A negative lost between the panels of a forgotten drawer in one of the old studio cabinets. A dress of repurposed fabric, handmade to suit, pretty bias trimming, three quarter sleeves and pockets large enough for paperbacks. A sturdily sewn heavy canvas sock sack, again with pockets for the good stuff. (You are a child of the moon and now you have the pin to prove it.) A shawl, worn as a kerchief, a soft cotton wool dream, full on prairie chic. A moody kiki sitting atop the stairs wondering if it’s worth the effort. A soft shape in strong contrast.
Same colors and tones, basic washed out hues of soft pink & milky cream. Today my thoughts are questions.. why did I do that, why didn’t I do that? Sometimes I get thinking too big and important and end up feeling very small and insignificant (I mean on the grand scale of it all, well, it’s incredibly true) but for right here and now, I’m trying my best to understand the whys.
Like why didn’t I change out my heavyweight needle when sewing this finicky broadcloth, why didn’t I cut the inside pockets so they would go all the way to the side seams like the outside pockets do, and why when I realized they wouldn’t and I didn’t have enough of my prized cotton canvas left to fix it, I decided to just pink them and leave them raw? Why was that what my perfectionist self did, why now do I love this bag so freaking much, f’d up inside pockets, puckers and all?
Why do I have to justify loving it to myself?
Or why do I tote this shawl everywhere but never work on it, I absolutely adore it, I really do, but it’s been on the needles since October 2018 and is a main rotation wip ..why don’t I knit more?
Why isn’t the little bit I knit enough?
It must be the heaviness of winter, thick blankets of snow muffling the everyday sounds, leaving excess quiet time for overly critical reflection. Why?