Natalie Wilkinson
Bio
Writing. Woven and Printed Textile Design. Architectural Drafting. Learning Japanese. Gardening. Not necessarily in that order.
IG: @maisonette _textiles
Stories (89/0)
Losing Weight the Mindful Way
To start with, I’m going to give you all the disclaimers. This piece is a personal app review about my own experience with Noom. I have no affiliation with Noom other than the fact that I used the app for eight months. I am not a doctor, nutritionist, or health professional. I know nothing about your health situation; therefore, I am not qualified to give you advice. I am only here to write my unsolicited opinion on an application that I credit with helping me lose weight. I have never used any other weight loss plan or diet, so I have nothing with which to compare it. If reading about weight loss is a “trigger” for you, stop right here and find a different story to read.
By Natalie Wilkinson3 years ago in Longevity
Any Way You Slice It
Halfway through a surprise party for her 25th birthday, Jessie McAfee looked at Todd Haney looking at Phoebe Taylor and realized she no longer wanted to marry him. She had a bite of chocolate cake on her fork, all ready to pop into her mouth. It was a cake Phoebe had made, and it was good. It was the piece with the “2” written on it in white icing. Todd had the “5” on his. Todd had his hand on her back, but he was looking at Phoebe. In fact, now that she thought about it, even though they were engaged: it was Phoebe who he held doors open for; helped into her coat, sweater, or whatever; threw snowballs at playfully, and for whom he put up kitchen shelves. Jessie struggled with all that on her own and, if she asked for help, was met with a surly response, long-winded complaints, and very little action. As far as snowballs went, she’d rather stay inside tucked up with hot chocolate and a good romance novel.
By Natalie Wilkinson3 years ago in Fiction
The Riding Lesson
“I dare you.” Two girls stood, jostling each other, on the cracked ramp leading up to the old barn behind Grandma John's house. Weed trees, grass, and stubby poison ivy were growing up in the gaps between pieces of concrete. The massive barn door, its wheel still on the track, had faded red paint in places on the rotting wood. Nita put an eye up to one rough crack to get a glimpse into the interior. Nothing could be seen inside.
By Natalie Wilkinson3 years ago in Fiction
Words are Spoken Leaves
A short preface: When I look at the Japanese kanji characters for ‘word’ as pictured in the cover image, I imagine a story as a tree. The spoken or written words of the story are the leaves on the tree and they determine the type of tree, its shape, and the season we see it in. Japanese has been characterized as a vague language but its flip side is poetic and subtle. Written Japanese is for communication but it is also a calligraphic art discipline called shodo-the way of writing. The written language is a mixture of phonetic sound symbols (Hiragana, Katakana) and pictorial symbols (Kanji) that appeal to me as a visual artist. Put the three together and what should result in chaos becomes an organized, logical system. Learning the language and its written form has become a daily part of my life.
By Natalie Wilkinson3 years ago in Education
The Crane
Although I already lived in the other world children inhabit as a child, reading was my favorite place to escape. Fairytales, lands far away, fables, myths were my favorites. The versions of stories told as they made their way from country to country fascinated me. One that has always stayed in my memory is this; a Japanese folk tale beginning with those well-worn words:
By Natalie Wilkinson3 years ago in Education
Night Out in New York City
Just so you know from the beginning, I’m a little white girl wasp; that’s with a capital WASP. I’m married to a white guy, same letters. Raised in a shorthaired, clean-shaven, no drinking, no smoking, no dancing, cards or movies Baptist church, that’s me. When I was a kid, my piano teacher, who was the organist of our church at the time, got kicked out for being gay. My favorite great uncle was gay too, and certain family members still whisper that label when they talk about him. We did move a lot, I was in eight different schools, three were high schools in two states and another country. Friends were few and far between. I ended up at art school because I liked to draw. The kids at this school had the world on me. They all came from Sophistication, USA, or at least New York City. I came from Sheltered, and somehow I skated through all the stuff that goes on in an art school total innocence intact. It never touched me, and I was probably, no, definitely according to my classmates, annoyingly self-righteous to boot. But people accepted me anyway, because all artists are outcasts of some sort, even the goody-two-shoes sort, join the club. “Not Fitting In” is my middle name. I graduated, got married right away, and after a couple false starts moved to Brooklyn and took a job in the Midtown Manhattan Garment District.
By Natalie Wilkinson3 years ago in Humans
Seeds of the Sun
Petra stood at the mouth of the cave looking out. She absentmindedly fingered the small, heart-shaped locket hung on its leather braid around her neck. From behind she could hear the life-giving trickle of water, a comforting sound. Outside, an occasional bleat from the goats and crowing from the rooster, who had never given up his announcement of dawn, meant chore time. A lizard skittered across the opening, already panting in the heat. She wondered what they ate.
By Natalie Wilkinson3 years ago in Fiction
Heist
On March 18th, 1990, two men posing as policemen overcame the two night watchmen at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston and walked out the door with 13 pieces of artwork valued at millions of dollars. To this day, it remains the largest single theft of art in history, and the museum still offers a $10 million dollar reward for the safe return of the artwork, or a portion of the reward for information leading to the return of the stolen works. An additional reward of $100,000 has been offered for the return of a Napoleonic era flagpole finial which was also taken that night.(1)
By Natalie Wilkinson3 years ago in Criminal
Woodland Trail
For about 10 years, before my friend left the East Coast for a job in New Mexico, she and I separately got our kids ready for school and as soon as it was light, 6:30 or so, rain or shine, temperatures above 20°F and below 95°F, we’d go on a three mile trek every weekday.
By Natalie Wilkinson3 years ago in Earth
Flying Free
My oldest daughter was home for a visit between two stints with the Peace Corps in Zambia. We decided to visit my sister in Vermont for the weekend. She lives in a town on the Connecticut River, which creates a natural border between Vermont and New Hampshire, so we were able to visit museums and attractions on both sides of the river.
By Natalie Wilkinson3 years ago in Photography
Weaving a Life’s Story
Beginnings I was eight years old. A Swedish couple living across the street from our Connecticut home made a living hand weaving. The attic of their historic house was packed with floor looms threaded with bright colors in various stages of fabric production. They used mohair and other expensive yarns for scarves and blankets, but also less expensive materials such as durable plastic strips and strong cotton yarn for some of the rugs they made. They were very kind, showing me how to make butterfly skeins of mohair on my fingers to save the small, leftover scraps of yarn they had cut off their looms with scissors. Skeins saved in this way could be pulled out and used without tangling the colorful yarn.
By Natalie Wilkinson3 years ago in Humans