I made one hand larger than the other. Not on purpose, I've actually tried to convince myself that they're fine this way (but they're not) and hopefully I'll rip out the too big one and knit it all over again. Even though the more I wear them I kind of don't notice all that much.
The days are so long, and the piles are so high, and my energy is so, not. I tease myself about new ideas and am reminded by the glare of everything else that still and will always need to be done, and so.
Knowing better, yet so frustrated that I won't even allow myself the pursuit -of so many things, stumbling upon their purpose. And shame for how behind I am on everything that came before. "Focus on something more motherly, more Christ-like," more not where your heart bows even though you can hear your own pulse tell you to follow that bend.
And you couldn't fathom your own child struggling with a similar voice. You can do anything you can do anything you dream!
But I really have to locate the source of that wet dog smell. And I herd and I feather and I do feel fulfilled and inspired and good for a little while again.
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