Fresh...

....scrubbed and shiny, the year lies before me, beckoning.

Of course I had to go and look up lays or lies and guess what?  I still don't get it, so fuck it.  My road lies before me, yours can do anything it wants, really.  Maybe yours dances before you and blows spit bubbles, maybe you are stretched out on your road waiting for an 18 wheeler, or not.

Why do I yank my own chain so hard?  Why do I allow semantics and grammar to step in the way of my creative self?  Why do I allow anything to step in the way of my creative, happy, healthy, joyful, silly self?

Because it's interesting, because I'm equally right and left brained, because lining everything up in neat rows is as much fun as losing myself in colors and tastes and smells and touch, that rich sensuality that inhabits my soul.  Creating order strikes something inside me.  It sets the flame alight to fire up the yearning to create that simmers always just below my surface.

And so, in these 10 days since I returned to my haven, I've scrubbed and ordered, tossed, moved things to new places, filled up empty receptacles and freshly inhabited my space.  I make it mine again. Like a pianist flexing her fingers I've spent some time making easy things, moving slowly into my studio, opened drawers, fondled pliers, put things away, breathed the scents of metal with my fingers, lamented over peeling calluses, rejoiced in this space.

Covers up some lonely though, the frenetic starts to slow down as the acute missing ache eases.  I can't even think about rubbing my face on her hair without crying.  She listens to my speaker phone conversations and kisses the phone.  My heart breaks, over and over, missing that baby.

Which makes me lose any creative momentum, must be time for lunch.  Need a grilled cheese sandwich, comfort food at its best.

Peace