Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Still in the what-the-hell-who-gives-a-hoot mode here in the little yellow house, where the yards languish and the dogs lay at my feet quizzically wondering if I will remember to feed them that day. This morning, I made the decision to not go anywhere, hence I am currently clothed in my favorite paint-splatted jeans and one of my thrift store shirts, thinking about my next move. I could go out and rake. Raking is not all that horrid; it is picking up the piles that is a bitch. I have finally devised a system; I take an old wastepaper basket that lost its pop-up lid, lay it on its side and scoop it full of leaves to dump in the yard waste bin. The whole operation takes about an hour, and gets me all sweaty even on cool days, so it is a good thing to be in my grubs, because I can be impulsive and wind up ruining some garment I actually liked. You can see from my current oeuvre that I am mellowing a little, colors getting a little softer, some direction to the piece, at least. This is so much fun, not having any investment in the outcome, just worshiping the process. Of course, for every one I put up for the world to see, there are three or four languishing in obscurity. That's okay. I learn something from every piece that comes up off the paper. Most of all, I am learning how to spend the energy generated by my grief in a way that does not hurt anyone, even me. Art therapy rocks.