Game On

I can't cry lately, too busy to be exposed to what triggers tears.  Much to feel fortunate for, however empty at the moment.  Not having to leave the house every day is one small blessing.  It's taken a long time to get here.

A book, more than one, sits in its most raw form tucked away in a bag, awaiting being united with its illustrator; at least one for children, more for the older ones.

Now, a vision lies in wait as well, more brushstrokes to the picture every day, until it becomes something others can see.

'Necessity is the mother of invention' applies.  'Don't try this at home', is what I may tell an audience someday, after yet another season's 'adventure'.

To care about what anyone else thinks would only slow the process; this is for a child, always has been.  What they choose to do when the painting is complete is up to them.  The investment has been made; the time has been put in.  The garden has been watered.  Now it's time to go over the fence until it's harvest time, coming back to pull weeds a few times in the interim, letting the rabbits graze a little; there's enough to go around.

Age

Was sincerely attempting to write last night and the internet didn't want to work.  Two major storms followed (only a couple of yard ornaments knocked over that were easily put back with nothing broken).  In the past I've gone out for the specific reason to write 'on time'.  Last night, 'the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak'; couldn't fathom going out 'just' to write.  It's age, or aging, or a combination of things too personal to go into now. 

This entry was going to be Books, Part II.  It's a month later and still not everything is in its place.  Many of the shelves that had seen their last days were left behind, not worth bringing along due to wear and tear, and there was no space for them.  I kept one, in my son's room.  He was just about a year old when I brought them into our first home together, one at a time, walking fifteen blocks from the closeout store where they were.  A long box in one hand, my bag on the other shoulder, and my son in a front pack, facing forward, for a total of six times.  He was between walking and crawling; the babysitter saw his first steps. 

I'll never forget when I unpacked the shelves he helped me put them in place by patting them with his little hands the flat part of the shelf so the ends would go all the way into the end grooves or spaces.  Every time the shelves were transported and set up again, the memory returned.  He had watched me from the higher shelves how it was done, so by the time we were down to his level he made sure the bottom shelves were in place as they should be himself. 

He was to be here almost two weeks ago.  We're still waiting.  It's been four months.  The massive library for an apartment that took up all of the six shelf units is now essentially 'shelfless'.  I'm on my way to the first donation dropoff with ones I know will be of use to someone else well before I'll ever get to the utilization of their content. 

My son noticed my lifestyle didn't match the titles awhile ago.  When I was much younger, maybe.  Now there is too much to do that tiny crafting tasks do not seem remotely part of the picture, even while recovering from an illness, in the remaining years of my life, which could only be half over.  With what I've experienced the first half century the world needs more than making jewelry with seed beads, however beautiful.  It's for someone, just not me. 

Beauty has been redefined of late: from the calming effect of feeling the weight of beads in the process of creating adornment, to watching small hands help finish setting up a new bookshelf.  There is no comparison.  Nothing compares.