flower68

I think that I would paint myself into an early grave if painting was all I HAD TO do now.
I don’t want to clean my house.
Walk the dog.
Shop for food.
Do the washing.
Feed the child.
Take the child wherever it is she needs to go today.Tomorrow.The next day.
(though I love her infinitely)
Pay the bills.
Mow the lawn.
Stop for friendship.
Make coffee.
Make phone calls.
Wash the dishes.
Feed myself.
I wasted so many years dusting my hearts desire as it sat on the shelf, beneath the ticking clock, taken down in sporadic moments of self love and nurtured briefly before slippery hands watched it fall to the floor and shatter. I could have caught it. Every time.
Instead, I let it crash. Picked it up, glued it back together and placed it lovingly back on the shelf amongst the other pieces of me, and everything and everyone else.
Till the next time I really mattered. And the next time and…..
I am less than one year off forty now. I have cleaned washed fed walked driven paid mowed chatted loved been loved left been left lost been lost. I’m over it.
It’s time to paint.Is all. Hearts desire caught this time, held firmly in my grip, all else on the shelf.
Note to self. Eat or die.