For the last several weeks I've been bringing my house in order. It had turned to chaos--much like my brain--and I can't do any creative work in chaos. This afternoon, I spent hours on this collage, which was so pleasurable. It was like being twelve again, only having my own room. (We shared rooms at the orphanage).
Writing and art aren't any fun if they're not intensely personal. If it's not about me, I don't really care.
It was quite liberating to write that sentence. I've thought it for years.
While I messed with paint, paper, scissors and glue, I listened to Don Quixote. A distinguished sounding British man narrates the book and I like to think of him sitting in a leather chair in my study and reading to me while I work/play.
Cervantes is a rock star, the father of the novel. I love any man who can make me laugh, and he does with his unlikely knight and squire and their daily dilemmas. I'm more than half way through the book and have to suspend my disbelief. Surely the Man of La Mancha should be dead by now with all the floggings he endures. He's had all his teeth knocked out of him. He hardly eats or sleeps and still he continues. He's unbelievably sweet.
No one is home. Only the refrigerator hums. Solitude is exulting.
I am experiencing solitude firsthand this summer. Listening to my own rhythms has unfolded a daily pattern that I would not have expected. I read and study. I exercise. I eat what pleases me and when. I sleep. While I am happily married, I confess that this season in Boston is exulting.
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