So today's plan was simple: organize the craft room. Clean lines. Fresh start. A place for everything.
Instead, what actually happened was I spent six hours conducting a full archaeological dig through the remains of my own ambition, and I have returned with a report.
Here is what I found, exhibit by exhibit: a quilt top that has been "almost done" since a season I can no longer identify by the dust accumulation alone. A stack of fabric bought for a specific project that I can absolutely no longer remember, but I definitely needed it at the time, and honestly, looking at it again, I still kind of do. Three — THREE — UFOs. For the civilians reading this, that's quilter-speak for UnFinished Objects, and mine are less "objects" at this point and more "small shrines to my own optimism."
The sewing machine sat there in the middle of it all, humming along cheerfully every time I turned it on to test it, completely unbothered by the fact that it is currently owed about four different apologies.
And here's the moment of true clarity, the one I keep having and keep needing to have again: I do not need a new project. I have never needed a new project less than I need one right now. What I need is to walk into that room, make eye contact with the UFOs, and actually finish something. Just one something. Pick a shrine, any shrine, and bring it home.
But did I start something new today anyway? Girly pop, I looked a stack of quilting cotton dead in the eye and I heard it whisper my name, and I would like to formally state for the record that I did not give in. Today. This particular day. No promises about tomorrow.
The craft room is cleaner now, at least. Everything's visible, which is either very motivating or a little bit like being watched by a jury of my own unfinished intentions. Possibly both. I'm choosing to see it as motivating.
Send help. Or don't — send fabric instead, I have a project in mind. (I SAID NO NEW PROJECTS. I'm working on it.)
— Granny
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