Receiving Messages

One evening, as dusk melted into the tree-line and the dim sparkle of distant flames began to glow overhead, the gal of ferns and moss strolled out into the fields. Her feet felt full of pins, her knees ached to run, and deep inside her abdomen danced a hard ball of adrenaline.

She was wrapped up so deep inside her self, she almost tripped right over the quivering cottontail bunched up in the fescue. "Excuse me," he said as he sat his ground. The gal quickly stepped back and mumbled an apology, something about Distracted and Flight and Need to Run. The cottontail looked kindly at the gal and said "No, I don't think that's it at all. I think you need to stop. To listen. To be patient." The gal sighed shakily and raised one eyebrow. "But I don't have time to stop, I have these deadlines, these dates, these hundred hands pulling, these few stomaches grumbling, these thousand shining bullet points on the shackles of To Do. I have to figure it out Now. I have to. I have to."

They stood an eternity, eyeing the six feet of atmosphere between them. Two hot saltine tears hit the grass. In a voice so quiet the gal wasn't sure if it came from the ground or the sky, the cottontail said "Wait. You can not run and fight at the same time. Those wispy trails of inspiration are not impressed with your hurry, you can not chase them down, you can not grab them with a clenched fist. Wait. They will come to you, they always have, they always will. But you must wait."

He combed one ear as he watched the gal. He nodded at her silence. And then with a flash of white tail and a dull grassy thud he was gone. But the gal stood still. She would wait. She would wait with all her heart and all the faith she could muster. And it would come.

Receiving Messages: Wait

6" x 6"

Notable Bits

* Wearing half-chaps (those "top part of the boots" looking business) makes me feel Fancy, especially when said half-chaps are worn and scuffed, extra supple and fit like a glove.

* On the backside of those jeans now exists a horse-nostril-shaped smear in alfalfa-green that will most likely never fully come out. I don't mind.

* That orange croissant in the background is actually a kitty boy getting his "Thank God we finally got to go out for the day" roll on.

* What you can't see are my bones, which feel light as air today, like they might pick up and dance themselves a little jig just because they can. I think that's what riding does to my heart.

And...

The Elusive Shower Beer. Yep, that's inside the curtain, all steamy and sweet-smelling of calendula and lemongrass.

It's almost like all of you are in this old claw-foot tub with me.

HOW KINKY.

A Winter's Walk in Miniature

Sometimes I see the smallest things, and I wonder, how do the others pass on by?

Venation

We're 22 days out and rapidly counting.

The show I've been painting for, writing about, sketching on, working towards for the last 8 months is almost upon me. The flyers just arrived. That must mean it's official.

"Venation"

opens February 4th.

If you have a second, lend a thought to my brushes. We're working hard, trying to remain calm, to press on, to finish the work I've begun in utter honesty, sincerity and heart. I am striving to remind myself daily that I will get everything done. AND I'M KEEPING MY FINGERS CROSSED TOO.

February 5th, I plan on sleeping.

'Cause Lord knows it's not happening now.

(From my official show statement; still in progress)

Venation

Stop.

It's time to examine the small things, the minutia of our worlds, the microscopic connections. The fast firing circuit of information leading from the curve of a single found feather to our ocular-endings to the cosmic knowledge that this was a life worth noting. This leaf you cradle in the soft palm of your hand is a delicate map.

Look closer.

Those lines are a blue print; this is the story of a single seed, the radiating tree rings, photosynthesis, symbiotic companions, parasitic lovers, cyclical growth, the burst of life and the release of death.

Look closer.

Your palm is a mirror; those wispy veins pumping hard tell the story of your visceral experience, the crush of life on your skin, the imprint of nature upon your retinas, the shared knowledge that we once were.

Breathe.

It's what we have in common.

Good Monday Morning

Well at least I hope it is for you too. Mine came early (earlier if you count all the tossing and turning waiting for the alarm to sing), dark and absolutely dreary out. But when the alarm finally let out its [overly chipper for an alarm if you ask me] bing-bong I neatly leapt out of bed and into my jeans.

Because I'm heading out to play with horses.

Back in a past life in California this was the norm, and honestly, a chunk of my heart and soul has been lost these last few years without them.

I can't wait to come home smelling like a horse.

I hope your Monday is off to just the start you need too, and if not, just pour that second cuppa.