In the bleak mid-winter, when I was housebound for long stretches because of ice and snow (remember when?), I had nothing much to do. I made soup.
In the spring, when little birdies were going cheep-cheep, and buds were busting out all over, I had something to do. An interesting project; nothing too strenuous. I still had plenty of time for
Now it's summer. My husband's off from school, we have three trips to Maine scheduled, I'm house-hunting full-blast, I need more exercise and more naps, Possum wants extra tutoring, and I want to clear out some clutter and try a few Julia Child recipes. But I am suddenly flat-out with a work project that keeps expanding.
I'm not complaining; I need the income and I find this work challenging and ultimately fun. But perhaps the timing could have been a wee bit better?
Didn't I miss most of last summer because I was glued to my laptop? I recall spending many sweltering weeks wandering in and out of the 18th and 19th centuries in my imagination and then writing about it. In retrospect, it seems like I had a long visit in Colonial Williamsburg, but not quite. I could feel the air conditioning of 2010.
I will be spending this summer trying to figure out living artists. This will be tricky because they are all brilliantly creative, ultra hip, and intellectual — in other words, the polar opposite of me. Most of what's been written about them sails right over my little pink brain, making me wonder if English is indeed my first (and only) language. At least Possum has agreed to translate for me when it gets really hard.
Stay tuned for shorter posts, and maybe some stray musings about art. I'm so grateful I don't have to write about rare diseases anymore.