Sometimes when you look back on days they seem to make sense. But when you are in them they don't. That is just the way it is. I think story is that, the sense of it all. All of a sudden pieces fit. In a flurry they gather to say something.
The heart, where it started, is still a flap. I secured it with a safety pin for now. Forever maybe. It can be undone. Redone. It's a pocket.
I didn't know if I could do it, but I did. I cut through and wove a nine patch in some black silk. A fragment from a scarf from Grandma that she wore when she was mourning. Later she liked it because it warmed her to know it was OK. She told me that. I remembered. She gave it to me without telling me again. And now, like weaving does, it went through. This smokey black nine. Which has given darkness some natural order.
It is very important. This bit of darkness. It will help me complete something. This is when things happen fast. Because it is right.
I have a lot to do today to catch up. I know some folks have signed up for Small Journeys while I was offline and I have lots of emails to read. So let me do all that. This blog will have 2 layers now. After this post. As Small Journeys take hold as a new format. Thank you all for your patience. The new wiring and connection seems worth the investment. Easier going. Somehow, in these crazy days it has become October and I hadn't even noticed.
The Other Side of the cloth I call Home is still quite raw. The inside of Home. As the details are added to the flying things along the flight path, the embroidery shows gently through. Like little bright spots in the vast chaotic space. Slowly a path is emerging. A way to follow. Threadcrumbs.
A center stone fell into place this morning. A warm one. I have had it in my pocket for a while. I remember it.
Home. Almost all the safety pins have been removed. It holds itself.