“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


a week, plus more, of living small

two fridays ago was me in the sun for an hour midday, no sunscreen. a book. the cat asleep in my shadow. silence mixed with birdsong. the house was solace - shade in the middle of sunlight, the door open, a fan slowly moving, right to left and back to right and on and slowly on. the cat followed me in and perched on the arm of the couch, at last awake, watching moments visible only to cats.  by late afternoon, clouds, and by dark, just the barest twinkling of stars in the barest openings of those clouds. saturday morning was humidity and gray skies, giving way to humidity and blue skies by the afternoon. a drive for fresh asparagus and blue eggs and french grey paint. and then painting. sunday morning was still and gray, and the french grey looked too blue, but we were too busy to do more than acknowledge the fact and nod our heads in agreement - there were places to go and a nearly flat tire, books to be continued, pieces of movies to be watched, and then it was sunday night.  i thought i heard rain in my sleep.

monday continued too humid, exhausting me.  so little seemed changed in four days, the cat once again asleep on the arm of the couch, fat red robins on the lawn. late afternoon, new paint - less blue, the perfect taupe. sore arms, tight hamstrings, another book.

i am dreaming of a bedroom with little but a bed and lamp.  if i could tilt the house and shake all the old stuff out into the creek, i would do it, even letting go all the old paperbacks that once and twice, and even three times, brought such joy.  i would wave goodbye as the rain washed them far away. a year past changing the living room to a studio, it is still too much living room, not enough studio, but maybe that doesn't matter - the more i write, the less room i need.  it is the tuesday morning after memorial day and a rainy night, and the shadows through the windows are soft.

wednesday morning was sunshine mixed with loud birds when i awakened; i could see blue skies to the north, but the southern clouds behind me disappeared the shadows that might have been.  there was afternoon-into-the-early evening painting, still that perfect taupe covering black.  we began in sunshine and ended in rain, still not done with the thousand and one cubbyholes. each one is the exact length of my arm plus an outstretched hand and brush. i sprawled on the floor for the bottom ones, unable to see where to paint, just pushing the brush until suddenly the black wood lightened with paint, lightened my way, me suddenly knowing where i was.  i am painting and breathing and all is well.  night fell. a hot shower. supper was cooked and on my plate when the electricity went out; i ate by candlelight.

thursday began with wet streets, quickly dry in the morning sun.  the front door open, the church bell ringing the time, and the cat finding her lately normal spot on the arm of the couch. the shadows of trees moved softly on the walls.


suddenly it was once again friday, and then another weekend.  mexican food and more painting, the sky still promising rain, but delivering not much.  i am off for the week, this week that promises sunshine and silence.  the lake is calling my name.



  1. rain and sun, wet and dry, blue and grey, paint and sky... you have drawn a perfect picture of summer.

    i hope you answer that lake, fill your arms with that sky. xo

  2. It seems the older I get the faster time moves...
    Sometimes I forget to just breath.


  3. Maybe you should switch your studio and living room. It's yours after all.


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