I'm a too-much woman. I am one of those- imbibed with the liquor and sway of too muchness. And then it's never enough... I swim in the didactic pool of beginnings and endings. I've been known to get things done too fast, and I pick up projects and grind them into other projects, and often times, I watch my passions of yore pile into a corner on my art desk. These piles come in and they are intense.
And sometimes they are friends - a nostalgia. I am reminded of all that has led to this particular moment- a sewing tool, an unfinished project, a stack of drawings (specifically for this project). There is a moment of witness, then a remembrance, a breath into the present. A slowdown, one that is appropriate for human time, not digital time. (in this moment that I write it, I miss my art practice so very fucking much).
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I spend most of my time in the, as my teacher Shannan Donovan says, in the "quietude of [my own] company." And that's mainly because I moved to a remote town, to slow the great roll of what was and wasn't happening in my city life. It gives me a level of solitude so that I think I can create more. Sometimes, that's the case, but lately, not so much. (See the last paragraph) I waiver between productivity and staring at the trees, sometimes
So santosha. Enoughness. Especially when I have the moment to get into the water. The weather is clearing, and I'll have more space to do that soon. They don't have corona virus at the lagoon. I'm sure of it. And in that, there are longer and longer moments of ease, watching the water trickle off of my paddle, and dip to the other side. My cheap borrowed second-hand/third-hand kayak - this is my joy. So, I listen for the beckoning and the calls that is actually the silence of the wind, suggesting a potential of the glassy topped estuary, and I do it.
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