This morning my husband stood on our deck, and announced, “It’s blustery out here, Winnie the Pooh.” He doesn’t usually call me Winnie the Pooh, he was just showing off his limited knowledge of literature. He spends 10 hours a day reading the squiggles, marks, and symbols that pass for doctors’ handwriting, so sitting down with a good book isn’t something he considers enjoyable. Maybe, if the hospital ever gets the physicians to agree to use computer order entry, my husband will read my blog. However, that he doesn’t allows me to write about him without causing marital conflict, so it all works out.
The wind was blowing in forceful gusts. I don’t know why, but it made me restless. Maybe it’s a catalyst for connecting with my anima. I remember, years ago when I rode horses, that when the wind blew, they became twitchy, and raced around their corrals. I suited up and went for a run along the Willamette River, thinking about the horses.
Outdoors, the air itself was warm and tense. Fallen autumn leaves blew on the pavement in swirls, like tiny tornadoes. It felt like the sky was about to tear open and burst with rain, thunder or even fire itself. It made me think about pregnancy and birth, and the ripeness of a fruit that can no longer contain its seed.
Creativity feels like that.
This evening, as if they were omens, my pregnant neighbor stopped by with a box of cookies, and the package of oil sticks specially ordered from New York arrived at my door. The dozen greasy sticks of bright colors are just what I need to finish the new painting I’m working on. I can hardly wait to get back to the studio.