Or the ordinariness of change…
My constant companions these last two weeks. Not the painting table and the palette and some of the pieces from my last exhibition for courage. For this venture I have a box of tissues, a water glass, a warm quilt.
It wasn’t what I had in mind. I dreamt of an artist’s life. Painting every day, distractions set free like butterflies, a sense of well-being in every corner of the universe. Sure, there was transition. Letting go. A need to move into the future.
Instead of discovering the future, I’ve found seasonal flu. Seven long days of tissues and aches and fever and weakness. Then, just as the faint stirrings of creativity began to gather again, a secondary bronchitis. Add coughing to the list.
I know. People get sick. Terrible things happen. Flu and bronchitis aren’t them. This will pass. I’m trying to be patient, to recognize that change has its own order. But patience was never my long suit.
My easel calls. A new little painting, begun in September. A new project, and a new sense of purpose.
What are you trying to be patient with?
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