August. Still summer. Still hot.
But not. Golden light and insect song tells me things have shifted.
Not that the shadows don't shift in every moment, but so much noticed this morning, the slant of the light. Along with acknowledgement of how liquid it all is. How the ability to float is a good skill to master.
That strip of carving, small decorative wood tiles tacked to the doorframe...leftover and rescued from a collapsed piece of Indonesian furniture which was mostly made from pressed palm fibers. It couldn't survive the dry winters indoors here, glued seams fell apart and it curled in on itself, leaving these pieces behind.
I am taking things off the walls to paint, spackling millions of pin holes everywhere first. To freshen up a bit. Put less back.
On the walls, cloth can accumulate and not seem like that much. Stacked is another story. I will let all the small pieces go. The big cloth well, I am suddenly overwhelmed with my own sense of self and cloth and time on this August day in my 66th year. My sense of what I might accomplish has not diminished but changed like the slant of the light.
I'll order wood today. No more trees will be cut here unless they fall over. But then again we are about due for a good hurricane.
I promised myself not to start anything new for a while.