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In the haze that is death, and perhaps because I’m reaching for something that is hopeful, and holds the promise of creativity (read: life?), I wanted to tell you that I’m starting a thing on the 22 May 2017 – the 100 Days Project NZ.

The 100 Days Project has rules (so it’s very serious), to wit:

  1. I will repeat a simple creative task every day for the duration (of the project) i.e. 100 days.
  2. I’ll record each day’s effort.

The recording of each day’s effort will happen on Instagram, here and on the 100 Days Project website, here. Feel free to follow the creativity. 🙂

What will I be creating? Miniature costumes – period or fantasy costumes for dolls, more specifically.

As to the ‘why’. I’m stuck. I’m hoping this will be the start of me creating stuff; of me making stuff; me tapping into that long-held love of period and/ or fantasy costume, whilst relishing the happy feeling I get when working in small-scale. I’m hoping something shifts, and I can begin to feel connected to this strange place I’m now calling home.

I also have a lot of dolls that need clothing.

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I chose that heading because my uncle has passed away. (He was born in Madeira, so something in Portuguese seemed fitting.)

I found out about his passing when I saw a status update on my brother’s Facebook timeline. I then noticed that my brother had tried to contact me on WhatsApp. Although I’ve had a brief conversation with my brother on WhatsApp, I haven’t spoken to my parents yet. I haven’t heard their voices yet. It’s times like these where I fully appreciate how the time difference between Johannesburg (South Africa) and Wellington (New Zealand) makes having a conversation so much more tricky; how it makes connection difficult.

There has been a lot of death lately… I’ve experienced it through friends who have lost their mothers this year.  I have witnessed the loss of family before – a cousin when I was maybe 17 years old and an aunt when I was in my early twenties. The hollowness that I’m feeling today at the news of my uncle’s passing should not come as a surprise.

But it does. It’s a strange heaviness. A numbness. A foggy presence. I’m not altogether here. Willing myself to do mundane stuff is near impossible. Staring out into nowhere in particular feels comforting.

A friend on Facebook put it so eloquently: “I feel like I need to hug everyone but my arms are cut off.”

I wish I could hug everyone.