I have been writing...just not here

As a female of the species, I excel at multitasking. Well, I did in my earlier life. Now I single-task in a multiple fashion. Moving from one thing to another, my mind plans the next foray with aplomb except for the occasional brain fade when I get to the next room and forget why I went there.

Single mindedness comes with age - at least I assume it does. It has for me. I savor more, do things completely so I don't have to come back to them and I ignore an overburdened closet simply by closing the door. Hey, it is important to pick your battles.

Art and writing are more important to me than dust. Lately, though, construction has planted plenty of the stuff on every surface of the house so I am back to multitasking. I write a bit and swipe a cloth over the desk. I sweep out the studio in prep for the summer, taking paints from their winter storage out to their regular home, while simultaneously swiping a counter top with a cloth as I pass by. I clean plaster dust and wood splinters from the inside of the washing machine (I mean, really guys?) and then do the wash.

The new bathroom is coming along nicely. I will be happy when we can stop going down two flights of stairs to use the other bathroom. It will be a twofold luxury when it is done in a few weeks.

I've kept up with my journal, adding watercolors to the pages when a light touch is needed and pictures of trips and construction progress to illustrate the dialog of my days. I spent four nights at an inn in Gloucester a few weeks ago, painting at a beach I found in Manchester-by-the-Sea on the first day. The air was cool - mid to high 50's - but the sun made it feel warmer. I sketched the scene, adding notes to my drawing so I'd remember the color of the water and the sweep of the clouds. The next day I set up my easel, digging the legs into the soft sand and, stretching a bungee cord over the tray, anchoring it with two big milk bottles filled with water. I accepted its quirky tilt - uneven ground being what it is.

Life is uneven. The axis tilts this way and that and I find my footing either by digging in and firmly planting my thoughts or flowing with it. Both work to different degrees. It would be plenty boring if there was a sameness to every day. I know people with lives like that. I guess they must like it that way because they continue to do it year in and year out.

I prefer edges that shift and change like the waves on the shore. When I was in Gloucester, the beach was different each morning. The clear, rocky beach of that first afternoon became riddled with seaweed on the second day. The sea pulled some of it out with the next tide so the arrangement was different - undulating strips of seaweed hiding sea glass treasures in with the pebbles underneath their mounds. I accepted the changes with a sense of excitement and discovery looking forward to rounding the corner to find out what I would see.

When things are serene, I find untold pleasure in my own discoveries. A good book, rhythmic stitches woven into the shawl I am working on and the plunge and pull of silk thread through a needlepoint canvas. Good conversation with friends culminating in laughter and hugs. I am grounded by my pleasures. They help me meet my challenges with a bit more grace.

Some Things Never Change

Frye Measure Mill, NH

I got a laptop a few months ago to replace my old, sluggish desktop and give me freedom to write wherever I liked.  When I first transferred files to the new computer, I purged redundant photos.  Now, I am going through some of the documents.

This morning, I came across some journal writings.  While I prefer hand-writing them, there are times when my book isn't with me and I resort to computer entries.  One file, 105 pages long, was from 1993 when I still had Creative NeedleArts and would write at work after everyone left.  It was password protected and I had a moment of panic - that was nineteen years ago!  I had a universal password then and I tried it - I'm in.

Some things apparently don't change. My laments are pretty much the same.  That doesn't mean I haven't moved forward.  It just means that my creative concerns have a fallback reason for being.  Time and a plethora of ideas.

I constantly have ideas crowding my brain about other things to design and get into.... I am driven (but why?) to create new ideas; I'm just frustrated by the restrictions of time.  I keep pushing the parameters of time. 

I can guarantee that I have sung this song many times over the years.  My interests are expansive; my ideas for paintings, writing and needlework are like a fountain which never turns off.  I read voraciously.  I have messy closets.  I desperately need to have a yard sale.  My art supplies are ordered, though, so my priorities are straight in one respect.  

It occurs to me that a creative mind can be one's bane of existence as well as its blessing.  

Have I finally reached the point in my life when I accept the activity in my head, knowing I cannot act on all of it?  Writing down notes and ideas keeps them from disappearing in the crowd.  I can get them back to the top of the pile anytime I want.  

Relishing my varied interests is delectable.  Worrying over the lack of time to explore them all isn't.  Today I immerse myself in the ones on the top of my pile.

