End-of-summer rain traces the outline of the window panes next to me; damp trails glimmering beneath the slate clouds that seem to hover close enough to touch, should I stretch out my hand. September appears in a rush this year, invading August's heat with a wave of chilly nights and cool breezes that have me reaching for a shawl when I retreat to the porch to read. Such a change is quite welcome after the igneous days of July, though I do hope Winter doesn't jump the gun as well. His frozen claws can surely wait for the new year to begin, I pray.
It's rather staggering that the school day routine will be returning in mere weeks to our home. My, how the summer has flown--so cliche, yet so true. If I force myself to concentrate I can snap a frame into focus--the taste of fire-boiled coffee clutched in the blue enamel mug, my feet tucked beneath me as I watch the morning mist and breathe in the scent of bacon and smoke...marvelous, the escape of tents and fireflies and non-electric entertainment. But then, I turn my head and the months are murky again, indistinct. I feel....hazy. Vague.
I've been arguing with a canvas. Days now. It began as any other, shifting dreams that float through my midnight mind, lingering in the morning until I fill the broken teapot with water and smear pigment onto my pallete. Damp brushes dried on the old sundress I wear to paint in the summer, the open window whispering rumors of season's end in my ear. A large work, this one--three feet long and two high. Burnt umber and ocher and saffron, topaz and crimson and and gold....autumn dreams spill into my tangible world.
Painting, for me, is a known animal. The beginning: shapes and colors and place. As if you viewed such a scene through an unfocused camera, bleary and undefined. Then it's as if I slowly turn the lens in my mind, a line here, leaves there, and gradually the world shifts into view.
But not this one.
I cannot seem to....find it. Hours spent and it stares back at me, shadows and light and color. I can hear the wind when I look at it, smell the damp leaves that have piled around the rocks....but I cannot see it.
Granted, these last weeks have been....unnormal. (is that a word?) Unordinary? Atypical. Plans made have shifted with a phone call that involved the sentence, "...taken to the emergency room..." The seizure of one's heart these small words can cause, the tilting of the planet. I'd rather not discuss the particulars, if you don't mind, but I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that I am blurry. The details muffled with emotion.
Perhaps I just need time. Set it aside and wait a bit. I think I will take it down to the dining room in a few weeks, welcome September as she arrives. Sip wine and share a meal with it....let it rest as we live and love and weep and laugh. Do you think life might seep into it? Permeate the fibers with the vision I do not seem to have?
For now, I must be content with blurred. For now.
