Bead Dreams
I indulge daydreams of beads in unexpected places. My mind’s eye sees the world in beads. If it’s round, I want to bead it. If it’s empty, I want to fill it with beads. I get lost gazing at all the colors to select just the perfect ones. I want them in and on everything to share ideas and stories.
This Little Piggy
The international tariff budget line on a bead invoice jolted me along with notice of across-the-board price increases. I considered the monetary cost of hoarding but also the expense of time to source, sort, and store excess supplies.
Confronting how greed and desire to acquire more propels fears of deprivation, I conceded to my perception of enough. The art of beadwork was born from a global economy, and my existence relies on both.
These women emerged from a ladybug that a cricket saw. Cricket rearranged their dots, and they became women.
Or, as it actually happened, I showed a ladybug pattern to my cousin, Cricket Karty, over Zoom. She immediately saw them as women and instructed me to erase their antennae and add braids down their backs.
Once the women appeared my appreciation of others I’d seen on baskets and on skirts deepened. I felt a special kinship was bestowed. I didn’t know I’d been waiting for a visit from the women that came from ladybugs.
