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I am UmberDove.

And by that, I mean an artist.  One who hears stories in the wind, who paints because it is what her soul tells her to do, who smiths because the muse moves through her fingertips, who loves nothing more than the promise of an unexplored trail, the sound of the ocean in her ears, and scent of a serious cup of coffee.

Blog

The Virtue of a Good Sweat

UmberDove

[Disclaimer]
This may veer in the direction of a confessional.

(hang in there with me)

Yesterday the skies shone mottled grey, the light cold and pale.  My skin felt itchy, stretched too tight, like the suit of me, the one that fit perfectly yesterday, was ready to molt.  My feet felt restless, wandering these rooms without purpose, fingers clumsy with brushes and pencils, my mind a slush of distractions.  I tried to push through in the studio, but found myself back in the kitchen.  I tried to scrub the countertops, but found myself strolling the backyard.  I tried to check in on the last of the kale, but found myself driving to the post office.  I tried the usual quick fixes: herbal tea and a short letter, trolling the property with PierrĂ© grabbing images of black rain and frail new shoots, turning the speakers up high and belting it out.  But after each half hearted attempt, I found my discomfort still firmly attached, my mind still heavy with unfounded fear, foreign tragedy, future frustrations, and pressure of time on the back of my skull.

So I tied my laces tight.  And I sweat it out.

Now I'm not one of those girls who glistens with a pretty flush and can walk out of the gym and out to dinner.  I'm not the type who maintains a well styled coif while covering miles of trail.  
I'm the type who feels sweat rolling along her clavicle, sliding down the small of her back, hair plastered to her ears, breathing hard, skin glowing red.

It's not pretty.
That's not what it's about.

Yesterday I dived in to long, double workouts, back to back, pressing those toxins, those toxic thoughts out through my pores.  I gulped air, sucking in hard, blowing out the muck clinging to my insides.  It was like spring cleaning in my cells, baptizing each one in the salty sweat, then leaving it out to dry in the brilliant light shining once again from my chest.

Afterwards I fairly floated.

Now this morning I can feel each of my ribs, expanding in unison.  The sun has broken through the hail storm and my raspberry starts are shooting out chartreuse.  The studio is fairly singing my name.

What are you doing for YOU today?
And tell me,
any one else out there confess to being a sweater?


P.S. I don't often give photo-less posts, but in this case, I though NO pics were the best pics. Yes?  You too?  Well good, we're on the same page.