“I don’t know if it’s a function of age or temperament, but I’m no longer seeking those major exclamatory notes of pleasure. I want a life that has pleasure contained within it.”                                                                                            .terry gross.

I’ve got an actual studio space coming together, with room for my machines to stay out, the vintage bolts of fabric, and in-progress projects spread out so I can actually work toward completing some things. I’m finally completely box-less, with neat stacks of books waiting until I find shelving I like. I spent some time swatching orange wool today, full of faith that I’ll need to be wearing wool soon. I found the limits of an unfamiliar Korean green tea this morning. I have some interesting experimental dishes planned for the week. Clean laundry. This single malt is sipping really nicely from the mustard stoneware I don’t have occasion to use often.

In other words, I didn’t do a bang-up job of MAXIMUM FUN this weekend, didn’t throw myself into EXPLORATION DO IT ALL but …I’m okay with that. I got out, I filed away some notes and places to explore further, and continue to locate myself on this different coast/planet. But I mostly made time and space for my daily rituals to come to life, to acknowledge the things that make me me.

I realized last week that this week marks the first time in two-ish years that I will have been in one place for more than two weeks at a time. Which means that the rhythm of my days is totally foreign right now. Which means life and work are endless possibilities instead of finite chunks of time/projects with distinct best-by dates.

And so much possibility of containing pleasure within and amid that time.