I was always told: waste not, want not. I think that's a clue to why I save just about everything.
I am surrounded by collections of all sorts. I try to keep my fabric in order, but the wool, linen, and silk overflow their spaces, wandering into the den next door to my studio. And the den is filled with items to sell in my vintage shop. My daughter's room is home to an entire wall of gorgeous wool tapestry threads. Boxes overflowing with sweaters sit in a corner of my bedroom.
Back in the studio, dolls and their tea sets share shelves with piles of velvet and lace, cups filled with markers and paint brushes, and jar upon jar of antique buttons. Baskets hold spent tea bags and their tags, wool roving, projects in progress, wool scraps waiting to be strung as garlands, and bundles of old letters. There is a large drawer devoted to dryer lint. Hundreds of teeny containers sit stacked one upon another, each holding a different type or color of bead, pearl, clasp, or other gem. More drawers open to show off diminutive jewelry tools, rubber stamps, bundles of sterling silver wire, and found objects galore.
I sense how easily I could become a true hoarder. Perhaps I am already there.
