I’m a work-a-day kind of person. Though to be honest I’m not sure what that means. I need a focus, an object or someone to make something for. Following my whim, my heart, my inclination isn’t enough. I don’t have enough fire behind me. I have will and stamina and determination but self-belief is somewhat thin on the ground. I like having a brief, a purpose, money to earn (though I will still rail against criticism or too strict strictures, though I do like them to). Ugh. Facing oneself can be an ugly business. Other people seem so much kinder, nicer, happier, more talented, lighter…. I just do my best. And I do. I know this. Yesterday was a grey bugger. And we had a tiff, which is inevitable, I suppose. All that swirling of misunderstanding and rancour, and it must out.
And still the invasion goes on. I think of them waiting for the bombs to come. Oh, my loves. And here am I worrying about the dentist, the hospital tomorrow and my writing and how I will be able to fit in my drawing and how I can finish the application form and when the money will come. I want to transcend such pettiness and moaning but can’t seem to. I am so fortunate. I know this. I know this. And he is so well. Be at peace. Create a tiny corner of peace and perhaps it will spread and blood will not have to be spilt elsewhere. Oh, the futility of it.
