Life Never Goes Where You Think It Would Go. It shouldn’t.
When I empty the machine of clean clothes I pull half the load out with my right hand, the other half with my left. I start with my left, end with my right. The opposite expectation for a right handed person’s brain. Habits create repetitive motion and muscle memory that lets your brain synapses off the hook. Which is a bad thing. It’s the little things that brighten thinking. I switch between projects to fire up my brain. I paint. Then I build in clay. Then I work on a dollhouse. Then I do dishes. sMother birds, dogs, a rabbit, a guinea pig, and wild ducks. I write about that. I write three books at a time, to force my brain to work, and remember, and bounce ideas off itself.
What’s my point? Life isn’t about getting things done. It’s about doing things. Autopilot routines are great for getting it all done quickly, but you aren’t experiencing the little things hidden in all of life’s day. Life’s gems are little. Very little. Life is short. Very short.
The past seven Sundays I’ve put in a few hours each working on my new mural in the half bath. This is my seventh mural in our house. There’s a point in every mural work where my brain contracts with anxiety. I look at where I’ve gotten and panic think, “This isn’t where I wanted to go.” I sit on the toilet seat and look at what I’ve done. I look up in the left corner and read the wall. I see a little being. He’s set up shop during the past week. Spiders are like that. I grabbed a tissue offering a ride. He accepted the offer to a perfect location inside a big fern that lives happily outside on our deck patio. So many crevices. So many small meals flying about. I see him off safely crawling deep into vines.
I return to my half bath mural. Deep breath, slow exhale. I forge on, because it never is where I thought I would go. It shouldn’t be. Now I’m thinking about a little spider imagining his webbing, and how he’ll set up shop in a shaded plant safe on a deck outside. I look down at my artist’s cart stacked with painter’s sponges, myriad sized artists brushes, pints of interior paint, glass jars for mixing colors, recycled shop clothes, paper towels, mixing sticks, and reef diving books for reference. The books have yellow sticky notes to bring me back to where I thought I was going. I open the reef fishes book. And laugh at myself as I turn to the sticky note locations. Ah! Yes, these were my ideas. I look at the wall. The art says, “Yes, but we’re going to take a bit of detour on a few matters.”
No matter how many sketches I do. The art takes me where it wants to go. My books are the same. Jack Crow went places I never thought he should, yet he demanded it without asking. I felt more a transcriber for him, than an author. Screet, in Baggage, down voted being the antagonist. By Chapter Three he’d put his Gliesen feet down. It would have to be Laikas. Cloned dogs of the original Laika saved from Sputnik 2 were more interesting. I am now a transcriber, once again, rather than an author. I’m looking forward to where this story is taking me.
So goes this seventh mural. It’s going somewhere now. I hope I can keep up.