For the last couple years my father has had horrendous health issues. I held my breath and prayed that he'd survive. After spending months in the hospital and nursing home, he is home... in a wheelchair... but home with my mother, the ULTIMATE caregiver.
I am cleaning my art room, reorganizing, getting ready for winter to arrive, getting art supplies in order to find them quickly... hoping this opens up more time and creativity for me.
At times I am overwhelmed by the need to create, by the lack of direction what I should be doing, by my need to journal. Journaling has become essential to my days. I try to add art as much as possible.
In the past, I've kept journals for years... often purging them by tossing them in the trash when I rediscover them... but now, now that I am in my mid-fifties....I have decided to save them, for my sons some day... perhaps some cold rainy afternoon, after I am long gone, they will curl up on the couch with a cup of coffee and read them... reflections of my life... and theirs.
For today, it is enough that I have set in motion the reorganization of my limited art space. It's not fancy or pretty like the spaces I see in the magazines. No. Mine is functional, sharing the extra bedroom. It spills over into the garage. Whatever I don't use this year I am going to pitch. Too much stuff is smothering.
I often think about how much money I spend on crafts and think if I stopped I could afford to buy finished art from those I admire...but my soul would rot. Of this, I am sure.
I need to create... when my muse appears I can think of nothing else but the project before me.... my stress leaves me... and the time flies.
As T.S. Eliot said, "Time you enjoyed wasting is NOT wasted time." I love that man.
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