These past few weeks I have been  less productive. There, I admitted it. The confession catches on my teeth, as if by clenching them it will not be true. There was sickness, and windchill, and a reprieve from those events in my routine that are linked to the school year. 

I did complete three commissioned quilts, and feel pleased with them. It was my good luck to forget any sense of tempo while reading several novels, looking up after a couple of hours bent into the pages of someone else's, albeit make believe, life. 

If history does indeed repeat herself, efficacy will reemerge. A good ninety days before the green promises push through their dirt coverlets, Ardor will wake up in me. When she stretches her arms and yawns, sleepiness will give way to strength. Yet it does not invalidate the current pace.

I was in a small group last week, in which others spoke of similar feelings. Being not quite healthy, and a post holiday slump were part of their experience as well. 

I thought of those years in which my daughters danced on stage. The fluidity of their movements was mesmerizing. Eight pairs of arms all stretched in sync, while as many long legs kicked and bent with the music. Even if a position looked awkward, they were all doing it at once so it must have been intentional. 

Maybe there is a Choreographer behind my own scenes, teaching me to slow down, kneel, pause.