I actually didn’t make a new drawing today, just reworked this one from last December. Again. I think it’s done enough now to let it go. I felt grumpy about pausing to start a fresh page, so I just didn’t. My February experiment of letting go of the dailies may have affected me more deeply than I thought!
Evidently my cats have become my new princesses: my go-to subject when I don’t feel like drawing and have no ideas.
Wrack and Ruin have been playing a game lately where they aggressively groom each others’ heads until one of them decides they’ve had enough and pounce.
noodley lines with bone-sticks and a berry-lily
Hey look, it’s another coloring page! with a pineapple owlberry and her egggs
brisk walk in the springtime
tiny reflecting pools in the lichen caps on my mind
I was actually annoyed at taking time to do the daily drawing today. That hasn’t happened too often, but I’ve had an attitude shift since taking February off. I think this is a decent depiction of my irritation.
The mood is compounded by my sense that the bountiful studio time I’ve had during the lockdown year is about to be broken up and broken into by the demands of a re-opening world. I am definitely worried about being able to hold my ground, so that I can keep doing this arty noodling which makes me so happy and content. It also coincides with the warmer weather, when the demands of house projects and garden eat into my art time. Then the days never seem long enough, and the things I want to do or have promised to do begin to crowd and jostle each other, and try to make their voices heard over all the other voices. In my dreams I would have them be a fine chorus singing in harmony, but usually it’s more like a shouting mob.
conversation with a dear friend that I haven’t visited in person for months. catching up in flows and tangles.
Today’s tarot card was the 9 of swords. I had free-floating anxiety all day, leading up to my first dose of the Moderna vaccine in the evening. I realized somewhere along the way that I was processing a year’s worth of the stress and strangeness of the pandemic, and the loss of the connecting balms of hugs and social singing. These needles point a way through it.
eyespider 