No paintings. No drawings. No sketches or thoughts. The flowers substitute the need for paints. The gardens replace the canvas. Yet no great works have emerged. An urgency has been lost. To create beauty out of the rough is where I fossil my fuel. The dust upon which our house existed begged my attention. Now this old house is surrounded by lush gardens in various states of beauty and order. Sorting nature is like herding cats. One section is worked and deemed under control until I turn away. I look back and it has returned to its previous state of unkempt.
Some people, I am lead to believe, enjoy this endeavour. I find it as relaxing as working towards deadlines. A close tie to housework. Maintenace is dull. But creating takes strength and energy both of which have been rationed over the past few years.
A sift in perspective is needed. What can be enjoyed and how much can be done. A work in progress even before the work is started. Fall will be here before I figure it out. And all the while there is a plethora of reminders that life is too short; fleeting and precious. I run to catch up to the starting line, where everyone else waits placidly. I catch my breath and try to decide how I’m ever going to enjoy myself.