I have been quiet. And yet, I’ve had so many thoughts. I have felt quite lost in a hum-hive of worries – swarmed by puzzle pieces I couldn’t fit, the math that wouldn’t calculate.
I usually find myself in writing but for this spell, in this space, words brought no release. They spoke only of what was not said, emptinesses that hurt too much to touch. They spoke only to me. There was no one else to listen.
They say there is a woman’s art in making much of this and that. Both better and worse.
I choose better. Always.
I gathered odd ends, pulled together pieces and let them spin themselves to an imagination under my eyes. I needed something beautiful, a bite of creation to gift me just a little control. Only my eyes mattered.
As I sewed, the silence bloomed fruitless. I tasted the sweetness of the void, remembered it well.
I crushed my fears into the rush of twisted silks, found perseverance in the thousand thread stitch and the sharp point of the needle’s eye. I saw bright colours made more brilliant by the flushed sting of pin pricked fingers and knew that it would be good.
When pieces slipped and ends unravelled, I frowned, fumed and cursed but knew I would still continue, still make it work.
In the end it’s all improvisation.