The Craft of Organizing and Wreath Decorating

Sometimes but lately a bit more often, I get the urge to de-clutter, which for years meant I would just re-locate one pile of mess from one room to another. And then I turned my workplace into craft storage. I brought yet another box of fabric to work and found these finished and unfinished Xmas projects--like a cute tree skirt (but where is its matching runner with snowflakes?), a potholder (and I'll stitch another or even an oven mitt from the rest of the hexies and hey they don't need to be the same size or can be ginormous and I can give them to my sister-in-law).

I also found these coordinating fabrics for a mermaid-themed quilt, again which I need to sew before the babies I know all grow up. I think it's time to give my 2-year-old grandniece a quilt for her to drag around to play spaces and for napping.

And I've actually started getting rid of unfinished projects, half-baked ideas, and wishful thinking because finally I'm been getting real with myself and can be okay with a creative endeavor that's not gonna happen. Two weeks ago, I cleared my bedroom floor to make room for a new dresser and because I purged, all foldable clothes fit in its drawers--no more storage containers for clothes not in season.

    

I love not having to step around stuff and am sure the hubs appreciates it hugely. Last night I cleared my dining room table and began getting ruthless again with getting rid of books. I've got piles of books TEMPORARILY as I read them and return them to the library or give it away to someone else to read. Below are cookbooks I wanna pore through over the winter break, a quilt book to inspire or draw design from for that mermaid quilt with lots of negative space, and magazines that I give to my friend Malak after I've read them. The magazines also contain some quotable quotes on their spines to Instagram.

My stack of journals and sketchbooks to be shelved on my bookcase as I get rid of books.

A stack of current and upcoming winter reading.

Three stacks of books at my bedside. Not too shabby. I justify all the books for work. I am a librarian after all.

For the past month, I've felt disappointed by people. And really it's not them, it's me and my unrealistic expectations. A neighbor whom I excluded from my bubble because I was freaking out over all the infection rates and hurt, made a dig at me, saying she was avoiding people (me) who are neurotic and negative (and I wondered if she was projecting because I find her emotionally draining). Perhaps she's right though. I don't regret breaking up with her, however. I'm appreciating the alone time, the very precious and little time I have after work to create and cook and decompress. I think my insecurity at not being enough is always getting in the way of me telling my story and my self-awareness and in the way of knowing that life is imperfect and messy and sometimes heartbreaking, making it all the more important to practice self-compassion.