There was a game I used to play with young children. It's the Scribble Game. I make a random mark on the page, and she or he takes the crayon and turns it into something. Then it's his or her turn to offer me a squiggle to embellish. 

There is no right answer. It is just an invitation to step into the possible. Kids liked it. So did I. 

An artist named David Zinn posts his work on social media. He finds cracks in the pavement, or tufts of grass and turns them into chalk pictures. They are charming. I enjoy that he goes looking for what might be considered problems, and transforms them into mice or hedgehogs. He knows that the lifespans of his characters are ephemeral, and yet that does nothing to detract from their worth. 

It strikes me as a handy strategy. As someone who has dedicated thousands of yards of fabric to create quilts that I hope will outlast me, there is a lightness to his whimsy. 

Not only that, he blurs the division between the tangible and the imagination. Where does the cookie end and the green monster begin? 

I am progressing in my efforts to take myself less seriously. I write stories that will be forgotten tomorrow. When I dress to leave my house I shoot for passable, rather than notable. It seems doubtful that anyone will recall what I was wearing after I leave the room. The majority of songs that John and I have written are unknown, though a handful of them have endured in people's repertoires. Sometimes I sing them alone in my sewing room, with only felted gnomes for an audience. Perhaps they are more real than they let on. 

There is a sweet spot, between the pressure to handle every situation deftly, and the exhale of believing that this too shall pass. 

Love,