Meadow Pond

The last few strokes of paint feel like a symphony's final notes.  Cymbals crash and the notes rise to a crescendo until they fade away and you are left with their sweet tone vibrating in your mind's deepest recesses. 

This painting started out very differently.  Aiming for a spare and serene vista, it evolved over time into a remembered pond from my childhood - at least a fictionalized version of it since it is no longer there except in my mind's eye.

I spend summer hours floating on a makeshift raft someone had made and tied to a branch pounded into the soft earth on the edge of a nearby pond.  This usually involved getting my toes squishy with mud and pulling off the occasional leach, but I was young and I really wanted to float on that raft.  It was in a field not far from our house.  Not big but ample in size for a short float with a good book.

In this version, I can hear the laughter of children splashing and frogs heading for cover in the reeds to observe the activity from a distance.  A path worn by animals or humans - perhaps both - winds its way along the shore, grass closely cropped by the many footfalls.  The clear vibrant day, like so many I have known, welcomes all comers to linger at its shores.

Common Footing

I remember well the days when Christina wanted nothing more than to be different from me - mostly in her teenage years as she was finding her own footing.  My creativity and craftiness were not exemplary achievements on her horizon.

That was okay with me - just because I found them endlessly fulfilling did not mean my children had to.  I knew they would find their own pursuits.  But at the same time that she was scoffing at my life, she was bemoaning the fact that her father, brother and I had all the talent in the family and she had none. This went on for some time.  Frequently.

Now, this was from a child who exhibited her own talents in many ways.  When she was in the sixth grade, she created a wonderful ceramic bowl which I held my breath about when she was deciding who to give it to. The inside is as interesting as the glaze on the outside - pressed clay forms the bowl shape and the glaze is darker in the minute cracks than on the surface.  Clay flower buds lay inside as if dropped in the bowl while they were gathered.  I love this bowl and that it was molded by Christina's hands.

I still have her little paper canoe, made for an elementary school Thanksgiving project many years ago which sports a campfire in its center.  We still share a chuckle about that.  If I remember right, she just wanted the occupants to be warm.

When she was in her late teens, I was working in the studio and she mentioned again about her lack of talent in relation to the rest of the family.  I decided enough was enough and gave her a drawing project to tackle along side me.  The more she drew, the better it became and her confidence soared.

I never heard disparaging remarks about her 'lack of talent' again.

Christina's first oil painting  5/11

Now it is a decade or so later and I have a huge warm afghan she made me to cuddle in and her drawing on my wall.  Since this spring, she is working side by side with me in my studio.  It has been wonderful to explore painting together.  We learn much from each other.  Sometimes I feel I learn more from her than she does from me.  I may teach her technique and new ways to observe what we normally take for granted, but she teaches me how to embrace and share a common bond that enhances our relationship in a new way.

Mostly, I just like to do things with her and that is all that matters.

One Thing Leads to Another

Now that it is getting warmer, I am all about the prep.  Prepare the flower beds for new plants to come and mulch to keep them tidy.  Clean the deck furniture and put it out so I can sit and enjoy the sun.  Sweep the spider bodies out of the studio, wash the floors and open the windows to air it out. Restore the easel and paints to their proper home.

As I move from one thing to another, the soft music of the wind in the trees does its thing as it always does and when I find a sample canvas board from the trade show in January, I rub my fingers across its smooth surface and imagine what would be nice to paint on it.

It has been a long time since I picked up my oil paints.  Working mostly in acrylics for some time, the mysteries and quirks of a different medium seemed like extra work.  But it is such a nice small board - only 6" x 6".  Not big, not daunting at all.  I loved oil painting once and perhaps this spring was the perfect time to experiment. After all, it is just about the prep.

My hand led the way and my experiment became an experience.  Everything I loved about oil painting came back with every stroke.  The flexibility of blending, the fluidity of motion - they all conspired to draw me in and I loved every minute of it.

Rocky Cove by Donna Saiia

In the studio

There is much to be said for a weekend of almost continual painting. Throw in sunshine and warm breezes and it is idyllic.

The seascape I started on Saturday came together sweetly and I was hard pressed to leave the studio for a minute. So I didn't.

I love the feeling of painting with intensity mixed with casual abandon. Don't ask me how that blend of feelings can coexist because I can't tell you but I can say it is most delicious. The painting is almost done. It just waits for highlights and a few shadows, a tweek here and there. What fun it has been.