My teacher self will return: a.m. meeting on the East side, then across town for two classes. Afterward, prep for Sunday class at a third school, and Monday a.m. back on the East side. Alas, the dizzying work life of an adjunct begins. As summer ends I muse on the fact that as much as I complain (off the I-grid), I didn't look for another line of work. Alas #2, my watercolors, my laptop, will I have time for them?
This is a luxury worry. To live a life that is aligned with creative arts is my dream come true. I treasure my painting tools in the way my mother swooned over the contents of her pantry. Each shelf filled with unbelievable goodies--jams, honey, dozens of cans of tuna, 7-up, nuts, and the list went on. An impoverished childhood and a war set my mother up to appreciate every morsel of food, till the end of her life.
My childhood wasn't a mirror of my mother's life. I had stuff: crayons and coloring books and sheets of oak tag which I loved turning into posters. Somewhere along the way though I stopped all those wonderful tactile activities. High school, adulthood, and many years of uncertainty of the kind of work that would fulfill me.
Today, my disparate selves are connected and alive. I place a plastic cloth over my supplies, but won't put them away. On the left, flowers I prepped earlier with masking, and right, my fifth miserable try at an impressionistic technique.
Epilogue: I awoke with an epiphany. Keep a sheet of clean paper taped and in the center of my table, water cups filled, brushes and paints nearby. This is similar to writing advice: write the first sentence of the new chapter before shutting down for the day.