Slipping out of bed I poured some coffee and sat on the love seat facing the fields that spread away from our home. The eucalyptus and pines were dark, misty and silent.
Although the light was dim, the birds were already at the day. Hawks were calling back and forth in their plaintive screech that carries through our little town. The Dark-Eyed Juncos announce from atop the rusty buoy in the field. They are busy nest building. Most years there is a nest over our front door. This year it seems there were too many cobwebs and they have chosen a place I've yet to discover. Then there is the trilling of birds I don't know the names of, but I know their song.
I'm feeling grateful for all my life has come to. This huge open space is one of the things I am thankful for. My home, my husband, children and dog. My friends, the sea I've lived near my whole life. The deep blue sky.
My life as a maker of things.
I'm never comfortable calling myself an artist. I just need to make things. I always have. It's a way of making the world right. Needlework, macrame, weaving, drawing, painting, stamping, cooking, bead stringing, wire wrapping, metal work. Making something, just trying to get what my dreams look like into reality. Something beautiful. There are countless projects I have never finished, probably more that I never started! But if all that noise in my head and hands is what makes me an artist then there is some truth in it.
Like the morning birds I'm up thinking about the new day. A flutter of hands, a thought to my studio. What will I make today?