curves in the roofs of the homes we build, gentle dips appear in floors as they age, and yet we remain attracted to straightness, control and linear appearances in everything.Why must I make my life so linear?

Quilting is linear and precise but I like my quilting crooked….or at least straight lines lain in crooked directions.Lines that head to who knows where , meeting up with other lines ..or not.
How many times I have headed out and changed my direction, like Robert, I headed where I saw no steps…and when of the mind, I took a turn …or two…. and found myself here. Each arbitrary turn or change brings us to a new place, passing those who follow their own paths into their own unknown.
Where willl tomorrow take me? What lies beyond the very next bend? Maybe something extrordinary, maybe something boring, maybe something more painful than I have known before. If I am afraid I can always stop and sit awhile in this place in which I find myself for now, for knowing it makes me feel safe….and once I have rested here, my fear may subside and once again I will rise and take steps in a new direction and become the person those turns create. I may embrace who I become or find myself in grief for who I use to be.

Colors in my Yard

Summertime brings a quilters palette to what was once a blanket of snow,so crisp and white,cold and quiet,now summer brings the squeaks and twits of busy birds, a ground so green, so dewy and warm under my barefeet. Summer creeps in its bed of green and bits of laughter pop out its head in colors under the sun. Pinks and purples, blues and yellows giggle in the warm air until the grass turns brown and cold again.

Thank you for visiting



It is a truth that some people live lives that are very sad.No reason really as to why they are singled out amongst the rest of us. They just are.They seem to have things that we value but you will find that they worked 4 times as hard to have what we have.They seem to be void of friends and relatives that take interest in them. Why? There never seems to be a reason. People they know die sooner, move away regretfully or fall away from them by circumstances. No matter, the sad people end up alone within their walls that required more effort to end up in the same place as the rest of us.

Life just seems to miss some people. Life seems to land on others, even robustly on some. The sad people seem to have missed it all. They are somehow passed by.Sadness is a state of mind that waits for release, waiting for the cloak of joy they hope is to come, they hope will make all this worthwhile. It typically doesn’t.They typically pass away in silence in some forgotten corner alone, as they breath their last breath in the solitude they have come to know, that has come to embrace them, that has come to be their comfort by way of nothing else to fill the void. Sadly, joy does not find us all. Love does not come to all who wait. Sadly, sadness is the friend to many simply because it was all they found in the world.

Winter Passing

When winter slithers in during late Autumn, I relish its arrival. Its sends me fast into the house to rest my gardener’s weariness. Shovels and hoes are cleaned and set aside for the new year. I set myself inside a fire-warmed house and dream of next years seedlings. I welcome the rest from the ever-calling landscape that surrounds my house.
But winter has rested outside my window for far too long. I am quite rested now and grow weary of this lifeless house. I grow weary of the whiteness that blankets my northern landscape. My heart longs for green buds and the sound of the birds that I know will wake me with the sun. I peer out the window’s sashes that enprison me inside. I watch the snowfall melt away and a picnic table appears on my lawn, once hidden in the snow, I see even its legs. Soon, even the tables feet will appear and soon after that I will see dark yellow straw-like grass, still sleeping its winter nap. But I know the secret. After the snow melts and shows the yellow grass so still, the sun of spring will come and waken it again to green. …and then out the door I go and back into the garden.


Triangles, squares, rectangles and really anything that falls from the scissors edge, our hands lift gently, lining up edges and place them beneath the presser foot. Our hands hold still as our foot takes over with its marriage of electrics and mechanics that stitch the fabric together. Seam done, our foot stops and our hands remove our new assembled cloth. Our eyes choose another piece, then hands, then foot, then hands again and the piece grows….it grows into something expected and unexpected, something we will take pride in and something that will teach us what will need to be better next time.

In the end we step back and look over what we have created. I am always a bit amazed what comes from the union of our eyes, our hands, one foot and a pretty sharp scissor.

The evolution in my quilting soon took a turn for vintage or the contemporary pretense of it. The faded rose at each corner made all the difference. I tied the layers together not yet owning the ability to hand quilt. An art that deserved it own time and undivided attention.

My Vintage pretense masterpiece only found home near the old door, with the old candlesticks. I never did dare to actually pour that cup of tea.


I got bold and brought one outside where neighbors might see, I wondered what it would look like in the sun. The house trim matched and the chairs were the perfect accent. Even the plant stand in the background seemed to join in the chorus of color.


I was getting tired I think and thought bigger pieces meant it would make up faster. It didn’t work that way. They left less room for error. I didn’t like the final quilt as much as I might have, had I taken the time it deserved. I hung it in the sun, it somehow deserved such a nice sunny day.


I think I began to embrace color organization with more zest than I knew I had, Once outdoors, I was matching quilts to porch furniture and lawns.


My favorite photo. I liked the marriage of color in the landscape and in the quilt; the blacks, the greens and the accent of the sun dancing off the white on white floral that brightens everything.

Thank you for visiting.


Doll Clothes;Dresses of Our Keepers.

What is it about Dollclothes?
No matter how old we become, there is kinship with the dolls of our childhood. There is comfort in their prescense and comfort in the clothes they wore. We all have them tucked away somewhere; Barbie’s gown, Betsy’s blankie, someones lost shoe, all bring tugs to our heart. And why not? It’s deserving. These pieces of stuffed muslin, cast plaster and vinyl were our first friends, the first receivers of our whispered dreams, the first ears to hear our cries and displeasure at the world around us. No one knew us, like our Dolls. They carried our heart and feelings until,well, it wasn’t that we outgrew them…no, none of us did. We simply became too old to carry them publicly. So we quietly, thoughtfully, and regretfully began to set them aside. But they remained our keepers. They are the ones who still and will always be there in the night ready to listen, always agreeing, while wearing the prettiest dress we never did get around to ironing and silently accepting whatever hairdo we graced upon their heads. They remain our first best friends and keepers of our early secrets. Here are a few of the outfits I have made for someone’s Best Friend.