I am working through the tiredness. It's sat in my bones this part week, clouding my vision, numbing my brain as I fall from stretched arms into tracing words, from a train to a tissue-wiped nose. Today we drove along the bay, watched the sky turn from ash to pencil grey ; drift back into cobalt blue. The sand was a somber muddy brown, then a startling, mustard yellow. The sea moving from milky green to a dark dangerous blue. Crouched in the rain, a man in a cadmium raincoat dug for seashells with a rake. Sheltering from the storm, we ate buckwheat pancakes filled with cheese, mussels and chips and drank dry cider and orangina. We giggled as I drank two coffees pretending to be dessert. I came home and showered while the little one slept. I put sweet lavendar oil on my tired skin, enhaled the comforting smell. I wrote emails, grabbed dates and time and refiled my life into a respectable chaos, embracing the beauty of the disorder which is mine.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
10 comments:
Oh tiredness. You capture it beautifully. As ever, I love your writing. I especially like your use of colours - so evocative.
Thanks Amy. I love colours name's : Burnt Umber, Alizarin Crimson Hue, Cadmium Yellow. Little pieces of Poetry.
What beautiful names. I love colour names too. Reading all the names of colours on those little paint charts is delightful.
Yes, I was thinking about this comment- how do we name and describe things, what language we use - there are so many ways to name the world around us!
you do capture tiredness--it was as if I could see your head leaning against the car window looking out as you went by--i love color names as little pieces of poetry
Thanks Cynthia. I am glad that you could capture the picture of my head leaning against the rain splattered glass, watching the world change colour.
I love that how you describe this 'everyday living' is art. (I hate how that is really bad grammar, but I can't think how else to put it) Your life is everyday, but when you tell us about that everydayness it is art. It is not transformed, you do not embellish, you notice, select and give it to us and those written paragraphs are art.
And I am really grateful that even in your tiredness you take the time to share that with us.
well said, Susan : )
Thanks Susan, Cynthia. I have such a full schedule at the moment - my book, my working at a hospital as an arts therapist, my family, my lecturing- it is so rich, but tiring. This blog is a precious space - an empty beach to walk on in the breeze. So, thank-you for taking the time to comment here. These little messages that dart through pixels mean a lot to me.
I agree with Susan. In your tiredness you still notice what's around you, maybe in bigger sweeps, but so beautifully evoked. Your writing is precise, warm, joyful, about the stuff of life, and touching all the senses. Do you know how you sometimes see a little bird in a tree, pecking at something, busy in its own little world, and suddenly it stops and lifts its head and seems to listen attentively - that's how your writing makes me feel.
Post a Comment