After lunch, Kate put on a shapely brown fleece jacket (just because it was utilitarian didn't mean it couldn't have style), a pair of jeans, and hiking boots, and set out, eager to see the countryside. She brought a sketchpad in the hope inspiration would strike, as it often did when she went for a walk. The beauty of the place was overwhelming, wrapping her in a velvet cloak--such purity of color, texture, and scent. It was everywhere, in the belled petals of foxglove, the rawness of the earth, even the handful of broken window glass she scooped up from the side of the lane, sparkling like diamonds. She let the pieces fall in a glittering cascade, admiring how they caught the light. She felt the stirring of creative impulse, but didn't act on it right away: she must coax it from its hiding place, like a fox from its den. She wouldn't force anything; it didn't work that way. She took her time, picking daisies for a bracelet, slipping it on her wrist as she crossed the meadows. The air smelled of grass and wildflowers.
The Lace Makers of Glemara by Heather Barbieri page 51
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