What I love the most in life, is to make. I miss it terribly. My hands miss it. My heart misses it. I don't feel whole and that is the truth. I have found thought, meditation and prayer with scissors and cloth and thread.
The cut of the rotary blade, the steam from the iron, the delicate touch of pattern and quick snips to hanging threads. There haven't been enough hours in the day for me to do much more than wander into the room that holds everything I love, pick up half-finished pieces and wait for the days I can work on them again. Wait for the nights I can get lost in thought and music and scraps of fabric.
In my dreams and in my workbook I have sketches and plans, but nothing is happening now. The summer sun has kept me away, and September is keeping me still at a distance. I am waiting in quiet anticipation to reunite with the work that I want to do. One more week as a pseudo-working-woman, and then I will be home again. I will have nap times to sneak in and work in a delicious quietness. I will have the energy and the brain capacity to turn on the lamps and work late into the night. I will be home and happy. Amongst the stacks of fabric and the freedom to do what I love.
