not boring yet!

It's astonishing, really,
how much I continue
to love making
these little books--

​at least once I begin.

Before I start
there is always
​ the moment
when it feels like a chore.

​"Almost out of pages, Sarah!
Stop spinning
and make a new book.
NOW!"
(so bossy)

Of course I forget all that
once I actually start tearing and folding paper.
And once I've made or found the cover
I'm immersed until done.

The cover thing has been growing on me.
My first coptic bound diaries
didn't even have them,
the top and bottom signatures
having to do the job.
Then, to save that lovely paper,
I covered the books in scrap cardboard
gleaned from the backs of pads.

It is only in making the last three
that I've been brave enough
to try a thing
I'd been consciously avoiding--
stitching tapestries onto books
not as decorative objects,
but as paper protection.

My fear
was that tapestry covers
would make the books feel precious--
would strip both the pages
and the act of drawing in them
of the relaxed status
I count on.
 Transforming them
into untouchable artworks
about which I might be
vaguely reverential--
and thus not use--
would do me no good at all.

At the same time
I was also concerned
that it would be painful
 to watch my precious
 tiny tapestries
grow grubby 
​with dailyness.
Are they not works
​to go on walls?
"Be careful, be careful, be careful."
Who needs that?

So far, neither concern
has been warranted. 
​(for which I'm hugely thankful),
though I'm not sure  why.

It could be
that drawing myself
as a cartoon character
every day--
taking a step back,
 seeing this person called Sarah,
 noticing how she behaves
 what she thinks,
​what she has been making
(and of course gently mocking as necessary),
is as helpful and addictive 
as running.

And since both practices 
are now well established
 I am no longer intimidated
or embarrassed,
or stopped
(injury or  unavoidable circumstances notwithstanding),
by much of anything.

It could also be
that using a thing I've made--
be it sauerkraut, sweaters,
shoes or a skirt--
transforms it back
from precious object-hood

into a treat,
so that lacing up my shoes
(oh that moment
when the grubby, familiar cloth
snugs up around my ankle),
or opening up the diary
and watching the marks appear
(so that's what today feels like),
becomes an pleasure
worthy of anticipation--
a daily gift
that cannot be matched
by anything purchased.

Or perhaps it is merely
the fathomless joy
of surprise:
--how today's run
is different from yesterdays,
--how the thing I draw
is never the thing
​I think I'm going to draw,
--how the same route
and the same apparent image
(me blogging, or weaving, or spinning),
rendered over and over and over
still feels like a miracle,

or indeed,
--how the word
"and,"
upside down and verso,
looks like the word 
"pug"
in mirror writing.

ps. those running shoes are now well into their second winter (I have a low pair for warm weather). I waxed them for semi-waterproofedness which is one of the reasons they are so grubby -- the dirt sticks to wax really well.
For more on these running shoes (and others),
Click here