Weight

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

Sculpture with paper doll wearing design composites.

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?

Autotune

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.