Quiet

The last week of Lent was a time for quiet, and it was hard to find.  The quiet, that is.  Tuesday was my friend A's funeral.  Wednesday I was attacked by a dog while jogging past his (not fenced) yard.  Superficial wound, much bruising, and a very penitent owner, thank goodness.  Said dog is now being tied up or kept inside till they can get a fence built.  Thursday I showed up to volunteer at the Thrift Store -- it was closed, because no one else was able to work that fifth Thursday of the month...and no one let me know.  Much of the weather was grey and gloomy, with wet snow and hints of snow, and wind, and clouds, and occasional sun.

Weeks like that, I find myself fighting the tendency to enter melancholy.  To want to sink deeply under the bed-quilts and sleep.  To be nowhere, see no-one, say nothing.  It was a tight-rope act to dust off my Public Face when required to keep my commitments.   As Jude commented recently,  to others -- and even to oneself -- one's sadness may seem selfish.  In our culture, it seems important to conceal it, to re-direct it...but sometimes, it seems to me better to let it run its course.  That means that yes, there is a limit to it which, if gone beyond, can be a sign of ill health, but which, if kept, allows the feelings to be gentled out, and joy to return.

Still and all, I didn't sleep away those days when I had no obligations.  I worked in my studio, and on my studio.  I managed my first two Module 6 assignments in the C&G, and I re-arranged my sewing table so I can work on larger projects more easily, with the table now in the "L" of a corner, backed by a wall.  I knit several more inches on the Dr. Who Scarf, made three red-and-white pieced blocks for my Secret Project, and caught up with reading and my TAST block for Week 12-plus-a-break.

Reassured by Robert Genn, I return to my studio...Craft on, Dear Readers...craft on.