I’ve a plan for a creative project where I sew a cloak, with feathers embroidered for each day. It’s a moment of reflection, to recognise what was important in that day, to mark its passing. Yesterday the beautiful grey wool felts and embroidery threads for this feather of days cloak arrived. And after the initial oooh, it threw me into deep anxiety.

How do I fully honour each day? How can my rusty, never terribly good embroidery skills be up to the task? (I won the needlework prize at school, not for my skills, but my perseverance unpicking because it was always too messy and resewing so many times!) What if they don’t even look like feathers? What if it is just a mess? What if, what if, what if….?

And the hardest part, the question that’s been gnawing away at my heart – how big should the feathers be? Sounds daft, but I’m trying to work out how many feathers of this or that size will fit on a cloak. (Also needing rusty maths- pi r squared?) What if I run out of space? What if I only fill a small area? What if, what if, what if….?

And of course, all this angst isn’t about the cloak itself, it’s about finding a way to live, finding sense in the not-knowing. This diagnosis highlights what none of us know- the how long have I got? But rather than being a vague, fuzzy theoretical not knowing, being given this news brings it right in front of our eyes, and I can’t see through yet.

But, like anything, I’m sure I’ll learn to grow around it. I’m sure that the pit of fear in my gut will settle. I’m sure I’ll learn to accept, maybe even embrace the not-knowing. Because if I can embrace it, then knowingly not-knowing will be a gift, a reminder of the exquisite mystery that this life is.