Adjustments rattle multiple souls in this family, and this shift from spring break to school days is still sending shockwaves.
On the way to the studio, I lean on Gregorian Chants to still myself after the morning’s reverberations. Listen and breathe, listen and breathe. A solitary sanctuary opens up on my drive: “It is all as it should be.”
A plan comes—scaffolding to hold us up until the shaking stops. I adjust the evening for this support.
In the studio, today’s dreamy rainy day hides the light I need. I adjust my goals and prep another workspace. And for the first time in my history as an artist, I swipe my water pail. In a breath it pours out and over my
I freeze. This isn’t happening.
But the dripdripdripping pulls me into a reality of water streaming off the table and onto new canvases.
I am shaken out of the residual calm of the commute, and adjust again—wipe away what I wish wasn’t, what I don’t want to be, but what is.
And I breathe.
“We cannot expect things to be any more than what they are.” This rolls through my mind somewhere between soaked towels. I repeat and repeat and breathe again.
And I paint.
(Less expecting. More accepting. There is no other way to live.)