From night to day

I have not been as productive as I had hoped this week. I've started flitting between things a little again, which I must nip in the bud. I have done some things.

A series of bookmarks. These are so easy to do, and make such a lovely gift. Only thing you have to be careful of is to make sure the jump rings are secure (which I have found to my cost)

I had a plan to make some spider earrings out of black shrink plastic, so I used my web die. Which didn't cut through at all. So I had a bit of a rethink. I cut out some black shrink plastic in a shape which reminded me of a web, then I used the shatter stencil and a silver pen to make cobwebs. I then shrank them and coated them with UTEE, before adding a head pin with some red and black beads, and a spider charm.

Finally I made a pair of scissor earrings. I've had these in my stash for ages, from when I bought the items I needed for the sewing room stitch. I ordered two too many scissors, so I made them into earrings, with some turquoise beads and Swarovski gems.

I've also been busy stitching. Here is the latest progress.

The moon is complete, so I am working on Earth. It's going to take ages, as there are swirls of different colours, and I will have to keep repositioning the hoop, so I have decided to stitch an area then move onto the next rather than stitch a specific colour. The dwindling daylight hours are annoying me now, as they do in winter. It's a paradox; I love winter as a season, but loathe the lack of time for crafting.

Speaking of daylight hours:

blazing ball of light,

stars fade as dawn approaches

the night becomes day

So this week, originally last weeks but for the weather, was sunrise. There's an Indian saying "Every night is followed by sunrise." Similar to the "it's always darkest before the dawn" though the difference in meaning are subtle, but they are there. Now, the plan was to do this in September when the weather is usually gorgeous down here in Cornwall, and the sun doesn't get up in the middle of the night. But the weather was bloody awful, and the lesson learned here is not to rely on British weather (it could be worse of course - relentless drivel is hardly on a par with the hurricanes touching land in America, but if there's one thing we Brits do well it's moan about the bloody weather!)

Thankfully, at the moment the sun rises just as I leave for work. When the weather is nice it's a beautiful thing to walk to work, take a look over our shoulder, and see the sunrise in all it's glory. The pictures do not do it justice. The sky a myriad of pastels. It actually inspired me to write something:

'There's a reason why they call it the rosy tipped fingers of dawn. Sunrise is pastels, a gentle awakening to the day. To the West the full moon is surrounded by purples, pinks and blues. To the East, where the sun is still waiting to crest the edge of the horizon, the sky is delicate yellows and greens. Even the sun is gentler as it rises, intensifying as the day goes on until it is a deep orange, which spreads to the darkening oranges and purples of sunset. It's beautiful to look at but the deepness is almost as if the sun and the sky are burning off the excesses and stresses of the day. '

'That's what she had heard anyway. She had always wanted to be woken by the gentle caress of the dawn, but was instead awoken by the brutal slap of her alarm. Or on the days where she didn't have to get up early, she slept in till the sun was high in the sky (or already making it's downward journey in the winter), cursing the amount of daylight hours, and scarce as they were, that she had wasted.'

'When she did manage to catch the sunrise it was hardly the breath-taking spiritual images that came to mind. Sleeping in on her days off meant that winter was the only time she had caught the transition from night to day. From inky black to insipid bluish-white, the sun barely making an appearance, and when it did it was as white as the sky, but brighter. Harsh. She got up early enough for work of course, but her mind was on fixing her hair, cleaning her teeth, and choosing what to wear for work when nobody cared but her. Come to think of it, she didn't care either. She would set her alarm on her days off, hellbent on a mission to rise with the sun, to watch the sky lighten with a kaleidoscope of colours. To listen to the silence as the rest of the world slept on, and to marvel at the beauty of another day. But each time her alarm trilled, she swiped the screen of her phone without even waking. An unconscious motion. She had seen plenty of sunsets, thought them beautiful, although harsher than the delicate colours of the dawn.'

'Her life was harsh, like the colours of the sunset, but unlike the sunsets, her life was not beautiful. And, like the dawn, sometimes it wasn't worth waking up for.'