The bubble doesn't prevent anything; it doesn't shield me from sickness or frustration. It doesn't make me immune to the day to day conundrums we all must face. It does, however, allow me to see things in a slower light. I'm able to look out my window - be it at home or while I'm out and about - and concentrate on the details that surround.
There's no other way to describe it. Everyone I know is already complaining about how fast this year is flying by. "It's already March!" they whine. "Really?" I look around me. "Hn. It's just now March?" February seemed to me to last forever. I usually hate February. This year it wasn't so bad. Then again, we had a very, very short and uneventful winter.
So here I sit, March 8 (National Women's Day, by the way), and write a long, over due post.
I finished my hoop project:
It turned out much more lovely that I'd anticipated. The frayed edges soften up the strange juxtaposition between the fabric and the empty space. I've yet to start on a friend for it, a mate.
Fibromyalgia, it seems, is a beast and I'm just now being properly introduced to it. Blaming a lack of creative output on illness seems cliche but it's true. When I'm at home I'm so exhausted from the few days I work that I cocoon on the couch with hot tea and stories. My inclination is to fight back by doing as much as I can in nose-thumbing defiance. That only gets me more misery. I imagine Fibro as Kathy Bates' character in "Misery". It coddles me, tells me I'm doing just fine, "Oh, why don't you just sit on the couch and rest." And then, out of no where, while I really am doing fine, it attacks me with a sledge hammer. Wham! Right to the back of the thighs! The shoulders! The lower back! Arms and legs and knees and toes!
Slow moving conjured up two delightful and beautiful books from the shelves last weekend.
My old sewing machine has had it. I love her dearly; she belonged to my great aunt, but she can't cut it anymore with snagging bobbin and grunting over thick fabrics. I'd love to have her repaired but I've been doing my research and it seems the best thing to do is let her rest. I've adjusted the tension multiple times and still she snags. But I'm OK with that. I'm looking forward to buying my very own sewing machine. I've never done that before. I'm the only woman in my immediate family who has never bought and owned a sewing machine. Aunt Mary was bequeathed to me by my grandmother. I love the old gal but I'm ready to step into my own.
The first book is an amazing find. The author, Sanae Ishida, was diagnosed with Grave's Disease and it led her on a healing journey that included her old passion of sewing. Reading about another woman with an auto-immune disease finding her way through art moved me to really reconsider, really think about my own, creative journey. That is still being sifted through.
The second book is the most beautiful book on natural color I've ever found. Sasha Duerr is a professor at the California College of the Arts working in both textiles and fine arts. Her instructions for using botanical material to beautifully dye fabrics are clear and concise. I'm so excited to have a place where I can experiment not only with the actual dying process but also with cultivating the plants themselves. She has a wonderful essay in the book on "Medicinal Dying". That speaks to the herb wife in me and sings to my garden dreams.
Sorry to ramble so. Like I said, I've been battling the Fibro Beast but whenever the fog clears, I do sit and think about this creative journey I'm on. I miss my pens, my inks and needles. I miss my fabrics and sketch book. I miss going outside and breathing in the season. A walk to the end of the lane is enough to put me out of breath. But I'll get there. I'm working on my health right now and I hope to have an excellent report in a few weeks. We'll see...at the least, I need to be able to create again. For myself.
For this little blog.
I'm happy here.
Take care, Friend,