If you know me, you know I like to compose my to do lists on an old blue typewriter. There’s something indiscriminate about seeing the tasks unfold on an index card, stark in faded black.
I don’t know why, really. Carrying that card around all day feels like a random love note, something that belongs to me that I don’t understand. It’s orderly and directive, yet somehow elusive and kind.
I like this feeling, the moment of coming through the mist. The emergence of creative sanctuary, the outrageous desire to simply share the bliss of being alive. Some people call creativity juice. This has always appalled me in some way…I see creativity as more of a tide. An enormous, penetrating force that consumes every thought in my head, every beat of my heart. Give. Receive. Create. Consume. Juice comes in boxes. What I feel grows on trees.
For the first time in a long time, I feel these waves rolling in again. For awhile, it was a rainstorm–the occasional torrent relieving the drought–but it refused to stick. Typed words mean the sea, the rhythm of the cycles awakening with the sun.
With these waves come creation. Soft hands, busy, in the mesh of fiber and lines, thread and reflect.
Stay in tune. I’ll be right here. Soon with gifts to share.