I haven’t been writing. I mentioned that in my last post, The Wound, as well. People ask why, and I have to be truthful… I have been immersed in serious, soul-searching, life-renewing therapy. It’s intensive.
The truth is, my writing is deeply rooted is some pretty painful places… I don’t know how to do it without connecting to the very center of that raw ache, and without naked honesty. And for so many reasons, I just haven’t been capable of it for a large part of 2014. But when it is simply too much to write the words down, I run straight into the waiting hum of my Pfaff. I have been holed up in my attic, cutting up beautiful fabrics into small pieces, and putting it back together to create something new, born of something else.
There is something so safe and so true in this act, I have found myself spending most of my time here. Making dolls. And purses. And quilts. And little snack bags.
Often, with the meditative act of pairing one scrap of fabric to the next, I feel as if I may be stitching my own self back together.
It is amazing how finding the perfect fabric for the perfect head of doll hair can be a method of reconnecting myself. And in that, I have had experiences in the last six months I never could have imagined. Joining artist groups, sewing banners for a parade, painting rocks for a town wide treasure hunt, trading owl bags and quilts for facial cream and artwork, selling at holiday shows, being on TV.
I used to believe that being creative was the same as being blonde. Or green-eyed. Or tall. Some of us got dished out a whole lot more than others in the genetic pool we sprung from. I must have waited in the tall girl line, and forgot about creativity….
We have all been born out of creative energy… it is our life force. Spirit. God. The very essence of who we are is this creative source. Some were born with a deep sense of that energy within, and some have not fostered that connection. Somewhere in their childhood, that place was snipped free, and we “uncreative” ones became untethered from the source. Its tragic, and not without repercussions in our lives, to feel separate from the source of our humanity.
This may sound a little woo-woo to you all… and don’t worry. Me too. It’s coming from a woman who has spent a larger part of 10 years trying to scrub all things “spiritual” from my world. More likely to spell out the word G-O-D than any choice four-lettered expletive. And I have spent most of my childhood as well as adulthood actively rejecting all things Martha Stewart… including dyed wool felt and cotton batting and quilting thread.
I can revisit that later. For now, I am relieved to just be writing a few hundred words. And to feel that some part of my Self was stitched back together in the piles of fabrics and spools of thread.
So check out my goods… what has sprung from the therapist’s chair.
Message me if you want any, or check me out at