It is eleven and I have done nothing constructive. Andrew still sleeps and the sound of the tractor echoes through the valley. Hubby has a project going or multiple projects, who knows. I am almost afraid to look. He was not born into farming so sometimes his projects are strange.
I smell smoke so he is burning some gathered brush. He also came through, stating the spring is lower, which we all knew, but to him, it is a reason to panic. He is disappointed that I do not join him in his panic. It's dry, water levels change. This is something he is not accustomed to since he always had a faucet and never carried water from the source.
Bev has insisted, we have a wall of my paintings at the shop. She wants "a wall of colors" to greet people as they enter. Although I am not happy with my paintings, the act of removing them from my wall was impossible. Bev insists she needs the color and I don't have to sell them. Maybe, the hesitation comes from baring your soul to the world, risking criticism and rejection. I shall try to remove them again today.
Marcy, as usual, was up before the dawn. Her truck was filled with garden produce and the beans, finally having no dew, were picked this morning...while I did nothing. As I sit, I am sure she is preparing many things to feed us this winter...and I continue to sit. I am ashamed.
I sit, and read. I sit and type. The outside world does not call me today, which means I should make my self go outside and reconnect with the land and renew myself.
Perhaps I will try again to remove the pieces of me that Bev calls art...and present them to the world.
