I’ve been wanting to make things that you don’t read but see and feel with your fingers. I might sew bits of dried lavender and lemon balm and chocolate mint between the fabric, so you can smell it, too. I like words, but sometimes my words falter and the pretty crystal image in my head is not the one that comes out. Sometimes I get distracted. Sometimes I want to let my fingers do more than type.
I’ve been thinking about learning to quilt. We were at a memorial service for Gary’s uncle this weekend, and I had the opportunity to look some gasping and beautiful quilts made by Gary’s aunt. She likes making quilts inspired by Asian textiles and design. We didn’t bring our cameras, so I can only describe to you how lovely these quilts were. She’s currently exploring a sort of origami-like folding of fabric to create the small images that make up her unusual pieces. Tiny boats, tiny flowers, tiny weeping willow trees. I am fascinated.
I used to do quite a bit of painting, but I’ve thrown all of the paintings away, mostly. Each time we’ve moved I’ve pitched one more canvas into the garbage. I don’t like clutter, even (especially) clutter that I’ve created. I’m the anti-hoarder. This usually makes my husband very upset. I don’t throw his things away, just mine.
I’m coming to realize that I like creating small, concise little works best. Things that I can finish quickly, edit, and send along their way. No character becomes too stale, no verse lingers and starts to smell of fish and must.
I’m itching to try Indian embroidery, or just hand-stitch together beautiful fabrics. I’ve found a lot of scrap saris on Etsy and as soon as our bank account is back to a nice, solid level I’m going to give it a shot.
I guess I’m ready to stop talking about beautiful things and actually start making them again. I’ll still talk about them. My hope is that I’ll gain more insight, fill my glass up to the very top, and what I learn will spill over into everything I do. My problem is I have the winds of industry and phantom prosperity always hissing in my ears. Finish this and maybe you’ll sell it for money. Maybe you can make it your job.
It’s usually enough for me to just to write and write and let it all out as best as I can. That is usually enough for me. I feel full. I have a small part-time job in which I make a little bit of money. This has eased my creative heart quite a bit. Less pressure, more output.
Tell me I have to get things perfect and make money, tell me about the business of it all and my words will shake and rumble and retreat to the hills. To the cave where they came from. I want to talk about the things I see and hear and touch. I don’t want to be told how often.
I have said “I” a lot today. I am sorry.
Anyway. A patchwork textile piece made of white and cream scrap sari fabric. White peacocks fanning their tail feathers. Silver paisley swirls with bright white crystals. Buckwheat hulls and lavender hidden beneath the tiny panels. Little round mirrors reflecting our faces. Hand stitched. Floss. Echoes of my grandmother seated at her little blue chair, rocking and embroidering flowers onto pillowcases. That’s all.