I miss making things with my hands
A pen between my fingers and thumb
Scissors heavy and paper shreds falling
Making an image from many
A story with a small marks on a page I can turn
I miss the urgency of a creative thought
The birthing feeling when the words want to spill
and then the rushing flow of me
running after them with a bucket
It is sometimes a sea, sometimes a spoonful
but it doesn't matter either way –
I am making.
I am leaving a trace.
I am marking a page I can touch
and molding a life I can taste
art I can see on my walls and
words I can hold in my hands
– treasures.
I miss making things solely for myself
because I like them, love them even
these forms that emerge from some rough hewn clay
I miss looking at my life
through my own eyes and with my mind
shutting out the saturated noise
and reclaiming this – spontaneity, presence,
listening for what wants to speak through me.
A spoonful of sea, but still, the sea.

– June 29, 2019

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