On a recent bright sunny afternoon, the warm rays coming through my window were striking, so I took an apple out of the fruit bowl and positioned it on my dining room table where the sun was saying hello. It actually felt hopeful, all that golden warmth glowing on the apple. It was a peaceful scenario, belying the full-throttled crisis we are all living in right now as Covid19 roars across our country, helped by lagging government officials who pretended it wasn’t on its way. That tricky little bitch! Spreading herself gleefully, often through folks who are infected without them knowing it. So. Here we are, in the thick of it. And as a country we are strong, and we will get through this. And this too shall piss (nope, not a typo). Those of us seniors who live alone are challenged by the isolation (I certainly am) so here are some of my adaptations, in case what I am learning is helpful: • I only do one day at a time. Period. This morning I felt a bucketful of anxiety pressing on my chest, so I got out my headphones and tuned into a meditation recording I use to guide me spiritually. It makes a big difference. Starting my day like that really helps. • In the morning I talk to myself out loud about how I will organize my day — which tasks I will undertake, what art I will create, who I will call, how I will get exercise. It’s like a daily roadmap. • I also write in a journal, which helps me get anxious thoughts out of my head and onto paper. They seem more manageable that way. • I try to remember that hope is the one thing that we all need to get through hard times of any variety. We are made of sturdy stuff and, one foot in front of the other, will get to the other side.
An added note about the painting subject matter — my table has these pretty little fringed table runners on top of the tablecloth. They are delicate and beautiful linens, purchased a number of years ago in Istanbul at an open market. I fell in love with the fine craftmanship of the pieces (probably “craftwomanship” is more accurate) and, though at the time I did not have my own home but lived in an apt. with a shared kitchen, I suppose there was a part of me that hoped one day I would have my own kitchen and dining room table. Hope is a funny thing — I had no basis for that possibility, but it was in me anyways. Keep hoping, everyone. It is fuel for our hearts and souls.
7″ x 10″ watercolor, pen on paper = $90