27 March 2025:: Look who’s quietly taking shape on my sewing table…
This little long-eared bunny is still a work in progress, but already I can feel the life and character forming with every stitch. Made from soft, unbleached cotton and sewn together in the early light of morning, this one feels like a gentle breath of calm amidst the busy world.
There’s something incredibly grounding about dollmaking — the slowness, the silence, the rhythm of it. Cutting, sewing, stuffing, shaping… it’s like sculpting a story in fabric.
I haven’t added a face yet. Not quite ready. That part always feels sacred — like naming something. For now, she simply sits beside the threads, keeping me company, legs dangling over the edge of my sewing box.
There’s something about early spring light that feels like a soft invitation — to begin again, to notice more, to get busy in the gentlest of ways.
The Magnolia tree outside my window is bursting into bloom, and my studio is bathed in that pale, golden light that only spring brings. Brushes, pots, notebooks, and little bowls of colour are scattered across the table, ready for the next wave of inspiration. It’s that beautiful in-between time — not quite summer, no longer winter — when everything feels quietly alive.
And outside, the bees are humming. And I’m feeling hopeful.
They’ve started flying again, joyful and determined, returning to the hive with legs full of pollen like tiny golden pantaloons. Watching them always gives me a little jolt of wonder. Such small creatures — such great purpose.
Preparing for the Spring Inspection
While they work, I’m busy too. Tomorrow is the first proper spring inspection of the season, and I’m preparing everything we’ll need: tools, notes, fresh frames, and of course — a calm presence. Beekeeping, like any kind of tending, asks for presence above all.
There’s something deeply grounding about syncing your days with the rhythm of the hive. You begin to feel the season not just in the temperature or the flowers, but in the energy of things — a quickening, a stirring, a coming back to life.
Between the garden and the studio, I move in a quiet rhythm of my own — checking on the bees, washing brushes, watching the light change across the walls. It’s a simple kind of joy. A slow one. And for me, that’s the best kind.
Tomorrow I’ll open the hive and check how they’ve made it through the winter. But today, I’m letting the sunlight warm the table, the scent of spring drift through the open door, and the soft hum of bees remind me: life returns.
We’re still happily hooking away over here — stitch by stitch, colour by colour — and always with my favourite little shadow curled up beside me. 🐾
Amna (yes, that fluffy Sheltie face you see!) has fully claimed the crochet spot as her own. She supervises my work closely, keeps the blanket warm in between rows, and occasionally tries to “help” by gently stealing a ball of yarn… or two.
We’re working on the beautiful Canal Boat CAL by the ever-inspiring Lucy at @Attic24 — and oh, what a joyful journey it’s been! All those delicious colours, those happy stripes, the feeling of rhythm and brightness that grows with every row. It’s like crocheting a little boat ride through springtime.
There’s something so soothing about it all: the soft click of the hook, the tug of the yarn, the peaceful weight of the blanket growing over my lap… and, of course, a snuggly Sheltie snoozing right beside me.
Not sure when we’ll be “finished” — but honestly, I don’t mind. We’re enjoying the journey far too much to rush it.
I finally carved out a little time to experiment — and oh, how good it felt! Today’s studio table is filled with test tiles for a new project I’ve been dreaming about… and I’m so excited.
There’s something joyful about making just for the sake of curiosity. No deadlines. No pressure. Just me, my hands, and some sparkly colours calling to be tried.
The tiles are stamped, cut, and ready for their first round in the kiln. Once they’ve been bisque fired, I’ll glaze them with bright, cheerful colours — and then it’s back into the kiln again. A slow, patient rhythm that’s as much a part of the magic as the making itself.
Of course, it’s always a bit of a mystery how the final results will turn out. Clay has its own language, and glaze… well, glaze does what it wants. But that’s part of the wonder.
For now, I’m enjoying the process — soft light through the window, tools at hand, and Amna curled up under the table, keeping me company.
This is what slow living looks like to me: quiet joy, colourful messes, and creating something just because it lights you up.
