Beading – Grandmother’s Lessons

Those of you reading my memoir blog will know this week I am fascinated with beading.

I’m doing research into beading around the world to deepen poems and short stories I have in progress.

How I long to travel to meet beaders the world over, but without the finances at least I can visit them on youtube.

These were two of my favourite videos in my online journey today.

I thank the makers of these videos for sharing these stories.  It makes me miss the Elders of Murray Upper I can tell you. They taught me how to make a small basket, a different handicraft, with its own intricacies.

One thing that intrigues me is that grandmothers rather than mothers pass culture on – and there may be many reasons for this, some practical and some cultural.  Another thread of thought develops from the cyberjourney.

I have never found handicraft to come easily, but immensely respect those that are good at it – my mother is one of them.

Two of the things I am intrigued by at the moment are techniques and materials.

The beading journey is sure to continue for a while on my blog.

Perhaps  I’ll write it better than I can do it.  Or  who knows I  may find myself learning it.  Perhaps I have the patience now.

(Note I am not Indigenous to the Americas, but am keen to learn from many cultures who do beading and would be very proud to be if I was.  My mother is Papua New Guinean Indigenous and I have enjoyed the friendships of people from many backgrounds in Australia.)

Reminder Notes and the Beads of Time.

Some of the work over at my Memoir Space.  I’m exploring the metaphor of beading.  You’ll need to click over THERE to read the draft passage that begins this journey into a short story and some poems.

Following the Crow Song

PIC09512.JPG Sophie’s Beads – These are my friend’s Beads .. they are very precious to her. This image makes me think of her, proud Kalkadoon woman.

Forever making notes; writing down lists of things to do, remembering the phrase ‘the inbox is never empty.’ So much to learn; so much to do; so much to remember. What to do but begin?

Today I think of the first time I did a self portrait. I was in an art studio with my classmates and must have been eight or nine. I stood in front of a mirror with my multicoloured jumper that might have come from my grandmother. She was a grandmother I didn’t know very well.

She was later to surprise me, and she and grandfather, gave me a red typewriter.

The multicolour jumper became my focus. I wasn’t so interested in my face, and my curly hair but I did…

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