About a week ago, I carried the watercolor essentials down from the studio and took over the dining room table:
torn cotton paper
water-filled jelly jars
a smattering of paint tubes
and of course the usual suspects as well: pencils, brushes, sketchbooks and at least two sets of arm wear.
It's felt cozy, familial, to perch up on this stool with a little black puppy curled around my feet. To see the tree twinkling out of the corner of my eye. To have the tea kettle at the ready, or a handful of dried cherries should the mood strike. To trade carbon-dioxide for oxygen with twenty-one growing, reaching, breathing plants in this tiniest of rooms. To feel my whole little family close.
And of course, to watch the paint flow.
* * *
Tell me, what have your December evenings held?