When I found this book in my mailbox, my hands were stiff and my brain was dull after a year of too much work and too little sleep. My ritual of creating something - anything - felt far away. I had no choice but to just start without practicing or scheming too much. I looked literally very close to home for inspiration. Mercifully, the prospect of sending this book to another state helped me ignore my desire to create something that felt polished, pretty, and neat. There wasn't time for perfection.
Motherhood. I was determined to pull myself back with the same thread by which I had drifted away. The moments on these pages are so very brief, so very rare, that it makes me want to cry, and yet they are universal. These are the years that we lose ourselves and find ourselves at the same time. The years that we compromise our passions and perfections. The years that we sometimes feel scraped away, only to wake up one morning to realize that we are still here that we are still in love and that we can still create, goddamnit.
Library Call Number: 368.19-10
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