This morning it looks like the skies might actually give way.
The clouds are pregnant with rain and long past their due date.
We're not Texas-dry here, but the leaves on the Barberry bushes
have been the texture of potpourri for weeks now.
It's a big tease, this southern summer air.
All humidity without a drop of liquid relief.
But today looks promising.
The stiff breeze smells damp.
A tobacco field walk, I took this morning.
Staying mostly in the shade of the woods bordering the fields.
Windchimes from a distant porch,
and a particularly obnoxious crow from somewhere to the east,
were all that accompanied the sound of my footsteps.
I love these moments.
A lot on my mind lately.
Sometimes I think I'm crazy.
I come from crazy and am sure to some extent that one day
I'll be authentically insane.
Do you think it's true that many of the greatest creative souls
in the past have been at least somewhat off-balance?
It's a delight and a danger, I think.
To feel so much. So intensely.
It makes the making possible, and makes it perfect.
If it meant that I could create something
that would somehow have a positive impact on people,
I think I could welcome the crazy.
A small price to pay for the gift of contributing something
which matters in the world:
a loose screw or two.
I walked along this morning and thought of this past week.
How I've been home with The Monkey during his bout with croup.
How his imagination is already beyond blossoming.
I think about his future and hope he never implodes.
Surely he'll be an artistic one,
and he'll possess all the gifts and curses that come with that.
And I question-dream-desire-fear having a second child.
I think of the textile sketches on my desk,
the patterns and designs still in green stages on my computer.
I think about half-drops and half-bricks and mirror repeats.
About hidden zippers. Leather fringe and vintage safety pins.
Saturation vs. Desaturation and how I should start simply.
. . . I don't know that I've ever known how to start simply.
I think about terra cotta with white ink and
a strong cup of coffee in the morning.
I need to order boxes. Big boxes and cube boxes and shred.
I need to breathe out some of the excitement so that I
can take a breath of air instead.
Sometimes the creative waves wash anxiety into me.
The merriment of making that will occasionally spiral into madness.
I think of my son's creativity again . . .
and wonder what he'll become.
And I think of me.
There's so much I want to do.
I want to write.
I want to write a book
but I don't know that I have much worthwhile to say.
I want the website finished and the collaboration finished.
I want more hours in the day,
and puddles on the ground.
Today, I feel like a hot little seed of intention.
Crouched down and cramped up, restless-
So full am I with plans, possibility and potential.
I walk and work with a vibrating energy.
Like I have a body full of electrified air,
static before the storm.
Here I am,
excited to grow,
somewhat fearful yet impatient for life on a higher level.
Embracing my purpose,
and waiting for rain.