Stitching the valley - part 2

A few years ago (quite a few years ago—pre-children, in fact) I sewed Christmas stockings for my parents and for my brother and sisters and their partners. I made the stockings out of linen and I  hand-embroidered a monogram of each person’s initial on the front. 

I made the stockings one at a time, in time for each person’s birthday. Each one took me about a week to embroider, working on it each night. Every time I sat down to stitch, I would think of the person that it was intended for. I didn’t do that intentionally, it’s just that I would find my mind turning to that person, as I worked the initial of their name. I loved that year of stitching. 

As I slowly stitch the valley I live in, I feel the same way. I find myself thinking of the hill or mountain or valley floor that the lines represent. When I worked the orange line for the hill that I drive over, I could feel myself under the needle, my car bumping over the line.

I stitched the spur of a hill, knowing it is what I see through my bedroom window, framed by the trees on our boundary. I imagined the house there, slightly lower down. I pictured the man who takes evening walks along the ridge. From here all I see is his tiny moving silhouette. I thought about placing him as a small French knot on the map.  

I haven’t laid down the lines that represent the undulating valley floor, the yellow lines that our house presses up against. I’m yet to stitch the blue creek that runs next to our house. I think I will do that last. 

I feel like a giant—like some great god—building a land, raising hills, pressing down the valley, etching creases for water to flow through.

I feel like a giant—like some great god—building a land, raising hills, pressing down the valley, etching creases for water to flow through. I think about how easy it is to see the land as static. As if it has always been this way, and always will be. As if the river hasn’t changed course a hundred times, eating at the land on one side, leaving a wide beach on the other, winding back and forth.

It’s clear these are temporary lines I’m putting down. This map is a slow motion snapshot.