I go into my studio and shut the door. It has been awhile. I am no longer acquainted with the unfinished garments, left over patterns and that particular color of thread that are the remnants of my last collection. They do not stir me like they used to. In fact, everything that was last season's process repulses me and I quickly bag it up and sweep the floor. I take down and wash the empty and molding tea jars and reenter with a fresh cup. I  set it down, open my workbook, turn on the radio, and settle in. It is another world in here. In this small room restlessness and impatience and boredom ricochet about until they tire and are overcome by more subtle feelings. A quieter voice. A creative spirit that says, hold still. Do you remember me? Did you think I had left you? Hold still and listen. I have a new story to tell.

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