I have three bins of fabric that I replenish or deplete with each project. One with scraps of black, one with scraps of color and one with scraps of white.
More often than not I reach into the black bin to start a new project. It might be about the drama, black plays so nicely with white threads dancing. I reach into the scraps-of-color bin for levity and playfulness (and, i must admit, I don't want to be pigeon-holed as a black and white thinker). The white bin holds texture and clarity, like a fresh new sheet of drawing paper.
The bins are a perfect metaphor for the scraps of knowledge, memories and insights I seek. They're a little raggedy, very wrinkled and sometimes useless. But if you put them together in a whole they can sing, or cry, or mutter expletives. Lately, I have been muttering more than singing. It feels like the fabric of the world is being torn and our lives are threatened at every turn. Finding light and hope is more difficult.
It's a new year. Again. A perfect time to take stock, sort through the clutter and focus on new pathways. In my practice I strive to make the invisible visible, the silent audible and the internal move outside its boundaries. I listen to the clues that surround me and reach into the bins with a feeling that there are endless solutions. There have to be endless solutions, right?
Listen here for the pulse of the world: Radio Garden
And happy new year everyone.