a moment's pause, a gift

It seems sometimes there is nothing more beautiful than rain coming down in the spring, and wind in the thick leaves of trees. The leaves which only recently budded, not yet gnawed by insects or curled by cocoon-spinning worms; not yet browned by drought or darkened by summer's heat. Today is such a day, and this morning is a gift, time off of work after weeks it seems of pressure and tension; only a morning off, really, but a gift just the same. I'm listening to the wind and rain; to the whistle of a train as it approaches a grade crossing nearby to the north. Long stretches of cloud and rain become stressful, but a regular reprieve from the full gaze of the sun is a good thing. More smells and gentler sounds.

I'm in the sewing room this morning, moving a bookshelf and taking out a layer of clutter. This summer I'm hoping to switch rooms with my son; maybe I should wait until fall, since this room is warmer in winter by far but may not ventilate as well in the heat. We'll pull the last remaining carpet out of his room, exposing the wood floors beneath; and I'll have more space for all my supplies and equipment. He will still have room for most of his toys and books, but at his age he doesn't spend tons of time in his room, preferring still to be where we are. When he's older, we'll give him the option of a remodeled basement, to make into his boy-cave. All boys (and men) seem to need a cave of their own somewhere. Fine with me.

I may or may not sew this morning. It's bubbling away in the back of my mind, the current piece, but it feels good just to putz around in here. Attention to self in this way. The sewing room isn't really a cave -- more of a nest, to be sure. My nest. I feel guilty for comandeering a space in our small home in this way, but I can't help it. It's what I need, and has been since I can remember. I've never compromised on this. Though I sometimes feel too accommodating, in truth I am quite rigid about certain things. I must always have a studio space of some kind. I must never curate for free. I may never sell my work, since that makes me uncomfortable, but I'm happy to give it away from time to time. Much of my world, my feelings and opinions, seem swirling and variable. This artist space, the physical studio and the corresponding room in my psychic interior, the principles that apply, that dramas played out therein -- these are a constant. This is the core. I throw a fair amount of energy into most of what I do, and so I get pulled away from this space -- g-forces. Sooner or later I'm desperate for this balance.

Rain is thumping into the downspouts and pattering on the maple leaves. Birds chirrup pleasantly from their perches, since the weather isn't all that heavy. The train echoes on in the distance. The mail carrier clatters past the front step, swaddled in plastic. In between, lots of quiet.