Suddenly my life feels manageable. It is an amazing feeling, one that I haven’t felt in a very long stretch of time. As in years. And years.
Last week my second eldest daughter–twenty-years-old and five months pregnant–moved out when an apartment opportunity that could not be missed opened up for her. There was the great chaotic heave of a move. My sister-in-law came for a visit, and I brought out the mismatched accommodations of my home . My brother-in-law, who has been a long-term interim resident (figure out that one, I haven’t yet), left for Michigan.
By Tuesday, at the dinner table, it was the four of us: me and Jay, McKinley and Renee. Just us at the table. It was rather surreal. I realized I’ve not a clue how to cook for just four people.
Today creative thoughts and ideas swirled around in my head and they were not tagged with the weight of frustration, which has been my state of creativity for…a Very Long Time. These ideas –about last night’s dreaming, stories, paintings, and how they all fit together–they were not mired in the realm of That Which I Can Never Accomplish, no, not at all! They whisped about in the blue sky of mind, forming and reforming as they collected a growing energy throughout the day.
Now I am in my studio. I am listening to Bach. There is a breeze rushing the darkness beyond my windows. I am wearing my creativity like a well-worn sweater, the soft one that fits every curve of your body and warms your skin perfectly. The one you find in the bottom of your drawer after you thought you’d lost it. I glow with playfulness. I am the light in my windows.