Well now, pull up a chair and let me tell you what I’ve been up to, because it turns out herding one’s own ideas is very much like herding cats. Cats with opinions. And tiny hats.
Mary spent a good long while trying to figure out how to tie all our creative threads into one tidy little bow. Something tasteful. Something sensible. Something that would make people nod and say, “Ah yes, very cohesive.” And then one morning we realized we don’t actually want a bow. We want a basket. Possibly with wheels.
So we made ourselves a new YouTube home called The Wedgwood Cottage Studio, and I’m calling it a new beginning with a straight face and crossed fingers. But make no mistake, We are not giving anything up. Oh no. We are loading all of it into the back of an ancient land yacht of a station wagon. The kind with fake wood paneling and a mysterious smell. And we are driving it forward into the future at a very reasonable speed, turn signal on.
New year, new beginning. Same me. Same curiosities. Same pile of interesting nonsense riding shotgun.
Now, about these opening episodes. They’re about taking inventory. Not the sort where you label bins or solve your life. Just the gentle kind. The noticing kind. The “hmm, isn’t that interesting” kind.
If you’ve ever felt tugged in several directions at once, or wondered whether you’re stuck or quietly, sneakily moving forward, you might recognize the feeling. These conversations linger there. They don’t poke it with a stick.
In the two-part opening, we paused long enough to see what’s moving easily and what’s digging in its heels. We talked about unfinished work, competing projects, and that low hum of pressure that comes from time passing while curiosity keeps whispering, “Ooo, just one more idea.” You know the voice. It sounds friendly but never shuts up.
We noticed how containment can be an act of kindness. How giving something a place to wait can calm the whole room. How sometimes the problem isn’t the work at all, but the map you’re using. A way of thinking that works beautifully for one journey can be wildly unhelpful for another. Like trying to navigate a forest with a subway map. Technically impressive. Practically useless.
And here’s the radical part. We didn’t fix anything.
We didn’t make plans.
We didn’t force tidy conclusions with a bow on top.
Instead, Fab stepped in and told her own story. And Ewen of the Old Trails spoke about winter, truth, and walking carefully. Not as answers. As companions. The sort who walk beside you without grabbing the wheel.
You don’t need to do anything with this.
You can let it land. Or not. You can wander in, poke around, and wander back out again.
The room will still be here.
I’ll be the one by the old station wagon, rearranging ideas and wondering where I left the thermos.
