Springtime makes me anxious. Something about the lengthening days, the balm in the air, brings a tightness to my chest. I suspect that’s because I am naturally a bit of a hermit. I prefer the comfort of my own home, with its familiar teacups, books, scent. I resent being forced out into the suburban world.
Autumn is more my speed. The grey drizzly afternoons, cardigans, smell of wood smoke, morning light illuminating the changing leaves from behind, like stained glass. I like drinking chai, ducking into the library with more than my usual frequency, putting flannel sheets on the bed.
Things are messy, still. Of course they are. My children have too many toys and after supper it seems that every one of them is strewn across the floor. Our home is shaped like an ‘L’ and you cannot put anything away without trekking from one side of the house to the other. There are dishes and diapers to wash, and work to do. There’s always a little mess and sometimes I stand in the kitchen gesturing toward the various piles, unsure which to excavate first.
I bought a loom. The quiet tedious work suits me, and I am learning quickly, filling my Moleskine with ideas. The prospect of recouping my costs, in woven goods, looms (ha!) overhead, but I am trying not to panic. Every day I pick up the shuttle, I learn something new.