Order. Personal Order, then Natural order. All seemingly, over a lifetime of illusion, part of Chaos. Life forms. The tendency to make sense of it all.
Today I laughed while thinking about myself writing a book when I hardly ever read one. Also I realize I might not really enjoy it. The process. Then while thinking back to how many times I've said it's not the thing it's the journey. And then asking myself what if writing a book has simply become a trend in the creative community? And then, what if it is already written? And read. Or being read.
Still there is a personal need to get through this. To compose my self. Selves. The elusive composition.
I think if I am to continue, it will be a process that might make some old stuff disappear as some new form emerges. This in itself might hold me to it. The Magic in that. A kind of transformation.
I spent some time to add some seeds. And some old cloth the top and bottom edge here. An old ikat scrap from making a pillow. I looked at the fringe here as continuing like I always do but jotted down some notes that included the words history and then roots, seeing them suddenly as the same thing as continuing. And I thought again about weaving. And how much the nature of a woven cloth has influenced my work. And my thoughts about so many things.
So many seeds survived this weird winter. Love in the mist returned.