This week, truth be told, I have very little to say. Most of the squares on my patchwork have been grey. I have got up, got dressed and drifted through my days, but I have very rarely done the things I wanted to do.
That said, there have been moments when, even if I haven’t managed to leave my library I have at least looked up from my book. I finished the first prototype for the ragdoll faery I have been wanting to make for months now. Today I fully intend to at least make a start on the second. I made two collages inspired by a fictional character of mine in the hope that they will inspire me to try writing a little more. Small steps. Moments not days. It’s a lesson I’ve been learning for years, to try to see the good moments rather than focusing on the gaps in-between. To see the things done not the things still left undone. I think if I could do that then perhaps leaving the library would be less frightening. It would be less frightening because it wouldn’t matter how many times I stumbled, fell or did things imperfectly, what would matter would be the times I got up, the times I tried, the times I did well.
When I am sewing, I’m not in the library. My needle and thread live alongside my writing desk and ink, in the attic. In essence the attic is the housing place of my imagination. It is filled with props, strewn papers and so many oddly shaped boxes. At the moment when I’m there I sew by candle light and stay in one small safe place close to the trapdoor. One day I’ll have the courage to explore.