About a week ago, I wrote -- offhandedly, actually -- something in response to a question. The question was asked by someone whom I respect, someone with an excellent work ethic and an eye that will take him far.
My response surprised me.
I don't usually admit it to myself anymore.
It was something that, years ago, I was quite certain of. But I lost the gist...somewhere, in the mill that life becomes, I lost the simple meaning of what I wanted. To pursue design as a sort of career (something, for me, that would fit well in the small crevices of personal time that were part of the geography of being a mother of four) seemed a more-than-acceptable substitute.
But a substitute is always that. A substitute.
"What kind of work do you do?"
The answer to his question is the one that I can't get out of my mind.
(P. S. I have loved design, and always will. Like Pippi, I am a thing-finder.)