I'm sewing at home on a snowy day. Small meditative pieces, made from layers of colored thread on linen and canvas and wool, some with sprouting tendrils of thread and tiny spore-like frayed volcanoes. I'm thinking about how uninterested I am in perfection and replicating the work of a machine. As much as I love them, the more machines I'm surrounded with the more important intuition becomes to my work. I want my hands and my eyes to make things that could only have come from me, here today. Not imperfection, but non-perfection. Yes is not the opposite of no.
My hands and eyes also have produced a slow-cooker full of potatoes au gratin bubbling in one corner of the kitchen and a dutch oven of veggie chili in the other. Cornbread is not out of the question. Neither is a nap, after another round of shoveling. I love going to work at my studio every day but once in a while a day that combines comfort food, cocooning in the house and sewing tiny things is a treat.