Sunday morning I watered my gardens with a new attitude. The plants make my place so incredibly beautiful; to water them is now a pleasure. We are partners in beauty.
It was also community dog walk day—this time on a trail that was new to me. We are a community of people for whom to attend church is to walk in nature with our dogs. The walks are ninety minutes long and in this weather, it is divine.
Three dogs got themselves into a frenzy of joy, racing around a meadow we came upon. Suddenly they came right at me and the biggest one knocked me to the ground. I did nothave a seizure! Now I know for certain that Clonidine works!
It feels good to use the past tense, thinking my two years of seizures are over.
After the walk I was too pooped to do anything. I napped and sloughed off the day waiting for my buddy Endeavor at nine o’clock.
Today and tomorrow are days to work on the cat palace. I’ve got to get it done while I wait for responses from the people to whom I’ve written for raffle donations but on Wednesday and Thursday I have to bake for a dinner I’m serving the two fellows I met on the dog walk, Ian and François, and Jay.
Sometimes I feel like the manager of an unpopular amusement park.
It’s as though every morning begins with me getting the grounds ready for the crowds: water the plants, turn on the fountain and the spa, bed made (and covered to protect it from pets), move some plants to their daytime location, vacuum indoors, pick up dog poop and sweep the entrance area, feed the birds, animals fed, get kitchen cleaned—but no one ever comes. Well, rarely, and that’s just fine.
And then you undo it all every night—plants back inside the deer fence, spa and fountain off, garbage sorted and binned in the shed, pets fed and outbuildings closed. Summer requires a lot of work before I can get into the studio.
When I lived in the condo I’d sometimes get up, get dressed and step out of my bedroom into my studio/living room and start working—often working for hours before eating or washing. Not here.
It’s all worth it. I am the only person in the amusement park—everything is at my disposal. And it’s beautiful. And spacious.
Yesterday it really surprised me to realize that this amusement park wasn’t here just over nine months ago. I wasn’t here, Sheba and Fred were newly born and unknown to me, and Ethel was four months old and living in Comox.
Last night I walked through my lovely cabin and looked out at the trees. Most days they are peripheral to consciousness but last night I “saw” them as I looked out my window. There are as many trees in my view as there once were buildings and I really appreciate the difference.
Also last night I pondered Bill saying my script is hopeless. If he does, it means that once the raffle is over I will be focused on repairing my ladies and lining up a show in the art gallery here.
I hunger for feedback. It will give purpose to an incredible amount of work. If I do the show, I’m going to ask the docents to try to get everyone to sign in a comment book. I may even put signs up asking for comments. But I’m not keen on an opening.
I would, in truth, love to go to an opening of my show. I’d love to go anonymously and talk to people and hear what they thing without them knowing I made the work. I don’t want to be there at all if I’m identified.
I’ve no idea when I’ll hear from Bill. Whenever I do is fine with me. I’ll be so incredibly happy to hear his opinion; I feel I’ll be able to decide what to do with my ladies. I want them out of my studio so I can get onto whatever is next.
If I have a show here, I’d put a modest price on them hoping to sell some and earn a little project money for whatever is next.