Our younger daughter was home this weekend with two friends -- one from Australia, and one from England -- passing through on their way up to Orcas Island, where they'll spend their summer helping to manage the counselors and staff of the summer camp that's been such an important part of our daughters' lives.
Which meant I couldn't really tackle any big projects, as I would need to be welcoming interruptions for the duration of their stay. So I got to spend a little time just sitting in the living room, or the dining room, looking out over the water and watching the wildlife swim, fly, and trot by (the trotting is the deer who occasionally spend their afternoons wandering across the lagoon at low tide). It's an endlessly evolving vista as the children and birds and rains and sun and rainbows roll in and out and the mountains appear, disappear, and then appear again, peeking out from behind the fog; I found I kept reaching for my camera.
The geese babies have grown up; no longer tiny and covered with yellow fuzz, they now look like slightly smaller editions of their parents, and spend their days learning to move in various formations. And, like the deer and the loons, the chicadees, seagulls and herons, they're a delight to watch; I found myself thinking I should spend more time just sitting and enjoying the view.
But that drive to create, to do more and be more -- to earn my keep, somehow -- keeps calling me back to the myriad tasks that await me at my computer and beyond: two shows to prepare for, an artist statement to write, prints to mat and frame, frames to re-paint, labels to type up... and through it all, the itch to paint another picture (maybe later in the week, when the bulk of the preparation is over). I've gotten better at finding a healthy balance between rest and work, but I still suspect I need to get better at allowing myself to just ... sit. To just ... be. To listen to the hearkening of the soul...