I woke up this morning and knew, “I am going to write about my time in the cabin.”
I trust I will meet all manner of critics on my way to the end of this assignment.
This is what I have to do next.
Easel painting has not been calling me the same way it used to. For over forty years it was my way to express love, to be in love.
I was painting a sycamore from my window, last week, from life. It felt like we were letting go of one another, painting and me. I was saying thank you for how it has held me so long, it has given me a way to be. It may not be enough, I am growing.
I didn’t want to grow like this, out of the familiar way of being myself.
When I write, someone is listening.
When I paint, it is just me seeing, listening.
It almost feels unbearable to paint right now, to feel this change in me.
This was my experience painting the sycamore last week.
Maybe they are the same in the end, painting and writing, so intimate and communicative, too.
I don’t know.
But I am called to write now, about intimacy.
I’m calling the proposed book, or will it be one long prose poem… “time out.”
The form it takes will definitely be new for me.
It is so weird, my camera takes a picture, I think it will upload and it disappears.
Technology is helping me to let go.
It has something to do with the new settings…
Yes, Time Out.
As usual, I am fascinated by change. And love.