"Hi, little Artist.
Hi, often-depleted maker and worker bee.
Know-er of Right Things.
Rarely in compliance with The Refill.
Tell me: how do you constantly give such loving, empowering advice to your friends and leave yourself in the lurch?"
That's what my Big Artist asked me yesterday when I decided to stay home from a trip up Niles Canyon with my boys.
I reasoned that I could get more studio hours in if I was solitary, that I might even sneak out to the hammock and sun-bake for fifteen minutes.
My heart, on the other hand, was aching.
These are memories I cannot re-get later in life when the boy is more boy than babe.
I cannot re-see my handsome mate in the antique passenger car,
I cannot feel the ghost of my Uncle Walter with each train whistle
I cannot be five again
if I am by my self
I write this over my morning coffee, refreshed and inspired.
I write this with the smell of oil smoke on yesterday's laundry pile
and a flutter in my heart when I think of my husband.
I write this knowing that anytime you take on an adventure there is a handshake with Life.
We are train people, we should be on trains often.
A glorious unexpected gift: hexa web mixed-grade star sapphires in blues, purples and greys
at an unassuming antique store.
They are so astounding in the palm of my hand.
So to you, reading this:
where is your rut?
Is it so comfortable that you don't even know that you're halfway down your well-worn path again?
Can you lose your sensibility for an afternoon or a night?
I write to you from the other side of my usual coin
with a happy assurance that you refill more wells
than you ever could
if you stayed home:
what do you get
without getting away?