I’m learning to turn lonely into alone.
It’s easy to escape into the idea that someone else’s world is dreamy, perfect, exactly what you always wanted. Or that there is a dream that better fits, entices, engulfs.
I never understood the value of being present as a dreamer. I’ve lived in a cobweb world. Part of that is being an artist, living elsewhere.
I looked up today from my home studio window, out onto the highway that I pretend sounds like the ocean, and I saw cars rushing by -spinning out rain from their tires and it looked like life. Rushing. It looked like present beauty. It looked like a highway, out my farmhouse window. Coffee in hand. Clothes percolating. Raindrops hanging off branches, Dogs snoring, evergreens hugging the eaves. It looked good. This moment. This life. This living.
I’ve wanted to make it about more. Simple dresses. And today I saw that it’s my poetry. Looking at a rose and seeing clothing. Looking at an old worn wood table and trying to capture how it feels to be worn, sturdy, old and beloved, gathered around -in the fall of a sleeve.
It isn’t about money or product, it’s about doing what I can’t not do. Opening my hands and showing you how I see.
I’m learning that I need presentness in order to release that artist’s coil. Relax into the poetry of moments. So that what I create has a foundation in living. It’s true then. It’s a doorway. Into now. Into today.