Stained Glass, the South, and Sweet Memories~

A steady work in progress, my Kika is undergoing a makeover. Or, as I like to call it, a renovation. As many of you know, I recently acquired a beat up (but oh so lovely to me) guitar. She is in extreme need of some TLC, but I am not daunted. I want her to feel gorgeous and I want her to sing when all is said and done…so I have not rushed it.

In fact, the very day we met, I drove her home, invited her in, and have since left her to acclimate and simply BE. As I have gone through my days, I have kept my eyes open for beauty…and love….with which to decorate (and renovate!) her. I wanted her to become a true part of me…and who I am is so much of where I come from, and who they are. I called my mom up, and asked a favor….for her to send some sentimental slivers of home via the good old United Parcel Service.

One of my favorite memories from growing up in the South, is going down to the basement art studio that my mom had, and simply watching her create. I remember sitting for hours, and just taking in the magic, her joy in the process, her beauty in motion. I remember her pottery wheel, and how I loved to sit with her as she guided my fingers over the wet clay—observing--amazed as it shifted shape between my tiny (toe)-thumbs. I can still see the huge, cavernous firing kiln, waiting open-mouthed and ready to receive the newest creations of clay.

If I close my eyes, I can hear Carole King, James Taylor and Carly Simon floating through the air…dancing from my mom’s lips in various keys….yet they were all beautiful to me. My favorite part was the towering stained glass bench, glittering with shards of sparkling, stained glass—a kaleidoscope of potential pictures---each a puzzle just waiting to be solved, and soldered together. The smell of the iron still singes my nostrils, and the ssssssssizzle sound it made as the lead liquefied…how I miss that cacophony of creation.

It is this stained glass sentimentality that I sought to bring to my newfound friend---an adornment attaching her to the sweetness of the South—and my childhood joys and blessings-- and mama was gracious to oblige. Mahalo, Mrs Susan Miller, here is a start….thank you for the present pieces, and mahalo for the memories. I love you.