Making sense of it all.
I am a tangle of colored threads.
There may be knots, there's definitely snarls and balls and general mess that confuses the eyes, the mind. Try to trace a single strand. I dare you. Some of the colors are across the rainbow from each other, but some live right next door. Kissing cousins. Only a trick of the light shows their difference.
Each has its place in my pattern. Somewhere it's supposed to sit to make a picture, a painting of carefully laid strands. They're all anchored on the fabric of self. One here, two there, a confetti across the canvas. Here and there you can see bits of the whole. Blade of grass. Hints of a sunset. Tips of a bird wing.
Sometimes the picture forms in a big jump. I hit my stride and away we go. Another part is stitched into place and there's a better sense of what is trying to come out.
Sometimes it all gets dropped in a heap, and the threads leap onto each like wild dogs fighting. I have to sit and make sense of it all. Tears and frustration abound.
Working on getting back to stitching.
That's where it gets tricky.
The threads are kept straight and neat by the ideas and concepts we use to make sense of ourselves. There's a deep human need to define. What something is, what it isn't. There's a reason labelmakers sell so well.
Wind the threads around bobbins of work and play, people and places. Neat, numbered, sorted out. Keep everything from tangling. Look and take it all in.
Sometimes a rogue kitten gets into the bobbins. The love bobbin is strung out a great distance and it seems to take forever to wind it back up. But there's no know in the strand, it's strong and the color is true. Home is tangled and frayed. It's not anywhere close to where it's supposed to be. Work...can't be found at all. Seems like the one I lose a lot. Constantly starting that one over again, each time a new color. Sometimes it's quick to sort out, sometimes it seems like forever and the other strands feel weakened.
Each one is important to the whole. The colors play off each other in this harmony, individual stitches making no sense til we step back to see the whole. Then we go, "Ah."
There may be knots, there's definitely snarls and balls and general mess that confuses the eyes, the mind. Try to trace a single strand. I dare you. Some of the colors are across the rainbow from each other, but some live right next door. Kissing cousins. Only a trick of the light shows their difference.
Each has its place in my pattern. Somewhere it's supposed to sit to make a picture, a painting of carefully laid strands. They're all anchored on the fabric of self. One here, two there, a confetti across the canvas. Here and there you can see bits of the whole. Blade of grass. Hints of a sunset. Tips of a bird wing.
Sometimes the picture forms in a big jump. I hit my stride and away we go. Another part is stitched into place and there's a better sense of what is trying to come out.
Sometimes it all gets dropped in a heap, and the threads leap onto each like wild dogs fighting. I have to sit and make sense of it all. Tears and frustration abound.
Working on getting back to stitching.
That's where it gets tricky.
The threads are kept straight and neat by the ideas and concepts we use to make sense of ourselves. There's a deep human need to define. What something is, what it isn't. There's a reason labelmakers sell so well.
Wind the threads around bobbins of work and play, people and places. Neat, numbered, sorted out. Keep everything from tangling. Look and take it all in.
Sometimes a rogue kitten gets into the bobbins. The love bobbin is strung out a great distance and it seems to take forever to wind it back up. But there's no know in the strand, it's strong and the color is true. Home is tangled and frayed. It's not anywhere close to where it's supposed to be. Work...can't be found at all. Seems like the one I lose a lot. Constantly starting that one over again, each time a new color. Sometimes it's quick to sort out, sometimes it seems like forever and the other strands feel weakened.
Each one is important to the whole. The colors play off each other in this harmony, individual stitches making no sense til we step back to see the whole. Then we go, "Ah."