Sometimes life feels to creep along, or parts of life; while it’s already July, I’m making little headway on The Hawk, although sewing has increased. Recently I copied photos from my phone onto my PC; five months worth of shots confirmed that yes I’d been a busy woman, just not in producing words. That assuaged my sense of slight futility regarding writing, reminding me that currently my focus is on family, not fiction. Or it was this past spring, and as summer speeds along again my kids and grandkids are taking center stage. Yet, I also have to remember that I have gotten back on the writing train, albeit at a snail’s pace. And if that pace meanders through autumn, okay. Just take a deep breath and find another little project to quilt.
Since I write (when I write) solely in the mornings, afternoons and evenings are free for fabrics, so I’ve been taking advantage of being at home, unlike how I seemed to be anywhere but earlier this year. Maybe it’s as if all the words I want to write are vicariously translated via stitches; colours are scenes, building into chapters big and little. The urge to create isn’t occurring at my computer, so I’ve set up shop elsewhere, even doing a little hand-quilting in the backyard. Today however I started sewing rows for a big quilt, which I’ll detail in a future post. For now, here’s a little sample of what suffices while The Hawk percolates in my gray matter.
Ah, The Hawk…. The other night I told my husband that a part of me doesn’t mind this drawn-out process, for I will never write this book again, in the initial drafting of a novel manner. I truly felt that this afternoon as I pressed seams for the quilt WIP, finding joy at my ironing board, also beauty in this nowhere near done project. I took three shots, just for this post, capturing one small moment in this quilt’s creation, sort of like documenting a paragraph within a book; it will be buffered by earlier scenes and later revelations, but within several sentences might emerge a beauty that later is encompassed within a greater whole. The rows I sewed today while watching Wimbledon will simply be attached to other rows, then basted, quilted, bound, then given away and I’ll rarely visit that quilt again. Books are the same; after being published I hardly return to them. Recently it was brought to my attention how life is this moment right NOW, this post, this phrase. Then it flows to the next and….
And yet right now is this small gorgeous slice of wonder, of a few words, of snippets of song. It’s brown rice I just started in the cooker for dinner, it’s summer blue sky and blowy trees I see outside the window, it’s a quick glance to my right where those two sewn rows await another, which sits in a stack beside my machine, perhaps a task I’ll attend to once this post is finished. It’s blues and low volume fabrics and a red tomato pincushion and by the end of the day this moment will be something else entirely. Such is the nature of life.
Yet for how fleeting that all sounds, I think it’s beneficial to note the small bits, or the slow writing bits, for all these seemingly inconsequential steps build upon one another, then a quilt or book is done, dinner made, moments accrued into another day of my life. And even if I didn’t write today, there’s tomorrow, or Saturday, or whenever I next sit at this computer to type out more than a blog entry. And that is perfectly wonderful! There’s no rush, what I keep reminding myself, ahem. Maybe a post like this is merely to reinforce that leisurely notion; there is no rush. What will be, will be.
I want to inhale that, wrap it around myself, comforting my eager authorial heart. And in the meantime, pretty projects are tangible signs of my creativity. What a blessing that is, both in the desire and ability.