I need to figure out how to turn my protector eyes into granny squares of the proper size to match my other granny squares. I do love this one I tried today, along with a properly-sized regular granny square. I also worked a couple rows on the prayer shawl while I was watching the Menno Action Zoom tonight.
Irked by Beth Weaver-Kreider
loud buzz then a whoosh past my ear out of control stinkbug lands on me
I’m so grateful for my colleagues. Got a nice pep talk from a neighboring teacher this morning who helped me shift shame into possibility.
I finished the white panel of the bamboo shrug this evening. Here is where I so often abandon a project. I had a vision when I started, and the shapes of these four panels just don’t seem to fit like I intended. Ugh. I’ll strategize tomorrow or this weekend.
Meanwhile, I am still caught in the web between Beauty and Rage.
Motherless by Beth Weaver-Kreider, 2026
end stage patriarchy and the men are drugging the planet checking her eyes to see she’s asleep before they ravage her
Not much time for poems and projects today. One sweet granny square and a short poem. Here are some of the little orange bowls in use, and nested together like a little box. And the tiny blooms on a witch hazel tree.
Spheres by Beth Weaver-Kreider
The glistening eye of the golden koi misses nothing: the thousands of tadpoles huddling in the shallows, the legs of the patient heron watching for young trout, the shadow of a raven winging above the pond. The underwater realm is her contemplation.
The golden sphere of the black snake’s eye reveals the fire of life force in the vole’s underground den, the sparkle of light on the shining scales of the koi, the gleaming wings of a beetle in the leaf litter. She regards her territory with appraising eye.
The round eye of the doe holds the whole meadow: every stalk quaking with unseen breezes, every snake nosing through the grasses, every field sparrow visiting her hidden nest. Nothing escapes her silent observation.
The black eye of the raven absorbs the far view of fields and treetops, how the river winds through the valley and down to the bay, the sudden leap of a deer in the meadow below. Nothing escapes her sovereign gaze.
Lots of little project bits today: Some granny squares, hearts, and flowers. Yesterday, I spent a very enjoyable morning with friends, playing with paper, making a little scrappy book. I’ve been shaping and drying mandarin skins into tiny bowls—I want to sand the edge of this one. The dragonfly afghan is not mine. A friend of a friend bought it on Etsy, and the ends are unraveling in several places! I’m going to try to stabilize it and weave the ends in firmly—a good reminder that the finishing details are as important as the main work of the craft itself.
Also, a few photos of one of my favorite cherry trees, and the little guys who put the cat in catnap.
Carry the garbage outside, but, damn! The moon! —found on a strip of paper cut from a magazine a golden shovel by Beth Weaver-Kreider
How much weight in your heart can you carry? Is it like the ratio of the swallow to the coconut, the ocean to its swirling patch of garbage? The numbers will always remain outside
my comprehension. What does 62 million mean, but 62 million too many? We sing sin, and we damn the wrong heretics without seeing how many foxes are in the henhouse, pretending to be roosters in the shadow of the moon.
Just a few rows tonight. I told myself I might only work for 5 or 10 minutes some days, and so far I have always put at least half an hour into a project every day. Even three rows is close to 30 minutes of time.
Toad by Beth Weaver-Kreider
the woman who is becoming has learned to song of the toad how the restless lights of lawns and gardens draw fluttering moths how ancient the pull of desire in the waiting darkness how cool the morning grass how the jewel of light rests between the eyes
A couple rows on the white panel, and dogwood in the rain. These days I am cataloguing some of the things that bring me real hope, like the four good souls of Artemis II and their marvelous team, the joy of the Singing Resistance folks, the absolute dogged courage and persistence of Mrs. Frazzled and her friends who are advocating for women abused by men on The Hill. So many threads being woven for new social realities to grow.
The Slingshot Effect by Beth Weaver-Kreider
What power slings you around the Moon? What hope takes hold like gravity? What force takes your hand and leads you home?
So much can go wrong, so many possibilities to be pulled off course, so many people throwing their weight toward the shiniest object, so few willing to enter the darkness on the other side.
But there in the dark you can see the glowing craters that remind you of the shining spirits of your loved ones, you can reach out and feel the arms of your beloveds surrounding you.
Can you feel what draws you through the silence to begin the journey home: the hope, the kindness, the tenderness of a new world rising?
A crowd of women satisfied in their precise calculations watches you reenter, joyfully and reverently, green and safe and changed forever.
My neighbor’s tulips, and a few more rows on the white panel. I am loving how this bamboo yarn crochets up, how the rows of double crochet stitches in this pattern create little flowers in the mesh. And the finished Into The Woods Quilt! The Janus School Gala is this Saturday. Click the LINK for tickets, to make a donation, or to find out how to bid for auction items online!
Today’s poem is a haibun, a form developed in the 17th century by history’s most renowned haiku poet, Matsuo Bashō. It begins with a short piece of prose, and ends with a haiku commentary on the prose.
Merit a haibun by Beth Weaver-Kreider
Mr. Hegseth claims his fighting force will be solely based on merit (by which he means he will not accept women), a word which can only be described as ironic, coming from a drunk chosen from the daytime TV couch, who had mismanaged every business he attempted to lead. Meritorious comes from the Latin verb mereō, which means “to earn, or to deserve.” His role might better be described as meretricious, which means empty and gaudy and lacking in true value. Meretrix, from the Latin, is a feminine noun rooted also in mereō, referring to women who earned their living from prostitution. Like Hegseth, the language devalues the inherent merit of women.
the worth of women is not determined by the opinions of men
A yellow tulip that has been blooming for 20 years (a baby shower gift), more rows on the grey panel, and the Midwife card from Nick Bantock’s Archeo deck.
Artemis
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
How apt that now when so much is at stake for girls when women unleash the hounds of Artemis upon the ones who prey upon our young when we call out against the cruelty yearning for a more humane way that we would send this arrow moonward this rocket basket of beautiful souls into space to commune with the moon and name one of her dimples for a beloved one to show us we can be human again
Mockingbird Chronicles 