Trashy novels and transcendental pears...

Ah, it must be summer. Perhaps not officially, but soon. We got a taste of it last Friday, when the hydrangeas drooped and gasped. I am being very laid back, austere, actually. My last trip to the library yielded a Thomas Tryon horror novel, a Jane Smiley angst-ridden tome, and this amazing little gem called Better than Chocolate, actually a step above most of my usual suspects, funny and smart. And there are a couple more lurking in the wings, including The Devil Wears Prada, which I am saving for a particularly bored moment. Meanwhile, in the back bedroom/studio, my pear is emerging slowly from the canvas, a great succulent sumptious pear, worthy of many hours of painstaking stroking and contemplating. My inner critic is fairly screaming at me, whatever were you thinking, you talentless twit! Yet, my stalwart artist-wannabe plods on, and the idea is emerging, as I trusted it would, just sort of blooming there on the easel like the liliums I planted earlier this year. It is the same process, actually. Higher Power is hard at work, fueling this great creative force. And like the herbs on the windowsill, I need only turn toward the light.