I’m sure that some point soon, I will feel comfortable grocery shopping. I try to tell myself that I will be able to visit my parents in the foreseeable future. I hope that the hatred will wane, that it isn’t symptomatic of the beginning of the breakdown of society.
I fought to zero in on the technician’s voice. “Her head is down. So that’s good news.”
Where did she see the head? Up or down, all I could see were shapeless blobs. She was saying something else. I tried to focus on her words. Perhaps she’d clue me into the secret language of the ultrasound.
As I weave, I breathe life into a textile, and when I free it from the loom a textile is born to take its place in the world. The Berber of the Middle Atlas of Morocco also see weaving as a metaphor for creating an entity with an essence of its own. But to the … Read more
I couldn’t contain my joy—jumping up and down, flapping my hands, squealing. I caught sight of myself in the mirror—I looked like a happy T-Rex. I did the T-Rex dance when I received notification in the mail that one of my hand woven pieces got accepted into the yardage exhibit for Convergence 2008 (an international … Read more