Maya Angelou
It seems I had used up my writing creativity. And it was mine, just mine. Not fancy, not elaborate or elegantly or cleverly worded. But mine. And it dried up. There was too much sameness, too much perfectionism, too much effort trying to capture every stitch I sewed, every book I read. Compulsively trying to record a life - mine. Not enough time just absorbing and meditating on life using words.
What has happened in the 6 months since the last post? Have I learned to relax more? Do I expect less - or more - of myself? Comparison to those more talented, smarter, more traveled, more experienced?
Gratefulness. Sitting and listening to God's voice in my spirit.
I met a real writer, too. And she is a real person.
And my sister is retiring and will be nearby soon! 14 miles away instead of 800!
I can't give this up. It's as much a part of me as color, fabric, sewing machine. I have to have this at my fingertips - just go without fear, and if I mess up and miss days, that's nothing to feel guilty about. I don't have to start from scratch every time I sit and write, or sit and sew. It's a process.
Maybe this will be different. Not a diary but a journal. I've always loved journaling; it has been put to pasture long enough. I miss this part of who I am and what I do.
Sweet little Odin. I hope they visit this summer. He's such a doll.
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