Life on A Log

It has been a week when life has seemed almost relentless in its determination to happen. It is all good, but mostly imposed from outside, and though I have welcomed it all, the interior urge for quietly creative occupations has been put on pause. Desperation is mounting. I can only pray for the calm to reclaim my space again. To decide that it really is safe to return.

Last week, with my son's assistance, a long overdue house washing was scheduled for the weekend, and since Saturday morning early, a hardworking man has been at the helm of a powerful and noisy pressure washer. Even as positive results were being achieved on the moldy and spider-webbed exterior of my home and studio, the interior felt assaulted and invaded. With all the windows, privacy was practically nil, and I couldn't relax into my usual occupations. I did leave for brief periods, but, there was no real relief. And now that the walls are clean, repairs are needed, and fresh stain to preserve the wood. The hardworking J just finished water sealing the deck and left, but expects me to call him in a few days about the next stage. Now I am alone with the mental unrest that comes from knowing it isn't done yet. Yikes! 

The photo of the barnacled log and the extra of acacia were taken at East Beach during one of my brief escapes. It has been in the nineties, so escapes are not exactly escapes.