I am taking a coffee break today to knit, greatly enjoying a cushy chair at an Global Conglomerate Coffee Chain Shop, watching the rain splat against the window, chuckling schaudenfreude-like at people behaving like a combination of ducks, wet dogs and angry cats as they come inside, and the hiss of the coffee machines transposed over the mellow 1930s jazz playing.
A lady next to me had her hair clip resting on the table, and I chatted with her as she too uses the same, unusual brand.
When I pulled out my knitting she exclaimed,
Oh, you’re an artist!
No, I just like to knit, and i do a few other crafts.
But you are an artist, what else do you do?
I told her about the embroidery I finished last night and she asked to see a photo, then she saw my needlepoint pillow on the couch at home and remarked on that.
I made that, it’s petit point in Persian wool. It took me 6 months to stitch while I got over a breakup.
I could never do that, it’s beautiful, you’ll have it forever.
Suddenly I saw myself in her eyes, a stylish lady wearing unusual glasses and jewelry, an artist, living in a home filled with unique and colorful things. An artist!
I guess I really am. The world looks and feels different to me somehow, now.