Delivered a long overdue pastel and colored pencil portrait today to P. She'd bid on the artwork at a church auction a couple years ago in anticipation of the birth of her first grandchild. By the time she delivered pictures of her new grandson for me to work from, I was hip deep in Vermont College packets, and E's constant illnesses, unable to give the piece the attention it deserved.
Felt good to get back to my art. To hear the scratch of pencil on paper. To feel the weight of the pastels and pencils in my hand, and smell the pastel dust on my skin.
To lose myself so completely in a piece that time stood still.
The place where time stops is where I suspect all writers and artists strive to be. In that place, all cares and fears and worries disappear. All that matters is your art, your story, and living in the moment.