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  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License

we long to come here, to leave there as quickly as possible and stay here as long as possible. in the pre-departure frenzy, we envision ourselves here, basking on rocks in the sun to the tune of constant water on its way down to the lake. sleeping to the clock of our bodies. creating with whatever is within reach. intently and delightedly noting the jubilant round-the-clock carnival of nature just outside our doors and windows.

but transition is never smooth and effortless.

accustomed to constant background noise, i long to turn on the familiar television. having made a don-t-you-dare-forget-to-do-these-things-when-you-get-back list, i almost ache to tick something off the list in this rich expanse of available time. it seems such a waste . . . until i remember where i am and why i am here.

when stitching so many decades ago, i mostly did cross stitch or needlepoint - projects that required me to read and follow directions. hence, my threads were arranged by color number. and it worked then, allowing me to quickly find when seeking.

but now i’m doing more “freelance” work, using thread to transcribe the images that pop in on surprise, so numbers don’t matter. not at all. what matters more now is the color and how it resonates with me as i gaze upon it, so it makes much more sense to the me that delights in organizing things to gather threads by color family.

of course it does.

so this morning, re-containerizing my threads becomes a transition ritual. i get out my new snappable stackable boxes; i get my threads in their cute little zippie-top plastic bags attached to easy-to-use metal rings; and i begin to sort.

it goes relatively quickly - at first - once i shush the me that excels in second-guessing and sabotage who keeps INSISTING that the boxes will not be nearly so conveniently mobile as bags that can be squished to tuck into available space and how i’ll not be able to tote them with me everywhere, not in these cumbersome (if cute) boxes.

the me that embodies authority issues asks why i feel compelled to follow the widely-accepted color wheel. why don’t i instead group colors according to trees-season, for example, or grandmother’s-flower- garden, or what-i-was-wearing-at-the-time? why don’t i just create my very own color wheel - and why does it have to be a WHEEL anyway?

then the me that HATES stereotyping and categorizing and pegging of any kind chirps up (loudly) to inquire as to the intended location of a few threads that seem to fit quite comfortably in so many boxes.

eventually, i toss them in, these magnificent threads that can move so easily from box to box, and the me that notes such things points out that the me who hatched that quick, spur-of-the-moment-no-time-to-think-about-it idea in the store last week is remarkably (”surprisingly” adds the me who is native in cynicism) good as guesstimating.

“yeah,” sniffs the cautious me who occasionally is translated as having commitment issues, “but i wouldn’t write color names on the containers. not just yet anyway.”

sigh.

it’s true: transition sometimes takes a while, but the me that is determined will (eventually) reign. i just know she will.

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