“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.” Jimi Hendricks
This is a nation built on immigration. Peoples who fled oppression, religious control, poverty, famine to build a life in “the new world.” Nearly all of us must say that either we or an ancestor from not too many generations back came to this country from another part of the world. We are black, white, yellow, brown. We are Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Buddhist, agnostic. We have worked hard to build a nation that is strong. A nation of diversity. A nation of respect.
We came in before and later under a statue that says on it’s base,
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
It doesn’t matter where you are from, what color your skin, your religious preference or lack of one, we need to stop the hate mongering, the fear. Your ancestors came here from abroad too, remember that. We are Americans, but few of us are Native Americans. We need to re open that golden door.
Let us hold on to the rights that we have earned, let us work together toward tolerance, toward helping those who do not have the privilege and safety under which we live.
To say I prefer order in my life, according to my husband, would be a gross understatement. With that preference, comes stress when life gets disordered or projects are less than my expectations. That said, my entrance into the world of craft festivals and e-commerce, has introduced more clutter into our home. This addition, though it helps when setting up to sell, often becomes a disorganized mess and I get stressed. When I get stressed, my tolerance of others is greatly reduced. Hubby has learned in our 38+ years of marriage to either avoid or diffuse my stress. Others not so much. Today’s stress resulted in me avoiding my favored spinning group to spare them.
The chaos corner in the loft needed reorganization. My sewing supplies, which are not often used have been needed twice in the past few days and due to a lack of a sewing box, were in a small bin in no order. The shelving units that eldest son and I built for the utility room have been over burdened with the addition of 4 more family members, an extra dog, and my soap and lotion making supplies. My spinning area is a disaster. And yesterday’s beautiful butterscotch colored soap failed. All of this, has contributed to my lack of tolerance today.
I sat on the floor behind hubby’s recliner and started trying to make order of the chaos corner, my finished products and packaging. It needs improvement, perhaps to move it into my dormer in our room with my yarn, fiber, and sewing machine. Last night we went out and bought me a sewing organizer, though not really what I was seeking, it will do, to at least allow me to find my good scissors, a needle or pin, and a spool of thread.
The pantry is another story. I really need to remove everything from the shelves, dust them off and wipe them down, perhaps paint them, sort through everything there and see if I can organize it better, while giving the rest of the room a good cleaning too. That may wait until weekend after this when daughter and her family take a long weekend trip.
As for the soap. Fortunately (maybe), there is a process called rebatching, where you chop or grate the failed product, add a bit of liquid and melt it down in a crock pot or an oven dish, stirring it periodically until it is a gloppy mess, then pouring it back into a mold to re-harden, hopefully into a usable product, though more rustic than the original in appearance. When the 3 pounds of Goats and Bees soap was taken out of the mold this afternoon, it was very soft and oily feeling and had very dark, soft droplets within, on the sides and top, a crack down the middle, and puddles underneath. I have made this soap before successfully, so I don’t know what went wrong. It sat out for a couple of hours to see if that would help and it didn’t really. The decision was made to try and rebatch it, chopping it into very small pieces, putting it into the soaping crock pot with a few more ounces of goat milk and melting it down. Now instead of a pretty butterscotch color, it is more a chocolate fudge color, but it has been poured back into the mold to reset. In a day or two, I will try again to cut it into bars to cure. Sometimes soap just fails. An addition to my stress.
My family and an immature, snippy young male store clerk have been the recipients of my stress today. The store incident involved an ice dispenser that was not working. There was no sign on the convenience store door, nor on the dispenser letting customers know that it didn’t work. The clerk watched me walk back, grab a cup and try the machine without comment. When I turned toward his counter and asked if there was no ice, he curtly said, “No, it’s broke, needs repair, that’s a mood breaker isn’t it.” I handed him the cup, replied that since they sold bagged ice, that maybe they could have made accommodations and walked out. The store clerk, may have learned a lesson, maybe not. As for the family, I am going to try harder to be tolerant for the rest of the day.
Farm life, knitting and spinning, cooking and family