The Story of Illness
Oh, to find the energy!
To be able to embody it.
To be able to do the work I feel called to do.
To manifest my visions.
To be fed by them, and to feed in turn,
in an endless cycle of exchange,
of gifting.
The energy will return, in time.
I trust myself to what will be.
To the story of illness I am living.
(2021–2022)
*
I was hoping to have posted something more here by now, but with the project that unexpectedly fell through (for the time being), and being unable to photograph a major knitting creation (due to the disorder of doing some redecorating), and not being able to work in my studio (due to said disorder), plus experiencing the malaise of yet another intensely wet and gloomy (and mouldy!) not-quite summer, combined with the cost to my energy of doing physiotherapy exercises every morning … well, you get the idea.
I am also trying to read too many books (feminist literature is so enlivening!), despite my mind slipping over the meanings of words and struggling to comprehend what, at other times, I would absorb more easily.
But there are glimmerings, seeds being planted, ideas sparked. Images want to be manifested.
Soon, soon, I say. Your time will come.
I love the feeling of creativity beginning to burgeon, even if just hesitantly.
I’ve been thinking back over the past ten years, and all of the learning and growing I have done; and how the past five years have almost broken me, but how much further I have come despite the madness of the world and the pain of uncertainty. (I think I can be proud of who I am becoming.)
I cannot do my creative work right now. That’s just how it is. It’s frustrating, but it’s also okay.
I’ve missed summer—some warmth and sunshine before winter would be welcome—but I am sinking down into autumn, and all is well.
This is the story of illness. My story.
I hope there will be more to tell soon.
 |
| Summer blues, March 2022 |