Over the past couple of months I have organized this house. The last frontier is the sewing room, which is no small task.  I expect to rehome eight boxes of fabric and notions. Coincidentally, if there is such a thing, three friends have recently asked if I could spare some: one for a costuming class, another for girls in Ghana, and the last for weaving rugs with the elderly. 

Other than those bursts, however, I haven't begun. It gives me momentum to imagine what it will be like, when the shelves are lean instead of bulging, when hunks of yardage I haven't touched in six years are liberated, when all that is left behind is what I need. Better yet, less than I need because if history is any indication more fabric will come my way. 

I picture sitting in my chair, surrounded by color and texture. Velvets on one shelf. Christmas cloth on another. The rainbow shelves will span the spectrum from floor to ceiling. Doll making supplies will be tucked in a basket. The button can will sit on the sill looking at the chickens. 

It is all lovely in my imagination. The inertia builds each time I picture it as a space I am eager to step into, rather than an obstacle course of piles to step over. I will be able to offer sewing lessons again. I'd like that. 

A woman whose marriage is in disarray was walking with a friend. 

"What would you like your relationship to be like?" her friend invited. "Tell me what you imagine."

"Imagine?" she scoffed. "I can't imagine anything but what is. I am stuck. Forever."

Her friend felt sad that she could not even sketch an outline of what could be. 

I suppose some people manage to have an idyllic marriage, or pinterest worthy sewing nook suddenly appear. Aren't there game shows that offer them as prizes? But in my world they come more gradually through the tedious effort of sorting, tossing, folding, deciding. 

It helps if I can picture a lovely space or conversation even before it seeps into reality.