I'm still painting. Still tearing open cardboard boxes, gasping or squealing when I find what's inside. Still washing and wiping dishes, studying cabinets, arranging each clean bowl and sparkling glass.
I should be in a hurry. With oil prices climbing everyday, folks in my line of work are in demand. I need to get back to work. I have to get back to work. But the idea of leaving home, once again, and driving to some far off state and sitting on a hotel bed and flipping on a fastened-down TV makes me cry. Right now the booming wells are in Colorado, Wyoming, the Carolinas. I don't want to travel. I want to be home.
(But how blessed am I to have a career? Thank you, God, for blessing me.)
I'm planting my garden, buying bananas, setting up my sewing machine, and plunking buds in vases as if I never have to leave. Silly me.
Silly, in denial, me.