How strange, life is poetry
I sometimes too wonder how it all started. It must have been on a cold winter day when I first took the courage to embark on this unforeseeable journey.
I ought to remember them more accurately, the genuine emotions sealed within my first brooch, but strangely enough they are nothing but a vague recollection today. Surely it must be because they got lost among the thousands of stitches my hands fancied during all these years.
Felt was the most appealing means of expression to me for its variety of colors, its soft and smooth texture but mostly because it involved hand embroidery. I have always been fond of needlework of any kind more than anything else. There is no artistic background to brag about, only two humble hands and a curious spirit that faithfully assisted me during all my struggles.
Most people say it is about patience but I wouldn't entirely agree with that. How can it be about patience when there is a sheer happiness in every stitch that I embroider? How can it be about patience when every stitch is equally important in making a piece complete?
It is not about patience, it is about heart flutter or faint perceptions or hazy twilight, it is about all the small details that make one's existence meaningful. I guess it has always been about that for me otherwise I wouldn't be where I am today.
I think about brooches dearly, I think about the people wearing my brooches even more dearly. A small keepsake carefully pinned near one's heart, an expression of affection for the person who wears it, this is what a brooch means to me.
