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There are times when I’m looking everywhere for something to build, it’s like my hands are itching to do something, so I do everything else. It reminded me very much of the process of writing stories. I think I was 8 when I created an imaginative world called Remoria (pronouced Ray-more-eee-uh) that belonged to winged beasts, talking animals, enchantments and giant snakes. Lost in a new world, our heroine finds love by accident, her place in the kingdom, and a secret power held inside her. By the time I was ten, I had 400 pages of this world, with maps, encyclopedia of creatures created by me, illustrations, and character charts.

I painted elaborate murals of this heroine’s accomplishments with topography- I’d even hold out a page at arm’s length and admire the way the paragraphs flowed like a black river. I was responsible to cure the winged horse of a poison arrow, I had been destined to become a fairy-tale warrior, with the great sword from the capital of Remoria, decorated in dragon armor, my long hair like a flag in the wind in a conquered tower.

Why then, did I lose all the battles I fought? Why do I always declare war against myself? I couldn’t hold up an iron skillet, let alone a great sword. Why, was I afraid of becoming something? I believed that I was just a crumb, or the leftover piece of thread after you snip it. I stayed within the domain of dragons made from amethyst and crystal, stones I had from my rock collection. I lost a compass at a storm in the sea, and it washed up in the arctic northern lands that belonged to a colony of barn owls.

There was a fight in me that would not end. That same drive to create has always festered, but it’s when I stop living in loving-awareness and self-acceptance that I inhibit a lot of potential to grow. I never viewed myself as an artist in all my life, until yesterday, when I noticed that my room is started to get covered in yarn art, and my private collection of handmade jewelry. A few springs ago, I had this epiphany that I could be reborn. Like new, recreated. I could abandon every notion I had of myself and start over.

I wasn’t sure where to start first. I added buttons to the Strawberry Fields crop top. I tied a rose around my wrist. I thought about giant Russian sunflowers as a cute top, and drifted into flower crowns. Having a bosom full of flowers. I also decided to watch a couple of videos to learn a new stitch, the scale stitch. I knew my next quest was to design a skirt to go with Strawberry Fields.

There was a time where I wouldn’t attempt my own stunts. However, the light-bulb epiphany effect is something i like to experience. When I trust my heart, and go forward. Sometimes I start dancing to my favorite song, it’s called impulse. It’s following through those creative jolts and letting the sparks ignite. Am I making sense? I asked the artist behind Donation Creations how she made the patterns for her unique crochet pieces, and her reply was something along the lines of encouraging me to perhaps draw things out. I do now devote myself to my pin board, and pay close attention to the patterns. What do I love?

I create what I love. And we are are not only defined by what we create, but what we refuse to destroy.

 

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