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.
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.