Updated: Nov 14, 2020
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches on the soul; And sings the tune without the words and never stops at all... - Emily Dickenson
Adding more spices to my life increases the likelihood of me correcting my mistakes and still taking too much credit for the things I haven't had the desire to actually make, like heartaches.
“I'm redecorating the dissatisfaction to my own reaction of accounting for myself [as if that's me there, there and there] so I keep writing, talking and singing to my own tune..."
I have some change and can do something spectacular with it. How can I possibly get ahead tied up in all these knots like I'm stuck in a spider's web or some wild hush?
Then a treat pops in my head and all these recipes come flooding about. Lets’ see, what do I have a taste for? Something savory and sweet to balance out my shallow thoughts and a little tangy to uplift my sensibilities. So that I know that my life is not over even if I made a false start to the finish line (in thought) before I really got started (I'm humming to myself quietly).
Before I bag up all the stylized images of me in clothes I don’t see myself adorning regularly yet, I must complete the hand-embroidery, label each item and in doing so, give myself acknowledgment for the accomplishment. Knowing that these slow start-up tasks are seedlings for my new regenerative garden. This, "Me, me, me, me, me." fits me as I am.
I have a few new sketches for this sculpture I don’t know if I can make. Second-guessing if I can really even ‘make’ anything again, The thought, "Just be," comes to mind. The stress of these seemingly trivial things, waking me up from another slumber I can’t help but wonder, way too many things but I've got piles and miles and mountains of work to do.