I was sitting in my garden this afternoon, beading and making jewellery.
Beading soothes me and I can lose myself in the rhythmn of it. That's one of the reasons I have always liked working with my hands -- you become lost i
n the task and your mind only works on that. Your brain gets absorbed by the problem of choosing the beads and the sequence to put them in and how to knot the thread so that the bracelet stays tight and true. Should I put charms on this bracelet and if so which ones? And those earrings: should I make them long or short? The only interruption is when abead rolls off the tray or out of my hands and I have to get down on my knees to retrieve it.The dog lies in the shade to one side of me, only rousing to snap at a passing fly and the cat is tucked somewhere in the couch grass that will not be banished, no matter what I do. For once the neighbour with the loud radio is quiet: asleep or away somewhere and I have forgotten to bring out my radio, so all I hear is the birdsong and the breeze. The beach would be nice for a walk, I think, but that thought will also have ocurred to several dozen other people this evening, so I leave it and promise the dog we'll go tomorrow morning instead.
But tomorrow I will be a day closer to a bridge I don't want to go over. I try not to worry about it, knowing it is just a bridge from here to there, and I really want to be there but I know the land beneath it is swampy and infested with monsters and it's a bit like that rope bridge in The Temple of Doom, ricketty and with a posse of fierceness poised to push me off. The dog rolls over and sits up. I think she heard me think the word walk...
