Continuing around the "Child Cloth" with a rainbow of stitching.
Working to stitch with intentions. Taking notes about ideas, textures, etc., channeling thoughts from long ago, right now, and tomorrows.
"soft... silky... ridges... ancient spots... speckles of dreams... continuing dots... forests of growth..."
I hope there's room for it all. There seems to be.
And the other poem my summer neighbor shared with me . . .
We never know who we are
(this is strange, isn’t it?)
or what vows we made
or who we knew
or what we hoped for
or where we were
when the world’s dreams
were seeded.
Until the day just one of us
sighs a gentle longing
and we all feel the change
one of us calls a name
and we all know to be there
one of us tells a dream
and we all breathe life into it
one of us asks “why?”
and we all know the answer.
It is very strange.
We never know who we are.
By Margaret Wheatley
