I should have my own photos of my progress. I should post an amusing anecdote about courage and breaking through creative barriers.
I’m at a loss for words.
I feel bound up and claustrophobic. Plagued by unreasonable demands and lack of sleep.
Change is hard.
Letting go feels impossible.
The future is uncertain. A scary place.
I will try my best to articulate, to find a reason, to figure out why I hold on. Sometimes putting words on the feelings, pinning them on a board, abruptly ends their vicious circles of madness and blame. Sometimes it’s all you have to hold on to.
The Savings Account
I don’t know when it started. Maybe ten years ago? Fifteen? At some point, I decided that sewing was my passion (still true) and that I wanted to find a way to create a livelihood from my creative endeavors. It was the perfect excuse to buy fabrics, to plan, to dream, to hold a bright moon in the palm of my hand.
Back then, I sewed voraciously. Intricate pieceworks, wardrobes of color for myself and for friends…there was handwork, patchwork, revamped bits, experiments and inspirations. There was flow. No expectation.
“Going To Do” replaced “Doing”.
I don’t know why. But it happened. And “Going To Do” was strangely freeing. A land of ideas, no foothold in reality. Potential was a comfortable place to hide. I could still hide there, if I was willing. But I’m not.
I’m not willing to hide What This Is anymore.
The discoveries are painful. Old, infected bandages ripped from cleaving particles of skin. Deeper wounds discovered from the bounties of whim.
I am a poet. I forgot.
I never wanted to be a poet.
But it’s here. Assimilating into the truth of who I am. We stare at each other quietly, the poet and me. We fuss about grammar. I’m not sure who’s right.
When I began gathering fabrics and supplies, vintage pieces, relics of charm, I considered it my savings account. The stock that would always be there–pieces of rarity and influence. In part, that’s true. But in definitive hoarder style, the collection unused is worthless. Impairs mobility. Causes significant distress.
The time has come for it to go. And it’s going.
As I sit here steadily typing, I wear the most comfortable pair of pants/bloomers/pjs in the entire universe. Six pairs cut, eight more to go, and we’re at a screeching halt. I am stopped by the inability to capture the feeling in images, which I have decided to let go. I let someone else do it for me. Let them help out, even though they have no idea they’re helping.
I listen to the poet. I let go of the image and follow the words.
At risk of sounding schizophrenic, I will confess The Poet wants something more delicate. Something sheer. Transparent but veiled.
I’ll see what I can do.
Because I love her and she deserves to be heard.