He spent the night last night, keeping both grandpa and I on our toes. He was full of energy and tons of imagination. Sometimes it scares me a bit, my love for him so strong. After he went home I sat in the garden and watched the birds and a kind of ease fell over me, an ease that I have not felt for sometime. Love can do that I think.
my way of being in the world
“Living life as an artist is a practice.
You are either engaging in the practice or you’re not.
It makes no sense to say you’re not good at it. It’s like saying, “I’m not good at being a monk.
You are either living as a monk or you’re not.
We tend to think of the artist’s work as the output.
The real work of the artist
is a way of being in the world.”
― Rick Rubin, The Creative Act: A Way of Being
It has been almost a months since I posted here, a break I didn’t plan or really see coming. I have no explanation, other than to say that life was overwhelming, leaving me a bit paralyzed, and in need of a rest. During this down time I walked the garden in the early morning, always with my camera and my heavy coat. I craved the morning light both inside and out and turned my face upward toward the sun whenever I could. I tried to read, but found I couldn’t manage more than a few pages before I had to set the book down, so I listened to poetry on podcasts and stayed away from the news. I went to be early, and slept in. I spent some time considering ways I might remodel this space, turn it into something with more content, and some wise words, but that only added to the stress. So I stepped back, and let things simmer.
I started taking note of my moods and how they changed throughout each day and paid attention to the things that boiled up to the top. I did my best to allow those things to rise to the top and boil over, hoping they would clear up more space and time for me. Time for me to find my way of being in the world.
And, if are reading this, thanks for sticking around. It means a lot to me.
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