It's Sunday. I've taken the day off. No, I mean it. As soon as I finished washing a load of towels this morning, I declared that to be the end. Saturday was long and exhausting just by nature of the beast--helping someone move--so today I wasn't doing diddly. So there.
But yesterday we brought a bookcase home from my in-laws' house. It's a barrister case. Nice and roomy. It will be good for storing fabric. So I've done some rearranging. Some cutting. Cutting fabric is soothing. Sorting it is less so--I'm not good with color. Balance escapes me. I have to separate flannel from cotton. I have to decide how small of a scrap is too small to save. To cut. To sort.
It starts with just a little bin of material. Mostly black-and-whites, and I remember as I fold and arrange, that I've used these prints in
Oh, on the bottom shelf in a narrower bin I find brights. Lavenders and aquas and yellow polka dots and some bold chevron stripes. I don't mean to be sexist, but they fit into quilts for little girls. Because sometimes they need the softness of those pinks and mints, but the bold circles and the waves-on-shore slap of teal? They're every bit as necessary. In Summer in Stringtown Proper, I called it splash.
I have a ton of fat quarters on the shelves. Because it never costs much to just buy one or two or seven and I can never resist the jewel-tone display of their colors. But I've grown weary on this day that I will do nothing. The fat quarters will have to wait for another day to be sorted.
But wait, just as those scraps will go with those fat quarters, the words will go into place. If I push them and pull them and look for the balance. Combine the gentleness and the bold. Create warmth and comfort and a safe place--because you're never alone when you're reading.
It's okay to be tired. To be discouraged. But in the end, you just need to sort the colors. The fabrics. And don't forget the splash.
Have a great week.