Crumpled Wing


It is unfolding more, this crumpled wing syndrome.


The cocoon of grief that has veiled me is thinning. Shafts of light in the shapes of my dreams are slanting through the fog. I see colours and patterns and textures everywhere I look. I have unharnessed my creativity from the grind of the responsibility to my beliefs and let it flutter loose. Without trying to force my soul colours to stay within the noose of my own rigid expectations, I have instead listlessly let them doodle wherever they wanted to go. It is like being so wasted that you don't care if your child is crayoning all over the walls, and then look up to find they have graffiti-ed a startlingly good rendition of Renoir.

Yes it is still foggy around me, but it is more like an elegant morning mist that is wreath-like and slips away by mid-morning.

I have begun to genuinely study the logistics of my passion as a profession.


An embryonic business is budding and a graphic artist is working on my logo.


I am packing for the first of my design related trips to a neighbouring Asian country.


I am meeting the most
fascinating people.

I am discovering the things that make me flare with recognition,
that hammered steel, the beat up old bench from Rajasthani, a bunch of frayed charcoal taffeta, starched bleached linen, a strip of grosgrain ribbon the colour of a thunderstorm, a ruffle of moonwhite tulle, mugs of hand cast porcelain, words of my unspoken dreams stamped.


Sorrow has an outstanding value, for it tempers into a warmth that lies quietly in our hollow spaces during times of peace. It is a wiser joy, aged with a patina that glows secretly, known only by our own familiar seeking. Taste enough grief and you finally know what joy really tastes like too.


It is an unexpected discovery to find land like this after being adrift internally for so long.
After a long time rocking out at sea, I have hit a beach.
And it might just be the most beautiful island I have ever seen.


Now I just need to convince myself to get out of the boat, get out of the boat.

Keep. Getting. Out.


Cassandra Frear  – (March 16, 2011 at 12:21 AM)  

Hello, my friend. Just checking in on you, wondering how things are in your little corner of the globe.

We all have to keep getting out of the boat. Me, too. I think you've described some of my own experience over the last two months.

I feel stronger now, more awake. Even as new pressures begin. Nothing definite yet in our future, but we're both applying for school here, in addition to everything else. I should write you an email. Maybe this weekend.

Fiona  – (March 16, 2011 at 9:51 AM)  

Sounds wonderful.
Happy for you Amy.

Sj  – (March 16, 2011 at 7:32 PM)  

This is the post i've been dying to read, with no expectation when i would read it, but glad as a squirrel with nuts to read this one.
Precious girl, so glad for you. i am so excited and praying for you and your boat. I feel the life and the vibe from your writing, you go girl. i am cheering my heart out for you!
Love the photos, all of the stuff looks delicious and fun and right.

Jane  – (March 16, 2011 at 11:44 PM)  

What an extraordinary post, Amy. It sounds like you've been on a long, perilous journey. I'm looking forward to watching your feet hit the sand. J x

Sarah of 'Catching the Magic'  – (April 9, 2011 at 9:07 PM)  

Oh Amy, your writing is so beautiful. It feels like the richness of a fine, smooth red, sitting gently on the taste buds. I adored reading this and savoured every word. You deserve to do well and I am so happy for you that your wings are feeling safe to be unfurled and free to fly. You are certainly soaring with your words and artful imagery! Best wishes x

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