It must be said, I cannot do it all.
Writing books and articles, quilting, patterns, and teaching. Mothering, being a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend. Cooking and cleaning. Being here. I cannot do it all. Something, somewhere, always falls to the side in a heap of lack of time or enthusiasm.
Thankfully I have kids who don't see the mess that I do, who beg to go out for steak even when I do want to cook, and who patiently model for me. Thankfully I have a babysitter willing to put in extra hours and friends who will pour me tea when they see my shoulders hovering somewhere over my ears. And family who send texts and understand why I haven't called. And dear readers here who send notes because I haven't blogged in weeks.
The last few weeks have been a blur of a photo shoot for the latest book, then finishing all the details for that book. There were family visits and trips to the ER, movie nights and snuggles, afternoons enjoying the sun then evenings watching the snow. I had to work and sneak in living my life. Laundry optional.
But the manuscript is in, the photo shoot done, the bathrooms cleaned, and some brisket in the oven. So I can sew for fun again and laugh with the kids over bad knock knock jokes. I can sit down with my husband at the end of the day instead of burrowing into the studio. I can catch up with the world.
Speaking of the photo shoot for the book...
Kate Inglis came out to shoot this book as well. It is an insane collaboration that I am proud to be a part of. She shot A Month of Sundays too. We hit the ground and five days later it feels like we surface into regular light and reality. And along the way we shoot. Well, she shoots the things I tell her too and she translates my obscure thoughts into gorgeous images, capturing the light and the quilts in a way I didn't imagine. In between we eat and drive and talk and fall into dreams.
Now she is home, celebrating her own book, Flight of the Griffons. The universe may explode from her creative powers.
And I am home, here. Quietly being who I am.
