The time in between is the time so telling.
The breaks from what needs to be done. Calls to be done. When you come up for air.
Why do I call this my work?
Suddenly it is quite the opposite.
I have stitched quite deliberately, but without drama. In rows, and then sections. I tacked the sections to the deck rail. To get to know this deck. Forgetting the order of the design. Sensing the beauty in that. I fall back into the simpler time before art and judgement. And I am refreshed. Spaced out like this, the pieced sections have become, again, loose patches. Or even long cloths. Path-works.
The clothesline is temporarily out of reach due to some forest management. With the advisement of a new friend.
Splitting needs to come soon.
When we first moved in, I dumped my kitchen scraps on one corner of the existing raised bed because it was the only spot I could find where the soil was soft enough to turn over.
The soil is good. What a gift, the soil is good. Even though I have decided that this will eventually be a dye garden,it looks like, for now, we have some bonus potatoes, tomatoes, onions and squash. I will space them out a bit today. Madder has been planted on the other side. That will take more time.
Yes, I feel torn apart. Don't we all?
Piece.