Coming Home

It's been nearly two months since I posted here. Not for lack of desire, or for a lack of words. So many things have shifted in this tiny part of my world. Through hunger and longing and desire, I have made my way from the East Coast to the West, and am curled into a cottage in Portland, Oregon surrounded by love and family and endless possibilities. 

And so, too, has my work found itself shifting. I'm less interested in working on just any old manuscript and focused more intently on working with women who are telling their stories -- raw, gritty, powerful stories -- in unique and rule-bending ways. I want to push myself in my editing career, and push writers to find new edges and break through old barriers to get to the deepest parts of our lives and our hearts. 

In addition, I am owning my magick

After what feels like months and no time at all, I cannot step out of my authentic power and still do the work to which I am called. A gift of the Nomad tarot deck for my 31st birthday, combined with a longing I just can't ignore, has me knocking on doors I closed long ago. The hunger, the connection, the flow that swirls and crashes against me. 

It started with a whisper, a voice in the darkness of a dream. Like mist it rose around me, tangled in my hair each morning. As time passed it grew louder, haunting me around street corners and under azalea trees. When the neighbor's started blooming in mid-January, I took it as a sign. It's time to blossom. 

It starts with stitches. Stitching. Stitch-witchery. For years, I have hungered for the pull of thread through cloth, but never have I allowed myself to dive deep into the practice. I imagine it to be the residual effects of growing up in a household full of sewing, but never being allowed to learn. Then last week, when going through a box of crafting supplies, I found a color wheel sampler from Dropcloth Samplers, founded by Rebecca Ringquist. Goodness knows when I tucked this away for a rainy day, but with a handful of embroidery floss hanks and a little bit of patience, I started stitching away. 

What is it about hand-stitching that stirs us? What conjuring occurs in the hush of a stitch, the whisper of thread, the puncture of a needle and the way fabric seems to heal itself? The more I stitch this sampler, the more I am drawn to designs, shapes, colors. I bought a clearance table runner at Ikea because it was hemp and linen -- prime stitching fabrics. My love simply smiled and said "Can I put it in the basket?"

My mind and heart are swirling with stitchery, with designs tucked onto tarot card bags and lavender sachets and tiny bits to hang upon your walls. I do not know when or where it will lead, but it will be a mystical journey of it's own making -- one I am fully ready to embrace. 

Here's to perfectly imperfect crafting, to heeding the call of the wild, to honoring the Muse.