The Studio.
Some stories become essays.
Others find their way through my hands.
Sometimes words aren't enough.
That's when I head to the studio.
This is where I listen with my hands.
I don't always know what I'm making.
Sometimes it's a little house.
Sometimes a stitched heart.
Sometimes it's needlepoint, driftwood collected from long walks, shells carried home from the beach, paint, wood, or whatever happens to be asking for my attention that day.
The object matters less than the noticing.
This is where I come to pay attention.
Curious?
Sometimes this practice finds its way to the table, too.
If you're interested in slowing down, making something with your hands, and discovering what your own creative practice might be trying to tell you, I'd love to have you join me at a gathering.
