I know it’s been a while since last you heard from me. It was summer, and the outside called to me. I walked the dog. I rode my bike. I even weeded our (miniscule) garden.
That wasn’t all. Nora Roberts won over Barbara Brackman, Regency balls over paper-piecing, and highly creative sex over . . . well, you get the idea.
And I’m not sorry. It’s good for us (by which I mean: me) to have time apart now and then. When we are with each other day in and day out, I have to admit, the relationship gets a bit stale. There are times when even a fabulous new fabric line or the latest greatest miracle ruler just isn’t enough to bring the spark alive. Where is the passion? I ask myself.
But yesterday, I opened the door and found you ever ready. A bit dusty, it’s true. And the mess that was there when I closed the door is, sad to say, still there. But the cutting mat has a spread of beautiful Rick Tim hand-dyes next to a new mini foundation all ready to go.
Ah, yes. The feel of the rotary cutter slipping every so familiarly into the palm of my hand, the slick slice of the blade through fabric, the dog lying down behind me so I trip over him when I step back.
It all comes back to me.
What’s that I feel? A quickening pulse, an urge to rifle through the (stacked up) patterns, even a brush of interest in that (much higher) stack of unfinished projects?
It must be love.