The Studio is Set Up

Last night I dreamed another painting and I can't wait to start it this weekend. I have some things to tend to first, drat it all.  It had to do with the South of France and a dream I have had for about five years.  When I am panicking about the future, when I feel alone, I dream this dream of a big yellow house.  It is probably best described as a Victorian farmhouse, with a deep wrap around porch. The trim is white.  I am almost always in the kitchen, the sunroom hallway leading to the old barn, which is now a four car garage with a studio above it, or in the sun room.  There is a country kitchen with two ovens and a huge table that seats eight without the leaf.

The house always smells like oatmeal bread fresh out of the oven; that's my specialty. One winter when I was shut in almost all the time, I learned to bake bread the old-fashioned way. I would make the sponge, and then add my salt, oatmeal, remaining flower, and sometimes finely ground walnuts and pecans. I loved kneading the dough because it gave me an upper body workout. I always made enough for three large loaves. I especially loved punching down the dough.

People say it's a good way to let out aggression, but something in me always thought that putting negative energy in my bread was not a good thing. I try to name people and things I love when I knead and punch the dough. Silly? Probably, but who cares.

Anyway, in my dream, I live with at least three people. Rarely are those people actually in the room with me. Sometimes I hear a guitar in the background. Other times I see a familiar body bent over the flower garden that fills the U made by the corridor, garage/studio, and a wing of the house. Sometimes someone has just come up the gravel driveway and there is the sound of bags of groceries being put on the floor by the front door.

Always, always I am content. I am getting ready for company. I am singing. I am wiping my hands to go out to the garden. I am calling to someone that dinner is ready. Always the dream is in the middle of some activity that represents a full life, one of absolute contentment. I am never aware of whether or not I am romantically involved with anyone--it is irrelevant.

The other night I dreamed my house on a hillside in France, when the sunflowers are in bloom. I looked out at distant rolling hills striped in yellow and azure, and the walls of the room I was in were French blue. There is no other blue like it.

I had not dreamed my yellow house dream in months, so I saw it as a sign that I truly know my next phase of life has begun, and that I see it as good. And that is ironic, because I am coming out of three days of being quite literally bedridden for all but about three hours of the day--broken up hours. Even that didn't matter, once I paid attention to what my body was telling me.

This will come as a surprise, I am sure, but I had pressed myself a tad too much, trying to get everything done, wondering why I could not do what I did at forty-two years old. I'm only fifty-nine and have four more destroyed disks than I had then. What's the problem?

The non-word "duh" keeps springing to mind.

In my dream, however, I looked through a window that had hanging plants at the edges, to these beautiful hills, and one, lone tree that came across the scene from the right. One branch of some delicate small leafed variety,  dancing at the edge.  And for the life of me, that picture screamed joy to me and I have to find a way to translate it to my paper, don't you think?

Whether the dream is France or Pennsylvania or central Massachussetts, whether it is near a river, a lake, or the midst of the mountains, the house holds a family of women, with an occasional man floating through. The house holds light, and safety, and laughter. And this time the outdoors was the same, and as far as my eyes could see, I saw nothing but harmony, color, and light.

It isn't often we get to feel that way, I don't think. Or perhaps we can, and we forget to hold onto the center of our souls. We drift too far into the static of life, maybe. Or perhaps it's just me.

Regardless, this weekend the paints come out and I will paint my way home inside.

Again.

Woo Hoo -- My New Life Has Begun

I am in my apartment and, just yesterday, got my studio/guest room fully functional and set up so that it looks like home to me! This entry will be short because I want to go downstairs to the space and select the two paintings that I want to finish first, then unpack my paints, tissue papers, glue, and lace papers.

Then I want to paint. I want to officially begin my next phase of life. And I will put out one blank 400lb sheet of smooth paper. I will start the painting I dreamed the other night.

Moving was harder than I expected; leaving my home of twenty-one years a little more emotional, as well. Everything takes longer than I want because I over-estimate what I can do in a day. At first, this was upsetting to me, as well as frustrating. I am an instant-gratification kind of woman more often than I would wish. Last week, however, I finally got it through my noggin that there is no rush; rushing is antithetical to my goals, in fact.

My back is what it is, and I must learn to accommodate what I must, and to push judiciously. Judiciously is not a word with which I have more than a passing acquaintance ...

Art cannot be rushed; it is created in its own time, but completed with perseverence and often with quiet patience. The frantic, tortured soul who works frenetically through the night is not the model that has ever worked for me. I do my best work when I am calm and content, in fact.

That feeling came over me about the fifth night I was here. I realized I was home. I was where I had been aiming to be; I was at peace all the way through, for the first time in several years. I knew that it didn't matter how quickly I completely unpacked; it would be fine if I took a day here and there simply to rest and to be.

So. It is nearing 6:00 a.m. I shall go put the coffee on and make myself a lovely breakfast. I will take my hour to allow my body to adjust to gravity and being semi-upright, and to welcome the day. Then I will paint.

Whatever else I'm supposed to do with my day will present itself as I go along. I am a lucky woman, and I am happy. Truly happy. And at long last, all the disparate parts of me are gathered together and on the same schedule with me, on this new path, in my new home.

Fortunate indeed.