Sunday, July 21, 2013
I am entering the sewing room. cautiously. in ten minute intervals. there is something I want to find.
Layers of projects line the walls and pile up on the floor. Visible table tops are a distant memory. Zippers of all sizes and colors wave their teeth at me. And zip lock bags leer from the corners, mouths agape, fibers spilling out of them-remenscent of projects past. An unsavory invitation to return to their passionate engagement and "finish" them. I am resolved to resist. but....
To make matters worse, this is where house hold items are deposited. No longer a sacred work space, it has become a repository for cartons of toilet paper and roll after roll of paper towels: empty boxes too good to be thrown away, wrapping paper that is sadly unraveled and out of season- In order to go in and claim my space I must first find a home for these bulky, awkward to store, needy residents.
And- I shudder as I write this to you- atop this pile is a slightly deflated exercise ball. A ball that has no home or claim, only an echo of the past. But I shall leave that for another story.
Underneath the first layer I have found a plastic bag full of yarn scraps that I might someday need for future fair isle mittens, felted wool balls and wool scraps that I used to make Christmas wreathes last year, or was it the year before. I forget that last december we were still ensconced in hotel rooms in an almost swanky hotel in midtown. Temporary refugees from the damage of hurricane/super/storm/but not・ covered・ by・ flood・ insurance Sandy.
But that is a dangerous and possibly lengthy digression.
Thus far i have not found the one sewing project that I have been seeking. Soon I will leave this page and venture forth into the wilds of the sewing room once again with hope in my breast to emerge triumphant, with this particular project in hand.
If you do not hear from me-------know that I have always thought of you fondly.