Everything is wet. The tiles are shining in the gloom, the greenhouse plastic dripping, even the bowl I leave food in for the Tortie is full of water. Last night I slept on the sofa in the den where I could hear the rain falling all night. It was glorious and strange and not at all like the desert.
Good, because I need to be somewhere else.
I haven't mentioned the Tortie in some time, but she's still around. She comes very close now, right up to the bowl as I fill it. We have a routine--she appears at one of the windows or another, looking for me. Then I go outside and feed her. She has begun to trust me, but still she has her invisible boundary. I don't attempt to cross it for fear it will set us back.
First and foremost I must get well. I'm better enough to function, but not better enough to function at the level I'm familiar with. My voice is returning to normal, but I still have a bit of cough. This makes me feel powerless. When I'm well, I tend to feel I can handle whatever comes up, and inspiration comes easily. Possibly I've taken that for granted. If I did, I'm not now.
But there is some inspiration. This weekend I'm working on the papier mache sculpture and in between, painting the wedding dress. For this I've cleaned the painting room and spread clean sheets on the table, forbidding anyone to enter the room.
This is how Saturday begins. My coffee is gone, mostly. What's left of it is cold. I'll go and get dressed. I'm aware of the sounds of the rain last night, although it's gone now. There are still lots of clouds and promises of more rain and still just a little hint of the otherness I so needed. I can take that little bit, like a bit of clay, and turn it into something that will get me through.
Off I go, wishing you well.