Sprouting

Who ever said wings only sprout in the spring?  The fullness of summer is stirring growth within me.  My hands keep moving, my ears keep hearing, my heart keeps seeing and I'm harvesting something here.
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A beautiful gift of life and death arrived in the mail today, sent by a handsome feline.

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I'm mourning a kindred spirit's loss.  Flinging tears like swinging incense, beseeching the heavens to allow me to carry some of the pain for her.  It never works that way.  So I will soldier up and broaden my shoulders incase she needs to lean this way.  And even if she doesn't, I'll be close, waiting.  Because sometimes love requires stillness, sometimes it requires patience, and always it requires space to breath.

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I've lost myself in a book this week; chapter two is titled Moth Love.  I was exactly halfway through another book, and thought I'd just peek at the first chapter... 120 pages later...

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Work in the studio has felt cumulative: one shape informs the next, one color educates my eyes, one motion becomes fluid and then we see the birthing of image.  My studio feels like a university of one: knowledge grows through trial, error and just showing up.  Showing up every day.

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My family of five will only be five for one more week, before four more legs descend in a wiggling ball of energy.  All books must move up to high ground, all low swinging plants raised.  Batten down the hatches!  Say a pray for chair legs!


Here's to you, and me, and another week lived!
Salut!
~ Umber ~