August. Already. A critical month here this year. Personal things. Decisions.
Season has turned early. So much rain still, very cool temperatures. The trees seem tired. I guess we get that.
I found this small sheer scrap. I like it because it seems like a drawn line, but also like a scribble, a confused line or one that was trying to get back home. I though that might be useful to make a point. Like almost anything could be.
Since I had already drawn that line, and stitched it as the thread that runs through, the thing that stands, I placed it as an interruption but not a change of direction for very long.
I removed one small scrap that was cluttering the line dividing earth and sky (the fire inside is enough) and added another to soften the edge of time. And I jotted a few things down, all the while reminding myself that one small note to self could grow into a life's work.
Even though it would be hard to explain.