My body is tired and there is still so much to do. The mental list, a litany that constantly occupies my mind. I dip in the brush for more primer, not careful now because it needs it everywhere, on the white, on the blue. The birds are singing, a robin, a woodpecker, I am not playing music today, sometimes I just like the sound of the birds, of the world. There has been a wonderful breeze these days and the air is not humid for this region. The weather has been kind of perfect for this never ending series of tasks. The ladder is heavy and my shoulders ache from its weight. My legs hurt so much that my daily walk, which has been neglected far too much in the last two weeks, is a trudge, the only joy is in watching the dog’s excitement as I pull out his leash. But the streets are quiet and I settle into it, though my legs no longer wish to carry me. The work of school is a mental work, a long difficulty of emotional struggle, the weight of papers and problems, and testing; this work is a work of the body, the mind gets nothing but lists. My knuckles ache, and I realize that I may be getting some arthritis in my hands. I vow to resume my knitting when all this is done. I make an appointment to get a manicure, no polish just moisturize and shine, I look at all the nicks and the cuts and the tips of my fingers which are gaining callouses, my man hands. They are not petite, these hands, and never have been, they are strong, the handshake firm, the nails kept short, all this work is brutal on fingernails. The sun is strong on my shoulders, and my skin darkens bit by bit as I climb the ladder, and get down off the ladder, move it a little and climb it again. I sing Clegyr Boia over and over in my head, a mantra, the word like a pearl in my mouth. I do not know why this word always comes to me when my mind wants for more and all it gets is endless dips of paint. I vow to read blogs as soon as I am done. I yearn for a couple days of just reading, writing, knitting, walking without the end of energy weighing it down, of drawing. I have to believe all this is worth it. As I finished painting my daughter’s big empty room, ceilings fresh, trim fresh, walls now a hideously awful vanilla beige, the windows washed inside and out, new shades on them, and the floor freshly shined with Murphy’s Oil Soap, I took a moment on my little purple molded plastic stool, all splattered with every color of paint my house has ever been; I looked up and saw a spider dangling from the ceiling, a reminder that even this will never really be done.
I hear the sound of a cicada and its endless buzzing, it jumps into my awareness though the song has been here all along, and it is like a mynah bird calling ATTENTION. I stop, I breath, I dip in my brush, I put it on the wall.