The drowsy sound of an orchestra plays as Fred Astaire sings, “heaven, I’m in heaven…” Tousled blossoms sway outside my window. The branches swish and I take a closer look. A bird has returned to its nest, a nest that I photographed last year when vacant.
The tangled little apartment is occupied once again. I wonder if this is a new tenant. I stand still ‘tempting not to startle the feather French gray neighbor.
I pour water from the red kettle. Steam rises and old window panes sweat. The early light breaks in cold hues.
It’s late March. Spring begins to bud. The air is cool and damp. First sips are savored as paper is scored by pen.
A new journal holds notations, and begins again where the last volume abruptly ended. Winds, furry, tragedy, and then efforts towards recovery. Storm torn remnants plagued my return to writing.
The longing to paint weighed heavily, and for a while would surrender to other things. In times like these, one might say less trivial things. Now the brushes call. I pick them up one by one. I squeeze pigments from metal tubs, and mix them on cold ceramic. De-fining moments aren’t what they once were. Now, everything is different.
For a while, I’ve felt reluctant, questioning when is the right time to carry on. I reach for a new book, turn to the first page and begin to read as a new day dawns.
Art is life expressed – Sarah West, Owner of The Sarah West Gallery of Fine Art