I have no illusions to how incredibly fortunate I am. I love my work. I love my home. I work from my home. I love to sit by my window with the piece that I am knitting or stitching or hooking, an audio or podcast burbling in the background, a batch of cookies in the oven. That’s the fun part. The more tedious bit, that bit that reminds me that it is a job, is when it comes time to marketing all the new wonderful things I’ve created. The photography, the editing, the social media, etc, etc, etc. Not my favorite part. But a funny thing happened the other day: the weather finally warmed, the grass and trees were turning green, and I had a number of things that needed to be photographed. Never has a photo session been so inspired. I threw open the doors and hauled a favorite chair out under the apple trees. My dogs padded behind me befuddled, but delighted with the diversion. And never was I happier to be taking care of the business end of business.
I’d just finally gotten almost settled into my new studio when I got displaced again. The heating system failed and all new baseboard needs to be installed. (Arrgghhh.) Now, my almost sorted and completely put away and tidied up beautiful space looks like a drunk tornado has had its way with the place. My New Year’s Resolution No. 2 (attempt to see more than 6″ of cutting table surface at a time) is an epic fail. With everything pulled away from the walls, out of closests and stacked on one another, there is no place to stow anything away to. My grandparents’ dining room table, which serves as my desk, has lost its stately central role in my office and is wedged in a corner, very unceremoniously. My new printer/scanner/copier that was supposed to make everything easier for me, sits on the floor like a petulant four year old. We love our plumbers. Really, they are great guys. But now I’m the somewhat out of place girl in the studio, working at the piled cutting table, wearing her winter coat, trying to get orders completed and out the door. Big. Sigh.
Around here, we have a rather intimate view of the lives of the birds we share our yard with. We witness the jealous sparring of the chickadees, playful flights of the blue jayes, romantic strolls of the geese couple who roost with us every year, and even the exhibitionist habits of the robins who mate on our fence post. Spring advances and the nest building begins as the expectant parents prepare for their broods. The morning dove nests in the eave over our screened porch, the oriole builds its amazing hanging nest in the birch by our front door, and the blue jaye takes up residence in the bush by my studio window. Day by day, we wake to a whole new family that’s ventured into the world. We count heads of hatchlings of all sorts and listen with amusement to their morning symphony of peeps and chirps—which I may feel is just squawking if I haven’t yet had enough coffee— and worry over them all staying safe from the foxes and hawks, and even negligent new parents. — They mean well.
As the season passes, and fledglings have enough of their hovering parents and advance into a world of their own, we start to find abandoned nests blown across the yard or fallen on a trail. We collect them and marvel at the skill and craft that went into the building these ephemeral homes, these little snapshots of other creatures lives—and of ours, too. It’s a wonder to see the imprint our life has made. There are nests lined with hair from our dogs and those that are carefully woven confections of grass and stray pieces of shredded packing material that escaped the recycling bin. My favorites are the ones that include little bits of ribbon or yarn from my work. I suppose I can share my creative inspirations with them. I’m in good company.