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.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Wherefore art thou, Spring...
Spring keeps burping up little storms and murky days of really gray, cold clouds. Well, weather in California, at least the part I live in, has always been schizophrenic, with summers-of-no-summer happening every so often, foggy and dismal. We are surviving in the little yellow house with layers of clothes, refusing to turn on the heat because, after all, it is SPRING, goddammit. And the cowwoman has become fierce with the wild things opus, working on stepping out of her little box of self and incorporating new and wondrous non-local color here and there, something she had forgotten about. This chapter of the work is more fun than a flock of Easter bunnies. It feels really fuzzy and warm and deeply satisfying, like a fine dining experience. I am not in the picture at all when doing this work. It just flows out of me. When I peck away, it is never as extraordinary than when I make big swaths of color and just stand back. letting it flow from the Infinite. Bless you, HP. Sweetness happening.