In my younger days, I often envisioned myself in the loft of
an A-frame in the woods, surrounded by rough-sawn paneling on three sides, and
a wall of windows on the fourth. The
loft is mostly empty except for me and a gigantic floor loom. I spend my days creating jewel-toned textiles
with lovely soft yarns…
And that’s kind of where the curtain closes.
Because I simply cannot take this to a place where the
lovely textiles are sold for bags of money that I can use to keep the dream
going. It’s never been a practical
dream. Practicality would ruin it. It would take it out of the realm of dream
and drag it onto the stage of WORK. How can I let my dream turn into work?
Which is why I toiled away in front of various hot cooking
appliances, ruined my feet on concrete floors, damaged my hands and my fingers
and my wrists toting, chopping, hefting, mixing, whisking and scooping, for over thirty years.
Lately that picture of the loft in the A-frame has been
making an encore appearance behind my eyelids.
I wonder if there’s enough of me left to drag it out of my head
and make it real.
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