My breaks from blogging seem to get longer and longer. It's not you, it's me. And all that. I've tried to make this blog a place of peace and beauty. The fact is that life is not that peaceful nor beautiful. Oh well, it's been peaceful as in boring, but inner peace has been harder and harder to reach and reality somewhere out of my reach. I feel I ought not to write here when I'm all grumpy or depressed, as I think the majority of my readers come here to see my new books and read about bookbinding. It somehow feels unfair to be all sad when life is actually well. So, I write less and less. I lose touch with my dear online friends as e-mails are left unanswered and blog comments unwritten. I fear I'll let people down, so I sabotage these few human contacts I have online. I wish I could be the girl who wrote long letters to far away friends during classes. I have nothing but time, but I'm afraid to do anything with it. Perfectionism, I truly abhor it.
Maybe this is an explanation to you. Maybe you didn't need an explanation. Maybe I'm just trying to say I'm sorry I'm not here for you the way I hope I could be.
photo from a churchyard in Hampstead, London. it was magical there.