There was a fairy tale. (isn't there always?) Some other house, some other place. Not this house.
This house. Nothing special really. A house. A nice spot. In good shape on the inside, as houses go. Except the appliances were not working and there was no heat.) More practical for older folks except there are so many stairs. But as a house, mostly boring. My biggest complaint, especially in this small room, I have to stand up to look out the window. I think we need to make some holes for some new windows. The question is, will we? When I moved into my other house, I was barely 30. I ripped it apart. Now, well now I come to be more comfortable with just imagining. After all I have certainly exercised that muscle over the years. And we certainly have all we need. You have to be grateful for that. This town is much lower income, more mixed ethnically. It's good to move away from white privilege. The culture that springs from it. I'm sick of it. Sometimes I sicken myself.
I've unpacked most everything and stuffed it into this room. (I cannot call it a studio yet) Except the looms and the weaving/dyeing stuff which remains in the basement. A basement, never had one of those before. The basement, though, is pretty much above ground, so it is dry and has potential. Imagining again. All the cloth is here, but, except for a few small cloths, work is not unrolled. Yet.
I keep doing this. One thing over another. Looking at one thing in the context of another. Perhaps resting in what might have been and trying to be comfortable with that without longing for it. Letting them coexist. I think it is a good exercise, especially as I age. Just sensing the beauty in that. It's a different kind of form.
So here they are, still afloat, gloriously drifting through what might have been but not longing for it, acknowledging the beauty in it all. And the imagining. Later settling for how it might happen. Looking forward to it, actually. As Joy returns.
