This is my new document and I'm just going to write and write and
thing and write. There has been a whirl of things going on again. Looking back at old
posts, I used to write so freely and happily and feel better for it.
And now, I don't write at all, just give floods of images because I
don't know what to say. I feel at once little and huge, that strange sensation of my body
looming and my mind shrinking. One blurs away from the other as if I
am being distorted or liquefied. Where do you out your creativity when you can't use it? Is there a
little box somewhere where it lives until you need it? The gloves are
helping. Beautiful wool whirling into numbers and stitches. I read the
old glove like a pattern and try not to rip back too much. Will they match? That is the question. People look amazed at the tiny
stitches and a la the Yarn Harlot, I nod, smile, explain and take the
compliments. I don't get a lot of those these days and I need the
reassurance like air. Working so much, so hard is irritating me, but I will remain faithful
to this goal we're striving to reach. Come February, we'll know one
way or the other how our lives will go for now. Faithful, faithful,
faithful. In the reading of the Word, in the praying, in watching and listening,
in being, in trying to live all things as we are meant to. I hate
struggling, but it feels like we must for just a little longer, a
little longer. I would like to go on holiday some where quiet with wine and food, and
just knit and write and paint. Almost like Devon at Christmas, but
perhaps with less people. Or I'd like a lazy afternoon with friends just talking and being, or
on a gentle walk. Not worrying about life, or tomorrows. Actually
living, not just muddling through.
thing and write. There has been a whirl of things going on again. Looking back at old
posts, I used to write so freely and happily and feel better for it.
And now, I don't write at all, just give floods of images because I
don't know what to say. I feel at once little and huge, that strange sensation of my body
looming and my mind shrinking. One blurs away from the other as if I
am being distorted or liquefied. Where do you out your creativity when you can't use it? Is there a
little box somewhere where it lives until you need it? The gloves are
helping. Beautiful wool whirling into numbers and stitches. I read the
old glove like a pattern and try not to rip back too much. Will they match? That is the question. People look amazed at the tiny
stitches and a la the Yarn Harlot, I nod, smile, explain and take the
compliments. I don't get a lot of those these days and I need the
reassurance like air. Working so much, so hard is irritating me, but I will remain faithful
to this goal we're striving to reach. Come February, we'll know one
way or the other how our lives will go for now. Faithful, faithful,
faithful. In the reading of the Word, in the praying, in watching and listening,
in being, in trying to live all things as we are meant to. I hate
struggling, but it feels like we must for just a little longer, a
little longer. I would like to go on holiday some where quiet with wine and food, and
just knit and write and paint. Almost like Devon at Christmas, but
perhaps with less people. Or I'd like a lazy afternoon with friends just talking and being, or
on a gentle walk. Not worrying about life, or tomorrows. Actually
living, not just muddling through.
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