Well, here I am in the beginning of a new year. There is a hedgewitchery flux happening for me. I'm neither here nor there. Ideas are coming to me in at odd times and in strange forms. While watching X-Files: You, Dawn, could do this thing. Or while spinning wool: Dawn, why don't you create this? So far, it's about the Art ~ what I can create, what I can do under my own steam. No collaborations or partnerships or relying on other people/things/circumstances. Just me. Which really works well for an Aries person. What doesn't work well for an Aries person is Sustaining. That is, the fiery beginnings a person of my type enjoys hits a wall. I might get bored midway. I might encounter an unforeseen obstacle and let the project sit far too long (like, until it's forgotten completely). The challenge might be, then, to engage that Word o' the Year I've adopted for 2016: Curiosity. Can I be curious enough to maintain some sort of momentum? Even if some of that momentum includes the occasional setting aside to percolate?
I don't know. We'll see. I am curious.
In the meantime, I've issued myself a personal challenge: to re-purpose all my old journals into art. I've been writing journals since nineteen seventy something. All words written long hand. Very few have images. I've written about Everything and Nothing. What I'm feeling on a certain day. Events occurring at a certain time. Rage. Sadness. Unsent letters. Joy.
The thing is, I'm not that person anymore. I wasn't that person the minute I put pen to paper. I did need to express the emotion, note the date, speak to my soul and that happened. However, it doesn't need to be written in stone and kept for posterity or painful posthumous reading. Despite disclaimers to anyone reading my journals, it's still all there. And it might sting a little. Even for me.
Hardbound books will be ripped through to reduce the signatures for painting or creating collage over (I don't want the books to go all alligator on me). Spiral bound notebooks will be ripped through, painted over, included in collage or hole punched (I've got one of those nifty 2" hole punches). Words will become art, transformed, released. Better than burning, it's recycling, composting. I rather wish I had my grandmother's journals to include in the mix because that history can go too.
What might grow from this endeavor? I don't know. Something. Nothing. Like a gardener, I'll have to keep on task in order to bear fruit.