This has been on my mind for weeks now, this nonstop frustration over how much time I have to do things that feed my soul.
I have a lot of hobbies, and I’ll try out a new one at the drop of a hat. I’ve got several that I’m very interested in, but simply have not had the opportunity to test out. From creating wild natural dyes from local plants, to spinning my own yarn, to gardening, to aquaponics, to aquascaping, to herpetology, to pressing plants, to watercolor painting — there are a thousand things I want to do, a thousand things that there are not enough hours in the day to create. I could spend my entire day (and often do, come the weekend) doing nothing but creating.
Last week, I made a martingale collar from scraps of leather and spare fabric. This week, I plan to teach myself Sachiko mending on my favorite overalls. I’m currently working on a crochet cardigan, and after that I’m going to try to plan out a second patchwork sweater that MIGHT get done come winter. This isn’t even counting the 32 (THIRTY TWO) fiction projects in my drive or the dungeons and dragons campaign I’d like to get back to running someday.
I create like a biological need. It overwhelms the people around me, but in my defense the things I should be doing for 8 hours per day do not pay. Instead, I must spend most of my time working a job that does not fulfill my need for creation, and set that urge to the sidelines for it to reemerge full force as soon as I have a moment to spare.
It means that the people I love get a lot of handmade gifts.
from the pen of icarus blake 
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