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.