Years ago, a woman I worked with who was going through a terrible time, told me she never day dreamed, never fantasized about anything. I don't recall the exact nature of the conversation, but she just didn't see the point.
I was gobsmacked. In my mid-20s at the time, I lived an extraordinary fantasy life, imaging assignations with royalty, book and magazine contracts falling from heaven like rain, fabulous outfits and a Democratic administration. My Walter Mitty existence didn't prevent my executing the daily stuff, but rather helped me sort out the goals and real dreams that would define my future.
While I'm not having many royal encounters these days, I still regularly converse with Oprah, design drop-dead sweaters and lull myself to sleep imagining the perfect fiber studio. Mine would be bright and sun-filled, rimmed with countless maple shelves and cubbies to hold books and yarn, a comfy sofa and reading chair, French doors and a mountain view, plenty of room to accommodate a large table, a desk or two, and a place where my umbrella swift and ball winder could live in the open. There would be wood or painted concrete floors covered with old, bright kilims or rugs I stitched myself. Counter space, cabinets and a sink for soapmaking, and a closet for my yoga props. There would have to be a discreet place for a litter box, too. And wouldn't radiant floor heat be nice?
Have you designed your fiber studio in the air?