A lift today from liam neeson's words: "Everyone says love hurts, but that Is not true. Loneliness hurts. Rejection hurts. Losing someone hurts. Envy hurts. Everyone gets these things confused With love, but in reality love is The only thing In this world that covers up all Pain and makes someone Feel wonderful again. Love is the only thing In this world that Does not hurt".
Two steps forward, one step back, Or the other way around, depends On the day. Today was a step forward, back Into welcoming the hours for All they encompass And all they give, for the moments Of service, to those of rest, All are good.
My eyes are healing well. I have a few more weeks Of odd sight, Before being fitted for new glasses. I wander the days, lost in perspectives. None quite right For what I need to see, not visually, Not emotionally. Both needing time To reconsider right.
Allowed myself to be distracted, In many ways. Allowed another to sidetrack me, Bushwhack me with thoughts Of caring and affection where There is none But my own wistfulness wish For then, loosing needing being On my own.
This morning friends leave early. Yes, I am saddened but let them Go, knowing, feeling The connection of shared time. The day goes hushed with the aftermath Of leave taking. In the ensuing quiet, am left considering Where paths have been moved by love, And where not.
Friends slept, and I bundled In the turtle blanket Did trundle out To watch the stars swirl high, twirling Through moonless skies, brilliant bits Of diamond light. . Dozing below these bright sharp notes, The cold seeps deeply through, until, I wake amazed.
For the past sixty years I have been nearsighted, it is All I know. Now the rest of my days I’ll be longsighted, can see In mid flight The wing marks of a hawk, But not the weave of my canvas Without visual help.
The Studio at Line's End Farm is where I paint and try to find some joy again, and some equilibrium, not simple these days. One weblog records thoughts, ideas, methods and mixtures, palettes, observations, actually anything that intrigues me concerning my painting and working in the studio. Another observes only the horse in paintings that I find influential. The last are done for my sanity. All are my opinion only, open to other suggestions.
I will write in red, for my dear, love; who never saw red, not in ink, not in ire.
In 2010, the cold went beyond ten decades, was a century mark of hard winter through the mid-atlantic. For one small household banked by an Eastern Shore river this winter was epochal.
