Today was my last day at the day job and I feel pretty good that I spent most of it working. My coworkers were all fantastic and supportive. Even the girl at the little sandwich/coffeeshop was sad to see me go. She wanted me to keep in touch with them on Facebook. Who is this person that laughs all the time and makes jokes and friends?
It has been over two years of working hard to get to here. And nearly a year of floundering trying to find this road after the one I'd been on washed out. How many years before that was I out of alignment? I must have needed to step away from making art, so I could get more clear about the form my particular voice wanted to take. I really like drawing, but I write even on the days I don't like it--and there's the difference. There's something there, something about need vs want. I needed the time to figure that out. But shit, twelve years? Am I so dense, or is the universe so emphatic? It's late and I'm tired. This is no time to go all woo-woo about fate and destiny. And yet, how many times have your dreams come true? Who would stop me from singing and dancing in the middle of traffic or the sidewalk?
Warren and I will have no help loading the truck tomorrow, I'm a little worried about that in the heat. He's hoping it will only take us 5 hours. I was sort of hoping unrealistically for two. My mother insists she'll help. My arthritic, carpal-tunneled mom. Don't worry, I won't let her.
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The dog days, or diēs caniculārēs, are traditionally the hottest summer days between July and August. They are marked by stagnation, lack of progress, and general malaise. Like the oceanic doldrums that forced Spanish galleons to jettison their horses, the dog days are an imposed time to reflect, an opportunity to purge the ballast, and the perfect time to realign one's direction.And they are, for me, for this season at least, OVER.
"Leave all your love and your longing behind, you can't carry it with you if you want to survive."
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