The day is bright and crisp, the drizzle ended in the night, and the puddles on the sides of the road are not yet dry. I hang my laundry on the line and then take the whining dog with me to the park. The leaves on the trail are wet, it is muddy, but in some places the mud has frozen, and the dark leaves are curled up and fringed with a white lace, and the bright green moss is softly heathered with ice. I walk far today, taking a fast pace for most of the way, by the time I get to the end I feel a large drop of sweat fall from under my wool hat, I take it off and realize my hair is soaking wet. It is quiet today, more than usual and I am not sure why, but it is a deep quiet. I breath it in, happy for the respite, knowing in my heart, with my heart, that someday I will have to give up teaching, otherwise it will kill me via my blood pressure. A bird, perhaps a heron, croaks somewhere ahead, the dog stops and I stop beside him, my hand on his warm black furry head. We listen and it croaks again. I mimic it, the dog turning to look up at me as I do, and it answers, recalling his attention. We talk back and forth a few times, the dog walking ahead until he hears it again and then stopping to listen. We stop sometimes to listen, even when there is nothing to hear but this quiet that permeates the woods today.
My muse may have in fact returned. I tear out the sweater I intended for the pirate. All five balls of yarn worth. Now what to do for Christmas? I have tried on numerous occasions to get his sweater with the run in the arm to “fix” it, more like measure it, and he won’t let me. I think I will give him a box of yarn for Christmas and then say, now can I please borrow your sweater? But Thursday I woke up with the idea for three drawings, and this morning a forth has been added to it. I let it stew in my mind, sketching it small, adding little animals to the simple drawings. What a difference from the angry zombie drawings, these are cute and whimsical, I wonder if the ideas are, in part, inspired by Geninne (blog and art here). This morning I pulled out my sketch book and put out the first one. I apologize for the picture quality, my card reader is dead, so its the crappy cell camera until I can get a new card reader.
I love how the trunks of the trees look like little legs and they make me think of the art of my kindergarten students, which I am sad to say, there are an unusual number of them still drawing in the pre-K style of single head with arm/ears and legs and big eyes. Even still, even after my lessons, which means that they are brain wise in a far diminished developmental level. This frightens me.
Perhaps I am regressing?