So I wrote a blog entry this morning, and it was fine, and I posted it. But I’m rewriting it to talk about other stuff. Like showing up. Like getting out of bed when I feel completely at sixes and sevens but moving forward anyway and washing the dishes and making my tea. Like meeting a contractor who showed up to bid on my dry rot house repair project and disliking him so thoroughly (arrogant, aggressive, gallingly rude with slight notes of slime) I tried to think of someone I could call just to complain for a minute. Like feeling so out of sorts last night I had to just sit with it, in spite of having dinner with a loving friend who does not quail when I cry, but hugs and comforts me — I was so raggedy even his kindness rubbed the wrong way. Once again I’m talking to myself and remembering that, after my mom died, I felt out of sorts for many months. It’s been 3 months and 9 days since my older sister committed suicide and I’m trying to cut myself some slack, looking to be kind and gentle with that shocked, grieving and heartbroken self. The jarring fact of the deaths of both my sisters still stuns me, so I’m rambling, trying to get a clear focus. On anything. I’m working my way through it and thank you for holding me with kindness and patience. [I painted this small rose from a bouquet I brought for my art students to paint last weekend.]

7.25″ x 8″ sticks-and-ink, watercolor on paper = $75