Too long have I wandered amongst the greyness. The clouds suck life from tree and stone. I, who revel in mists, I who pine for autumn come August am longing for spring. Yes. Spring. I don't like spring. Ever. The pollen, the over abundance of pink and frills. It's just not me. But this year, oh, I may buy a bouquet of pink out of protest for the claws of winter that seem to be ripping at my soul!
I am having a rough go of creating. I haven't written in years it seems. I eek out words here and there, more like the annoying trickle of a leaky faucet than the torrent of inspiration I crave.
Out early this morning, I sought refuge in an Earl Grey Latte. It was once called London Fog. Ahh, so atmospheric, shot down by a corporate America who realized, sadly, that modern America's needed something less picturesque for a caffeine addicted order. (I protest: I still order London Fog when it leaps to mind.)
Epiphany comes in the oddest of places. A lonely table beneath the beckon of a siren's seal. Activity around me, a quiet hum, bee hive energy as workers buzz in and out, grinding beans and steeping tea. I am able to lose myself in work. Oh bliss, you are fleeting, and I had to leave after a mere fifteen minutes but it was there. It has not forsaken me fully.
An email, a regular, regaling me with tales of those who work full time at their passions. There is jealousy, yes, but more than that is a joy for them. A joy that I long to replicate. I look at the work, paintings, innocent and full of personality. Different. Unique. Funding a dream.
I am pulled, at the navel, like the port key journeys in Rowling's world. If my feet weren't grounded I would have been sucked out the door. To where? I'm not sure. An easel on the banks of the Seine? A lap desk (remember those?) on a boat in the Nile? If only, I exhale, if only.
Slowly it dawns, you are unique and what you desire to create is like no other. But what will the world think? It matters not, it whispers. Create it you must. Do what you love and the rest will fall into place. Wise words read years ago, tucked away like my grandmother's handkerchief in her treasure chest of a dresser.
A few shots of some paper play things I've been contemplating. What will they become? I haven't the foggiest (the London Foggiest?). I am still searching. My soul knows, yes it knows. Why is it so hard to listen?
Here's to a lovely Wednesday, dear friends. Lavender buckets filled with cream and sugar swimming with tea.