Being an artist is sometimes like having an endless smorgasbord of inspiration and ideas. I try to tend to it. I never take it for granted. I like to share regularly. Most days I can’t help noticing the density of life around me, the lushness of sight and sound, making note, taking shots with the camera, cataloging and processing in darkness and silence. New work can emerge from playful splashing in muddy puddles – in the garden, in the palette or the dye pot. Like the germinating Japanese indigo seeds in my kitchen window that warm and incubate, imagination simmers, distills, materializes.
Some pods birth today. Others will relish the soil a bit longer before promise turns green with fuchsia stems.
A hefty list of the time between posts.
Making sun tea.
Digging with bare hands into the microbes of well-balanced soil.
Finishing some stitching from “yesterday’s” bits and starts.
And stitching and stitching.
Letting the floss bin spill thread formations in perfect bends and turns.
Looking at friends projects on the screen- stirring my duende.
Some things never change: Birds, feathers, houses rear in abundance.
Minor mechanial malfunctions: resolved.
Trying to find meaning.
“Who knows, maybe the root is the flower from that other life.” Mary Oliver