Pain Is Complicated
I’m more and more convinced of the importance of movement. Moving all the parts of ourselves. Moving in little ways and big ways, easily and gently, quickly and powerfully.
I’m more and more convinced of the importance of movement. Moving all the parts of ourselves. Moving in little ways and big ways, easily and gently, quickly and powerfully.
I have a little sewing project going. The first step is making a moulage—creating a paper pattern that closely follows a person’s measurements. Which means that the beginning phase of this sewing project is actually pattern drafting.
I always think I’m going to procrastinate less this year. And get more done. And somehow be more perfecter.
I was blissfully ignorant of all that. My parents never seemed reckless to me, so I assumed this was safe.
Their hands were moving almost like hummingbird wings. So fast! But they didn’t go far—just up and down within a range of a few inches.
The picture was on paper that was translucent, so the calendar was hung in a window to let the light through. It was simple and beautiful, and we were always eager to see what today’s picture would be.
What would you like to change? Are there any big—or little—assumptions and shenanigans that are getting in your way?
Clearly, there’s nothing wrong in making things for other people. It’s considerate, generous and usually welcomed. Occasionally, it’s none of those things.
Her yard work included herbs and a few veggies (the BEST homegrown tomatoes), camellias, a peach tree, a two-color dogwood tree, and best of all, “talking to her weeds.”
One of my teachers pointed out to me that I don’t know what I don’t know. Duh. That didn’t seem like useful information. What are you supposed to do with that kind of comment?
