I’ve been in a bit of creative slump, lately. Her nap times come and go, and the silhouettes of half-made fabric dolls stay untouched on the wooden dining table near the windows. Bits of felt and embroidery thread remain stashed in the basket, sketches with new ideas remain taped to the wall, and fabric remains uncut.
And these pages haven’t been so filled with words, not so very many words at all, because words seem just kind of flattened out and tired, these days. Nothing magical really comes from my pen.
Even us, well, we stay in the house. The thick and sticky air hugs the house and warms it beyond comfort, and clings to us when we step outside. It’s heavy, it pulls us downward and pours its moisture into us and we tire of it so quickly. There is no wind.
Inside, we turn up the music, we make forts out of pillows and sheets, we cut everything into bite size pieces, we rinse and repeat. And we drink tea.
Lots, and lots of tea.
And you know what? It’s the best, most delicious, invisible imaginary tea I’ve ever had.